The Italian Argument
My friend (and wine
importer) Massimo is so Italian, I sometimes feel like asking him to tone it
down a bit. When he does Vintage Room tastings, he dons his baby-blue velour
blazer, unfurls the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, and puts out the bread,
the cheese, and the salami that he drove to East Van to buy (“always so bad the
traffic, Jordan”). He knows the families behind each of the wines that he
pours, and purrs out the hyper-syllabic place names like arpeggios; he is
simultaneously 100% legit and one step away from hopping onto a turtle shell to
go save the princess. Sometimes when he’s pouring I step back, out of the
Vintage Room, to observe the people he’s serving to see if they get the same –
“Hello, Jordan.” It
came from behind me, a familiar voice with an accent that was similar to
Massimo’s, if somewhat time-worn. It was Vito.
Vito is, well, the
other Italian importer that I buy a lot of wine from (and who also does
tastings with cheese and bread and tablecloths – it’s like the Aloha of Italy,
I guess). In fact, I’ve been buying from Vito since long before there I knew
there were Massimos (Vito has been in Canada a lot longer), and maybe that
explains my sheepish expression when I turned around to face him. Despite the
fact that I support both of these importers equally and despite the fact that –
last time I checked – I’m a grown man, I felt guilty, like I got caught
cheating on Vito with Massimo. After I made small talk with Vito for a couple
minutes, he announced that he was going to go say hi to Massimo, and I promptly
ran away, just as a grown man would do.
As I pretended to do
important things in the rest of the store, I talked myself down. You have Vito
pouring in the Vintage Room all the time, I told me. Vito’s been here a long
time, probably doesn’t even have a temper anymore, I continued. You’re 43 years
old and you can buy wine from whomever, it’s all good, you’re such a
professional, I said. It was working. I felt better. My friend Rick was
standing at the tasting bar looking into the Vintage Room and beckoned me over,
“you’ve got to see this”, he said. My anxieties returned like booming car
stereos.
It looked initially
like they were trying to swat many flies away from each other’s heads. Vito and
Massimo were gesticulating wildly at one another, raising and lowering their
pitches accordingly. I don’t know what they were arguing about (I no habla Italian)
but I got the sickening feeling that I’d put a Japanese Fighting Fish in the
same tank as another Japanese Fighting Fish. I had to do something before it
came to blows, so – like a grownup – I ran away further into the back.
After dusting the
same bottle for 10 minutes I figured the coast was clear, and emerged
cautiously from the back and went into the Vintage Room where Massimo was
pleasantly whistling. Vito was gone. “What was that about?” I asked Massimo,
who blinked at me for a beat before asking “what you mean, Jordan?” “I mean,
what were you and Vito talking about?” I clarified. Massimo blinked at the
table, then the ground, then his own hand, “I think the weather?” he shrugged.
After I pushed a little further, Massimo divulged, with a puzzled look, that
they’d maybe discussed soccer a bit. They weren’t fighting, they weren’t even
disagreeing, that is just how a couple of Italian guys talk to each other.
That kind of passion
pervades every Italian conversation, but it can be weaponized when applied to
things that really matter, like wine. Throughout most Italian wine regions, the
predominant argument is between those winemakers (and wine drinkers) who adhere
to styles and practices handed down to them over centuries, and the restless
types who want to use the best techniques from around the world in their own
back yard. Between the Traditionalists and the Modernists.