The Body in the Piazza - By Katherine Hall Page Page 0,59
about being on the farm in Nebraska, possibly so she could laugh at his answers, which were very funny and involved many puns.
“But although there was much food that I was not sad to leave—many, many sweet green, orange, and red gelatins they called salads with canned fruit and cheese trapped in the middle that looked like ricotta but tasted like overcooked gnocchi and all the other salads, the ones that had lettuce, were smothered with sweet mayonnaise dressings, also orange—they liked that color, those happy smiling peoples. I cried to leave their steaks. Cover your ears, Rossis, but even Chianina beef doesn’t come close to what I had in Nebraska.”
“Tonight is the night for Bistecca alla Fiorentina, so they can decide for themselves,” Francesca said. “I thought we would be tired from today, so we will grill. Sandro, Maurizio, come join us. We will eat at nine, but come early.”
“You are all so nice. Of course we will come. We can do bruschetta on the grill, too. We will bring the oil, and garlic from our garden,” Maurizio said.
The final stop of the day, at a vineyard, was a marked contrast to the two previous ones.
A long drive lined with well-tended cypresses led to the castello that was the grower’s home. Gianni turned in front of it and parked in a lot near the equally impressive old buildings that housed the winery and tasting room. The gardens were overflowing with specimen blooms, and when someone came out to greet them, it was a guide, not the owners themselves. It didn’t matter. The guide, whose name was Mia, was well informed, and even though the scale was so much larger, she conveyed the deep appreciation all involved had for their craft and product as she gave them the tour, an appreciation apparent at the other winery and the olive mill, too. As she spoke she passed out sheets explaining how wines are classified—the meaning behind those letters following all the names; DOCG, Designation of Controlled Origin Guaranteed, being the highest. The Culvers were in heaven. Handouts!
This was where Francesca had said they would purchase some vin santo to go with the biscotti they had made earlier for tonight’s dolce. And since she was sure this process would be completely new to most of the students, when they emerged into the sunlight, she asked Mia to speak to them about it.
“At our cantina we are making Vin Santo di Montepulciano DOC from white grapes,” Mia explained. “Seventy percent of the grapes must be the Grechetto, Trebbiano, and Malvasia varieties. The other thirty percent can be local varieties, and we have some we use that give our wine a very special taste. Unlike the processes for other wines, vin santo is made from dried grapes. We spread them out on straw mats after the regular harvest in a warm room, which causes the moisture to evaporate and the sugar to become very concentrated. The amount of time we leave them is important, but it is many weeks. Some people add yeast afterward to speed fermentation. Instead, we take some of last year’s vin santo saved for the purpose to add to ours. Then it goes into oak barrels where it ages, for us, at least four years. Methods vary. Some places hang the bunches of grape to dry, but basically it is the same process—a wine made from the raisin. Some use a different wood for the barrels. Originally all the barrels were made of chestnut.”
Earlier they had passed through a room filled with the enormous barrels lying on their sides with bright red rims and polished steel hoops. Very impressive.
“Please follow me to the tasting room and I think today it would be nice to sample some vin santo even though the Rossis have said you will have some later. Although ours is the traditional amber, you will notice a slight difference in each color, and in sweetness. I will be interested to hear which one you prefer.”
She led the way out into the bright sunlight and across another flower-filled courtyard to a building that was a shop and tasting room. Faith wondered how she managed in the elegant high heels she was wearing, but she must have been used to navigating the cobblestones and never even teetered.
“Mia, tell them the story of how the wine got its name,” Gianni said. “Tom here is a priest. Not like ours. A Protestant one, but I’m sure he will want to know.”