NEW YORK CORNER
By John Mariani

LOVE AND PIZZA

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

         It was a bit brisk but sunny on Saturday, and at the appointed time of two o’clock—more or less—Giancarlo rang the bell of the dorm.  Nicola, dressed in her best jeans, with a slouching turtleneck and a black leather jacket, didn’t wait for the elevator but bounced down the stairs and out the door.  From above, her girlfriends were looking out the window.
       Giancarlo, dressed in blue jeans, a button-down shirt with a pencil stripe, and a superbly cut chocolate brown cashmere blazer, smiled and said, “Ciao, Nicola”—he hadn’t yet called her “bella”—and gave her three kisses of greeting, which she warmly returned.
         “That’s a beautiful blazer,” she told him. “Is it Armani?”
         “No,” said Giancarlo, “I’m afraid I’m a little more conservative. I have my clothes made by a tailor in Torino,” then, hoping to sound frugal, added, “They last forever.”
         “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Nicola. “I notice you always wear American-style button-down Oxford shirts rather than a straight Italian collar.”
         Giancarlo laughed and said, “Ah, si, it’s kind of an affectation of mine.  When I was at Yale, which is, as you know, very Ivy League, I liked this comfortable American look of the button down shirt—very soft, not stiff.  Everybody seemed to buy them at Brooks Brothers in New York, so every once in a while when I was in New York, I’d buy a bunch of them.  And they really do last forever!  This one I’m wearing must be from my freshman year.”
         “I love them. And you know Gianni Agnelli (left) wears button down shirts, too,”Nicola said, speaking of the immensely wealthy titan of Fiat.                  “Ah, yes, he does” said Giancarlo. “That’s his own affectation. But he always wears the collars unbuttoned, just to make it seem like he’s a very casual man, but it’s all very calculated.”
         “Does your family know him?”
         “Oh, for ages. He and my father are about the same age, and they’ve been business associates since after the war.  Sometimes we socialize.”
         Nicola was almost sorry she asked. She was already feeling out of her depth and anxious about the prospect, however remote, of moving within the Cavallacci’s social circle.
         In telling her girlfriends the night before of her dinner with the marchese, Nicola revealed there were moments when she felt this relationship was not on an equal playing field. Try as she might, she was never going to make the Bronx sound in any way as intriguing to Giancarlo as Piemonte was to her, and, try as she did to soften her reactions to his family narrative and lifestyle, they were too often in the embarrassing nature of “Wow!”
         On an intellectual level, however, Nicola Santini felt quite equal and, from the kind of conversations they had over dinner, she knew Giancarlo clearly found her simpatico and respected her for her broad knowledge of Italian art, culture and food (if not wine). Where things would—or could—progress, that she didn’t really know. 
       Catherine, of course, had told her not to think about it and just to enjoy herself, saying, “Nicky, how many girls you know will ever have a story this good to tell back home? Even among my friends in New York, I only know one who ever married an aristocrat, but he was some boring older guy from Russia who didn't have a dime.”
         Nicola decided Catherine was right and was determined to absorb as much elation and joy from her time with Giancarlo as she could.  More than once she mumbled to herself, “Carpe diem” and “When in Milan ...”  And it took her mind off anything to do with modeling.
         The Museo was very close, so they walked over, arm in arm the way all Italians do with friends, and entered what had been the 17th century Palazzo Dugnani, whose Salone d’Onore’s 18th century frescoes (above) were painted by Giambattista Tiepolo.  The building became home to the cinema museum in 1947 and housed a considerable collection of memorabilia and experimental movie equipment along with a trove of films, largely Italian, many of them set in Milan.
       They passed through the dark hallways lighted for effect, perused the historic exhibits of early cinema pioneers, and admired the movie posters displayed, including those from the post-war Neo-Realism films of Vittorio de Sica and Roberto Rossellini; the so-called “Pec-taculars” about beefy mythic heroes like Hercules and Maciste (usually starring American bodybuilders);  the internationally renowned “art” films of Federico Fellini, like 8 1/2, Michelangelo Antonioni, like L'Eclisse (left),  and Pier Paolo Pasolini, like The Gospel According to St. Matthew; the “spaghetti westerns” of Sergio Leone, and the cheap romantic farces that followed in the 1970s.   
      There were posters for movies starring the actresses Signora Palma had used in her show, not least a few of Claudia Cardinale’s early films, including “Big Deal on Madonna Street” and “Rocco and His Brothers.”
         “Did you know she was born in Tunisia?” asked Giancarlo.
         Indeed, Nicola had made it a point to find out what she could about the actress she would be made up to look like for Signora Palma’s show.
