petrichor, n.

A pleasant, distinctive smell frequently accompanying the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions. Also: an oily liquid mixture of organic compounds which collects in the ground and is believed to be responsible for this smell.

From the Oxford English Dictionary (online edition).

It’s been a long time coming but I’m happy to share the news that Alba — one of the world’s greatest wine capitals — finally has a progressive wine bar. FINALLY!

The joint is called Petricore Enoteca (as in petrichor).

It’s run by a lovely couple of wine professionals, Rebecca Ruatasio and Carmine Pessolani, whom I had the distinct pleasure to meet and taste with the other night.

The town of Alba lies smack-dab in the heart of Barolo and Barbaresco country and it receives a tide of wine lovers and tradesfolk each year.

But as surprising as it may be, it isn’t exactly the most welcoming destintation in Italy when it comes to people looking to connect with the more playful, experimental, and funky side of wine life.

A friend treated me there to a reclassified bottle of white Burgundy the other night. Think of that! Hipster Chardonnay in Alba! If I hadn’t tasted it myself, I still wouldn’t believe it.

Humans cannot live by Nebbiolo alone. And from what I’ve heard through the grapevines, Petricore has been a warmly welcomed addition to the Langa and Roero wine scene.

I can’t recommend it enough.

Just four more days of teaching at the Slow Food University of Gastronomic Sciences in Bra. On Monday, my last night, Natale Baricchi and I will be playing a couple of acoustic sets at L’Alfieri here in town. Come on by!

Last night found me, guitar in hand, at the Ostu di Djun in the hilltop village of Castagnito in the heart of Roero country (on the west bank of the Tanaro river, which divides southern Nebbiololand).

Some believe its Piedmontese name comically ironic: Ostu di Djun means literally osteria di digiuno or fasting tavern. But it’s hard to tell. Nothing can be taken for granted in this crazy, enchanted, and enchanting restaurant.

What’s for certain is the food is all old(est) school, all the way.

When my friend Natale and I sat down for dinner last night, the owner Luciano asked us if we wouldn’t mind sharing our table with two other dudes. One turned out to be the legacy owner, the son, of one of Piedmont’s hottest Michelin-style restaurants (I won’t reveal the name so as not to humblebrag).

He and his buddy told me that they eat there at least three times a month and whenever they can.

For our first course, we all shared family-style tajarin with ragù and agnolotti, the classic ravioli from Piedmont. And for our second course, they ordered heart and sweetbreads. Me and Natale ordered liver.

All three of them remarked that they like the food there so much because it reminds them of what they’re grandparents used to feed them when mom and dad were at work each day.

I can already hear Tracie P rolling her eyes and hoping that I was able to drink natural wine last night.

No, we drank classic Pelaverga and then Barbaresco, strictly from magnum, the only bottle format that Luciano serves.

(All is good, Tra… well, kinda… but it was worth it!)

It was a wild and raucous night that culminated in a rollicking set of covers performed by me, Natale, and the resident piano player Giorgio.

I regret that between the banter and the Bacchanal, I didn’t have much a chance to photograph the food in the dimly-lit room, which brimmed with Italians and foreigners.

That’s the raw beef they serve when you arrive (above, top) and the Piedmontese standby insalata russa (second photo). Both were utterly delicious. So were the pastas and the offal.

Old(est) school, all the way.

Luciano says he wants me and Natale back to do another set soon. I’d be back in a heartbeat if I weren’t so busy teaching and keeping up with work back home in America.

It was one of those magical nights that only seem to happen in Italy… Haven’t had one of those in a while and man, it felt pretty friggin’ good.

Ostu di Djun has no website, it seems.

But you can find it on the Google here.

No one knows for certain where the name Slarina comes from but Torino university researchers believe it might come from the Piedmontese word sinréna and related Italian cenerina, a reference to the bloom that commonly appears on this red grape’s skin (ceneri means ashes in Italian, hence the association with bloom, the powdery deposit sometimes found on the berries).

I finally had the chance to taste a couple of bottlings of Slarina when I visited my friends at the lovely Cascina Iuli in Montaldo di Cerrina in Piedmont’s Alessandria province over the weekend.

