by Romy Sommer
‘Where do you do the wine stomping?’ a voice called from the back of the group.
Tommaso smiled, not the warm, slightly flirty smile he’d given the young woman, but a fleeting, sardonic smile that flashed me back to old times. The Tommy I’d known might have been shy and awkward with strangers, but beneath the serious demeanour he’d had a wicked sense of humour.
‘Hollywood might want you to believe different, but winemakers haven’t pressed their grapes by foot for thousands of years.’ A disappointed sigh whispered through the group. ‘Apart from being poco igenico, terribly unhygienic, and illegal in any wine sold for human consumption, it’s time-consuming and inefficient. Some wineries market wine stomping as a tourist attraction, but personally, I’d rather drink our grapes than stomp on them.’
‘Me too,’ Lila whispered, nudging me.
The next set of doors were also wide double doors, but these were made of industrial-looking stainless steel. They led into the big room full of massive steel tanks that was visible from the tasting room. A light electric hum accompanied our footsteps and the shuffling sounds as the group fanned out around Tommaso.
‘This is the fermentation room. From the crusher, the must is stored in these tanks so that the malic acid of the grapes can be converted into lactic acid, which is what turns the wine’s taste from raw to creamy. In red wines, you may not taste that creaminess, but it’s what gives reds their smooth, satiny mouthfeel.’
At the more technical talk, I expected at least a few of the tourists to start glazing over, but the group hung on his every word. They were clearly big wine fans. I too edged closer, mesmerised as much by Tommaso’s deep voice as by his unexpected passion when he spoke of the wine.
Beyond the fermentation room were a series of small cellars. The winery was a great deal larger than I’d realised, extending deep into the hillside. The temperature here was lower than outside, and I shivered. Here at last were the rows and rows of smaller wooden barrels I remembered, stacked three high in places. The barrels ranged in size from hip-height to large enough that I could probably stand inside one without stooping.
The floor was wet. ‘To keep the air in here cool and humid,’ Lila explained knowingly.
We gathered around Tommaso again. ‘Only after the primary fermentation phase do we press our red grapes, and then the wine is transferred into these oak barrels for ageing. The oak contains tannins, so oak ageing adds further flavours and aromas to the wine, as well as colour and complexity, and we vintners get very passionate about the type of oak we use to age our wine.’ Tommaso’s mouth twisted in another wry smile. ‘Here at Castel Sant’Angelo, we use the larger and more traditional barrels made of Slavonian oak. Because it’s simply the best. But I won’t bore you with the details.’
From the relieved sigh that passed through his audience, I imagined some other vintner on their tour had already bored them to tears about his choice of barrel wood.
‘Once the malolactic fermentation is complete, we add small amounts of sulphur to stabilise the wine and remove the excess tannins that may cause unwanted flavours. And this is where the fun begins … tasting.’
There was a collective murmur of anticipation.
‘Winemaking is not an exact science, so we’re constantly tasting the wines during ageing to evaluate them. There are so many elements that make up a good wine – terroir, climate, tradition, blending, and ageing. Even the direction a particular slope faces, or how much moisture is available, can have a huge influence on the flavours. The opportunities for winemakers to explore different flavours are endless.’ Tommaso laid his hand against a medium-sized barrel labelled simply with the number 15, in a gesture that was almost a caress. ‘Today, you are going to taste our signature blend, the Angelica, a Super Tuscan wine which blends the Sangiovese and Brunello grapes.’
‘Shouldn’t it be called Angelico, since the vineyard is named for Saint Angelo?’ Lila asked. ‘Angelico is the male version of the name, isn’t it?’
Tommaso nodded. ‘Sant’Angelo means “holy angel” and local tradition says this vineyard was founded when an angel answered the prayers of the first vintner and gave to him the first vine that was planted here. But this wine was named by its creator, the former owner of this vineyard, John Langdon, and since the wine has a considerable reputation, I’m not about to mess with it.’
