Pollastrini is hard to find. It’s not lost along a gravel path on a remote estuary. It is behind a vast abandoned-looking warehouse complex, next a parking lot full of cop cars and fire trucks. On the day of my visit, a burned out and abandoned Mac Truck sat in the shoulder, distracting my attention from the entrance. 

Anzio is an hour’s drive south of Rome but still in its sprawl. I felt New Jersey vibes. The cafe where I sipped the tiniest ristretto had gaudy, delicious pastries, scratch off cards, silver velvet chairs, and a clear cast of local characters, including doughnut-eating cops. Confectioner’s sugar and gossip filled the air. My pronunciation of sfogliatelle was very amusing to the barista. Her nails had jewels. Her face could have been on a Roman coin. 

It's time to take another look at Alsace. Younger winemakers like Paul at Bott-Freres and Céline at Josmeyer are updating traditions, and expanding the scope of ambitions.

Boundaried by very different winemaking traditions, there’s a notion that Alsace has to overcome paradox to thrive in the 21st century. I see the region’s “cultural crossroads” location as a real asset, a defining virtue, and a key to why Alsatian wines will matter even more in years ahead. By absorbing diverse culinary traditions and accepting that no other place has Alsace’s singular topography and climate, winemakers can break out of the rather hidebound current state of affairs.

A lot is asked of wineries here. The forces of tourism are strong. As is true in other global oenotoursim hotspots, thirsty vacationers aren’t wholly positive in their impact on overall wine quality. An easy path is presented by visitors with certain preconceptions of what Alsace’s wines are, or should be. They come for storks, choucroute, and munster, washed down with anonymous Edelzwicker, or beer.

I met Daniele Piccinin in his driveway, in front of an apartment building. Snow had fallen, and melted. I don’t think my anonymous rental car could have traversed the rutted dirt-and-gravel paths to his vineyards and cellar. On the main road through San Giovanni Illarione the wide sky is framed by low mountains. Daniele spends his days above the town. Muni, his ancestral farm, is perched on a steep hillside. Vines thrive in its rocky, cool fields. The valley below Piccinin’s farm extends south to Soave, and west to Verona. 

Getting into a 40-year-old Fiat Panda 4x4 is step one. And it’s a challenge for me. I’m 6’2”, and not a gymnast. But Daniele is at least 6’5”. He folds easily into the matchbook-sized vehicle. These seemingly indestructible Pandas-from-the-past are the preferred farm vehicle across multiple hilly wine growing regions of Italy. They are light. They don’t get stuck. They fit through claustrophobic, vertigo-inducing passageways. They’ll handle even the most feeble of Italian roads. Daniele can probably pick the thing up with his bare hands. The man is built for farm work in challenging terrain. It’s like the Alps are in his DNA. He once picked up our photographer by his backpack, with one hand, and moved him out of the way of an onrushing vehicle. It takes a lot of pasta to build that strength.

Bruno Triguiero sat with his feet in the pool. It was midnight. We listened to samba booming from an invisible speaker, a black lump of plastic perched on the patio wall of a 200-year-old house. Bruno shares the rosé-colored building with Thama Sakuma, and their two daughters. The eldest child sat for a while on the wall. She tried to determine if the commotion was fun worth joining. Eventually she retreated. Final exams for French 13-year-olds would begin in six hours. A sore throat would keep the poor kid from attending. Her voice was raspy, inaudible. But our middle-aged conversations were too boring, even when playing hooky.

“It doesn’t matter how long we live here, we will always be outsiders.” It’s sleepy in 1,000-person Puimisson, a condition amplified by the aversion of locals to new residents. Bruno and Thama moved from São Paolo, to begin second lives as biodynamic farmers. In Brazil they were architects. Bruno needed a change. He had suffered from migraines, and found respite in lifestyle changes based around avoiding processed foods, and spending more time in nature. It was the start of a path that led to Les Chemins de Bassac, and converting an already-organic farm to biodynamic agriculture.

