Il Gusto di Cielo

We exited the bus only to begin our ascent up the mile long driveway. It was a grueling task considering my previous evening filled with house wine, a brunette and little sleep. It proved an evening that required grappa in my coffee and sunglasses before the dawn. It was forbidden for cars to travel the tree-flanked road while the family was summering on the estate. I asked, in what little Italian I could muster, what men called the green behemoths standing next to me as if guarding the only route to their owners. I was quite proud of my prowess with the language. I am sure to our native tour guide, Antonio, I resembled a petulant child attempting adult conversation. “Cypress” he answered, the “s” extending to an almost ominous echo. They stood so tall they seemed unnatural. Surely, a great Italian architect able to capture the alluring majesty of nature in a skyscraper considered them his greatest work. I wondered what these trees had experienced in their lifetime. Had the Goth’s used their ancestors to form spears against the Romans? Had their relatives rendered shade and secrecy to Casanova’s latest tryst? With each step closer to our destination my mind wandered the historical possibilities. The fall of Rome? Surely they were not that old! The proclamation of Vittorio Emanuele as King? Mussolini’s address in the palazzo Venezia? My inquisitive daydreaming quickly ended, usurped by the majesty before me as if a noble wind did prompt the trees to open up their guarding arms and welcome.

The Fanuiti estate in Tuscany is a great orange beacon upon a rolling hill of golden grass. Surrounded by olive groves and vineyards, the main house flanked by a guard wall, alluded to imagery of war. I held the honor, along with several others, of a lesson and a meal with the family chef. We had also anticipated spending the evening on the estate, but apparently the family of the house decided to “vacation early that year.” I could only imagine that as a member of one of the oldest and most famous wine making families in the world, your life would be a vacation. We were no longer permitted to use the house, we were told, but the servant’s quarters would be able to provide us with the necessary accommodations for our lesson and our lunch. Such is the life of a chef: obscured from the public eye, provided the means with which to complete a job, and then asked - no told - to leave.

We began a tour of the estate with the wine-making facilities, onto the vineyards, olive groves and olive oil processing area. We filed into the servants quarters only to find a full production kitchen. Obviously furnished for catered events, the kitchen was able to accommodate 15 workers comfortably – we were 23 – and more well appointed than most of the kitchens where we found ourselves back home. We were given our menu for the day and divided into groups, each with a group leader. I can assume it was for my limited knowledge of Italian rather than my unseen skills, that I was given the task to coordinate our event. Our instructors spoke broken, if any English so it was my job to relay the instructions of the meal’s assembly to the group. Visibly weary, I did not want to work and if I was expected to perform at any level – even one as lackadaisical as this – I was going to need a drink. The alcohol from last evening still coursing through my veins, inevitably destined for my pores began addling my mind. I suggested I be able to “taste” the wine, as to adequately manipulate the flavor profile of the food we would be serving. With a sly, smug smile, our gracious host beaconed me to follow.
Antonio and I walked to a narrow staircase, obviously built when people were smaller in stature, which led beneath the barrel room. Down a dimly lit, cobwebbed corridor, the musty air-cooled my face and I felt momentary relief while we traversed the catacombs under the house. The stories of generations lined these walls. Clandestined meetings between lovers, discoveries of 18th century wine making innovations, rites of childish passage surmounting each blind corner of impending doom. Finally, we reached our destination through a shrouded corner door arched in ancient stone.

Bottles, the likes of which I would never see again, were stacked haphazardly as if their value was overrated or misunderstood. I realized in this life, the life of this cellar, this house, this family, a ‘61 Gaja is table wine. Petulantly, I questioned the function of this unkempt cellar; knowing if it were mine, I would polish the bottles to their original luster daily, rejoicing in the subtleties with which the liquid’s red transforms to a beautiful brown tinge with age. I stumbled upon Antonio’s words and managed to gather that this served as the winemaker’s private cellar. Indeed, this is where the artist would come to derive inspiration from the great wines of his country and realize the true potential of his grapes and his talent. Antonio pointed to one shelf and said, “Choose.” I remained excited with my prospects rather that disappointed with my limits; interesting since at the time I was quite the narcissistic megalomaniac. I delicately mulled over each possibility, my fingers contemplating what type of experience I sought. Did I want to open the ’76 Nardi Barolo, simply satisfied that I had the opportunity to taste the year, knowing that I would be disappointed in the overall quality of the wine? Or should I choose the ’97 knowing it was far too young but one of the best years the Tuscan countryside has ever seen?

If I could only adequately relay in words the turmoil my mind had undergone in those moments. I have no regrets in life other than missed opportunities. The contact not made. The networking I failed to maintain, and by now they were sure to have forgotten me. The girl I hadn’t had since the acquiescence of her mind was all I desired that evening. The education I never completed. The friends I always kept at a distance, and now yearned for their touch. I did not want this to be another on the list. In a world where I ranked experience so high, this could be a Grail. I stumbled upon a green bottle with a rough cork. I brushed off the dust with my hand and saw no label. When held a certain way in the modest light I could see 1993 inscribed in what seemed to be wax pencil.

I handed Antonio the bottle my hand trembling with uncertainty. “You are a smart man,” he said with grin, his eyes never leaving the bottle. Opportunity found. This bottle was a blend the wine maker had used as a template for that year. It is what he wanted his wine to resemble when finished. Attention to such detail would be cost prohibitive for mass production, but for a case or two the winemaker could completely control a small batch of the juice to see if the grapes had adequately reached their full potential when the larger vat was complete. Antonio turned and said, “You keep quiet. This our secret.” Who sounded petulant now? I greedily agreed, relieved that I did not have to share the experience.

