Brunello scandal: My soothsaying abilities substantiated

The blind item I published recently, Skandal, was initially questioned by some as being old news, a recycling of last year's Italian wine scandal.  (Which one?)  It's been backed up by several folks close to the zone in question, if not the incident itself. 

More evil tidings come from Italy.  See the item from Franco Ziliani, whose story is personally affirmed by our very own Jeremy Parzen.  Big big names are involved and the whole dirty affair is about to blow wide open.  Or not....if the age-old client system, enduring Roman social construct, functions as well as it usually does.  In which case the whole dirty affair will be swept under one of Italy's very lumpy rugs.

The client system surrounding a patron would look out for its individuals. They would act as a kind of police, making sure no harm came to their own, that nothing was stolen from them. should one be struck down by poverty, the other clients, - and so too most likely the patron, - would see to it that one would get a loan, a daughter might be provided with a dowry, or at least the group would see to it that the deceased would get a decent funeral.
If the patron might not always provide help personally, it would most often be he who orchestrated it, perhaps asking other clients to help out one of his supporters who had fallen upon hard times. But the wealth of most patrons of course allowed him to hand out money to those they deemed deserving of such aid.
And so, maintaining guards, organizing any help, defending people in the courts, even openly handing out money, it is no wonder that the patrons were seen as protectors of their group.
It was for the purpose of representing their clients in court in was that most sons of high-ranking families were trained in law. And should matters fail and one struggle to get a retrial, then a patron might always call on some of his clients to stage demonstrations outside the courthouse, making their 'public' outrage heard over such 'miscarriages of justice'.

It remains to be said that the word patronus later became the Italian word padrino...  -- Roman Empire Net

                    _______________________________________________________________

Now, signore e signori, how is my soothsaying ability substantiated?   

Read on.  And read again even if you've read it...

December 19, 2007

Invasion of the Wine Snatchers

Inspired by recent adventures, observations and conversations in various parts of Italy. 

And by recent crimes and misdemeanors (March 22, 2008)

Yes, it seemed my dream of Tuscany was come true...

I was thrilled, thrilled when I received an email from Count Visone to join him and a bevy of wine essayists, journalists and even bloggers at his magnificent Tuscan estate, La Lupanaia, for a vertical tasting of his famed Brunellos. To be honest, I was just as excited to meet some of these writers as I was to taste the wine.  Also to be honest, I had never tasted the wine before because it costs at least $95 retail (for the 2002), well beyond my modest means.  I wanted to find out for myself why the Count's Topaia Riserva earns 95+ scores almost every year and was named wine of the year by the Gambero Rosso five times.

As I drove up the long, dramatic road to the castellate mansion in my rented Fiat Punto I saw helicopters whirring all around the broad lawns at the top of the mountain where the palace lies.  I wondered if there had been a terrorist threat but soon came to realize that influential international wine writers and certified Italian journalists had been given rides. 

When I arrived in the parking area as big as a soccer field, a brutal unspeaking man with tattoos on his shaved head pointed me to a spot in a far corner.  As I staggered to the house with my bags, a scowling girl who was clad in black Versace, and who had a scarf wrapped tightly round her neck, led me to the door, impatiently beckoning me on.  She led me to a stairway and dropped a key into my hand.  "Terzo piano, ultima camera, da' sul garage."  Fourth floor, last room, overlooks the garage.  She shook her gelled ringlets and went away muttering.

I cultivated positive thoughts I as lugged my things up the flights of stairs.  I foresaw the gala tasting that evening, meeting and exchanging ideas and information with the best and brightest of the world's wine writers.  In this spirit of pleasant anticipation I settled into my little room, which had a single tiny light hanging from the ceiling.  It was very hot and stuffy.  The bed was possibly an antique, especially the mattress.  Still, I was in heaven.  Here I was, a mere blogger, in the company of the aristocracy, as it were, of the wine flack world!

