Prosecco Superiore "Vecchie Viti": The Sip of Eternity.

D.O.C.G. Brut. Ruggeri, Valdobbiadene. Never had an "ancient" Prosecco?

I'm lying in the garden. Before me, on an old cast-iron table that exudes a sense of rococo, Neruda's "Elemental Odes," in a worn edition that seems even more gaunt than the small cabinet that holds it, on this late afternoon far from being wrapped in summer warmth.

Among the branches of a chestnut tree, which was there even before I was born, I can barely make out what from here I believe to be a faint counterproof of a thought from the sky that might reveal itself as a declaration of love. A gentle confession afraid of being discovered, revealing itself in soft bursts of light.

And those few rays illuminate the text of a page I have marked many times before... But I have no need to read. From memory I trace its contours, redrawing the outline of each letter as it takes shape, now and forever in the mind: «Wine the color of day, wine the color of night, wine with feet of purple or topaz blood, wine, starry child of the earth...».

Beside the book, a bottle with an old fashion look, bearing a label that captures the essence of a complex thought: a branch that seems intertwined with those of the nearby trees, which almost touch it; a branch that extends, endlessly, beyond the horizon, evoking Hokusai's "Plum Tree in Blossom and Moon."

I pour. A careless drop stains one of the pages. I am glad of it. It is proof and reminiscence of my passage today. A stamp left to remember the moment.
I desire to drink romantically... A few pomegranate seeds, a handful will do, immersed among the bubbles. The effect delights the eye.

I think of wine and I think of women. A kiss to the glass, without masks, in truth a kiss to Her. A her of any kind, of the years gone by and of the years to come, in a gesture that aspires to be courtly reverence, a bit dandy, a bit feigned cicisbeo.

Brilliant straw-yellow color, with a delicate, non-evanescent perlage. Prosecco Brut, intense and fragrant. And if you sniff it, it's as if it were singing a nursery rhyme in your ear with notes of fruity aroma, with a delicacy that catches you off guard. Subtle, a sketch of moonlit dawn, with reflections that are sparks in the half-light of this evening full of wonders.

I drink it and what do I think? What do I sense? I sense green apple and pears and citrus. And yes, ripe hints of apple duet with pricks of broom and sage aromas, a sinuous herbal nuance. It is fresh. And it carries the yellow of wheat fields, of hay and autumn hedgerows. Freshly baked bread crust, biscuits browning in a rounded, plump wood-fired oven. Clean, elegant, and yes, full-bodied and soft, yes soft and pleasant, pleasant on the palate, but also balanced, but also persistent; vigorous in all its complexity, in all the fullness it knowingly bestows upon you.

The finish is harmony! Long and mineral, with a lasting aftertaste, spicy on the palate, but never brazen. It surprises the nose because it does not explode suddenly but seizes you slowly, like an odalisque gracefully approaching. And what else would you expect but a skirmish of passion in the caravanserai?

The "Vecchie Viti" is born not from a single vineyard, nor from a single grape variety. Individual plants, Glera grapes, with a blend of Verdiso, Bianchetta and Perera, added in small doses to tease out the flavor. The blend draws its character from a sporadic, rare selection of old vines–old meaning ancient and sumptuous and, why not, superb. Made regal by the play of decades and the alternation of seasons, with an age that approaches and perhaps exceeds a century. In the winemaking there is a generational reference that should not go unnoticed: a brief contact of the must with the skins. It is a looking back to one's forebears, to the original method by which white grapes were transformed into nectar on the hills of Valdobbiadene. Limited production, only 5,000 bottles in the sometimes all-too-slow passage of 12 months.

Old vines, twisted and thick, entwining with one another, tracing arms locked in an act of strength or seeking a pretext to stay joined, drawing extravagant, among the strangest shapes; long-lived eccentricities, Titans colliding and struggling. I delight in believing they support each other in an embrace that tends toward the eternal. I like to think they were lovers.
Sparse grapes with small berries and loose, scattered clusters; in the local dialect "coronele," in a poetic vision that likens them to the Crown of the Rosary, between the sacred and the profane and vice versa. A pagan prayer to the god Bacchus. I would have renamed it "A Midsummer Night's Dream," because in summer I will want to yield and make it mine again, on a veranda or by the sea, the sunset an indispensable companion.

