Category Archives: de rebus italicis

The “responsibility of words” in times of wine industry crisis.

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My career in wine is all but over. A handful of industry friends stay in touch. But I no longer live or work in that world.

Despite my new outsider status as a wine lover and wine tourist, it would be next to impossible not to be aware of the Italy’s 2026 “shit harvest,” as some trade observers have called it. Between oppressive heat and unrelenting drought, many growers are facing an existential crisis, especially the small farmers.

With the current disastrous situation in mind, I found it all the more moving to read a post by one of those winemakers I still follow (she and I became friends over classical music not wine).

She had just read the “umpteenth” post describing the wine world in catastrophic terms.

“There’s drought. There’s hot weather, too,” she writes.

    The plants suffer and the show it. Denying this would be stupid.

    But between talking about a difficult situation and continuously fueling a sense of alarm, I believe there’s something important to consider: the weight and responsibility of words.

    My family has been growing grapes for generations. And despite this, I continue to think that don’t have the sufficient science to draw conclusions about phenomena so complex. I am surprised by the ease with which diagnosis and judgement are dispensed from all sides.

    I can’t help but wonder: what purpose does it serve?

    …

    Behind the scenes of a difficult harvest, there aren’t just numbers, forecasts, and analyses. There are farmers who work all year. And during the harvest months, they try to do the best they can with what they have.

    People don’t need to be told how hard it is. They already know.

Reading her words, I was reminded of why I and so many other people find the wine world so compelling. It puts us back in touch with the earth, the seasons, and our bodies’ often strained relation to the natural world. It can also be a window into the wisdom of the ancients. But most of all it humbles us: we realize that there are forces around us that we may never be able to explain. Maybe that’s the magic of it.

The “responsibility of words.” A notion to which we can aspire in wine and beyond. Thank you, Valentina.

Is Italy’s Fascist party coming back as right wing extremism continues to rise in EU with German election?

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During my early years as a student in Italy in the late 1980s, I would soak in the stories about war times told by my Italian friends’ parents and grandparents. I could see their faces in the characters of Neo-Realist movies shot in the years immediately following WWII. To me, they were superheroes. In my mind, they made the greatest sacrifices for their principles and morals when they refused to join the (historic) Fascist party. Many of them were partisans. Nearly all of those people are gone today.

My warm memories from those years make it all the more difficult to wrap my mind around what’s happening in Italy and Europe right now. In Germany, AfD, the extremist right-wing party previously shunned by mainstream politicians, is now positioned to govern an East German region. There are fears that the party’s rise is unstoppable at this point.

In my beloved Italy, a new extremist rightwing figure is on the rise: Vannacci, a former general who has essentially proposed that the historic Fascist party be reinstated. There’s even a chance that he will outflank the “post-Fascist” party established by premier Meloni. His policies align almost seamlessly with MAGA. His use of one of the Fascists’ notorious mottoes has become an Italian cultural flashpoint. When he says “me ne frego,” anglophone media has been translating it as “I don’t care.” In tone, attitude, and vibe (including historical vibe), it’s more akin to the MAGA motto “fuck your feelings.”

I’m doing a little bit of wine writing on the side these days as I focus on my writing and translation projects. But I still keep up with Italian politics and a few of my Italian friends from my years in wine. As Europe faces its most robust rightwing wave in a generation, Italian winemakers are dealing with one of the most challenging harvests in memory (remember the colossal EU heatwave this summer?).

I recently devoured one of the most moving pieces of wine writing I’ve ever read. It was by an Italian friend who’s facing tough times after a next-to impossible vintage. It’s like a metaphor for a burning Europe. Stay tuned: I’ll share an excerpted translation later this week.

Keep the faith!

Above: a plaque in Milan commemorating the death of a partisan at the hands of the Nazis.

Remembering Italy’s (almost) “first” McDonald’s.

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The passing of Slow Food founder Carlo Petrini last month opened a torrent of memories for me. I started following Petrini’s writings in the late 1980s and even met him on a few occasions during the seven years I taught at Slow Food U., also founded by him.

But the news of his death also triggered a powerful memory from my early years in Italy: McDonald’s in Rome.

According to legend, Petrini was inspired to create the Slow Food movement after he protested the opening of the “first” McDonald’s in Rome. It was actually the second. The first was launched, quietly, in Bolzano that same year. But the one in Rome became the arch nemesis of terroirists and anti-globalists because the American behemoth had planted its first highly visible outpost at the foot of one of Italy’s most iconic landmarks — the Spanish Steps.

