Capturing Time in a Bottle
Following the path of viticultural development from Greece to Sicily to southern Italy, Alan Tardi finds producers making wines as relevant today as they were for the ancients.
Alan Tardi reports.
Wine is as much a barometer of contemporary American society as hemlines are of fashion. Just look at what's happened over the past couple of years: wine bars have sprung up in cities across the country; rosé, a wine you couldn't give away not too long ago, has become all the rage; and Pinot Noir has stolen center stage from Merlot. This capriciousness makes sense: America is a young country, and for many of us wine is a new and exciting thing.
But this is precisely what makes it interesting to go to places where wine has been central to everyday life for a long, long time. On a recent tour of Greece, Sicily, and southern Italy, I came across a number of instances where wine serves as a potable time capsule of the remote past. And, because food culture and viticulture go hand in hand, I also encountered many interesting dishes.
First a bit of background: Wine is thought to have originated somewhere in the Middle East around 7,000 B.C. Winemaking techniques were codified by the Egyptians and Mesopotamians, and this knowledge (along with vine cuttings) traveled to Greece along ancient trade routes. Shortly after it reached the more hospitable climate of the Mediterranean basin, viticulture quickly spread and wine became a pillar of Greek culture. The ancient Greeks were among the first on record to appreciate the distinctive qualities of wine from different places and to develop special viticultural practices to maximize the unique attributes-terroir, if you will-of specific vineyard sites. One such instance of this can still be found today on the captivating island of Santorini, where my tour began.
At first glance Santorini, while undeniably beautiful, appears to be a rugged and inhospitable place to grow anything. Its principal towns, Thira and Oia, cling to steep cliffs of sheer rock. On the opposite side of the island, which was once the outer wall of an ancient volcano, the terrain has a much gentler grade. But here too the earth consists of pebbly gravel and lava, the leftover detritus of the ancient eruption. Rainfall is minimal, and flora consists mostly of low bushes and trees. Nevertheless, grapes have been cultivated on this seemingly barren island for longer than anyone can remember, and the ancient inhabitants devised a unique way of doing it, training growth into a circle about one and a half feet in diameter so it resembles a wreath or bottomless basket. These vine baskets sit on the ground rather than being trellised up on posts. The grape clusters grow inside them.
I got a close-up view of these unique vineyards at Domaine Sigalas, one of the island's premier wineries. "This system," Sofia
Sigalas, the founder's niece, explains, "protects the eyes [as buds are referred to in Greece] from the harsh spring winds, while the pumice stone retains heat during the cool evenings and moisture from the mists that come off the sea, helping to compensate for the extremely dry climate."
The dominant grape on Santorini is the white Assyrtico, which produces wines that are characterized by a transparent color, pronounced acidity, and a distinct mineral quality. "Many people think of Assrytico as a wine to drink young but it actually improves considerably with age," says Sigalas. She proved it by opening a five year old Assyrtico, which, while still fresh and lively, was darker and more complex than the younger versions, with a hint of tobacco in the aroma and honey-sweetness on the palate.
Another indigenous grape, Mavrotragano (which literally means "black-crispy"), has the aroma of black cherries and flavor of ripe black plums with spicy notes of clove and white pepper. These intense qualities are balanced with acidity and firm tannins, which also helps keep the wine, with its 14.5 percent alcohol, from feeling heavy. Sigalas makes a 100 percent Mavrotragano, while some other producers use it as part of a blend. Either way, this is a wonderful unique grape that deserves to be better known.
Santorini is famous for its vin santo, but I much prefer a sweet wine made from the Mandilaria grape. The Sigalas version, called Apiliotis, is dark purple and jammy with concentrated blackberry flavors. Like vin santo, it's made from sun-dried grapes and has the same degree of residual sugar, but it also has a pleasant medicinal flavor mid-palate, which makes it seem less sweet and cloying.
I sampled these wines at an outdoor terrace on the Sigalas property, which also happens to house a casual taberna. Greek food typically consists of good quality ingredients prepared in a very straightforward way, and the dishes I had were no exception. Feta cheese, eggplant, olive oil, potatoes, fresh tomatoes, marinated fish, and stuffed grape leaves provided a perfect accompaniment, both to these wines and to the hot sunny day. Assyrtico is extremely versatile and goes well with most anything, from the island's typical fava bean puree to grilled octopus. Thanks to its high acidity and minerality, it can even stand up to brined and pickled foods like capers, olives, and marinated anchovies. Most interesting were tender vine shoots that had been pickled in white wine vinegar. While the robust Mavrotragano cried out for roasted lamb, it went just fine with a selection of cured meats and cheeses, and the Mandilaria needed nothing more than some ripe figs plucked from a tree next to my table.
