Suffering ~ Suffolk Style
Sunday, August 31st, 2008Commentary by Beatrice Russo

Friday Aug 29 – 8:00 PM
Once again, the old man, IWG, has left me in charge. What an idiot! He knows there are some old bottles, standing up in his wine room, which are pretty close to my birth year. I have already texted my friend down south to see if she wants to come up and raid the room. I even saw a bunch of old Brunellos from her birth year, 1975. I think they’re both ready.
So he goes and abandons ship, says this month really kicked him in the butt, gotta get away, sun and water and wine and friends. OK, so go, nobody reads your damn blog anyway, get on down the road, Viejo, we can handle it around here for a few days wi-chout-cha.
I bet you’re all dying to know, what’s up with the “intern?” I have long ago given up that title, even though IWG still thinks of me as his find. I am so not part of his world anymore, I’ve learned all his mysteries, and I gotta tell you, when he’s running around town saying “ I gotta get more cowbells,” I think we should “make the call”, if you know what I mean.
Speaking of running around, IWG seems to think he has everybody fooled into thinking I am some figment of his imagination. He says he already set it up on some older post, just so nobody would offer me a job or a column or book deal. Well, ask the old man’s Sicilian Godfather. Every time I go over there to take him some Googootz or pomodorini from my garden, he livens up a bit. Doesn’t seem to think he’s imagining me. I don’t know why IWG thinks he can claim me as his own. Nobody owns Bea.
Saturday Aug 30 – 11:00 AM
I got a text from IWG last night when he landed. I didn’t pay any attention to it till now, Great, what’s for lunch and how well will it go with that last bottle of 1990 Cristal that we be chillin’ up?
He wants to talk, says he had a breakthrough. Just another latent and left-behind mid-life crisis that is haunting his oh-so never-will-be-middle-aged keister again. Look it up, he used it. Said one of his friends in the Hamptons uses it. There are very few who are worse name droppers than IWG.
Now he is torn, ‘cause he gets this call trying to bribe him to come into the city for a tasting of old wines , journalists just back from their trips, old Italian wines, ready to go. I know DoBi is in Germany, and Spume-man is back in SF and the grand poobah nephew of the great sci-fi guy, well he’s still M.I.A. And that pretty well much cover all his friends. At least the ones he think he’s got left, if you don’t include those whack jobs out in Albany and Nyack.
“No, not those,” he says. “Big ones, really, really big ones. Influential in their own circles. Critics, auction houses, European folk.” Ok, so what? Go.
He said he felt like he was abandoning his hosts on the “island”. Give me a break, they’d love to see him go (I can’t believe he’s gonna let this post stay up).
I left him at that. The bubbly was ready and we had figured out how to make Croque Monsieur with some ancient Fontina and Speck he brought back from his last trip. That should go down real good with it. Now, let’s see where did he put the SPF30? The sun is high and bright.
Why is it something like a 1937 Carmignano so interesting? It’s old, like IWG, that must be it. Hell, I’m digging into old, right here in the wine room; have that 1975 Lisini Brunello lined up and am looking at a 1979 Schloss Schönborn Erbacher Marcobrunn Riesling Spätlese for sometime après swim and sol. Let IWG suffer in Suffolk, tonight friends will come over and we will par-tay.
Sunday Aug 31 – 9:30 AM
I told him to not call me before 10. He said he waited until 10:30. Technically, for him, he was right. But I wasn’t ready to hear about his old wine conquests. Our party lasted until 2:30 and some folks crashed around the many beds, while others just split for more private surroundings. I have an aunt of one of the friends who has a cleaning service, he’ll never know. Like he can see anything outside of his own drama? That’s the Mother Lode of Life Theater, boys and girls. Believe me, he’ll never, ever, know.
OK, now he’s all happy, ‘cause he got them to let him take the driver to drive him into town and wait for him, in time to back for some truffle dinner in the Sound. Sounds like he double dipped the elite-class. Good for him.
So it was old Italian for lunch and old French wine for dinner. And there’s still Monday, which he says, in honor of the holiday, will be a tasting of old California wines. I hate him, truly, truly despise every bone in his body. Which is growing ever larger by the day.

Check this out and puke with me ~ His Italian lunch:
1979 Salice Salentino - Malfatti
1978 Etna Rosso - Torrepalino
1976 Morellino Di Scansano - Francheschini
1982 Le Pergola Torte
1979 Tignanello
1979 Sassicaia
1969 Barbaresco Riserve Speciale - Calissanp
1968 Monfortino Riserva - G.Conterno
1961 Chambave Rouge - Ezio Voyay
1937 Carmignano Capezzana
1936 Est !Est!!Est !!! Amabile – Lampari
His Majesty’s Truffle dinner and French wine menu:
1966 Margaux
1966 Cheval Blanc
1964 Mouton Rothschild
1962 Petrus
1959 Ausone,
1953 Domaine Comte Georges de Vogüé Bonnes Mares ( magnum)
1928 and 1929 d’Yquem.