When I first got to Italy to study in 1987, my American classmates and I craved American fast food, partly to assuage the homesickness. After all, the world was way less connected back then. Email was just beginning to emerge. International calls were prohibitively expensive, especially for students. You felt entirely disconnected from your home.

America fast food was a way to “feel” like home for a fleeting moment.

Italian students liked fast food too. At the time, the only option was Burghy, a McDonald’s like restaurant. The only one we could access was the location in the Florence train station. Trips to Rome always included a visit to the Spanish Steps franchise.

Three decades later, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I arrived at the Milan train station to see the above ad for Joe Bastianich’s line of sandwiches.

A genuine peripeteia! A restaurateur who made his name by serving rich Manhattanites authentic Italian cuisine had now gone to the “dark side” of food. Incredible.

It all seems laughable, especially today. But it does make me sad to remember what a 13-year-old told me some years ago. She was the daughter of a friend from university days. They live in downtown Milan and summer in the alps. When I asked her what her favorite food was, she told me it was the new sandwich from KFC.

Stop using the word “ghetto” unless you really know what it means!

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Something that blew my mind: when my post about my support for Jasmine Crockett blew up (300+ comments and counting), people assailing me from both hard right and hard left used the word “ghetto” in their attacks.

Do they even know what the term means?

Many will be surprised to learn that the word ghetto is Italian in origin. And to be more exact, Venetian in origin.

The first ghetto in history was founded in Venice in the early 16th century, in the neighborhood where the city’s foundries were located. The word “gheto” in Venetian dialect denotes “foundry” (its Latin origins bring it back to iectare, “to throw,” gettare in Italian).

That was the first ghetto in history, created by the Venetians to concentrate the Jews.

The term spread through Europe as other cities mirrored the Venetians’ racist policy.

By the mid-19th century, ghetto came to denote a place where a racial or ethnic group was segregated from the greater community.

The Oxford English Dictionary gives this definition from 1855 forward: “Any area occupied predominantly by a particular social or ethnic group, esp. a densely populated urban area which is subject to social and economic pressures, tending to restrict its demographic profile; an enclave. Also in extended (and sometimes ironic) use.”

An example from Melville: “The belittered Ghetto, forward of the main-mast, wholly occupied by the blacks.”

By the late 19th century, a new meaning emerged: “Originally and chiefly in the United States: a socially and economically disadvantaged inner-city area predominantly populated by African American people” (Oxford English Dictionary).

We don’t use or teach our children to use the word in our house. It’s a historic term in our view, a word that has been used to disparage Black people in our country since before I was born.

If you didn’t vote for Jasmine Crockett because she’s Black and you think that other white people wouldn’t vote for her, well, I’ve got news for you. Your doubly racist. (I’m echoing the words of one of my favorite Houston-based political bloggers, Erika Harrison, @blackgirlswhobrunch; thank you Erika for your awesome writing on the campaign!)

And oh yeah, stop using the word ghetto unless you are going to use it correctly and respectfully!

Photo credit: “Venezia – Cartello di ingresso al Ghetto” by Luca Paolini, CC BY-ND 2.0.

ICE agents “dressed like clowns, with the rough fabric with rancid stench.”

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The American government’s terror campaign against brown people and the murder of white American protesters in Minneapolis are as terrifying as they are wholly wrong and morally indefensible.

No matter your political stripe, there’s no longer any way to deny that cruelty, the expression of raw power as violence, and dehumanization have been revealed as key elements of the MAGA platform and ethos.

And watching the horrific, tragic events unfold in Minneapolis, there’s no doubt that the seeds of a (soon to be hot) civil war are taking root.

I’m reminded of Pasolini’s letter to student protesters after the 1968 Battle of Valle Giulia (wiki it) where Italy’s paramilitary police (the Carabinieri) and protesters clashed violently.

And then, look at them, Pasolini wrote, referring to the Carabinieri with their black and red uniforms:

And then, look at them: dressed like clowns,
with the rough fabric with rancid stench
Worst of all, naturally, the psychological state
to which they are reduced
for about forty liras a month:
without a smile,
with no more friendship with the world,
separated, excluded (in an exclusion that has no equal)
humiliated by the loss of human qualities
in exchange for those of a policeman
(being hated makes you hate).
They are twenty, dear young men and women, your age.

(Translation from primolevicenter.org.)

Reading the letter (a poem published at the time as opinion piece), it occurred to me how ICE agents are also victims of our government’s awful policy — not unlike the way U.S. soldiers were victims of U.S. policy in Vietnam (or Afghanistan or Iraq).

