Prosecco Valley and the Osteria Senza Oste (Osteria without hostess)

It was January. The trees looked like cinematic references to a Tim Burton film but Alice in Wonderland was not yet in theaters -- definitely not in Prosecco Valley that is. But as you walked around, gazing across landscapes of vineyards, not surprising in Italy, you were invited into a world, possibly similar to that of Alice's re-occurring dream.



Rabbit, perhaps to be seen more frequently on the menu than in the hills (sorry vegetarians), could definitely be found as well in Prosecco. But Alice in Wonderland actually never crossed my mind -- it was the Prosecco that tempted me -- the rolling hills, the white roads stark against the vivid green grape vines. Nico and Elodie, our hosts for the weekend, took us on quite a tour of their neighborhood.


Elodie and Nico.
We started with a nice bottle of Prosecco, in a champegnoise method, while sitting in the living room by a fire and then continued on a master tour drinking all different styles of Prosecco and Franciacorta all day long.

Standing is the husband/owner of the restaurant/resort and sitting, one of the chef's who work with Nico, and a friend of ours as well, nick named: "K."




One big difference between Prosecco and Franciacorta is that Prosecco is actually made from a grape called Prosecco -- and Prosecco is the name of the town, in the Veneto region, where it's grown as well, -- confusing? Franciacorta is from the region of Lombardia and is the name of the town, but the grapes are different: chardonnay, pinot nero (pinot noir), and pinot bianco (pinot blanc). The other big difference is that Franciacorta is a DOCG which regulates that all Franciacorta must be made in the Champegnoise method -- which is simply that the second fermentation must be in the bottle vs. the charmat method where the second fermentation happens in the large vat. Franciacorta also requires a minimum aging of 18 months.
Prosecco di Conegliano and Prosecco di Valdobiaddene which are basically just different valleys in the town of Prosecco just recently received DOCG status this month -- but does not have to be in the Champegnoise method like Franciacorta. We were in Prosecco di Valdobbiadene.


A trip through Prosecco and the opportunity to try its many different styles, like champegnoise method vs. charmat and its many different producers whose taste can be drier, to fruit forward, to aromatic, to an even delicious banana taste that I loved -- will definitely change your impression about Prosecco.

In America we do not have access to the many different Proseccos that are produced in Italy. There are not really any wine bars that have four or five or six different bottles of sparkling wine open to drink by the glass -- and wow how much better my life would be if these places existed!!



In the heart of Prosecco di Valdobbiadene is one of the most charming places I've ever been -- Osteria Senza Oste. A small little place with food and wine and coffee and prosecco, and hanging salami and fresh cheese without anyone working there!! It's all left to the honor system, with a locked box to stick your Euros inside, and little price tags attached to anything you can eat or drink. The utensils and decorations are not for sale!


Like the hat on Mauro's head was not for sale, but definitely for use to enjoy while drinking some local red wine and eating local cheese. There was a fireplace with softly burning embers that we sparked up to a flame while we all peeked around the small charming room, reading the guestbook, ripping open pieces of bread, cheese, salame, while pouring red wine.

It could have possibly been one of the most enjoyable moments of my life. It was the surprise element of never having been somewhere so simple and yet invigorating and fresh. And yes, we will definitely return!



Fresh boiled eggs! We didn't eat any though.


Beautiful Elodie reaching for her wine as I take a million photos and Mauro and Nico acted like children taking apart everything!



The wonderful thing about this Osteria is that the inside is almost just as beautfiul as the outside!



To finish the day of perfection with something just as perfect was a task I thought to be impossible -- but I was beyond delighted to be proven wrong. A simple apertivio -- probably the most exciting times of my life -- spent with good friends drinking from the lovely option of five to six different sparkling wines.

Mauro and K after the first glass of Prosecco, which was ridiculously delicious and by far superior to any Prosecco I've had in the states. Elodie, who works here, introduced me to about five new sparkling wines that I'm in love with but do not have any of the names of -- because I just didn't take pictures of it, or write it down like I usually do -- that's how much fun I was having and how good the wine was.