One was from a nearby farm where the owners have only recently begun growing and vinifying the grape. The other was from my hosts’ estate, where grower Fabrizio Iuli, known for his deft hand at lo-input winemaking, has already produced a handful of vintages from this erstwhile forgotten Piedmont variety.

Italian agriculture officials probably removed Slarina from the registry of authorized varieties during the country’s post-war viticultural renaissance because of its inconsistent productivity, a fate shared by countless highly localized grapes like this.

Because it was illegal to grow, it was all but abandoned by farmers in Monferrato where Fabrizio was born and lives with his family. Thanks to the work of University of Torino’s department of agriculture, it’s been redeemed from oblivion.

Like many of his progressive sisters-and-brothers-in-arms, Fabrizio is keenly interested in reviving its fortunes — a homage to an underexploited but rich heritage.

The slightly underripe red fruit and berry flavors in the brightly colored wines were by no means overwhelmed by their surprisingly tannic character. They were particularly delicious and well paired with juicy red steak our hosts served that night.

Young American wine professionals are always excited to learn about grapes like Slarina,
a variety plucked from the boundless treasure box of Italy’s evanished vines and winemaking traditions. There’s no doubt in my mind that it will be well received in my home country. There was even talk of Fabrizio’s planned visit to the states to present a micro-vertical tasting of the three vintages he’s produced.

Slarina, the next Piedmont grape you’ve never heard of, may be coming to a town near you soon.

Posting on the fly this Friday afternoon from Bra in Piedmont where I’ve been teaching this week for the Master’s program at the Slow Food University of Gastronomic Sciences.

So little to tell and so much time… but I just had to share the above photo that I snapped the other night when I got here: that’s Chionetti 2017 Dolcetto di Dogliani in my glass, one of the greatest expressions of the appellation and one of my faves.

See that purple rim on the wine? That’s CLASSIC Dolcetto by one of its greatest OG masters. 100 percent DELICIOUS.

And of course, what would a proper dinner in Piedmont be without cheese and cognà (below)?

I have some killer winery visits scheduled for tonight at tomorrow (one of the perks of the teaching gig is simply being here in wine country). Gotta run. Thanks for being here. Buon weekend a tutti.

From the department of “good morning, Sunshine!”…

Many, many moons ago, a doctoral candidate in Italian accompanied a group of visiting professors to a favorite Chinese restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. He was the only American in the group of eight or so scholars who had come from Italy to attend a conference.

When they all took their places at the round table, with a lazy Susan at its center, beer and tea were promptly ordered. But before the food order was placed, something remarkable happened.

A professor from Bologna, an older gentleman, asked whether or not wine would be served. When he learned that the establishment didn’t have any wine, he stood up and declared plaintively: “If there is no wine to be had, I cannot eat here.”

“What are you saying?” cried the chair of the Italian department, who had organized the gathering.

“If there’s no wine,” the professor from Bolgona explained matter-of-factly, “I prefer not to dine. I don’t eat unless I can have wine with my meal. Otherwise, I don’t digest well.”

The chair turned to the doctoral candidate and asked him to find a bottle of wine — as soon as humanly possible.

Those were the days before the Google (yes, it was that long ago). But somehow, the future Ph.D. tracked down a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

And all was right again.

Those were also the days before “natural wine.” And the wine proffered was hardly what the enohipsters of today would find remotely acceptable. But it was wine. And that it was wine was all that mattered.

That episode springs to mind often these days, although the name of the professor from Bologna is long forgotten.

For many young Americans who travel to Italy for the first time, the fact that Italians consider wine to be a vital metabolic component is often a revelation.

That notion was on my mind last night as I enjoyed a bottle of the reasonably priced I Pentri 2014 Fiano last night at Light Years, Houston’s most radical natural wine bar.

The oxidation and slightly cooked character on this wine would have been called out as a flaw by many wine purists. But its ripe white fruit and rich minerality on the mouth were delicious nonetheless. I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Even though there’s no agreed-on definition of what natural wine is or isn’t, many would call this a natural wine: it’s organically farmed, it’s spontaneously fermented using wild yeast, and its low-intervention winemaking style makes it a compelling, even if technically flawed, expression of place.

But none of that mattered last night.

What matters to me most about wine is how it makes you feel the next day. And in my experience, the natural wines are the ones that make me feel best.