But then you look at the agents’ abject violence against U.S. citizens and rightful residents: it’s hard not to see MAGA’s hateful, emotionally-driven cruelty in the heart of their actions.

I pray for them just as I pray for the victims of MAGA’s sadism. I pray for us all.

Image via the us_icegov Flickr (public domain).

My favorite restaurant in Naples? You’ll find it at the gates of hell! Yes, literally, the gates of hell.

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This let me crave, since near your grove the road
To hell lies open, and the dark abode
Which Acheron surrounds, th’ innavigable flood;
Conduct me thro’ the regions void of light,
And lead me longing to my father’s sight.
For him, a thousand dangers I have sought,
And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought,
Safe on my back the sacred burthen brought.

Virgil, Aeneid, Book 6

That’s Aeneas, the founder of Rome, speaking to the Sybil at the gates of the underworld along the banks of Lake Avernus in Pozzuoli (Naples), above.

Those familiar with the Western Canon will immediately recognize the scene: book six of Aeneas’ story is one of the most powerful works of ancient literature, emulated and imitated by generations of European writers, including Dante, who modeled his own journey through hell on that of the Roman hero.

Can you imagine my utter thrill when I realized my favorite restaurant in Naples is just a three-minute walk from the site of Aeneas’ descent? I practically fainted I was so excited!

Thanks to friends in the wine trade, I discovered the magical Akademia Cucina in the hamlet of Lucrino, a village in Pozzuoli.

This was, hands down, the best dining experience of my 2024. Man, this place has it all: location, vibe, ridiculously good seafood, great wine list, and the perfect tone for a hedonistic community that likes to dine on the late side. I LOVED this place.

Here are some photos of what I ate and where I swam.

And wow, the nearby hotel where my buddies suggested I stay, Albergo delle Rose, was just my speed in terms of pricing and convenience.

There’s an urban light rail train that stops in Lucrino: a 45-minute ride to Naples proper (perfect) and connections to all kinds of little towns and gorgeous sea views; wonderful beach access across the road; a ferry from nearby Pozzuoli takes you to Ischia. It was a dream for me.

But the oneiric quality of my sojourn was mostly shaped by this locus, this “place” where Aeneas first made landfall and the Greeks first colonized southern Italy. History and literature came to life before me. It was a wonderful experience that I highly recommend for your summer tour.

Trump viewed from Italy.

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During my early years as a student in Italy in the late 1980s, it wasn’t uncommon for my classmates to invite me to their family’s home for Sunday lunch. Their parents and sometimes their grandparents would join us, eager to ask me questions about the U.S. and tell me about their lives.

Whenever the elders would talk about wartime in Italy, their stories would paint themselves before me like a Neo-Realist film.

Nearly 30 years have passed since then and none of the grandparents are around anymore.

Many of them suffered greatly during the war and nearly everyone lost a loved one, even those progenitors who were card-carrying members of the Fascist party.

Over the course of my travels, I’ve met plenty of right-leaning folks in Italy who are not ideologically opposed to Trumpism. I’ve probably met more who find his policies repugnant. (Their preponderance may be due to the fact that I tend to hang-out with lefties.)

But for all Italians, the images of roundups and raids evoke memories of the rastrellamenti (from rastrello, a rake) conducted by the Fascists and later by the Nazis in their country from 1922-1945.

Few survivors remain today but their children still carry with them the generational trauma endured by their forebears.

One of my best friends in Italy comes from a family that hid Jews in the cellar of their winery during the war (there was a concentration camp nearby). There is a government plaque displayed at the winery entrance honoring their family’s courage. She, obviously, wasn’t yet born. Her uncle, also born after the war, has spoken often of the ways Jews were treated there during Fascism and the subsequent German occupation.

Traveling to Italy for the first time since the election, I discovered that even my most conservative friends are bewildered and nonplussed by the first two weeks of the new administration. They still can’t even seem to wrap their minds around why or how Trump was re-elected.

I can only imagine what their grandparents would say.

Happy Ferragosto! See you week after next.

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Happy Ferragosto, everyone!

Above: “Torno subito (forse),” a shop sign I snapped many years ago in Italy, “I’ll be right back (maybe).”

What is Ferragosto and what does it mean for Italians? Here’s something I wrote a few years ago for the Italy-America Chamber of Commerce Texas.

Enjoy the time off and see you week after next!

*****

In case you’re wondering why you are already getting so many auto-replys and vacation responses to your emails to colleagues and friends in Italy, it’s because in August the Italians celebrate Ferragosto (officially August 15), the Italian nationwide vacation.