Though my next stop was technically in a completely different country, it felt quite similar to Santorini. Sicily, after all, was once a major Greek colony whose eastern section is dominated by a volcano, and an active one at that-Mount Etna. From the coastal resort of Giardini Naxos, I rented a car and drove inland up to the base of Mount Etna. This is also an ancient wine area, though many of the terraces that were scraped out of the rocky soil thousands of years ago are now abandoned. I came here to visit an unusual producer-Frank Cornelissen.
Cornelissen originally worked as a wine broker in his native Holland. As his passion for wine increased, so did his distress at the growing commercialization of many of the wines he was dealing with. Eventually he decided to make his own. After some dry runs with imported grapes and an early stint in France, he began looking around for a place to establish a winery. "I came to Mount Etna because this area was still relatively unspoiled and offered the unique kind of climate and terroir I was looking for," Cornelissen says. He feels the extreme microclimate-volcanic soil, steep grades, harsh winds-and proximity to the sea-provides a singular environment for growing grapes. It's precisely this he seeks to capture in his wine, and he does so by intervening as little as possible: "I don't do anything: no herbicides or pesticides, no irrigation, and no sulfur whatsoever. Just grapes. What you see is what you get."
He feels that wood imparts too much flavor to wine and stainless steel causes reduction. And he doesn't use temperature-controlled tanks either. Fermentation takes place outdoors in small open plastic vats, and maturation occurs either in fiberglass tanks or, for his top-level wine called Magma, in subterraneous earthen vessels, just as the ancient Greeks did. "I was looking for as neutral a container as possible in which to produce my wine," he says, "and while they require a lot of maintenance, the terra-cotta amphorae work best."
Magma, made from the indigenous Nerello Mascalese grape, is certainly not for everyone. Stylistically, it's decidedly uninternational and unmodern, but it's not Old World or rustic, either. The wine has the light brilliant hue typical of Nerello Mascalese. It's not concentrated, despite an extended period of fermentation on the skins, and devoid of any of the structure and incongruous tannin that is often imposed on wines by wood. However, this wine does have a distinct personality and complexity, combining black currant fruit with an almost chalky minerality, the spiciness of white pepper and clove, and even a hint of salt. The finish is also surprisingly long.
I tasted two recent vintages of Magma at a small restaurant called Boccaperta in the nearby town of Linguaglossa, and the wine held its own against the complex aggressive flavors of pasta with swordfish, eggplant, and tomato. It was even better, however, with a simpler, more elegant dish of ground meat (polpetone) baked on lemon leaves. The moist fattiness of the meat rounded out the leanness of the wine while the lemon leaves added an exotic twist. What a great technique!
My last stop was the region of Campania. This was the first part of the peninsula to be colonized by the Greeks, and the legacy of their presence can still be seen in the wine today. When the ancient Greeks first arrived, the Etruscans were already there, employing their own agricultural techniques, and this meeting of cultures can still be seen today in a most remarkable vine called Asprinio di Aversa. These vines are planted at the base of poplar trees, growing up the trees and spreading out over wires strung between them to create veritable walls of vine 30 feet tall. The Asprinio grape, a genetic derivative of Greco, is of Greek origin, but the technique of training vines up trees is typically Etruscan (9th to 1st centuries B.C.). Thus, this wine is a snapshot of viticulture frozen in time.
Asprinio has a light golden-yellow tinge and a distinct floral-honey aroma but is bone-dry on the palate with an almost bitter finish. Like the Magma, it seems simple at first but packs an understated complexity and subtle intensity. Its sharp acidity cuts right through the creamy density of the local mozzarella di bufala and matches the kick of the flavorful tomatoes that turn up in just about everything here. It's also great with spicy olive oil and peppery soppresatta as well as fried or grilled fish. Taking it out of its regional context, this wine would also be a fantastic accompaniment to Asian food.
