Sharon and I recently attended “An Evening in Tuscany” dinner hosted by our financial advisor’s firm.  The venue was a local country club, and the main attraction was Chris Cree, a certified Master of Wine and proprietor of the 56° Wine shop in Bernardsville, NJ.

Cree has created an admirable niche by focusing on small producers who hand-craft their wines. He and these producers share common philosophical interests: a commitment to sustainable agriculture, preserving terroir, and producing wines that rely not upon mass mechanization but a dedication to touching every aspect of the creation of better tasting wine.

The evening’s list whetted my appetite. The reception portion featured a 2008 Corzano e Paterno “Il Corzanello” Bianco, an inviting blend primarily of Trebbiano and Chardonnay.

The antipasto (beef carpaccio, arugula and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese) was accompanied by a 2008 La Parrina Bianco, a blend of Trebbiano, Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. Answering a question of ‘white wine with beef?’ Cree explained that the preparation method—shaved raw beef in a light dressing—dictated the pairing.

The primo of wild mushroom risotto and secondo of braised beef short rib, sided by greens and vegetables were complemented by a 2007 Imbottigliato Da Racine Chianti Classico and a 2006 Isole e Olena Cepparello IGT Super Tuscan, respectively.

The dessert of Moscato poached pears was accompanied by a 2001 Isole e Olena Vin Santo.

So what happened when one of the five meticulously selected pairings came up corked?

No trauma, no embarrassment, but rather, Cree used the misfortune as a candid lesson about oxidization. He poured a glass from the single tainted bottle and passed it around the table so all could familiarize ourselves with the unfortunate aroma of corked wine.

That led to a discussion about what causes oxidization, anecdotes about having the courage to send back corked wine, an analysis of the range of what percentage of wines are problematic, and the industry solutions for dealing with the challenges of oxidization.

I raise a toast to Chris Cree, a true Master of Wine, who transformed the classic wine nightmare into a learning experience.

For more on 56° Wine and the challenges of and solutions to oxidization, check out the following links.
56° Wine
Wine Closures

Photograph of Elena Kostioukovitch by Massimo Pasquale

Elena Kostioukovitch is not Italian. She was born in Kiev, Russia. But Kostioukovitch is deeply in touch with her Inner Italian. How do I know? I’ve been reading Why Italians Love to Talk About Food, the Farrar, Straus and Giroux publication of her book.

Kostioukovitch’s day job is to translate the literary works of Umberto Eco and other authors into the Russian language. Also an essayist and literary agent, she has lived in Milan for more than two decades. She explains in the preface to her 400-plus page tome, “This book was born specifically to assemble in a single volume stories about the symbolic foods of each Italian region and their ‘ideological’ meanings.”

She creates an intellectual journey from the north of the peninsula to the south, exploring culinary history, characteristic dishes, and cultural eccentricities of each region. Her research is rigorous — footnotes and bibliography cover more than 30 pages.

We learn, for instance, that the aperitivo Campari was created by Gaspare Campari at the Caffè Zucca in Milan in 1867.

We practically taste the brine on our lips as we discover that the remaining wilderness of Puglia fosters in the locals a preference for unadulterated foods. “The tendency to eat unprocessed food is especially evident in the consumption of raw fish. In fish markets, for example, it is customary to set out plates of raw shrimp, cuttlefish, and mussels for customers who are waiting, to be eaten on the spot with a squirt of lemon.”

And who knew that Nutella, the jarred gianduia paste created by the Ferrero brothers in Piedmont, makes a political statement? Kostioukovitch explains, “Nutella, loved by children (naturally) and adults, was also prized by nonconformists and leftists. As Italy’s answer to [American peanut butter], it is winning, uplifting, and youthful, a sign of democracy and leftist ideals.”

Essays interspersed between the regional food chapters are quirky and informative, covering topics as diverse as the “Jews,” “Early Gifts from the Americas,” “Totalitarianism,” and “Joy.” I particularly appreciated “Preparation Methods,” a roster of dozens of cooking techniques written in sort of a shorthand code. Not much is spelled out for the Italian home cook in printed recipes—presumably the cook learned these methods at an older cook’s elbow.

