I have tried to correct the year to 2017 in every way I know how…to no avail. So I have given up. YES, it is supposed to read 2017. Perhaps it will correct itself in time…who really knows?
First things first: Book Fairies and more Book Fairies
The Book Fairies (http://www.thebookfairies.org) “collects reading materials for people in need throughout metropolitan New York. The reading materials foster literacy and academic success, provide a respite from personal struggles, and nurture a love of reading across age groups. Visit the site to find out how to become involved.
The Book Fairies (http://ibelieveinbookfairies.com/)
started in London with the Books on the Underground project, but has now spread to 26 countries. Anyone can become a Book Fairy. Take a look at the website.
20 June Lunch with Maz and Arne
I have known Maz for a very long time: she can cook, she can sew and she is the only person in Italy that I would trust in my home with a hand drill. We brought a magnum of sparkling wine of 2010 Berlucchi Cellarius (Franciacorta, bright, lively, mature pleasure. www.berlucchi.it/i-franciacorta/cellarius/) Maz and Arne opened a bottle of a Swiss Chardonnay made by Donatsch (a touch of wood, nice. www.donatsch.info/chardonnay-passion.)
24 June Dinner at Daniels
We brought a 2002 Giulio Ferrari, disgourged in 2014. Bright gold. Firm persistent bubbles enliven the palate. “There is still enough acidity there – it’s still nervy on the palate. We’re tasting a Grand Old Dame,” said Daniel. Daniel opened a 2015 Soave from Pra called Otto. (a fine amalgam of soft ripe pear and a pleasing frisson of acidity. www.vinipra.it/it/vinipra) The name is not derived from the number eight, rather it is the name of Graziano Pra’s dog.
Wine Tasting memories
In the 1980s wine tasting in New York was a competitive sport (and it probably still is). There always had to be winners and losers. I remember being invited to a young wine salesman’s apartment for a Burgundy tasting. He threw open the door instantly at my knock. A manic brightness gleamed in his eyes. Superciliousness burst from every pore. He pulled me into the room, thrust a glass of red wine in to my hand and exclaimed: “Identify this wine!” I glanced at the dozen or so people, each turned toward us, waiting for the show to begin, and silently I thanked Daddy for all those games of poker we played in my childhood. For I knew in an instant that whatever was in that glass, it would surely not be Burgundy. Only the day before I had read about French producers who had invested in the United States. I knew the answer to his question before the scent of the wine reached my nostrils. I casually waved the glass under my nose handed it back to him and said, “Oregon Pinot Noir.” He gaped, stepped back and frowned. One of the spectators, a brash young man given to wearing yellow ties, stepped forward and said, “Who’s the producer?” I promptly supplied the name. A frisson of pleasure rippled down my spine as I watched him crumble. Game, set and match to me.
How did I know the name of the producer? Elementary, my dear reader. From the proprietorial way in which he asked the question I deduced that it was probably he who had brought the wine to the tasting. I knew who he worked for and I knew what Burgundies his company represented. I recognized, from the article I had just read, that one of those companies had had successful results from their plantings in Oregon. Did I gushingly confess this line of reasoning to the assembled company? Of course not. As Sherlock Holmes says. “Results without causes are much more impressive.”
At other times winning the New York tasting game seemed to be determined by the volume of a player’s voice and by the length of time he could monopolize the conversation. The occasion of a tasting allowed a player to recite every great vintage he had ever sipped and the name of every Important Person he had ever met. The name of practically anyone English rated almost as high as Nobility. There also seemed to be points for getting as many of these names as possible into each minute of play. I found these lengthy digressions as interesting as listening to a baseball fan recite the RBI stats of every World Series since the year dot. George shared my opinion on this.
One evening we dined with two rich wine collectors. The starters came and our hosts launched into a detailed list of their Great Wines Past. The main courses arrived and they continued their recitation without a pause. We ate, they talked at us. Over the remains of our steaks and the drone of our hosts, George leaned over to me and said quietly: “You, know, Patricia, I have always wondered why you and I never became lovers.”
“Because you have a girlfriend,” I replied.
“Couldn’t I have two?”
“Not with me.” Silence suddenly drenched our table. The rich collectors had, at last, lost their ability to speak.