Asprinio di Aversa is only grown in this one small area around the town of Aversa just north of Naples and, though this entire area was once covered with these ancient tall vines, today there are less than 100 hectares (247 acres) remaining. This is definitely an endangered varietal species that deserves to be protected and better known (if that were to happen and the price of this undervalued wine went up slightly, people here might be inclined to restore some of the abandoned vineyards). While there are numerous small family farmers who have a row or two of Asprinio vines, there are only a handful of producers. Asprinio di Aversa is not easy to come by but is definitely worth seeking out.
From Aversa I went south to the other side of Naples to the base of yet another volcano. The area around Mount Vesuvius is densely settled with both people and vineyards (this is the home of the wine called Lacryma Christi or Tears of Christ) despite the fact that this volcano is still active and potentially dangerous. One needn't look far to see its destructive potential.
At around the beginning of the Christian era, Greek culture and viticulture had been adopted by the ancient Romans. The Romans admired this fertile area, which they called Felix Campania (Happy Fields), and established important outposts of trade and commerce. One such thriving city was Pompeii, until, in 79 A.D., a massive eruption covered the city in volcanic ash, killing most of the inhabitants (including Pliny the Elder, who wrote about Asprinio in his Natural History) and literally freezing the city in time.
Today Pompeii, remarkably well preserved by the same volcanic ash that destroyed it, remains one of the best examples anywhere of an ancient urban community. Excavation of the site is still ongoing, and research has identified the presence of no less than five vineyards within the walls of the town itself. In 1995, the superintendent of Pompeii decided to take the extraordinary step of bringing the ancient vineyards back to life and enlisted one of the area's most important wineries, Mastroberardino, to help (see "The Next Days of Pompeii," Food Arts, May 2002, page 80). Intensive research was conducted to determine precisely where and how vines were planted and (based on existing mosaics at Pompeii) what grape varieties were used. The replanting was done following archeological evidence as closely as possible, and today these once-extinct vineyards are back in production. Since 2001, Mastroberardino has made a wine from them called Villa dei Misteri, a blend of Sciascinoso and Piedirosso grapes produced in extremely limited quantities.
I got to sample the most recent vintage, 2004, with Mastroberardino's agronomists Antonio Dente and Antonio Capone in a spontaneous outdoor tasting during a visit of the vineyards. The wine was certainly good-dark and inky with a minty, minerally edge and the toasty tannins of new oak-but to my taste was a bit too balanced and clean, a bit too international in style. I wished they had followed through with the "archeologically correct" approach, using subterranean amphorae to vinify the wine (one such ancient winery is located right in one of the Pompeii vineyards, and it looked remarkably similar to Cornelissen's despite a gap of almost two thousand years). Nonetheless, it was extraordinary to get to taste this very special wine in the very same place where the grapes came from.
From there I traveled south to a restaurant called Torre del Saracino in Vico Equense on the Sorrentine Peninsula, where chef/owner Gennaro Esposito had done some archeological research of his own (see Recipes & Techniques, Food Arts, October 2003, page 117). This was the last stop on my tour, and, thinking back where I had come from, I realized that the evolution of the food I encountered seemed to closely parallel that of the wine-from the fresh elemental dishes of Santorini through the zesty, simple-but-sophisticated food of Sicily to the bounty of Felix Campania. And now I was here, at the Bay of Naples with the silhouette of Vesuvius on the hazy horizon and the sound of water lapping against the shore, sitting down for a multicourse seafood-inspired tasting menu paired with local wines: Furore Bianco (from the nearby Amalfi coast), Falanghina, and Fiano di Avellino. Among the outstanding dishes were a soup of mixed pasta from the nearby town of Gragnano with shellfish and rockfish; a just barely cooked mussel paired with fresh ricotta and eggplant; and "ravioli" of swordfish drizzled with colatura di alici, a transparent liquid that is made from fermented anchovies. This condiment, akin to the ancient Roman fish sauce called garum and widely used in their cooking, is still made in and around the nearby town of Cetara and used throughout this coastal region. Somehow, with the taste of the Pompeii wine still lingering, the drizzle of the salty, odorous colatura (né garum) on a dish paired with these local wines of ancient origin brought a pleasant blast of the distant past to the back of my (very much present) palate.
Alan Tardi, a chef, writer, and wine/restaurant consultant, divides his time between Italy and the United States. His book, Romancing the Vine, won the 2006 James Beard Foundation Wine and Spirits book award.