A brut-style sparkling wine that challenges the collective imagination of PROSECCO, the popular idea we've formed of it, concept and preconception alike. A Prosecco outside the norm, almost beyond the "rules," atypical, undisciplined. An original expression. It leaves behind a sensation of lightness, in body and in spirit. That sense of mental purification that very few wines know how to bestow, and it achieves this instantly, without waiting. At times it may slip away slightly, losing itself a little in the finish, but I forgive it for that, as forgivable as a gentle distraction on the palate.

It contains the essence of a wine we theoretically should never have been able to drink. The beauty lies in the fact that these old canes still exist; generally, alas, they are not allowed to die of old age. The cycle of existence, beyond a certain age, demands, insists upon, sacrificing them. A museum of life as it was and as it will be, to be relived in every drop. A going back, skirting the edge of memory. Back through yesterday after yesterday, into the hiding places of the past that seems never to have passed. Except that here, this is what changes, time will be stopped in the brief or long, very long conjunction of moments each of us will spend to quench the material or incorporeal thirst that dwells deep within our consciences.

The ancient vines should taste of roughness, yet it is as if they renew themselves. On the inhale I encounter the walnut tree that acts as a buttress to the chestnut, and then the peach tree, and then almonds. An emancipated Charmat, never aloof, that flirts with the méthode champenoise, without overdoing it. A dry Vin mousseux with a fine bubble. This is l'Altamarca as I like it!

"Tre Bicchieri", Top Ranking, from the Guida Gambero Rosso 2015. Noble also in Price: 12 euros or a few coins more. Cantina Ruggeri. A historic winery, one of the ancient strongholds of all Valdobbiadene. One of the Kingdoms of Prosecco.

The Indecent Proposal... At this hour, as the sunset falls and descends, spent and ruddy, I would pair this drink with a dish of exotic character. «In truth you shall dine on it with me».

Risotto alla Primavera with "Erba di Sileno," also known as bladder campion, the one children used to pop between their fingers. It is a wild, rustic little plant that can be gathered in meadows near home; preferably the greenest and most tender tips, the buds heralding the blossoming. It grows spontaneously, perennial and smooth, and its inflorescences, plump little urns, remain open day and night, with a scent reminiscent of aromatic Eugenia.

I would make a mixture with the addition of a colorful bouquet: nettles, wild fennel, meadow sage, "Buon Enrico," a sort of rebellious spinach, hop shoots and wild garlic leaves and flowers. With cloves, we can flavor the cooking water to enhance the perception and emulate the Silene in fragrance.

Right. Where is the indecency? Instead of a local variety, forgive me, I would want a long-grain rice with a slender kernel, the kind that comes from the steepest slopes of the Himalayas or from the plains just at its feet, or the beautiful Jasmine of Thai tradition, nicknamed "the fragrant one," and it will be easy to discover why. And I would make it in the Turkish fashion, with a Pilaf recipe, bringing the Middle East and even the Far East closer, and as a fancy touch perhaps a sauce of mixed paprika, curry and spice upon spice, everything you find in the pantry, and cooking saké.

It deserves a resounding name... "Dehradun Basmati or Jasmine alla Pilaf, with shoots of Silena, steeped in non-bitter aromas of field and mountain, in a bath of clove and Ryorishu." Offered to the Gods or to guests.

I notice a jolt in the hourglass of life; the watch trembles in my pocket and reminds me, none too gently, that the suspension of time is enough for today. It is late, already late. The air carries to me, across the courtyard, a taste of magnolia and chives, in a contrast that drapes itself in sweetness and in the mockery of sweetness. It is a scoffing stripped of malice, which hides within it a pinch of nostalgia. A taking leave of the day. A farewell, yes weary, but still full of the joys it hopes to gather tomorrow, at the rising of the new sun.

I allow myself that last remaining sip, the final and yielding one, to entangle in a chalice of stars the remnants of thoughts that keep me awake. As if to drink, and preserve within oneself in a single gulp, those lights from above, which seem immersed in the glass, together with those dreams that still have no desire to sleep.

A breath of wind. The candle goes out. «We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine». A leap and I am in Uruguay with Galeano, writer and poet, who reads aloud to me this melody in words, which I consider among his most beautiful.

It is that phrase I am thinking of, afraid it will scatter, and how not to bid farewell to my rambling closing remarks by murmuring to myself, in a lame but intoxicated refrain, the parting line of Neruda's Ode... «May the wine jug add its kiss to the kiss of love».

One last indulgence of reason, before taking leave and letting myself be enveloped by the arriving night... When will there be a wine called "Isabella"?