Don't Call It The "Barolo of the South"
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Don't Call It The "Barolo of the South"
The memory of a strange visit to Basilicata mirrors the experience of drinking Aglianico del Vulture.
Today, while traveling, I’m publishing this guest post by David Master, a wine educator and Italian language teacher who writes about the wines of southern Italy.
Aglianico del Vulture is often called the “Barolo of the South.” But I am here to tell you that this wine does not need to be marketed in association with a wine, no matter how great, from northern Italy. While aglianico does have some similarities to nebbiolo (intense, high tannins and acidity, great ability to age), it’s a more rugged, thick-skinned variety, with a brooding, darker edge. Much like the place it comes from.
The region of Basilicata is where the writer Carlo Levi was sent for his political activism against Mussolini’s fascist regime in the 1930s. In his 1945 memoir about his exile, Christ Stopped at Eboli, Levi wrote of Basilicata: “In this land, without sin and redemption, where evil isn’t moral, but an earthly sorrow, in all things for eternity. Christ never descended. Christ stopped at Eboli.”
Ironically, Pier Paolo Pasolini also set his neorealist masterpiece The Gospel According to St. Matthew in Basilicata, specifically in the city of Matera. Pasolini, like most neorealist directors, employed non-professional actors, a trademark of the genre, to give a more relatable and human representation on the big screen, instead of the polished products of Hollywood. And there is nothing polished about this film, with Matera as its backdrop.
Matera is an ancient city with equal parts stone and mountain, where browns and grays abound. Its origins date back to the Paleolithic era, when its inhabitants carved their dwellings—now known as “Sassi” (which appropriately translates as “stones” in Italian)—out of the calcareous mountainside, called tufo, same in name but different in substance as the volcanic soils of Mount Vulture, where the aglianico grows. Basilicata, with all its dark tones and hardness, may be a bit standoffish at first, but will make you feel right at home if you give it a chance.
I first visited Basilicata when I was living in Tuscany as a young man. I’d been easily swept away by the rolling Tuscan hills, convinced I was already experiencing the pinnacle of the Italian peninsula. Then, I took a 12-hour bus ride from Siena to Matera to visit a friend, who is partly responsible for my fluency in Italian, and to celebrate Pasqua, the Easter holiday, with her family. The nature of our relationship was still unfolding at the time.
When I arrived, we visited a local pizzeria, where I had a pizza topped with spicy local salami and oranges. It was a strange and alluring combination of flavors, and we washed it all down with a house aglianico.
The next morning, I woke up completely alone in their house. As I found my way into the kitchen, I saw a block of warm, fresh ricotta with a side of honey, a moka pot filled with steaming espresso, and a note. The note explained to me why my friend and her family had left me alone: Her grandmother had passed away earlier that morning. Following the reason for her absence, the rest of the note had explicit instructions on how to eat the ricotta cheese: Dip the spoon first into the honey, then into the ricotta. Make sure to get a balanced spoonful of each. Then sip the espresso. Enjoy, be back soon.
By early afternoon, my friend came to retrieve me to go to her grandmother’s house. The front door of the house was off the street, the cobblestones leading right up to the threshold. I walked in from the heat with my friend, the doorway streamers dangling behind. Eventually, the entire town would pay their respects here, but at that moment, it was just me, my friend, and her family. They greeted me with dark, sullen smiles, and I knew it would soon be my turn to pay my respects to a woman I had never known.
The kitchen and bedroom were one room, and there on the bed, her grandmother’s still, fragile frame lay beneath the covers. But while kneeling down in front of her, not sure what to do with my hands, I felt like I had known her. I had gotten to know her granddaughter, who taught me so much about the Italian language and culture, with a vulnerable sort of hospitality. Her son-in-law and daughter had welcomed me not only into their house, but into this most sacred and tender moment, to witness their sorrow.
Carlo Levi was right about certain things, but he was definitely wrong about Christ stopping at Eboli. And if you don’t believe me, just try the wine.
Aglianico del Vulture is something of a miracle, especially in the intense heat of southern Italy. Earning its DOCG status in 2010, aglianico is grown on the high elevation of Mount Vulture, a now extinct volcano, keeping the alcohol, tannins, and acidity in balance. The tufo of Mount Vulture is made up of volcanic ash that has been compacted over time, and the volcanic soil is porous and absorbent, acting as a sponge, retaining moisture like a water reserve throughout the year. It is this quality that feeds the vines nutrients during the dry summer months, allowing them to thrive during their long growing season. Bold, thick-skinned aglianico itself is a late-ripening grape, with harvest typically in late October, and sometimes bleeding even into the colder months of November and December.
Aglianico can have an intoxicating nose of lavender and rose, coupled with bright, red fruits and dark chocolate and tobacco. Some can benefit with a few years of aging, while others are fresh and ready for drinking now.
Regardless of the bottle, drinking aglianico engages your mind, body, and soul. Like an unexpected Easter funeral, paired with a lesson on how to best enjoy fresh ricotta with honey and coffee, aglianico is both dark and light, brooding and inviting, intense and gentle. As you let your guard down, you will easily be won over by one of the most intriguing wines Italy has to offer.
All In On Aglianico
Grifalco Gricos 2019, $20
This is the Piccin brothers’ flagship wine, and a wonderful example of everyday Aglianico. Aromas of fresh herbs and leather jump out of the glass, with juicy red fruit, it’s fresh and juicy but with solid structure.
San Martino “Arberesko” 2019, $28
Delve a little deeper into the darker side of Aglianico with this one. “Arberesko” means “Albanian” in the local dialect. This is Lorenzo Piccin’s project, and quite different than Grifalco. Dark purple fruit with a hint of herbaceousness and bold tannins.
Elena Fucci ‘Titolo’ 2019, $33
This wine showcases Aglianico del Vulture’s freshness, drinkability, and complexity. Despite having 14 percent abv, this wine slides down easily. There’s touch of natty on the nose, along with notes of lavender, pepper, mint, and fennel, and on the palate, flavors of olives, cherry, and baking spice, balanced by approachable tannins and a lean acidity.
Teodosio ‘Basilisco’ 2020, $23
This one packs an intense punch, but it’s still supple, with chalky, gritty tannins backed by flavors of dark chocolate and fresh black cherry. Drink now, or age for a few years.
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Don't Call It The "Barolo of the South"
I enjoyed this one very much. It strikes me, however, that every enchanting thing is both blessing and curse, and only rarely of equal parts. I wonder, therefore, if Aglianico del Vulture is better proof of Christ’s or . . . another’s presence.