String Tied in Campania

Posted 01/29/2008 at 11:09 AM by Chris

A few years ago, I had the unbelievable luck to get a phone call from my boss asking if I would like go on a 10-day cruise through the Mediterranean to talk about wine. It would require me to give a one-hour lecture on two of the “sea days” aboard the boat, traveling through regions in Spain, Italy, Greece and Croatia. The Millennium Celebrity Cruise Line had offered an invitation to the owner of Far Niente (my boss) to enjoy the cruise, all expenses paid, to simply talk about his beautiful Napa Valley winery. My wife was nearly eight months pregnant at the time and thoroughly jealous to hear about the opportunity. “It’s work,” I said. Trying not to smile and plead my employment duty, she said “I’m sure his wife was invited too, right?” Very good point, honey.

It was July of 2003, the unforgettable scorched summer where news reports were rampant of crowding in hospitals and scores of citizens dying of heat exhaustion. The temperature at the Coliseum in Rome was 108 degrees, where my very pregnant wife, desperate to see and experience everything she could, trudged through the summer thongs of international sweaty tourists, stopping at any shadow of shade that lowered the heat by a degree. She could have stayed on the boat of course, in the cool air conditioning, feasting on the 24-hour piles of banquet chicken and mashed potatoes.

The ship offered various “excursions” at each port. These were hot tickets, reserved far in advance, which offered guided trips to some touristy, safe destination for people who didn’t mind paying a little extra for a no hassle slice of local flavor. They were also perfect my wife, particularly after running around the port of Livorno looking for a train to get us to Pisa in time to see the leaning tower, snap a picture of me holding it up, and then race back to the train arriving in port just in time before the ship departed. The excursion offered an air conditioned bus ride, a casual lunch, a stroll around a Roman ruin, or whatever, and a non rushed ride back to the lido deck just in time for cocktails. That was the Italian way, I thought.

We picked an excursion to Pompeii. This trip offered an opportunity to visit a real, live, operating Cameo factory just south of Naples. Ok, sure, but what exactly is a Cameo, and why would someone want to see it made? Let’s just go to Pompeii, skip the factory and save a few bucks. Maybe it was just me, but my wife actually had an interest in seeing this diversion, although I think it was really because of the air conditioned building and the slow pace of the retirees on our bus that appealed to her. When the bus arrived at the Cameo headquarters, I instead used the allotted hour to walk around the corner to a small town center. Thinking I would pretend I was Italian, even though I wore shorts, t-shirt, white socks and sneakers, I walked up to the café and ordered an espresso. I stood with the other older men, with a foot on the metal rail and an elbow on the bar and asked for my coffee in Italian. Espresso per favore! Everyone turned to stare. Damn! How did they know! I drank quickly and left.

Walking back to the factory, feeling not so cool anymore in my Persol shades, I saw a market and decided to stop in for a bag of chips or an Italian candy I could bring back as a souvenir. I saw a tall, straw basket, the kind usually holding baguettes, which instead was filled with dark green unlabeled wine bottles. Hmmm. I picked up a bottle, intrigued at the thick brown string tied around the neck and the cork. Was this sparkling wine, like Prosecco? There was no label. No hint of a region, or a grape varietal, or a producer, or any clue that might help me to make an educated guess of what was inside.

I held up a bottle to the lady at the counter and made a puzzled face. My white socks and shorts instinctively told her to speak English, “redda wina,” she yelled with quickness and authority. My feeble dream of blending in as a local was again shattered and I felt embarrassed as if I had asked for a price check on tampons. I bought two bottles, with a plan to share one at dinner with my tablemates back on the cruise ship, and one to bring back as a gift for my parents. Imagine my surprise when the cost for both bottles was the equivalent of three dollars!

Back on the cruise ship that night, the three other older couples that shared our table were eager to try the strange, unmarked bottle I had found that day. The $1.50 bottle seemed considerably more interesting and inspiring than a Cameo. Out came the stoic Croatian waiter, with corkscrew in hand, serviette at the ready, and the archaic tastevin on a corroded silver-plated chain around his neck. With a puzzled look, he sawed away at the sinewy string tied around the cork. He opened the bottle and beautiful, neon bright, strawberry colored wine poured into my glass. The wine smelled like wild strawberries, fresh raspberries and pink cotton candy. Darker than rose, but lighter than a typical sangiovese, the wine was fresh as if it had just finished fermentation. Wild herbs of fennel, rosemary and thyme filled my glass and the light body and vibrant acidity of the wine called out for another sip.

The wine offered a unique experience that night. It was the kind of wine experience that can seem to only happen in the moment. The story of my discovery, the guests who enjoyed it during a lighthearted meal, and the fact that this was a local wine made for a family to enjoy without pretensions, created a rare snapshot of how wine should really be enjoyed.

A few years ago, I had the unbelievable luck to get a phone call from my boss asking if I would like go on a 10-day cruise through the Mediterranean to talk about wine. It would require me to give a one-hour lecture on two of the 'sea days' aboard the boat, traveling through regions in Spain, Italy, Greece and Croatia.

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