The young woman who’d stayed glued to his side tittered, but Tommaso ignored her. I smiled.
‘Who would like the first taste?’ Tommaso held up a long, thin glass tube that looked as if it belonged in a laboratory and slid it into a wine-stained hole at the top of the barrel, extricating some of the wine, then pouring small amounts into a tray of waiting wine glasses.
The tourists pressed closer, and he held out the first glass. To me.
With all eyes on me, I tasted the wine as I’d seen Luca do, first breathing in the aroma, then taking a delicate sip and rolling the flavours around on my tongue for a moment before swallowing. It felt terribly pretentious, and Tommaso’s eyes narrowed as if he suspected me of delaying deliberately.
Just to irk him, I took another sip before giving my verdict. ‘It tastes sort of dense, and there’s a smooth, buttery texture.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘But there’s also a slight earthy taste that isn’t so pleasant. It’s not yet ready for bottling.’
Tommaso’s eyebrows shot upwards, then he turned to his audience. ‘Sarah’s right. We’ll only bottle this wine in a few months, once that earthy taste has softened.’
He turned his back on me, playing the part of the genial host as he filled more of the small tasting glasses and offered them around. ‘The flavour profiles emerge slowly, sometimes taking up to a year to emerge. This isn’t a job for the impatient.’ Another wave of laughter passed through the room.
‘How long do you age your wines?’ asked a tall man with a shock of white hair. He made me think of a senior government official – very upright.
By the time Tommaso had answered, listing the ageing times for each of the vineyard’s wines, most of the group had finished their samples, and I collected up the dirty glasses.
‘I thought you didn’t know much about wine?’ he asked in an undertone as I passed by with the tray.
I shrugged. ‘I am my father’s daughter.’ It took all my effort to sound cool, and to hide how inordinately pleased I was at having surprised him. Thank heavens for John’s journal!
‘Any more questions?’ Tommaso asked the tour group. The tension in his shoulders had eased. With such a receptive audience, who clearly weren’t bored by the details of winemaking, he’d settled more comfortably into his role as tour guide.
‘How many bottles are in that thing?’ the Government Official asked, waving his hand at the barrel Tommaso had drawn the wine from.
‘These are botti barrels, and they each hold about three and half thousand litres of wine. To save you doing the calculations, that’s about five thousand bottles of wine, which is roughly the yield from one hectare of land.’
The man whistled in appreciation, and I agreed with the sentiment. I glanced back at the previous cellar we’d passed through, where the botti were at least twice the size, like the ones I’d seen in the caves at Montepulciano. Ten thousand bottles in each of those, I remembered. I hoped they were insured. Perhaps I should offer to do a risk analysis for Tommaso and check his policies.
I did a few quick mental calculations. Ten thousand bottles at current retail price was … a staggering amount of money. But were there enough barrels ready for bottling to clear the vineyard’s debt? Or would Tommaso still be in the red once he’d bought me out?
The last stop on the tour was the bottling plant, housed in a new building across a small courtyard, but built of the same stone to match the older buildings. ‘When ready, the wine is racked, filtered to remove sediment, then it comes here for bottling. We only started bottling our own wines a few years ago. It has made our vineyard completely self-sufficient.’
An
other of Tommaso’s innovations, I was sure. Now I understood why the vineyard was encumbered with so much debt. At a hundred thousand bottles a year, bottling our own wines made sense. No doubt we were making a massive cost saving – though calling it self-sufficiency made for better PR spin.
Since the weather was good, the wine tasting took place in the sunny courtyard, the air scented with the lavender planted in a low border around the yard. The tourists sat at wrought iron tables as Tommaso introduced each of the vineyard’s wines, and I helped him pour and distribute the samplers to the visitors.
