There is a land that lives and trembles in the deep sea, mirroring itself in the relentless beating sun. And flowing through its blood, through the mastery of its people, is the art of making wine. And I say "making" because there is a sharp difference when set against the verb to produce. Making belongs to skilled hands — and I speak of ancient hands — that forge grapes like swords of defense, not of conquest. I speak of toil that does not bow to the name on the label, making for oneself even before the barter of money. I admire those who plant and harvest, who pour passion into it. Those who know how to give to the land before demanding anything in return.
We are near Modica... I could almost make a dash for it. The temptation to savor a fine piece of "ciucculatti murucanu" leaves me crestfallen in my reluctance to indulge the desire to spoil myself. A sugary gift, apparently brought by the Spanish and not too distantly by the Aztecs, in a kind of claustrophobic cycle that finds no peace.
Wine and Chocolate? A pairing of difficult compromises, a blurry boundary between daring gambles and bold contortions — but the time to speak of that has not yet come. As usual, I am already caught up in a thousand digressions on the subject, sublime torments to which I willingly succumb.
There are entire barrels I could drag along with me from these barren lands, but despite my weakness for Rosati, I will not be speaking of Cerasuolo di Vittoria. For me, Cerasuolo is the one from Abruzzo, and nothing jars in saying this alongside its Sicilian counterpart; it is a matter of youthful infatuation and not of any exaggerated or partisan attachment to a place, whether native or adopted.
Clasped between the fingers, a cluster of Frappato. Flashes of violet run wild, subduing a spare crimson — reminiscent of a Caravaggio.
An ancient, arcane grape variety of uncertain origin, which makes it all the more captivating and mysterious. One imagines courtly intrigues, confessions to be extracted, battle cries and invasions. Each drop paints the semblance of clashes and struggles, as though the "Men-at-Arms" of Bramante had come to life, drinking oblivion after the clamor of iron.
I am decanting a Frappato from Sicilia Orientale, the Ragusa area. A wine I would not hesitate to call delightful in the summer context that returns us to ourselves a little more carefree, often clouding our discernment. Prudence and common sense thrown to the wind. An extroverted, native grape, reimagined to exist in today's world. Ancestral methods coexist with the present, becoming its essence, reshaping its identity. Water, earth, and fire merge here.
Woven into this Contrada da Bidini, it is a wine born of Sicily that goes beyond every cliché. An elegant yet full-blooded red, limpid and at once pronounced; some might call it "easy," and if by that we mean authentic and straightforward, I agree. Born in the sandy, chromatically rich soil typical of Vittoria, under the aegis of Poseidon and not far from the waters whose meaning it captures, this Frappato is jovial.
It is a wine of making — working-class in concept, noble in the tasting. It can free itself from the clamor and whims of the spotlight. It reconciles man with his land, which takes what it can without plundering. There is reciprocity.
"Il Frappato" by Valle dell'Acate, produced from the eponymous grape variety, in purezza, is a young wine, brimming with aromas and overflowing with harmony. Aged 6 months in steel and 3 months in "glass," it knows how to keep its aromas perfectly intact. Fragrant, exuberant, it flows out lively and spirited.
A wine in purezza? We can say a wine is conceived "in purezza" when it is made from a single grape variety. Its counterpart is "uvaggio," the blend, in which different grapes are used together.
The cantina offers 7 terroirs for 7 wines. And the land of Frappato is black, concealing something primordial within itself, yet also speaking of purification — that dark mantle scattered with white-tinted pebbles and roots that plunge deep.
Frappato should be enjoyed cooler than any other red — that, for me, is its virtue. It reconciles the August heat with a not-excessive alcohol content.
«The discussions having been long and the heat great, she had Greek wine and sweets brought...». Decameron, Second Day, Fifth Novel. To quote one who knows a thing or two about pleasures.
Now is the right moment to risk a leap into the past, a wrench from the daily back-and-forth of living — a small liberating act, yes, but harmless, sweet, the sweetest of distractions.
I wrote some time ago, in my own words: «But that is another story...». I strip away the trinkets, I discard what creaks. "Here it is."
Days and days ago, in some I-know-not-when and I-know-not-where — treacherous is the memory that strays from remembering, a liar and a keeper of silence — an emotional involvement made of flavors and tremors and dazzlement at the inertia of not wanting to give in, swept over me with force.
…We had left off at little boats with reddish streaks, made of paper only in appearance, woven with slender wooden filaments in the manner of a Nordic Origami, on which pieces of smoked salmon navigated like fuselages puffing out playful poetry.
Seas and ice, the first hint of a storm. Body and mind in turmoil. And sails — every sail of an ancient sailing ship that the wind inhales and drives, a gust of squall and a surge of impulse that grips the soul, welcomes it and upends it. Canvases of ashen white, still bare for now, to be painted with the simple touch of the hand, with fingers steeped in the drink of the Gods, using the vocabulary of recklessness. My thoughts branch out in countless directions, at first seemingly senseless, yet a cataclysm of voracious thirst to be vanquished with glasses dripping with tannin.