The tasting was to begin at 7 sharp.  I descended the stairs and was of course the only writer in the great hall as the staff placed glasses and little plates of bread at each taster's seat.  I went back upstairs after they glared at me, then snickered and whispered among themselves.  I was out of breath and it was already 7:15.  Hot as the room was, I fell asleep.  I had a dream that I went downstairs and met Andrea Immer Robinson, who goggled at me, and only then did I realize that I was naked.  I think I was disassociating myself from my Joseph Bank blazer with a missing button and 8-year-old Ferragamo loafers, which I had had reconditioned for the occasion ($90). 

I woke with a start and ran down all the stairs at 8 o'clock.  I felt something was wrong. 

No one was "tasting."  They were all standing around drinking cocktails. They were eyeing one another competitively.  There was a knot of English people which kept looking over its collective shoulder at a very large pumpkin-headed American and his claque.  The French, Italians and Germans wandered around freely; they were in Schengenland after all.  The Chinese were decked out in Prada and the Japanese in Gucci, and they gave each other chilly smiles over their straight whiskeys. 

Presently a gong rang and we looked for our place cards.  I expected to sit in a chilly dark corner, but somehow I found myself among a group of high-powered wine writers and critics from several nations, including the pumpkin-headed man.  In front of each person was a line of 10 glasses.  On the "programme" were written descriptions of ten vintages, including the dreaded 2002.  The earliest was 1967.

As the tasting finally began, I knew something was wrong.  Very wrong.

As we worked our way backwards in time, I was astonished at the unvarying big oaky roundness, almost grossness, of the wines -- wines that eminent journals had described as "hallmarks of Brunello," "finesse beyond compare in Tuscany," and "powerful yet elegant, full of vinous depth."  Some of the authors of these encomia were seated round me, all of them swirling and smacking and murmuring their approbation and delight.  I was especially astonished when an Italian writer said, "This was a much colder year than 1999, yet see how deep and rich the wine is, a triumph of the oenologist's art!  And an affirmation of the Montalcino terroir!"

"Remarkable," agreed the large American, who drank and did not spit.  "Fruit forward and robust, a Tuscan miracle.  Unmistakably Montalcino."

A British woman said, "It does surprise one, I'll admit that."  She stopped herself and began writing notes with furious concentration. Her glasses glinted in her laptop's light.

The rubicund Frenchman to my left whispered, "Typical Italian merde.  This tastes like something from Languedoc.  They charge how much for this swill?"

"Well, it retails for about $125 in New York," I told him.  "I mean the newest vintage." 

He snorted.  "Oh la!" He sniggered.

Everyone fell silent when a vintage from the early 80s was tasted. The wine's character had undergone a marked change, much thinner, less round, less oaky.  There were many more herbal notes, there was more nuance.  And the wine was ageing perceptibly.  "I thought this was a good vintage," muttered Pumpkin Head.

"Interesting," murmured the Englishwoman, who flashed me a glance filled with irony and complicity.  Which thrilled me beyond belief, since she was one of my favorite writers.  "Topaia seems to have undergone a sea change round 1985 or so.  My, what a different character.  What do you suppose happened?"

Pumpkin Head chuckled and pointed to himself.

By the time we got to the 1967 the wine was interestingly undrinkable, clearly not meant to live as long as we were asking it to.  Sadly, it seemed like trying to revive a corpse that had been in the ground for a few years.

We applauded the Count and his minions, who bowed stiffly, even ashamedly.  We moved on to dinner.  We talked about everything but the Count's wines.

****

The night was warm and still.  I dawdled about on the terrace and admired the full moon as it rose high over the classically beautiful landscape.  I set my glass of Cognac on the balustrade and sighed deeply.  It was an enchanted midnight.

I heard a rustling sound.  Startled, suddenly unsettled, I spun round and saw the Englishwoman come near.  "Oh, hello," I said, laughing a little at my reaction.  "What are you doing up so late?"

"I felt too restless to go to my suite.  And I certainly didn't want to drink the wine they left there."  She set her glass of fizzy water on the balustrade next to mine.  She looked at me quizzically.  Her spectacles glinted alluringly in the moonbeams.  "As we tasted the Count's wines, didn't you feel...well, that something was very...odd about them?"

