Florence, Love and Vitis Vinifera.

‘Oh, must we go?’ I squeeled in absolute agony.

‘yes, I’ve already paid for it!’ came the response

‘But I honestly cannot move. Look!’ I made a walrus impression, hoping to put an end to this debate.

It was St Valentines day in Florence. Earlier that morning, we had got dressed early, deciding not to carry on wasting our time trying to sleep inside the dark, grotty, vertically disproportionate cave that was our hotel bedroom. The damp smell invading my nostrils was motivation enough, I knew I had to do something about this situation! The frighteningly grumpy receptionist was clearly not someone to be messed with so I wiped away the fear, took a deep breath and sent Hayley off to the front desk to complain. Phew!

With hotel matters out of the way and a new room reluctantly promised upon our return, we set out to explore the chilly February streets of Florence. We climbed the eternal steps of the Duomo, strolled around the Uffizi and lost ourselves in the narrow, derelict side streets. The first real treat of the day appeared in the form of a much-needed gastronomic feast at the famous Frescobaldi family’s restaurant. Sat in its mock-rusticated warm environment, we shamelessly phoned relatives in England, describing the food appearing before us on large white plates. We took particular pleasure in detailing the melting sensation of the fillet steak upon our delighted tongues. Meanwhile, our enthusiastic waiter excitedly poured and poured again, fountains of wine, insisting we try something new several times a course. I sat, utterly gobsmacked, the power that good food and wine can have in overturning what was a disastrous night and early morning. At that moment, all of our troubles were at bay.

Tuscan vines nr. San Gimignano

Things only turned again as we attempted to raise ourselves out of our chairs. It is a familiar feeling, one that perhaps, lunch should have ended a little before the end of the main course. But self-control, in regards to food is something we had not mastered then, not that much has changed now. With the pain slightly numbed by the last glass of ruby Sangiovese, we somehow Elephant-footed our way back through the decrepit Tuscan streets, hotel bound. We climbed the steps of our crumbling hotel, eager to spread our full-stomached selves onto a freshly made bed in our new room. I swung the door open and stared straight ahead at the glorious window, radiating the filtered sunshine through its glass panes. I moved forward to take a look at the view, which though unimpressive, was to my relief south facing. I didn’t ever reach the window, instead I tripped and fell head first onto a child size mattress. I looked up and around looking for the double bed. There was no double bed, just a much higher single next to this one. Too tired to care, I instantly curled up and passed out onto my standard issue, foreign legion inspired bed.

 Alarm bells rang! “Merde, qu’est ce qui se passe!” I shrieked.

I must have been dreaming in French which led to me cursing in my native tongue. Hayley’s mobile phone alarm drowned out the voices of my dream and I sat up, one eye open, assessing this most uncomfortable situation.

“Time for wine tasting” she declared

Reluctantly I rolled off the bed and looked into the mirror. I had bed hair like in the hair styling television adverts, perfect for strolling around the fashion conscious Italian streets. With the Hotel doors closing behind us, we were suddenly confronted by a late afternoon chill, motivating us to walk quickly to the other end of Florence until we reached a small wine cellar. Our host for the evening was a tall dark haired Italian in his early thirties, sporting a smooth looking black velvet jacket. He guided us and our fellow tasters, along and past the long stone-topped bar with its eclectic supply neatly stacked floor to ceiling all around the room, and down the steep stairs to the narrow cellar. Here, there were two long tables stretching their way along the room, just large enough to fit the fifteen or so guests. Though I could tell the basic sensory differences between good and bad wine at the time, my knowledge on grapes and winemaking was minimal. While our host chatted away, we chomped our way through sheets of Parma ham, threw olives into our mouths and nibbled on the finely cut slices of Parmesan cheese, as we sampled various expressions of Sangiovese, Vernaccia and Trebbiano. This was one of my earliest opportunities to assess wine glass to glass and side by side, to express out loud why it was that I preferred one to another. This was very liberating indeed and I suddenly felt I understood the true reason for wine’s existence; the thrill of the hunt, the never-ending search for the perfect bottle and the beautiful rituals associated with it. The recurring sounds of extracting tight fitting corks from their narrow necks, pouring, smelling, decanting then pouring again. In addition, I was instantly seduced by the concept of wine as a living thing, which, while it is nurtured, can evolve, improve or bitterly disappoint.

The tasting came to end, and upstairs, as the others filtered their way out the door into the bitter cold, we remained. We pulled out some chairs and settled into the cosy atmosphere. More meat and cheese was brought over to our table and we ordered further wine for evaluation. We eventually settled on 2005’s vintage of Cesani Luenzo, to take home with us. While handing over some Euro’s, I realised it was the most I had ever spent on grape juice. When I returned home, I excitedly made my way down to the cellar and cleared myself a corner, proudly staring at my lone import. I cut out a piece of card, tying it to the neck of the bottle onto which I wrote ‘drink 2011’. I knew at that moment that I would dedicate much time and fun to filling out the empty spaces around my Tuscan find. As my collection grew, I separated everyday drinking wines, ageing wines and valuable wines. Up until now, Cesani Luenzo has neighboured Bordeaux classified growths, Grand cru Burgundy and Super-Tuscans, reminding me of the birth of this small collection which shrinks and increases like the tide. I say up until now because 2011 is finally upon us and I had specifically timed it’s opening with the end of my WSET advanced certificate.

With excitement, I decanted the wine, cleaned out two tasting glasses and waited for Hayley to arrive home. I gently manoeuvred the decanters’ contents and held it up to my nose, then directed it towards the glass. My first sensory explorations of the wine showed balance; it is punchy, yet subtle. Tipping the glass to it’s side, it appears not the deepest of red but of a fine ruby with an almost invisible orange nail. To the nose, the classic Italian red cherry is present and is complemented by notes of raspberry and blackcurrant. The French oak barriques used in it’s ageing adds hints of overlaying vanilla and chocolate followed by pepper and a cloud of smokiness which finds its way, settling pleasantly to the back of my throat. Age has contributed raisins and provided a sweet jammy-ness. But its finest characteristic for me is the one that I mostly associated with the fabulous wines of Puglia: the scent of freshly trodden grass leading to a soothing medicinal menthol. The palate followed the nose fairly closely with the added pleasure of a smooth and refreshing mouth-watering acidity. A reassuring momentary detection of spice and cloves compliment the warmth of the alcohol, which feels comforting against the darkening clouds outside. Tannin is most definitely present, and plenty of it yet its silky form almost renders it undetectable, much like it’s full body, which is far from suffocating.

Worth the wait!

As my last tasting notes appear on the sheet of paper before me, I sit back and enjoy a glass with Hayley. I am proud of our choice all those years ago. Even with our basic knowledge, we had picked out something really rather special and had the patience to allow for its year-by-year improvement underground. Though the bottle is now empty, I plan to return it to the cellar where it will take pride of place, becoming an everyday memento of the events leading up to my infatuation with Vitis Vinifera.