I tend to favor fish dishes enriched with one or more bottles of vivid red. No extravagance — the usual quip without concessions to fashion, without aping the new trends. With caution as a premise, and even then it is sometimes not enough, the only advice is to dare. Daring pays off. Appetite comes with daring.
Light, uninhibited wines with an ample bouquet are to be preferred — in short, those "fragrant with the rainbow." On the pairing front, to switch sides, Frappato is the perfect aperitif, all the more so in those interminable minutes of waiting for lunch, or while waiting for sunset when a trifle is missing before evening falls and we linger over a refined dinner in the half-light of a candle. It pairs well with aged cheese, "caciocavallo ragusano" and cured meats, but its grace deserves something more. Something more aggressive — tart, less indulgent sauces and a hint of spice in the finish. Plenty of chili pepper, savory profiteroles with asparagus cream and sizzling bacon, and a fluid foam of mushrooms and truffle.
But I want to make it fall in love with the sea...
Raw fish, Sushi and Sashimi, to satisfy the thrill of the exotic beyond the by-now banal "Makizushi" — trying it in a bowl in the style of "Edo," with ingredients artfully scattered over rice in the manner of the Land of the Rising Sun. And Italy — so much Italy — with "Tonno Rosso di Sicilia" cured bresaola-style, and swordfish from the "strait" as a carpaccio, flavors of the Egadi Islands and Favignana.
A tartare of gamberi rossi in a citrus sauce with crumbles of homemade bread toasted in the oven with oil and basil. A dusting of freshly ground black pepper, and the deed is done! Or for those who love to delight in contrasts — the tart and the sweet — a tartare again of prawns, or langoustines, or scallops, or lobster, with celery and green apple... Served in aperitif spoons, finger food style.
With fish, Frappato should be served cooler than usual, in wide-bowled glasses, at around 15°C — perhaps dropping just a little further still.
The Indecent Proposal... I am thinking of an overseas transgression — those little salmon boats so hard to pair. A little fusion, a little fashion.
Here we are at last: the salmon. Superb when smoked, superlative when marinated, marinated-and-smoked — need I say more.
Let us give it emphasis by accompanying it with a herb condiment, aromatic mustard, dill. It is a mild tease... Then prawns flambéed in Armagnac with cocoa powder on a bed of oranges and a few oysters on the side. Oysters. Crustaceans. Cocoa. And Caviar...
Aphrodisiac.
Pleasant — yes, pleasant. There is no word that can better embody the sensation that slides down your throat. The visual spread is satisfying. Soft in color, a sketched crimson, diaphanous and brilliant. In the glass it presents a clear, transparent ruby with a pale rim, arousing at the nose a pleasant effervescence — an effect of fruitiness and vivacity.
So much red — a graceful red. The red of cherry and strawberry, and an echo that speaks of florals, seducing a blooming rose garden. Yes, wild strawberries and blackberries, but also blueberries, also raspberries. These are the notes of small dark-berried fruits, those you find in the woods, grazing my mouth. Premonitions recalling certain spices — not sharp spices — and tea waiting to be fermented.
It is the whole that sets it apart, with a nose of marasca cherry in spirit, lilies, and I would say sage, and salty Mediterranean sprays in a clean, sapid finish. It takes hold of you gently, essentially, then suddenly disorients you with a never-cloying sensory explosion that converts into a cheerful persistence.
Its scent seduces me. A fragrance of pomegranate mingled with nostalgia. It intoxicates you as you linger not in the drinking, but in the contemplation of this fragrance, which your very breath accompanies. The olfactory nuance, released without the slightest stinginess, you will not be able to forget.
Not that it is the finest, nor should it be. My preference lies beyond such measures. It is in the occasion — to each their own — that it takes on meaning. I chose it in its role as "Lady-in-Waiting," or better still as my "Dama d'Accompagnamento" for its delicate affinity with the flavors of the sea. A chic sip for under Euro 10.
The sun slowly sets among the mountains, which from here look a little tired, perhaps lulled by a light mist that gently submerges them, drawing contours that speak of fairy tales.
I pour myself a second glass. The wine gladdens my senses, making me feel even more detached from the material plane of consciousness. It is fresh. It carries within it all the freshness of summer, or of those first hints of autumn when the sun — almost bound by the turning of the seasons — still warms our soul and heart, with that bittersweet pinch of melancholy that whispers to us, barely audibly, that the happy hours of warmth are drawing to a close.
«I would scarce wish to exchange this my sweet-bitter life».
Restless, I arrest my thoughts. I want to call this moment still my own, to postpone as long as possible the irremediable advent of winter — which I do, at heart, love, amid the white misunderstandings of snow, frills of frost and dew, and the light that from above falls differently, not more beautiful or less beautiful, only prone to the bequest it is about to give to the spring already looming in my longing. And spring is well aware of its power to bridle the last shivers of winter as it surrenders and dies.
I murmur a few more lines of Petrarca at random to encourage the spirit, and cast a last glance at the side that serves as buttress to the mountains, to see once more the sea that the clear sky plunges into one seamless whole with the horizon.
A veil of rain dissolves, as if there had never been any torment — almost a homecoming of that water which the sky pours down from above.
One more sip... And let the dream begin.
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