         “Yes, in Tunis. Her mother was Tunisian and her father Sicilian, from Trapani. Do you know she didn't speak a word of Italian until she started making movies here?”  Then Nicola dropped the subject, not wanting to maintain the folly of her association with a movie goddess.
         After touring the museum, it was six o’clock—still early for dinner— and although she’d missed lunch and was starving, Nicola did not want Giancarlo to think she was crassly American enough to eat at such an early hour. 
         Then, Giancarlo spoke up. “Nicola, I have to tell you, I didn't have lunch today and I’m starving.”
         She laughed and said, “So am I.”
         “Well, then, would you mind very much if, instead of dinner, we went to Paper Moon for pizza?”
         Nicola’s laughed harder. “Oh, Giancarlo, nothing would make me happier.  I think I could eat six pizzas right now.”
         “Then it is settled. I’ll cancel our reservation at Al Porto and we’ll go to Paper Moon.”
         Nicola was truly thrilled by the prospect, because, although her familiarity with Al Porto would have given her a certain advantage that evening, her recognition at Paper Moon—plus the fact that she was starving—made it an ideal choice.
        The restaurant was only a few blocks away, so they walked over slowly, first enjoying an apéritif at an outdoor café. Giancarlo recommended a Milano-Torino, explaining that it was a blend of Campari and sweet vermouth and so-called because the former spirit was made near Milan and the latter in Turin.
         “Well,” said Nicola, “given where you live and where we are, that seems appropriate.”
         “Certo. Cameriere, due Milano-Torino.”
         Both of them, tired and hungry, spoke little, instead enjoying the passagiata of people going by arm and arm.
         “It’s such a wonderful custom,” said Nicola. “I remember my grandmother and grandfather taking a walk through the neighborhood each night like that.  Maybe some of the old-timers still do, but it’s pretty much disappeared where I live.”
         Giancarlo looked at his watch and said, “Okay, it’s half past seven. Paper Moon just opened. Shall we go?”
         The two of them got to the restaurant and, to Nicola’s delight, she was recognized by the staff.  “Ah, Signorina Santini, una tavola per due?”
         “Si, Michaele,” she answered, as the two young people were shown to a very nice table up front, sitting under a movie photo of Robert De Niro in “The Godfather II.”  Somewhere a photo of Claudia Cardinale was smiling.
         “Hm, you seem to be known by everyone in Milan,” said Giancarlo. “Is that all since the show?”
         “Just a little. My friends and I go here a lot.”
         Giancarlo laughed. “Ah, now I remember.  When I was in school at Yale, all the students, including me, would go out to a pizzeria or have them delivered to our rooms. I loved that!  And the pizzas were so large and with so many ingredients, you could share one pizza with four people.”
         Giancarlo was alluding to what Nicola had found out on her first visit to Paper Moon, that pizzas in Italy were sized for a single person, just the diameter of a dinner plate, and that everyone cut their pizza with a knife and fork instead of folding it and eating it with one’s fingers, as was the case back home.
         The couple ordered two different pizzas they would share and a bottle of good Chianti. “With pizza you should always drink Chianti,” said Giancarlo.  “At least that’s what I learned in New York.”
         “And the reason for that is that Chianti is usually the only red wine they offer in pizzerias,” Nicola said. “Which is odd, because the first pizzas originally came from Naples.”
         “Really?”
         Nicola then launched into a brief history of the Neapolitan pizza, how the tomato had come to Italy from America and how only poor people in Naples ate them.  She told how it was street food, but in 1889, a local pizza maker named Raffaele Esposito created a special pizza for the visit of King Umberto I’s consort, Queen Margherita, to the city.  The enterprising pizzaiolo made his creation with white mozzarella, red tomato and green basil—the colors of the new Italian national flag—and christened it pizza alla Margherita.
         Giancarlo looked stunned. “I never knew this story. When I was in New York everybody said the pizza was invented in New Haven.”
         “Nonsense,” said Nicola. “What happened was that when the Neapolitans came to the United States, they brought the pizzeria with them. The first one ever was in New York’s Greenwich Village, a place called Lombardi’s (left).  It opened around 1905 and it’s still there.”
         Giancarlo shook his head and said, “How do you know so much about pizza?”      
         A little hesitant, Nicola cleared her throat and said, “Well, everyone knows about pizza in New York, my mother’s people are Neapolitan, and I think I told you my older brother is manager of the best pizzeria in the Bronx, which is called Bella Napoli.”
         All Giancarlo said was, “Interesting.”
         The wine and the pizzas arrived and they ate ravenously, cutting the pies in half and exchanging each.  When they finished, Giancarlo ordered a half-liter more of wine.
         “I am so glad we didn’t wait to go to Al Porto,” he said.
         “Me too. This was perfect.”
         Giancarlo put his hand on Nicola’s, this time caressing it while looking into her dark eyes. “So,” he said. “It’s only nine o’clock and it’s Saturday night.  What do you think we should do now?”

