Uncorked (23 page)

The American whiskeys also seem to have the packaging down. Tuthilltown Spirits, a popular brand made in New York’s Hudson Valley, cloaks its whiskey in an irresistible petite round bottle with a wax seal. The bottle’s unusually small size also conceals a premium price. Kings County plays a similar trick with its homemade-seeming hip flasks. Twenty bucks is a great price for a present; it hardly seems to matter that the 200-milliliter bottle is less than a third the size of a standard fifth (750 milliliters).

Atop the American whiskey pantheon remains Pappy van Winkle. The products of this Kentucky distillery are legendarily hard to find. When they come around, bottles tend to retail for around $200. Not that anyone quibbles about the price for this mythical bourbon. One now-defunct Brooklyn liquor store, LeNell’s, owed some of its popularity to its pipeline to the Pappy Van Winkle nectar.

Another unexpected trend has been the continued popularity of Lambrusco, the dry sparkling red from Modena in Italy’s Emilia-Romagna region. For years, this zesty wine was tarred with a “Riunite on ice” association. Oenophiles dismissed it as treacly fizz for those who wanted a little kick with their grape soda.

Lambrusco is a perfect foil to this region’s rich and salty cheeses and charcuterie. Lay out several chunks of Parmigiano (“from Parma”) with a few translucent slices of prosciutto di Parma and other salumi from Emilia-Romagna, and you would be hard-pressed not to get hooked.

Riesling, another much-misunderstood wine, may be poised for a similar rediscovery. At least I hope so. Also once seen as a synonym for cheap and sweet (think Blue Nun, widely popular in the 1970s), this prized German varietal can be used to make some of the best white wines. Not necessarily cloying, great Rieslings often tiptoe between unctuous and tart while incorporating myriad other flavors. In wine-speak, they balance residual sugar with extra acidity. Styles can range from lean to baroque, bursting with swirling aromas and flourishes of intense flavors.

During the summer of 2010 Terroir, which had brought in a massive quantity of Riesling, chose this uncommon varietal as its only white wine “glass pour” (wine by the glass) for the whole summer. And Ryan is not far behind in his enthusiasm for Riesling.

One area that has been much overlooked by my generation is Bordeaux. Too expensive and too stodgy seems to be the general view. Who can keep track of all those growths and classifications? But I am fascinated by the original red wine ideal. Bordeaux is true old school. It’s the wine to which others owe
a debt. Bordeaux is the claret of Jefferson, the product of time-honored blends. In the 1980s, when the Italians first attempted to make their now famous super-Tuscan wines, what did they model them on? Barolos? Barbarescos? Brunellos? Bordeaux! They even planted the same varietals and used them in the traditional Gallic proportions (70 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 15 percent Cabernet Franc, and 15 percent Merlot). I plan to rediscover this neglected superstar. I’m hoping to unearth a few values or confirm a few well-worth splurges.

At this point, with my now vast five-plus years of experience in the wine trade, I am amused by how often I’m asked about my favorite bottle of wine. During one recent lunch break, a trio of young Wall Streeters came in determined to find out.

“Wine guy, what’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted?” asked the one with the Hermès tie. “I mean
the
best,” he continued. “Gotta be a 1997 Gaja Barbaresco, right?”

“No, no, 1984 Petrus, man!” his pal interrupted, citing one of the world’s most coveted Bordeaux wines in one of the worst vintages in modern history. “The guy owns the store, for chrissakes!”

The third man, the ex-quarterback busting out of his ventless suit, declared with authority: “DRC. It must have been DRC. No doubt.”

None of the above. Sorry, guys.

A few months later, I was at a wine dinner in the cellar of Mario Batali’s Babbo restaurant when the question was raised again.

“Prüm Wehlener Sonnennuhr Auslese 1990,” opined a sommelier, taking his time to stretch out every syllable. “I can see,” he said to me somewhat condescendingly, “that you are sophisticated enough to know that Riesling is the king of grapes.”

“And that Prüm is a wine snob’s god,” I thought to myself.
“Mythic Austrian producer, wonderful vintage for this complex white, but not my Holy Grail.”

From across the table, a bearded hipster suggested “Elena Walch, Beyond the Clouds, ’04,” referring to a rich, lush Chardonnay from a cult Italian Alto Adige producer.

Delicious and decidedly nontraditional, yes, but the best ever? I don’t think so.

“If you’re going Chard,” countered the pale woman next to me (who looked to be about thirteen years old), “then how about a Peter Michael Belle Côte or a Kistler?” citing two of the best American whites.

“You’re all missing the point,” an older proprietor of a very respected wineshop jumped in. “A truly once-in-a-lifetime wine has to be a staggering bottle in an unobtainable vintage. Something like ’61 Petrus,” he said, referring to the world’s most famous Merlot in one of the best postwar years.

All great wines, but none are my favorites.

Not surprisingly, for me, the answer starts in Italy. As a boy, I used to race bicycles for the G.S. Versilia (Gruppo Sportivo Versilia) team in races around Tuscany and Liguria. My bedroom was plastered with posters of my idols, Eddy Merckx, the Belgian champion nicknamed the Cannibal, and Francesco Moser, Italy’s 1970s superstar cyclist. I dreamed of winning the Giro d’Italia and the Tour de France.