“Soak prickly pears.”

“Extract the ink from cuttlefish.”

“Shape polenta in a cloth.”

“Crogiolare (bask or laze comfortably): cook a food over a slow fire, with a little liquid, for a long time.”

One word of warning: Perusing this volume can be hazardous on an empty stomach. Hunger ensues. References to Roman coda all vaccinara (oxtail stew), Neopolitan sartù, (a rice mold with giblets, mushrooms, peas and mozzarella), Ferrara’s pumpkin filled tortelli, Calabrian jujume (sea anemone fritters), Sicilian granita with brioche, and more dishes too numerous to recount will surely make you long to be dining at an Italian table.

Kostioukovitch bottom line is this: “Examining the culture of food, we also come to understand its unique ability to inspire joy and create harmony. Whether at table with family, in a restaurant with friends, or at a scientific conference—food is talked about in a language that is accessible to all, exciting to everyone, democratic and positive.”

What conversations have you enjoyed around an Italian table?

Comment below.

The wise Michael Pollan has done it again.

He’s preaching the Italian gospel of eating (although he doesn’t state it that way) — trying to save us from the foolish excess of ingesting manufactured stuff disguised as edibles.

For quick reference, he has distilled his mantra of “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants,” into a pocket book called Food Rules: An Eater’s Manual.

Read about it at the New York Time’s Well blog.

Putting off little pleasures can lead to big regrets.

My wish to all in 2010, let’s take time to savor the joys that each day brings us, Italian-style.

Read John Tierney’s inspirational article in the New York Times

Story and Photographs by Melinda Rizzo

The Palazzo Vecchio, the town hall of Florence.

Florentines are accustomed to waiting.

From Michelangelo to Botticelli, DaVinci to Galileo, Florentines have cultured their passions into pearls, like a single grain of sand nestled deep inside an oyster and emerging over time to become a gem of the sea.

This year was my 30^th, or Pearl, wedding anniversary.

To celebrate this milestone, my husband and I opted to take a trip to Florence, the heart and breath of Italy’s Tuscany region.

In January, we made the decision to travel to Italy at the end of November. Planning and executing this trip—one in which we’d invited a cousin and were traveling with our 12-year-old son—took time and patience. Patience, you might say, of the Florentines.

I’ve never considered myself a patient person.

Cathedrals take time to build, often centuries, still Florentines seem content to wait knowing their labors are never in vain.

The Dome of Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral, commonly know as The Duomo.

As Carl Jung, a 20^th century Swiss psychiatrist would contend, any work with purpose regardless of its nature, ultimately provides satisfaction and even pleasure for the worker.

Prosciutto crudo (air dried and cured pork) from Parma and arguably the pride of its area, can take as long as two years from start to finish to be ready for consumption.

Two years for a ham and cheese sandwich, but what a sandwich it makes! Prosciutto for me, and my son, is porcine transcendence.

Does anyone ordering a prosciutto focaccia pressed and toasted, consider the amount of time it took to create the ham? A moment of mastication melts these buttery mouthfuls, and they are gone.

Florentines linger over osteria menus . . .  along alleyways . . . and outside the windows of leather shops.

Street performers sing operatic arias. They pump life into an accordion’s complication.

They strum a guitar or play the love theme from Florentine Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 film Romeo and Juliet in the Piazza Signoria, where I rented our apartment. They spend time and care honing their musicianship. For those who love music, they offer kinship without translation.

Street performers share their art in exchange for spare change dropped into a basket poised at their feet. Skilled musicians bear witness to patience and waiting.

Witnessing the patience of Florentines: to execute a 17-foot-tall statue of David in marble, paint the mythological birth of Venus over the ocean waves or slice tissue thin prosciutto from the seasoned hindquarters of a pig, taught me a thing or two about this most elusive of virtues.

Consider the amount of time it takes for someone to carve mounds of
Nutella, vanilla or tutti fruitti gelato, into tempting, irresistible towering creations
decorated with fruit slices, nuts or plump, glistening blackberries and shiny
currants.

Florence Awaits continued