         Nicola knew exactly what she wanted to do and that was not to return to her dorm.  She just shrugged as if to say, “Whatever you want to do.” She might even have fluttered her eyelashes.
         Still holding her hand, Giancarlo said, “We could go to my hotel—it’s nearby—and have that digestiva we didn’t have last night. I don’t think it will compromise this Chianti too much.”
         Nicola’s thoughts were racing, trying to balance holding back against her fervid desire to go to Giancarlo’s hotel. For a moment she was quiet, her hand under his, her eyes never leaving his. “I suppose ... that would be a wonderful way to end the evening,” trying not to give too much away in her response.
         “Brava, Nicolina.”  It was the first time Giancarlo had said her name as an Italian diminutive. “I get the check and we go.”

© John Mariani, 2020

NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR

5 Reasons Not To Age Wines
 You Just Bought At The Store

By John Mariani

 

         A press release from Tuscan producer Villa Poggio Salvi describes its new release from the 2015 vintage as “an absolutely gorgeous Brunello. The aromatics are beautiful in this young Brunello, expressive and open, showing striking nuances of cherries, raspberries and currants ... On the palate this possesses an elegant medium body, with wonderful vibrancy and a remarkable structure.” 
         I have not yet tasted this wine but I have no reason to doubt most of what Villa Poggio Salvi boasts about it. But in several ways the praise puts into focus many questions about buying a wine from a store, then sticking it away for the next several years in the belief that it will actually improve. And if it does, will it taste anything like the “young Brunello” described? In five or ten years will it retain “striking nuances” and “medium body with wonderful vibrancy?” Or, as the tannins soften will the flavors of oak from the aging barrel alter all of those claims?
         The assumption is that the wine producers, some of whose estates may date back hundreds of years, have a pretty good idea of how their wines age and that therefore their advice should be taken seriously. But here are some things to ask yourself about buying any wine and storing it in the hope that it has a brighter future.

 

Q: Do all wines need further aging once released to the market?

A: Not by a long shot. A conservative estimate of wines ready to drink—in fact, made to be drunk upon release—would be north of 95%. In the whole history of wine, up until the 18th century, when European noblemen could afford to hold back certain red wines (rarely any whites), wines were always drunk fresh. Wooden barrels have been used since the Iron Age (8th to 5th century BC), but for transport, not aging. For long sea voyages the process of adding brandy to stabilize wines like Port, Marsala and Madeira began in the middle 18th century. Those and other fortified wines never get any better once bottled. Aging was found to improve many red wines that began with robust tannins and were adjudged to be of very high quality to begin with, like the top classified crus of Bordeaux. But not even the French bought into the British preference for wines aged for decades in damp cellars. Today, long aging is still an iffy proposition, because age does not always mean improvement. Last month I uncorked a 50-year-old bottle of the illustrious Château Cheval Blanc (despite its name, it’s red, not white) that I’d kept under ideal conditions in a temperature-controlled wine refrigerator. On first sip, I found the wine undrinkable. On another occasion some years ago, I tasted a 1929 Château Mouton-Rothschild that I found remarkable for its vigor, but after ten minutes of oxygen entering the wine, it was shot.

 

Q: Why do wine producers release wines they believe need further aging?

A: The simple answer is that they have to sell each year’s vintage, and, after what they deem an acceptable time in wood barrels, they release them, perhaps saying on the label that further aging is "recommended." But it would have to be in cellars like theirs, which only they have.

 

Q: Are producers releasing their wines earlier than they used to?

A: By and large, yes. Inventory is key to any business, and wine producers now have global markets to supply. Brunello di Montalcino is a good case in point: Created by Ferruccio Biondi-Santi from 100% Sangiovese Grosso in 1865, only four vintages were even declared by the estate up until the end of World War II—1888, 1891, 1925 and 1945. By the 1960s there were only eleven producers; now there are more than 200, turning out oceans of a wine once barely known outside of Tuscany. The older producers seemed in no rush to release their limited quantities of Brunello and contended that the Sangiovese Grosso needed a long aging in big barrels. (Back in the 1970s I tasted a Biondi-Santi bottling from 1888 at their estate that was absolutely delicious.) But this expansion of so many producers has completely changed the character of Brunello to a medium-bodied red wine that rarely shows the same characteristics of the old style. So, a 2015 release is definitely ready to drink; age may improve the wine, but no one really can say.

Q: Do you really need a temperature-controlled “cellar” to age wines?

A: To an extent, yes. You do not want to store your wines in a house or apartment closet that might be 80 degrees in summer, though cold doesn’t bother them. The ideal is 55 degrees, which would require buying equipment. But a well-regarded producer of Bordeaux, Alfred Tesseron of Château Pontet-Canet, told me he accidentally left a case of his wine in the bottom of his boat over the summer and winter, rocking on the waves. He was sure the wine would be ruined, but he said it was entirely unaffected and he drank it with pleasure.

Q: What about white wines and Champagnes?

A: Both will change flavor as they age, but in terms of still white wines, only the very greatest Burgundies, like Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Montrachet and Corton Grand Cru, will taste better (probably) after ten years. It is very rare when a California Chardonnay tastes better years after release. The finer Champagne houses release their bottlings when they feel they are ready to drink—the region produces 300 million bottles each year and, during the coronavirus crisis, sales have been way down. But some people, especially the British, like their Champagnes to develop a patina of age that begins to taste slightly oxidized. Most people who love Champagne are probably not going to wait after buying a bottle if, especially these days, a good reason to celebrate comes up.