"What do you mean?"  I knew.  But I wanted to her tell me what she knew.

She glanced at me with a knowing smile.  "You know very well what I mean."

"Yes, I know."  I smiled at her confidently, knowing that the silvery moonlight would remove the purple stains from my teeth.

"It's almost as if -- God knows, I shouldn't be accusing anyone of this without more evidence," she began.  She stopped.  "Sssh!  Do you hear?"

In the distance, in the tranquil midnight hour, there was a rumbling sound, like a thunder in this cloudless night.  The rumbling grew louder, louder, nearer, nearer.  We saw lights flashing through the cypresses and olive trees that lined the road, many lights as a convoy of enormous trucks -- lorries -- bullied their way through the delicate Tuscan landscape. 

Suddenly the noise ceased.  The trucks were very close by.  We looked at each other and wordlessly agreed to go and see.  We felt instinctively that something nasty was afoot.  Silently we tiptoed all the way to the huge area a couple of hundred metres (yards) from the palace, far below and out of sight of the sleeping or drunken guests. From behind a thicket of camellia bushes we watched the short, stocky truck drivers clamber down from their cabs.  In the moonlight it was hard at first to realize that we were looking at a very particular kind of truck -- a tanker, the kind that contains liquid gas or pesticide or...wine. 

"What are we seeing?" I whispered. 

She squinted.  "These lorries are from the provinces of Bari. Lecce.  Down in Puglia."  She gave me a hard look.  "I knew it.  I knew it.  That sod." 

"What does it mean?" I quietly cried in horror.

"Don't be wet.  You bloody well know what it means.  Count Visone's blending his weak piss with vini da taglio from Puglia.  Not an uncommon practise. But it is nice to catch the bastard in the act."  She pointed and lowered her voice even more. "Speak of the devil."

Not twenty yards (metres) away the Count and strolled arm in arm on the crackly gravel with the surly young woman in black.  I could have sworn I heard him tell her, "Adesso i punteggi saranno alti alti" (now the scores will be really high).  And they laughed a sort of creepy conspiratorial laugh.

Suddenly the girl looked in our direction and cried out.

We ducked but it was too late.

Imagine wine instead!
And 100% Tuscan first cold pressed extravergine oil, too!!

Posted on December 19, 2007 | Permalink

Inspired by recent adventures, observations and conversations in various parts of Italy. 

And by recent crimes and misdemeanors (March 22, 2008)

Yes, it seemed my dream of Tuscany was come true...

I was thrilled, thrilled when I received an email from Count Visone to join him and a bevy of wine essayists, journalists and even bloggers at his magnificent Tuscan estate, La Lupanaia, for a vertical tasting of his famed Brunellos. To be honest, I was just as excited to meet some of these writers as I was to taste the wine.  Also to be honest, I had never tasted the wine before because it costs at least $95 retail (for the 2002), well beyond my modest means.  I wanted to find out for myself why the Count's Topaia Riserva earns 95+ scores almost every year and was named wine of the year by the Gambero Rosso five times.

As I drove up the long, dramatic road to the castellate mansion in my rented Fiat Punto I saw helicopters whirring all around the broad lawns at the top of the mountain where the palace lies.  I wondered if there had been a terrorist threat but soon came to realize that influential international wine writers and certified Italian journalists had been given rides. 

When I arrived in the parking area as big as a soccer field, a brutal unspeaking man with tattoos on his shaved head pointed me to a spot in a far corner.  As I staggered to the house with my bags, a scowling girl who was clad in black Versace, and who had a scarf wrapped tightly round her neck, led me to the door, impatiently beckoning me on.  She led me to a stairway and dropped a key into my hand.  "Terzo piano, ultima camera, da' sul garage."  Fourth floor, last room, overlooks the garage.  She shook her gelled ringlets and went away muttering.

I cultivated positive thoughts I as lugged my things up the flights of stairs.  I foresaw the gala tasting that evening, meeting and exchanging ideas and information with the best and brightest of the world's wine writers.  In this spirit of pleasant anticipation I settled into my little room, which had a single tiny light hanging from the ceiling.  It was very hot and stuffy.  The bed was possibly an antique, especially the mattress.  Still, I was in heaven.  Here I was, a mere blogger, in the company of the aristocracy, as it were, of the wine flack world!