Let it suffice to say that all was right again this morning.

Have a great weekend, everyone. Drink some natural wine. You and your colon will thank me.

Update: niece Emilee should be able to come home from the hospital today. She has a long road to recovery ahead of her. But we’re just glad that she’s going to get there. Thanks for all the wishes. They really mean a lot to our family.

In the late 1990s and throughout the early 2000s, when American enohipsters were vociferously shunning “California Chard” and “Napa Valley Cab,” there were standouts among their objets of derision.

One of those was Kistler Chardonnay. Even for those who had never tasted it, it represented the apotheosis of the “oaky buttery Chard” that had become their rallying cry.

I’m sorry to say that I was one of them. But I’m happy to report that I’ve seen the light in the meantime.

Last week, Tracie and I opened a bottle of 2016 Kistler Chardonnay Sonoma Mountain that had been graciously and generously given to us by our good friend Paolo — an unabashed lover of California Chardonnay.

Knowing that he loved the category, I had bought a couple of my favorite expressions of California Chardonnay to share with him while he was here in Houston visiting and working. He returned the favor with the above bottle after he heard me mention that Tra had never tasted Kistler before (that’s the kind of wonderful friend that he is).

This wine is still very early in its evolution. The notes of oak in the nose and mouth, however elegant, aren’t yet entirely integrated into the wine. But on the palate, the lithe wine’s mouthwatering fruit and savory character — stone fruit, dried and ripe, with hints of wild herbs — were already brilliant and rich. It was one of the best wines we’ve drunk at home this year and we both loved it. My only lament is that it could have used some more bottle age before we cracked it open.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after more than 20 years working in and writing about wine, it’s that it takes years and years of tasting (and tasting different styles) to develop your “palate,” as they call it.

It also takes equally long to dispel and dispense with your prejudices and preconceptions.

Kistler, I’m sorry I doubted you. And I’m so glad I’ve come around. My wife’s first Kistler was delicious!

There was another time in our lives when the binomial California Chardonnay was anathema to us.

I deeply regret it now: California Chardonnay, like Napa Vally Cab[ernet Sauvignon], was a byword for everything that we didn’t like in wine. Even without tasting such a wine, we just knew that it was oaky and buttery, with ramped up alcohol and yeasted flavors.

Attribute it to youth: I was in my 30s back then, living in New York, and we wouldn’t have been caught dead with a glass of then loathsome “Chard” (as it was called) in hand.

I use the royal we here because my (now unforgivable) attitudes toward Californian interpretations of the Burgundian white were shared nearly unanimously by my peers. We didn’t even trust the newly coined “unoaked Chardonnays” that began to appear in the aughts of our lives. Surely, we were confident, they had been tricked out by their Dr. Frankenstein creators using unnatural enzymes and inauspiciously administered yeast and synthetic additives we couldn’t even named if we tried.

Looking back on it all now, there’s really no excuse.

But enough with my apostasy! I’ve already renounced my creed and screed about California wine (California wine, I was wrong about you. I’m sorry…).

I continued my rehabilitation last week with the two bottles above.

Paolo, one of my best friends, was in town from Puglia. He’s always been an unabashed lover of Californian Chardonnay. I wanted to share a couple of my recent favorites with him and so I splurged on two expressions of California Chardonnay that I can hardly afford.

I tasted the 2010 Stony Hill (a current library release for the estate) for the first time earlier this year. Chardonnay’s primary flavors here have evolved into a nuanced spectrum of rich fruit and gentle nutty flavors. I can’t think of a better example of elegance and balance in California. What a wine!

This is Napa Valley Chardonnay at its best imho.

The 2015 Ceritas Santa Cruz Mountains Trout Gulch had been on my radar for a few years now, since I tasted it for the first time while working on the first edition of the Slow Wine Guide to the Wines of California.

Arguably a more au courant interpretation of Chardonnay, this wine has only gotten better with age, with its minerality and tropical fruit coming into fine focus with hints of spearmint and sage.

Even though both wines strain my personal budget, they both represent extreme value for their quality and collectibility.

California Chardonnay, I hope you’ve begun to forgive me. But I fear not: though the road through Purgatory may be steep, my penance is ever so sweet…