The last wine he presented was the vino rosato which, Tommaso explained, was the winery’s most popular export; a dry but refreshing wine, drunk chilled. He held up a glass of the rose-pink wine, and the sunlight caught the colour and added depth and sparkle to the glass. ‘Our Tuscan reds are complex and profound, perfect for long winter nights and as an accompaniment for the rich local dishes, but they tend to overwhelm summer foods. This vino rosato is made from Brunello grapes, but we remove the skins early in the process to achieve the softer colours, and the lighter, more refreshing flavours. It’s best served with the classic combination of prosciutto and melon.’
Cutting short an amused laugh, I slipped away into the tasting room, returning moments later with the platter I’d brought. I would have given double my annual performance bonus to capture the look on Tommaso’s face when I removed the napkin to reveal the platter.
I moved between the visitors, offering the appetiser, and giving Tommaso a moment to regroup. He blinked, and cleared his throat, before again addressing his audience. ‘Finally, as I’m sure you’ve already learned on your tour, wine is a living, ongoing chemical process. The wine continues to change in the bottle, so even after you’ve taken your wine home, its correct storage and handling is critical.’
Done with the appetisers, I distributed order forms while Tommaso answered questions on shipping arrangements.
‘Do you make the Rosso di Montalcino wine as well?’ one of the men in the group asked, his accent a pronounced Southern drawl. ‘That’s also a local specialty, isn’t it?’
Tommaso gave the questioner a dirty look, as if he’d suggested we make vinegar. ‘We don’t make the Rosso here. It’s the poor man’s Brunello, made by the impatient vintner in a hurry to turn a profit.’
I shot him an arch look, and looking suitably penitent, he continued, his voice less astringent, ‘In Italy we say “ogni cosa ha il suo tempo”. Everything needs time to be accomplished. That could be our motto here at Castel Sant’Angelo.’
Turning away so Tommaso couldn’t see, I rolled my eyes. In my world, if you didn’t act right now, you were swept under the bus.
Half an hour later, the happy and chattering tourists were once again boarding their bus. Lila and her husband Gordon hugged me farewell. Italy was clearly rubbing off on me, because I no longer felt the urge to flinch at the touch.
We waved as the bus pulled down the drive, and as soon as it disappeared from sight, Tommaso sighed, letting out a long breath as if he’d just survived an ordeal.
‘That was a great idea to bring the prosciutto and melon. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t. It was just serendipity.’ Or pure, dumb luck.
He looked thoughtful. ‘It’s a good idea. We should do that for all our tastings. We could do other pairings too.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to correct him. There was no ‘we’ in this. But I bit back the words. There was no point arguing with him, not when he was finally softening towards me. Assuming the lack of a scowl meant he was softening.
‘I need to get back to work.’ He shielded his eyes to look out over the patchwork fields. ‘You can come with if you’d like.’
‘Is that an invitation? Because you know it would be much more inviting if you didn’t sound as if it was killing you to make it.’
He smirked. ‘Please?’
I punched him playfully in the shoulder. ‘Wow, you do know how to use that word! And thank you – I would love to see more of the vineyard.’
Chapter 13
Buon vino fa buon sangue
(Good wine makes good cheer)
I had to jog to keep up with Tommaso’s long strides as we set off through the rows of vines. The bushes were gnarled, and not as tall as I remembered. The sun dipped over its zenith, and light shone golden through the vine leaves. It might even have been beautiful if I’d had a chance to stop and look.
It was another long hike to reach the corner of the farm where the workers were busy on the vines, and by the time we arrived I was flushed in a seriously unattractive way, and my hair had begun to escape from the neat chignon I’d pinned it in. And I probably had the start of a serious sunburn on my neck and nose.
‘Geez, is the weather always this hot? Doesn’t it ever rain here?’
Tommaso’s mouth curled up in a half-smile. ‘Yeah, it’s always bright, sunny and beautiful. However do we endure this torment?’
I giggled, then had to run to catch up with him again.
‘We get rain in autumn and spring,’ he said, without even slowing his stride. ‘And a little snow in the winter. But we’re protected from the worst weather by Monte Amiata.’ He waved towards the deep blue smudge of distant mountains on the horizon. ‘But mostly it’s just perfect grape weather: sunny, dry and hot.’ He cast a glance back at me. ‘Did you know that Monte Amiata is the highest extinct volcano in Italy?’