The tasting was to begin at 7 sharp.  I descended the stairs and was of course the only writer in the great hall as the staff placed glasses and little plates of bread at each taster's seat.  I went back upstairs after they glared at me, then snickered and whispered among themselves.  I was out of breath and it was already 7:15.  Hot as the room was, I fell asleep.  I had a dream that I went downstairs and met Andrea Immer Robinson, who goggled at me, and only then did I realize that I was naked.  I think I was disassociating myself from my Joseph Bank blazer with a missing button and 8-year-old Ferragamo loafers, which I had had reconditioned for the occasion ($90). 

I woke with a start and ran down all the stairs at 8 o'clock.  I felt something was wrong. 

No one was "tasting."  They were all standing around drinking cocktails. They were eyeing one another competitively.  There was a knot of English people which kept looking over its collective shoulder at a very large pumpkin-headed American and his claque.  The French, Italians and Germans wandered around freely; they were in Schengenland after all.  The Chinese were decked out in Prada and the Japanese in Gucci, and they gave each other chilly smiles over their straight whiskeys. 

Presently a gong rang and we looked for our place cards.  I expected to sit in a chilly dark corner, but somehow I found myself among a group of high-powered wine writers and critics from several nations, including the pumpkin-headed man.  In front of each person was a line of 10 glasses.  On the "programme" were written descriptions of ten vintages, including the dreaded 2002.  The earliest was 1967.

As the tasting finally began, I knew something was wrong.  Very wrong.

As we worked our way backwards in time, I was astonished at the unvarying big oaky roundness, almost grossness, of the wines -- wines that eminent journals had described as "hallmarks of Brunello," "finesse beyond compare in Tuscany," and "powerful yet elegant, full of vinous depth."  Some of the authors of these encomia were seated round me, all of them swirling and smacking and murmuring their approbation and delight.  I was especially astonished when an Italian writer said, "This was a much colder year than 1999, yet see how deep and rich the wine is, a triumph of the oenologist's art!  And an affirmation of the Montalcino terroir!"

"Remarkable," agreed the large American, who drank and did not spit.  "Fruit forward and robust, a Tuscan miracle.  Unmistakably Montalcino."

A British woman said, "It does surprise one, I'll admit that."  She stopped herself and began writing notes with furious concentration. Her glasses glinted in her laptop's light.

The rubicund Frenchman to my left whispered, "Typical Italian merde.  This tastes like something from Languedoc.  They charge how much for this swill?"

"Well, it retails for about $125 in New York," I told him.  "I mean the newest vintage." 

He snorted.  "Oh la!" He sniggered.

Everyone fell silent when a vintage from the early 80s was tasted. The wine's character had undergone a marked change, much thinner, less round, less oaky.  There were many more herbal notes, there was more nuance.  And the wine was ageing perceptibly.  "I thought this was a good vintage," muttered Pumpkin Head.

"Interesting," murmured the Englishwoman, who flashed me a glance filled with irony and complicity.  Which thrilled me beyond belief, since she was one of my favorite writers.  "Topaia seems to have undergone a sea change round 1985 or so.  My, what a different character.  What do you suppose happened?"

Pumpkin Head chuckled and pointed to himself.

By the time we got to the 1967 the wine was interestingly undrinkable, clearly not meant to live as long as we were asking it to.  Sadly, it seemed like trying to revive a corpse that had been in the ground for a few years.

We applauded the Count and his minions, who bowed stiffly, even ashamedly.  We moved on to dinner.  We talked about everything but the Count's wines.

****

The night was warm and still.  I dawdled about on the terrace and admired the full moon as it rose high over the classically beautiful landscape.  I set my glass of Cognac on the balustrade and sighed deeply.  It was an enchanted midnight.

I heard a rustling sound.  Startled, suddenly unsettled, I spun round and saw the Englishwoman come near.  "Oh, hello," I said, laughing a little at my reaction.  "What are you doing up so late?"