The competitions were grueling fifty-milers often ending with steep climbs up Appenine peaks. In one race, I remember finishing atop the Passo della Cisa, which runs up through Pontremoli toward Parma. As we neared the summit of the ten-mile ascent, our breakaway (a small group ahead of the main bunch of 100 or
more racers) pedaled through a wet fog. My legs throbbed. My lungs burned. I was bleary-eyed and at my limit. In the distance, I could barely make out a stooped figure draped in scarlet silk and standing among the clouds: a cardinal. As we neared the summit, I gave it one last push, only to find my archrival, Mauro Cima from the Del Tongo shoe team, whiz by me as we passed the finish line, where His Excellency nonetheless blessed us both. Thankfully, what awaited us was not the pearly gates but, in my case, a small prosciutto, a pair of women’s slippers (for Mamma), and a
fiasco
(the old-fashioned straw-covered bottle) of Chianti as my prizes. That night, over a dinner of I can’t remember what, our family cracked open the flask. It was and remains the best-tasting bottle of wine I have ever had.

But that doesn’t mean that I won’t keep trying to top that hard-earned fiasco.

I WANT TO ORGANIZE
a bike ride in our new Pasanella & Son bike jerseys and come back to the store to slake our thirsts. We have many plans for the coming years.

We want to have a summer festival for the community. Ryan calls it “Pasanella-palooza.” We’re imagining sabrage demonstrations in which we chop off champagne bottle tops with sabers as they did in Napoleon’s time and Catalan men pouring Txakoli from behind their heads (the traditional method of aerating this aromatic white wine). Maybe there’ll be a cookie tasting for kids (along with something a little stronger for their parents). I’m partial to recreating the feelings of some festivals of my youth at which we ate and drank one thing (e.g., lardo, the delicious
fatback aged in the nearby marble quarries, washed down with Colli di Luna, the refreshing white wine grown on the slopes just below those quarries) on long benches. The Lees, our store band, are due for a comeback, at least for a day.

We’ve now had the store for six years, the same span Jefferson spent in France (1784–1790) indulging in months-long vineyard trips. His next act was to return to the States to become secretary of state. Mine? Becky thinks I should run for local office. I think she is blinded by love.

We’ve been toying again with the idea of opening another location. Flower district? West SoHo?

For all the boyfriends who stand dutifully by their girlfriends as they pick up bottles of rosé, we’ve been weighing opening an artisan beer shop next door. Or we could open a florist, a bike shop, or even a candy store.

And might it be fun to introduce some great small-producer American wines to Italy?

IT’S MONDAY
, a little before seven o’clock. Shuffling half asleep into our living room, I see the city already in motion. The Brooklyn Bridge glints in the morning sun. Across the harbor, car headlights move along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway like a news ticker. Five-story-high freighters float by at eye level as they cruise up the East River. If I’m feeling inspired, I may jump on my bike and head uptown for a few laps around Central Park. If not, I’ll get the coffee going, make Luca’s lunch, and lay out his clothes while he and Becky sleep. In a few minutes, Becky will scream, “I’m so late,” and hustle Luca out the door
to school. I’ll wave out the window as they jump unaware into a cab.

In a few minutes, I’ll head downstairs, cappuccino in hand, and hang out our gold-leafed bottle on the hook that the fishmongers used for their scales. Ryan and I will chat. We’ll do a little paperwork. Deliveries will arrive via chatty truckers. The wirehaired dachshund will drop by. Then there’ll be the lunch flurry of nearby office workers. After that I’ll probably pop upstairs to make myself a quick lunch. In the afternoon, a fledgling rep may drop by trawling a wheelie bag. Usually we turn them away if they don’t have an appointment, but if the store is quiet, we may taste. Around three-thirty, Luca will come running in from school and hug me as if he hasn’t seen me for years. Then, just as quickly, he’ll bound up the stairs, barely managing “Bye.” Starting in the late afternoon through closing at 9 p.m., there’ll be a steady stream of regulars. From my hidden perch facing our ivy-covered garden, I’ll listen to Ryan wax over some great new Spanish find or rattle off a series of perfect pairings. I’ll often catch women giggling. Customers, now friends, will ask, “Is Marco around?” I’ll peek out, end up chatting, and lose track of time. Dinner will be late. I’ll race upstairs carrying a half-empty sample bottle. We’ll nibble as I cook—so much for laid-back European dinners. At the end of the day, I’ll head downstairs one last time, take down the gold bottle, and pull down the store gates.

Every once in a while, I’ll peek in the darkened store windows from the street. I’ll pause over the glistening bottles in the lighted cabinets, the stacks of wine neatly arranged on the floor, the mosaic tile “Pasanella & Son” that looks like it’s been there
forever, the little Fiat poised for action. I’ll look at all of it lying in suspended animation, and I will thank my stars that I have been so lucky as to have Becky and Luca, to have tripped over this building, to have a business that is also my passion, to have found someone as knowledgeable and committed as Ryan, to have changed my life.

This is not to say that no frustrations persist. There’s the relentlessness of the dolce vita. The business of providing a good time can be exhausting. After six years helping customers celebrate, I sometimes need breaks from the party. I also realize that making and selling wine is as cyclical as designing and redesigning apartments. And nine years after my initial purchase, we are just now—finally!—finishing the building renovation.