The excellent
final chapter of Italianity consists of a series of short articles by
people in the trade, mostly North Americans, explaining why they love Italian
wine. As I read it, I thought I could have contributed a good one.
I would have written about the time I attended the wedding reception of my Moto GP-loving Italian former student in a winery in Campania. It left a confused memory of bottles of sparkling Fiano shared on a terrace, silly amounts of Aglianico drunk over dinner, and an excited man repeatedly rising to his feet and toasting the newlyweds. It was the best wedding I’ve ever been to – even better than my own.
I'd also have told the story of the bottle
of Barbaresco I drank out of a plastic mug in my flat in Tokyo, just because I
really wanted a great wine and couldn't be bothered to buy a glass.
Italianity
could be the best book about wine that I've ever read, and Italy isn’t even one
of my favourite countries for wine. It was so good, in fact, that I put to one
side a novel by the American thriller writer Douglas Preston, author of the
stunning true crime story The Monster of Florence, after I’d started it.
Italianity
is largely the work of two people, Andrea Lonardi, a Master of Wine, and
Jessica Dupuy. More than half of the book is devoted to a discussion of what
the writers call the red wine spine of Italy, comprising Piedmont’s Nebbiolo, Alpine
grapes like Corvina, Sangiovese in Tuscany and Nerello Mascalese on Mount Etna.
There's a chapter about whites, another which deals with the future of Italian
wine, and the aforementioned final section written by lovers of Italy.
Lonardi and Dupuy are both very good writers and, importantly, they have
a talent for storytelling. There are many entertaining anecdotes about Italian
winemakers, producers and restaurateurs, including some very big cheeses, such
as Angelo Gaja. The structure of the book, which consists mostly of one-or-two-page
essays on a theme, helps. There's no chance to get bored. You read a story
about the old-timer Lonardi struggled to win over in Sicily, then it’s on to
the tale of his friendship with two Italians with whom he did the MW course. Italianity
is therefore unlike many books about wine, which lack the human element.
There are some surprising pieces of
information. Dolcetto was an easy sell in Piedmont in the past. Barbaresco, on
the other hand, used to be an ‘afterthought’, and ‘was given away for free’ by
producers ‘as an incentive for a minimum purchase’. Perhaps my caper with the
plastic mug in Tokyo was not such a faux-pas, after all.
The
book has a few flaws. I don't like the title, for one thing. The word
‘Italianity’ is taken from the Italian word Italianità,
which is ‘Italian-ness’. ‘Italianity’ is supposed to mean the culture of Italian
wine, but I don’t think it sounds right in English. It’s a made-up word that recalls
a spell in Harry Potter. Close your eyes and you can hear Hermione saying it as
she waves her wand.
Half of
the book is written in Italian, which is only really a good thing if you speak
or are studying that language. I thought the section about whites didn’t quite
attain the heights of the chapters on red wine, although it could just be that
I prefer drinking reds, as reflected by the fact that Italianity inspired
me to buy a bottle of Chianti Classico.
I read Italianity twice, so it must
be pretty great. It contains many pictures, which are always a welcome addition
to any book about wine, and some of the writing shows real flair. It’s rather
well-priced too. Give the quality of the publication, I’m even willing to
overlook the fact that Andrea Lonardi doesn’t consider the flavour of cherries
to be one of the defining characteristics of Italian reds.