I’m so glad we drank his freekin′ 1990 Cristal, sister.
Original post by beatrice.russo


Time out.
So Joey the Weasel and his young assistant set about helping me. The young assistant was also busy sending SMS’s to the three people she was simultaneously having conversations and drama with. I guess what we were doing just wasn’t that interesting to a 20 something. Ya think?
Now we had a little problem figuring out how to make Campania get along with Lombardia, but after separating them from each other, we averted a cat fight. Then finally Lazio and Puglia are set. Then the rosatos. There, the whites and the sparkling and the rosatos (the chilled wines) are set. On to the red wines.
Two days later I went into the section and some knucklehead had already moved a Nebbiolo back with the Dolcettos and mixed up the Barberas. Time out. Again. Most likely, from looking at the wine, it was one of the small niche distributors. You know the ones those bleating-heart blah-gers think are the hope of the free world? Mind you, remember the big guys (us) are the scum bags, the ones fixing the mess, the rising tide that is often mischaracterized as a tsunami. In any event I wish someone knew how to scratch their niche correctly. Again, it isn’t about the size of a company, it’s the intent and the purpose of the individual. Or as Guy Stout likes to say, “It ain’t the wand, it’s the magician.”
From the late 1800′s to the first half of the twentieth century California represented a land of opportunity for many. In Northern California, this potential seems to have been realized in particular by Italian immigrants who settled North of San Francisco in great numbers, founding small towns up the coast and in the inland valleys. Drive Highway 1, Highway 12, Highway 116, and the Bohemian Highway North of the city and you’ll pass old barns and homesteads, country stores, and several Italian restaurants that have been operating continuously since at least the Thirties.
Some of the best meals of my life have been from the kitchen of chef David Kinch at Manresa Restaurant in Los Gatos. I’d take half a tasting menu from him over anything at the French Laundry, any day of the week. Which is why I’m humbled at his continued interest in collaborating with me to provide an unparalleled dining and drinking experience for a few adventurous diners every once in a while.
Before month’s end, we’re all looking for any opportunities to sell something, even a close-out. Some folks might be waiting for their ship to finally arrive, though this month not much is moving. And if the transport company happens to take the route from Livorno to the New World via Marseilles, those at the end of the line might have a surprise in store. Dock strikes and port blockades will spiral costs for those wines sitting in (hopefully) refrigerated containers. But the clock is ticking. Then again, if you believe everything you read on the blogosphere, the world is coming to an end with the latest round of distributor consolidations. Now anyone who has read On the Wine Trail in Italy probably knows I work in the industry, and for a large distributor at that. I have heard the company I work for, and the people in it, called scum-bags, evil-empire, dark-force and behemoths. Oh, and mad-wounded elephants, that’s one of my favorites.
We have read, on blogs, bloviated comments such as “consolidation is a sign of weakness,” and referring to consolidation as a byproduct of “fear and scarcity.” And usually this comes from some unspecified workstation in some condescending setting, far from the reality of the streets. More often than not, the blogger has never sold a bottle of wine. But to hear them, they know the ins and outs of the business; they’re better briefed than the bespoke suits on Stockton Street.
Blah-gers also commented recently about the amount wholesale alcohol distributors spend on political causes. A figure of $50 million has been put forth for spending by American wholesalers and their associations for state politicians from 2000 to 2006. What never seems to get mentioned by bloggers – is the charitable spending these companies do. For example, Larry Ruvo, Senior Managing Director of Southern Wine and Spirits of Nevada, is founder of the Keep Memory Alive Foundation and the Lou Ruvo Brain Institute. Since its inception, Keep Memory Alive has become one of Las Vegas’ most important charitable initiatives and a key player in the nation’s fight against Alzheimer’s disease. Larry has helped raise more than $50 million and recruited leading specialists to become part of this vital project. But what do we hear from bloggerdom? That worn out talking point mantra: large companies are anti-competitive scum-bags.
James Molesworth said this recently on a Wine Spectator forum, “This is the problem with the ‘blogosphere’. It’s a lazy person’s journalism. No one does any real research, but rather they just slap some hyperlinks up and throw a little conjecture at the wall, and presto! you get some hits and traffic…”
Others trivialize by wondering how “the small wineries will fare with increasing competition for attention among the already over worked sales force with even greater expectations of delivery upon them.” Of course none of those bloggers who perform their armchair criticism will ever know how those barmy-mutilated pachyderms will break away from the psychosis of the wine industry, because they are safely ensconced in a bubble of protection from the reality of having to worry about reality.
For those of us who do sell actively, and selectively, whether it is for the Brobdingnagian or the niche companies, it boils down to this: You are a salesperson offering a product to a buyer. You are one person talking to another person, mano-a-mano. It is up to you to engage that person, the buyer, your client, sometimes your friend, into wanting what you have. It doesn’t matter how big and powerful or how small and terrified you are, you have to “sell” that person on you and what you will deliver. That is the great equalizer. This week I saw a young saleperson from a niche company attempt to enter into an exchange with a buyer and she had as much time and opportunity as I did. And was as challenged as the best of us.
Remember me? One of the guys who work for the “scumbags.” Me and my friends for the last quarter of a century, who have forged a family of wine, who take in the younger people like the trainee we had this week, who helped us reorganize Italy. Yeah, we’re really bad people doing bad things. Just ask our customers, our friends and all the families we help support. I have a challenge for those “nattering nabobs of negativity”: Come out of your protective shelters and walk around in the sun, in our shoes, if you have the cogliones. Which I doubt any of you do.
entire business models based on incubation.

The basil is in prime shape and so we will transform them into the sauce we will use all year long. Pine nuts are ready, olive oil from Liguria has been summoned to the dance, and the Reggiano-Parmigiano is resigned to its fate of joining forces with the other ingredients to give back joy all year round.
The Hoja Santa fills the whole yard, I never have to plant flowers again, for the towering plants fill the whole yards with a crop that goes to my friendly cheese maker in Deep Ellum and comes back to me in the form of year-round cheese. And there is never any poison or any kind of intervention, except by hand weeding and pulling off the critters that damage the plants. A compost bin is in the works and this little garden is my own way of letting the earth be the earth in its fundamentally perfect way – simply by letting it be and caring for it.
It’s a pretty good time to be alive. I don’t find myself often wishing that I had lived in earlier times. However, there are events in the past that I would give my right arm to have been able to experience first hand. One of my top choices for time-travel destinations would certainly be the 1893 Worlds Fair in Chicago. I’d love a week to explore the wares of the world amidst Olmstead’s gardens.