"I felt too restless to go to my suite.  And I certainly didn't want to drink the wine they left there."  She set her glass of fizzy water on the balustrade next to mine.  She looked at me quizzically.  Her spectacles glinted alluringly in the moonbeams.  "As we tasted the Count's wines, didn't you feel...well, that something was very...odd about them?"

"What do you mean?"  I knew.  But I wanted to her tell me what she knew.

She glanced at me with a knowing smile.  "You know very well what I mean."

"Yes, I know."  I smiled at her confidently, knowing that the silvery moonlight would remove the purple stains from my teeth.

"It's almost as if -- God knows, I shouldn't be accusing anyone of this without more evidence," she began.  She stopped.  "Sssh!  Do you hear?"

In the distance, in the tranquil midnight hour, there was a rumbling sound, like a thunder in this cloudless night.  The rumbling grew louder, louder, nearer, nearer.  We saw lights flashing through the cypresses and olive trees that lined the road, many lights as a convoy of enormous trucks -- lorries -- bullied their way through the delicate Tuscan landscape. 

Suddenly the noise ceased.  The trucks were very close by.  We looked at each other and wordlessly agreed to go and see.  We felt instinctively that something nasty was afoot.  Silently we tiptoed all the way to the huge area a couple of hundred metres (yards) from the palace, far below and out of sight of the sleeping or drunken guests. From behind a thicket of camellia bushes we watched the short, stocky truck drivers clamber down from their cabs.  In the moonlight it was hard at first to realize that we were looking at a very particular kind of truck -- a tanker, the kind that contains liquid gas or pesticide or...wine. 

"What are we seeing?" I whispered. 

She squinted.  "These lorries are from the provinces of Bari. Lecce.  Down in Puglia."  She gave me a hard look.  "I knew it.  I knew it.  That sod." 

"What does it mean?" I quietly cried in horror.

"Don't be wet.  You bloody well know what it means.  Count Visone's blending his weak piss with vini da taglio from Puglia.  Not an uncommon practise. But it is nice to catch the bastard in the act."  She pointed and lowered her voice even more. "Speak of the devil."

Not twenty yards (metres) away the Count and strolled arm in arm on the crackly gravel with the surly young woman in black.  I could have sworn I heard him tell her, "Adesso i punteggi saranno alti alti" (now the scores will be really high).  And they laughed a sort of creepy conspiratorial laugh.

Suddenly the girl looked in our direction and cried out.

We ducked but it was too late.

Imagine wine instead!
And 100% Tuscan first cold pressed extravergine oil, too!!

Comments

[Marco]

Ah, ah. And you said it was all made up and pure fiction. I replied that at the heart of a rumor, fantasy or whatever is a kernal of truth.
When get tired of hearing Ken say "il gato 'e nero" you can answer "si, il gato 'e nero d'avola"

[TH]

Well, OK, it was a fantasy based on a ton of anecdotal evidence, both heard and witnessed. It pays to be "on the ground," as our fearless leaders like to say about Iraq. And, speaking for myself, I'd have to say it's a hell of a lot more interesting and relevant than writing reviews of your 109th and 110th Chiantis.

[Marco]

I thought it was ingenious. Then again, I say that about almost everything you write.

[TH]

You are too kind. Keep it coming even if it's insincere.

[Marco]

how would you know?

[TH]

I'd know. I. Would. Know.

[Doug Cook]

Terry,

*Fantastic* story (love the name Topaia). Just wish it had been only fiction! Last time I was in Montalcino a few people were gladly listing what their neighbors put in their wines ("X? X è un volpone... Il suo vino non sa di Sangiovese, sa perchè? C'è del Cabernet dentro e tutti lo sanno...")

But perhaps this will all turn out to be a good thing, it's time for some serious housecleaning in Tuscany (and presumably elsewhere). Popped a nice bottle of '95 Argiano last night in support of Franco Ziliani's call for opening an "honest" Brunello at Easter. Sad thing is that even with some producers I love I'll now be questioning every slight atypicity that might simply be the product of a particular vintage.