He opened the bottle and prepared two glasses. With only a drop to examine, we plunged our noses in the glass and inhaled deeply. I am unable to describe the intense complexity of the aroma, but I will never forget the image my receptors conjured. I imagined a leather chair, coated in blackberry jam, dipped in chocolate and rolled in tobacco. This was going to be good. I found pure velvet on the tongue with flavors of wet tobacco and stewed fruit with a finish that lasted for minutes waiting for me in that bottle. Some may find this description revolting, even nauseating, but I can say with great certainty that in that bottle I had a momentary glimpse of what lies beyond the Gates of Pearl. I poured a full glass and prayed for the opportunity to find 1993 in the afterlife.

Antonio and I rejoined the group who, almost finished preparing lunch, grew angrier in every fold of ravioli that I was absent for the chores. My savior from the motley crew was found in the form of a case of wine I persuaded Antonio to bring up from the catacombs. These labeled bottles held no mystery, shared no divine providence with the cypress, but satisfied those ignorant of my enlightenment.

We established our picnic area on the east end of the estate, erecting our crude dining room under flowering willows and beside a patch of sunflowers. Two wine barrels on their sides served as legs and a long patch of plywood produced a rustically beautiful tabletop. I will never know where Antonio found a tablecloth to cover our behemoth. Apparently, I was not aware of all of his secrets. While we all sat and broke bread, sharing wine and stories, I decided to take a moment for myself.

I walked the estate breathing in the life that enveloped my body in the warm Tuscan sun. I touched the vines, some hundreds of years old, inspecting the diameter of their stalks. I walked among the olives and plucked one off the tree, its warm oils sputtering out of my mouth and running down my chin. As I wiped the secretions off of my face, I remembered how I came to this diversion in my life. My own road less traveled washed to the forefront of my mind.
I went to college with aspirations of becoming a lawyer. The experience of my parents divorce ingrained a portrait in my mind of law as power. At 10-years of age, I witnessed the legal system usurp my childhood as a judge forced me to monitor my father’s drinking habits and report my mother’s willingness toward visitation. A cycle of lies began as I told my mother my father didn’t drink, at least in my presence, and told my father my mother was not yet dating. I became more and more adept in the art of manipulation. With years of experience at fabricating my own truths, the law seemed like a more than viable option for a career.

I thoroughly enjoyed my college experience. I made many friends with whom I am still in close contact. I was elected to represent the freshman class as a senator on the Student Government Association and later, elected to hold the position of Vice President of Administration and Finance. I auditioned and received the lead in a musical and was a Founding Father my fraternity on campus. I drank a lot of beer and dated too many girls. I had garnered the respect of my classmates, received decent grades while never attending class, and my parents continually paid the bill for my maxed out credit card.

Despite my indulgences, I quickly became bored with college and uninterested in my life. An unknown force began to pull me away from the way I was living. Perhaps I had achieved success too quickly and felt I had already accomplished most of my desires. Shakespeare said “to climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.” Maybe as the classes got harder I had problems maintaining my grades with a lack of attendance. Was it because I had dated within an excessive number of social circles and rumors began limiting my options? Most likely, the depression I had repressed in my childhood finally found me while I lived alone in a studio apartment in Princeton.

When surrounded by friends, the distracting problems of the real world are easily evaded. Community seems to diffuse the broader complexities of existence. While alone in my apartment, I could not escape the introspective process, the true tributary to my depressive state. With my parent’s financial contributions towards entertainment diverted to a highly inflated studio lease, I began working in one of the finest restaurants in Princeton to supplement my income.

I became addicted to the adrenaline and the strange satisfaction working in a restaurant provided. It was an easy assessment of success; you make it, they like it, you win. It was a competitive atmosphere in which I quickly began to excel. Perhaps I really did find my passion. More realistically, I fell in love with the restaurant industry because it quickly became my only escape from this weight of abstract and unidentified unhappiness. As if I was lying on my stomach and an elephant came and rested upon my back, I knew not the origin of the pain or how to have it removed. It created an incredible frustration and every thwarted remedy took me farther from my destination. I became lost is a sea of apathy yearning for the glimpse99999. One cannot feign direction in a life. It can be reaffirmed to the self that you have ambitions and goals. Eventually, the mind will begin to believe and slowly your actions will begin to follow, “For use can almost change the stamp of nature." I found that almost remains the prophetic rub of that quote.

A hand on my shoulder and a familiar voice I knew so well usurped my reminiscence. The only person I had deemed worthy of my friendship while at culinary school, Athena joined me in my sojourn.

“Where are you right now?” she asked of my glazed expression.

“Oh, where I go.” I responded, knowing she knew my lapses all too well.

“You’re missing it. Everyone is singing your praises back there and thanking you for the wine.”

“Good. I’m glad everyone is having a good time.”

“This place is so romantic. I have to come back here with Mark.”

She mentions her husband a lot on this trip. I’m not sure if it is to remind me or her of his existence. Athena is the only female friend I have ever had in my life that I had not known physically in some capacity. I reminded her of this often, letting her know that should the opportunity or desire arise I would not be adverse to the intimation. Our initial meeting was actually a forced attempt on my part to “pick her up.” After I noticed the ring on her finger, I laughed it off and we have been close friends ever since.

We returned to the feast, knowing our lingering absence would cause rumors and place our grade in jeopardy; for I was being graded on this glorious day. I received a grade for my private excursion with Antonio, for bonding with a friend for 3 weeks in Italy, and learning to appreciate life a little more. When we reached the buffet we found our laughter echoed by those at the table. As the wind carried the small white flowers of the trees, obscuring my view, I cataloged the snowy memory knowing that it did not get much better than this.