It’s actually an ancient tradition that can trace its roots to the days of Emperor Augustus (63 BCE-19 CE) who proclaimed it an annual celebration and day of rest following the traditional harvest.

During the Fascist era, the Italian government offered citizens incentives to travel for Ferragosto by offering discounted train fair. It was during this period that the holiday became such an important date on the calendar for the Italian people. By the 1960s, Ferragosto had become a highly popular holiday and cultural phenomenon.

Today, an overwhelming number of Italians take their vacation the week of Ferragosto.

Many small businesses close and many large companies give their employees vacation time on or around Ferragosto. Basically, the whole country — except for people who work in essential jobs and sectors — takes a vacation and heads to the beach or the mountains (the best place to be during Italy’s hottest month).

Ferragosto can be frustrating for Americans who do business with Italy because in the U.S., the week of Ferragosto and the last two weeks of August in general are normal workweeks.

But for Italians, the holiday and its observance are such an important part of their yearly rhythms and culture that everyone knows to expect delays in getting work done during August.

Mouton Rothschild 1999 for my 57th birthday. Thanks for all the wishes and so happy to be back home!

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Heartfelt thanks to everyone who reached out yesterday for my birthday! I finally made it home from Italy and had a wonderful day with Tracie and the girls.

And for dinner, we opened a very special bottle: the 1999 Mouton Rothschild, featuring art by Raymond Savignac (1907-2002).

Wow, what an incredible wine! It was fresh and vibrant on the nose and rich with slightly underripe red fruit on the palate. Tannin was very smooth but this wine could have aged many more years, no doubt. Extraordinary.

The bottle had been given to us earlier this year by the husband of a colleague of Tracie’s with whom we have become close.

When Hurricane Beryl made landfall a week ago, Tracie wrapped this beauty up and took her to her parents’ house in Orange, Texas, where they never lost power.

She then carefully kept it cool but not too cold in a cooler where she had to constantly monitor the ice. It was a heroic effort. We had planned to open it for the holidays with family but after it had traveled under stress, we felt like it was a better bet to open it for my birthday. It was my birthday, after all! I’m so glad we did. Paired beautifully with our favorite Texas BBQ. It had been stored impeccably. It would have been a pity for it to be damaged. But it was glorious! Thank you again, from our hearts, Richard and Elaine! A wine we’ll never forget, a memory we will cherish.

Our neighborhood still looks like a war zone, with fences blown out, felled vegetation lining the streets, and main stop light still out of order seven days after the storm. Nearly 260k people without power still.

Coming home to the girls on my birthday after an arduous journey (stuck overnight at Dulles!) was so sweet for me. For all the challenges we face, it feels pretty good to be 57. I’m so proud of the girls and love them and Tracie so much. So much about our life now heals my soul. Too many blessings to count. Poo poo poo!

Thanks again for all the wishes. And G-d bless former president Trump and his family. I’m glad he’s okay. Maybe this terrible episode will help us all to to tone down the rhetoric.

Stay tuned for notes from my trip. Thanks again! It was a very special birthday for me.

Move over pizza, pinsa is here to stay. #pinsaenvy

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No one knows for certain where the word pinsa came from. It is believed that it is a inflection of pinza or pinzo meaning extremely full.

What is known for certain is that this Italian neologism first began to appear around 2008 in Rome. By the late 2010s, it was a well-established lemma in the Italian language.

I had seen pinserie in Italy’s capital (pinserie, pin-ze-REE-eh, plural of pinseria, pin-ze-REE-ah, a place where pinse are made). But I was surprised when I returned recently to my beloved Brescia in Lombardy in the north to discover that there is now a popular pinseria there.

It would seem the pinsa is here to stay!

By seemingly every definition, a pinsa is neither a pizza or a focaccia (even if those words are nearly seamlessly interchangeable in Italy depending on where you are and what you are eating).

But the concept is the same: high-quality flour pies fired in a convex oven, sometimes with toppings already added, other times with toppings added after the pie is churned out.

The etymon pinzo is suspected because the toppings of a pinsa or pizza or focaccia can be considered a “filling,” the way a pastry or a calzone is “stuffed.”

The pinse at the Pinseria in Brescia were excellent.

I also really loved their jalapeño poppers. Yes, you read that right. Italians are WAY into what they call “jalapeño poppers,” even though they don’t use jalapeños but rather a red Italian-grown pepper.

The concept is the same as for jalapeño poppers in the U.S., except here they use high-quality ingredients (instead of Sysco).

The jalapeño poppers at the Pinseria were great and so were all the Roman street food apps. The beer list was great, too.

Move over, pizza! I hope you’ll recover from your pinsa envy!