I’m willing to die on this hill: a Paris-CDG TSA agent stole my sardines. Say what you will, I can already hear law-and-order-apheliacs lining up to defend the uniformed border gang’s right to seize my tins of fish. Perhaps I’m fiendishly operating a Bond villian-style cannery on a remote Mediterranean isle, packing extremely life-like (and tasty) little fishes in nitroglycerine-flavored olive oil. I’ve spent thousands of hours perfecting the design and feel of one of France’s most ubiquitous seafood conservas, to terrorize the skies with my mackerel, mussels in escabeche, and cephalopods in Tunisian sauce. It’s a spicy plot!

We humans have lost the plot. Seizing tinned fish from travelers is absurd. They are not a liquid. They swim in a liquid, but certainly are packed in less than 100ml of huile.

I won’t improve my French in the years ahead. It’s unrealistic. I’m averaging one trip to France every three years. More excursions are likely, but French will remain my fourth-favorite way to communicate for the foreseeable future.

Email is a godsend. When I arrived, I knew Pascal would be at lunch in the restaurant next to his winery in St. Amour-Bellevue. It was springtime, but before budbreak. He was on farmer time. It was 3pm. Coffee was being served, and an alarmingly green distillate that resembled creme de menthe. The restaurant was emptying out. Soon it was us, Pascal’s lunch buddies, an aged Jack Russell terrier, and the proprietress. Kitchen staff drifted out to share cigarettes. The back patio was unseasonably warm. Nobody was in a hurry.

I attended my third 10-year anniversary party in the month of March. Whether you are a winemaker, a pizza maker, or a wine importer, a decade in business is a mile marker worthy of some cake and balloons.

I left Paris and drove to Vineuil. Paul Gillet was hosting a soirée. At least a dozen natural vignerons were pouring wine in a limestone cave. Can’t miss that! The entrance to the fête was in the cliff that faced a tertiary road. It felt like I had ventured deep into the Loire. Townsfolk weren’t privy to this happening. I found it because of a short line of cars. The vehicles looked busted enough to belong on farms. Dead giveaway.

#10: Sant’ Isidoro Pizza e Bolle (Rome) fried artichoke, parmesan and curly parsley pizza. On the edge of a normal neighborhood, close to the Tiber, the via Oslavia location of Sant’ Isidoro Pizza e Bolle served the best lunch of a five-day stay in the capital. A second pizza (anchovies, breadcrumbs, marinara) was almost as excellent. In-season, perfectly fried artichokes changed this pizza from excellent to otherworldly. (April 8th, 2022)

#9 La Sorgente (Abruzzo) “Pizz’ e Foje” Mustard greens. Turnip tops. Local cow’s milk cheese. Honey. Sweet pepper from Altino. Orange zest. This gets the ‘Going for it: wild ideas that work’ award for 2022. Adherence to indigenous flavors kept exuberance from tipping over into foolishness. The crust was referential of pizzas from Rome, not Napoli. The flavors were entirely Abruzzese. (July 10th, 2022)

“We have a window to the sea”. I’m on a hilltop above Capraia. Parched amber fields dotted with olive trees, a huge sky. It’s a remarkable view. The land slopes down from Elisabetta Mainardi’s agriturismo at an even grade. The inclined plane continues past Fattoria Castellina’s swimming pool, into a thicket of live oaks and uninviting seaside vegetation. The land beneath our feet is sandy. A cool breeze from Livorno makes being outside at midday tolerable, at least in the shade.

The power is out. Elisabetta and Eleonora are busy preparing lunch, under challenging circumstances. A cluster of guests seem unconcerned by the lack of electricity. The pool is still cold, and there’s wine to drink. A tattooed couple make out in the deep end. A gambling man would peg the scattered tourists sheltering under umbrellas as British. They wilt under the Mediterranean sun like exiles from cloudy northern isles.