Perhaps a better shot of Mauro and K, although I love the previous one. In the middle of Padova, far but not too far away from the Alice and Wonderland of Prosecco, we finished our amazing day popping bottles and bottles of sparkling wine that changed my perspective of Italian Prosecco and Franciacorta and now truly feel that Champagne (from Champagne, France) is not always better. This Italian sparkling wine blew my mind!


I was laying in the bed last night thinking about the wine that I would be drinking for my next dinner occasion and I realized -- that I plan out the wines I will drink in the same manner I plan for the outfit I will be wearing. They are not so different. I like to dress appropriately for the weather, for the celebration, for my environment, and I like to drink the same way!

Lunch with La Famiglia: Valpolicella di Negrar

Daniela, Daniela, and Mirko, going for a walk after lunch in a local trattoria.



We were window shopping, and enjoying the brisk, crisp air, smug in a small village surrounded by some of Italy's most renowned vineyards inside Valpolicella did Negrar.




One aspect about Italy that is so fascinating to me -- almost everywhere I go, every little village I visit, has a reputation for it's vineyards that precedes.


I love this picture of Mauro and his brother Mirko. It truly reveals their highly mischievous personality.



Graziano, pensive as we sit for lunch and enjoy a few bottles of Valpolicella.

Oh Verona

Aside from the fact that Verona was quite cold during Mauro and my recent trip in January, and that there was not a day or a night when I wasn't wearing two pair of pants before going outside, there was something so pristinely enticing about the cityscape during its winter nights.

Perhaps because it was lonely, yet warm. Have you ever been to Venice during the summer and tried to take a picture like I did without having one single tourist or human figure in obstruction? Verona is not quite as touristic as Venice, but even here during the summer nights the streets are a hustle and bustle. . . parking near impossible (even in the winter).

What is always so shocking to me when Mauro and I "go home" to visit his family in Soave, located within the Veneto region, is that towns still have castles impressing the landscape. I'm always in awe. Staring. Wondering. Writing stories in my head about juicy dramas that enveloped the past. The Soave Castle is quite a vision.

I love to take photos of Mauro's grandmother. She is always at her doorstep whenever we pass by, and always has such a great sense of humor and strength.

Parsimon fruit from her recent harvest

Sunrise from Mauro's parents' window in Soave.

Give Me Some Cheese!

Verona, Italy. . . January 2010. . .
La Casara, a cheese factory, somewhere in the valleys of Soave. I am unfamiliar with the drive. It is beautiful. It is still cold outside.
Perhaps there is vapor when I speak.
It is early morning. Early for a morning after a night at a degustation of Amarone (serata degli Amaroni!), the top twenty producers, and I had to swallow. That equals to about a bottle of Amarone to the dome, Mauro and I. We were passed. Over-passed? Dispatched? Happy. I must say. Only in Italy have I had such an experience of wine tastings followed by cheese tastings, zig-zagging through fields and valleys its actual production emerges from. Much different from zig-zagging the industrial streets of Manhattan. But, shame on me. They should not be compared.
9 a.m. yet who really knew the time. My eyes were still heavy. Our new camera still uncomfortable in my grasp. who wakes up in the morning to spend three hours in a cheese factory?

We were given blue plastic to cover our shoes. I got lost in photo. I forgot Amarone. Who was she anyway, so wicked and selfish, yet generous and fat? We were in love if only for a night. Now morning had come and we could let go, we had to let go. . . there is always a new horizon to consider. . . cheese. Godly creatures? Man-made creatures? One in the same? All I knew was that I was gonna get my hands on some. Give me some cheese!

We talked, we walked, we watched, we witnessed. But all I wanted was some cheese. Give me some cheese. Give it to me creamy or hard, stinky or mild, old or young. Just give me some cheese. But I knew I wouldn't have to beg. I mean that's what we were there for -- Just for cheese -- how beautiful -- to do something purely in the name, in the quest for cheese.