It was the game we used to play as kids. I smiled back, ready to play along. ‘Did you know that cypress trees were originally planted around houses, churches and graveyards so their scent would guard against demons?’
His half-smile was back. It was definitely a better look on him than his usual scowl. ‘Did you know that the cypresses help prevent erosion of the top soil?’
I took a moment to think, then: ‘Okay, I don’t have anything more. You win.’ And I was running out of breath.
‘You’re out of practice.’
‘Clearly. I haven’t met anyone else who collects trivia the way you do.’
‘I thought you worked in Geektown?’
‘Bankers aren’t geeks.’ I tried to sound offended but it didn’t work. I pictured Kevin, always immaculately dressed, only dining in the best restaurants, reading the Financial Times for fun … no, no one would ever mistake Kevin for a geek.
The fields we’d reached sloped down to a hollow where a narrow stream bubbled playfully over rocks. There were farm workers busy at the vines, pruning back leaves from the grapes. As we made our way between the rows, Tommaso stopped here and there to inspect the work being done, and to exchange comments with the workers. I trailed after him, still trying to catch my breath. Running from the tube station to the office was about as much exercise as I was used to.
At the edge of the field, Tommaso took over a pair of pruning shears from one of the workers, replacing the man at the vine with nothing more than a curt nod so the worker could take a break.
He’d told me he wasn’t a desk jockey, but watching him work, I gained a whole new respect for him. His movements were quick and deft as he snipped at the leaves surrounding the bunches of grapes.
‘I thought this farm grew mostly red wines?’ I asked. ‘But all the grapes I’ve seen are green or pink.’
Tommaso laughed. ‘All grapes start out green, because of the presence of chlorophyll. In the beginning they’re small, hard and highly acidic. They need sun to ripen. Now at midsummer, we have veraison, that’s the moment when the grapes start to change colour. Green grapes turn golden, and “red” grapes, depending on the varietal, turn pink then red or purple or even blue or black. From now until harvest they’ll grow darker and larger as they accumulate sugars.’ He resumed his work with the pruning shears. ‘Which is why we cut away the leaves, so the grapes get maximum exposure to the sun.’
He moved to the next vine bush splayed horizontally along a wire frame. When I glanced back, I saw the sturdy woman working on the n
ext vine over cut off an entire cluster of grapes. The grapes dropped to the ground. I gasped, and Tommaso looked up, concerned.
‘She’s cutting off the grapes!’ I hissed.
His concern turned to amusement. ‘Of course she is. Too much fruit on the vine, and none of it will ripen well. So we cut away the clusters that aren’t developing properly, to let the vines concentrate their nutrients on the best clusters. That way we get a better yield of higher quality fruit, and we also get more even ripening.’
I watched the wasted grapes fall to the ground. It was almost as if I were watching dollar signs flash before my eyes. Ker-ching. And another cluster of winery profit fell to the ground.
Tommaso glanced up from what he was doing. ‘It’s not all wastage. Some of the unripe grapes we collect to make verjus for cooking, and the rest turns to mulch and goes back into the ground. It’s all just part of the cycle of life on a farm.’
I felt better, but only marginally.
Tommaso frowned. ‘We used to come down here sometimes and watch the workers thinning the vines when we were kids. Don’t you remember?’
I shrugged and turned away. That was all so long ago. And I’d blanked out a lot of those years. ‘So how do you know which bunches to cut and which ones to leave?’
‘I don’t. That’s why I leave the grape pruning to Carlotta. She has a lifetime of skill, while I’m still learning.’ He paused to wipe his brow with his sleeve, and to watch Carlotta as she worked, her movements precise and quick, her neat hands completely at odds with her solid build.
Then he moved further down the row, and I followed after him. Since his frown was back in place, maybe now wasn’t the time to ask, but who knew when I’d get another opportunity like this. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering…’