From the lens of the camera I dreamed. I wanted to stick my arms inside that vat of fresh milk too. Infact, I coud have bathed in that pool and I would have enjoyed that pleasure of feeling the milk get thicker and thicker molding around my body. It wasn't too hot, infact I like warm baths, and Amarone, she was full-bodied like that milk fresh from the cow's tit.

10a.m. We were still waiting for the cheese. Were we waiting. I had no clue. I wasn't even trying to listen to the Italian that I could barely understand, especially after that bitch Amarone destroyed me last night. I was conquered. Immersed in the movement of milk, hands, minimal machine contact. Waiting for my cheese.


Finally things started to change. . . and then we started to walk upstairs, downstairs, to storage rooms, dark rooms, wax painting rooms, to cheese and more cheese, around every corner.
Monte Veronese, a local cheese from Verona. A perfect cheese for the Bardolino we would soon be drinking in the cheese room. I could feel the excitement coming, and boy was it coming.


Give me some cheese. Some pasty, shady, funky, powerful cheese.



This is what my pantry should look like. My children could grow up playing hide and seek amongst the labrynth of cheese wheels.

Each piece was gorgeous, handcrafted, and so patient. "Jordana," they whispered to me, "We could be friends, good friends." I was very excited to make such an acquaintance. They were really stoic and regal, dignified and formidable. "Yes," I replied. "We could be great friends without doubt, without question, my friend."

"Yes you. Over there. What's your name? Gialloblu? Wow, what a pretty name. What? You have saffron in your blood, I mean milk? And you come from the line of the blues? . . . Of course I know your family. . .Oh, Mauro will be so happy to meet you!"
We soon returned to watch the cheese makers, who had worked with the company for twenty to thirty years, some incredible duration like that, finish the final touches to the milk that I would have liked to bathe in.

Cheese like clay. I should start my own cheese factory making sculptures out of cheese and displaying them at parties like ice-sculptures.

11 a.m. My partners in crime, discussing our plans to meet Gialloblu, Monte Veronese, Ubriaco, Caciotta, Taleggio, Stracchino, Sopressa di Brenton, and Bardolino in the tasting room in a half an hour. They didn't want me to hear their plans, but the camera reveals everything.
They thought I could be blinded by the flashy bling bling of cheese-making, as if I was so lustful. Mauro knows my weaknesses. But I could smell trouble.
They tried in vain, one more distraction with the woman who paints cheese. I could paint the cheese too. But I was not going to fall into their trap. I was ready for the next step. The tasting room. Give me some cheese. I haven't forgotten about the cheese.
11:30 a.m. We met a woman who said she had heard of Gialloblu and wanted to know if we could give her some. I told her that I had never heard of this man she called Gialloblu and that no, I could not help her.
And seeing that I could be trusted, after proving myself with my the secrecy of Gialloblu, I was finally invited into the tasting room, where my friends awaited me and rejoiced when they saw me enter.
I said hello to each and everyone of my friends, kisses for each and for all. I neglected none. And we gossiped, and scorned the woman who was trying to find out secrets about Gialloblu.
And then I asked them. The whole room became quiet. What was such a secret? Why was everyone trying to protect Gialloblu?

Because he is so delicious, everyone sneered at me like I was a traitor. A spy perhaps. A fake. Full of deceit. "Don't look at me like that," I yelled at them. "Not everyone understands secrets, especially when they are so secretive. I can keep your secret! Just as long as you let me try your secret! Give me some cheese now!" I couldn't take it anymore. After that tramp Amarone -- I coudn't take it anymore.
I needed a refresh. A new start. They suggested Sopressa. I was burning inside. why were they trying to destroy me? What wrong had I done. They started singing folk songs. They knew I didn't understand their tradition. "Give me some cheese!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
And they suggested prosciutto. Was I going crazy? They said this was some of the best provisions in the valley.
"Give me some cheese!" I pounded my fists on the wooden table. The cheese shook in fear. But they just laughed. They just laughed.