Over ten years ago, I was sitting at a table outside of enologist Maurizio Castelli's house in Chianti. Steve Clifton, Maurizio, and I were eating pecorino and talking about--what else?--wine. Steve was a new friend back then, the owner of two highly lauded Santa Barbara estates, Brewer-Clifton and Palmina. The former specializes in Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, while the latter concentrates on white and red Italian varietals. We had met only six months earlier, and now we found ourselves together in a rented Fiat, bumping around country back roads on an exhaustive tour. But it was a good deal for everyone: I was learning more about the intricacies of winemaking, and he about the intricacies of Italy.
During the course of the dinner, Steve mentioned that he was excited for our next trip. We had planned to hit all the regions together, meeting up in a major Italian city every few months and travelling around. Next up was Piemonte. Steve had never been, he said, though he'd always wanted to go.
"Excuse me?" I said. "You make Nebbiolo and you've never been to Piemonte?"
"I've been meaning to, but...." I was on the phone with my friend Franco Conterno before Steve could finish. I could not, in good conscience, allow this situation to go unremedied; if Steve was to do his wines justice, he couldn't wait half a year to see the foggy Alba vineyards.
"Tomorrow we're going to Aldo Conterno's estate," I said when I hung up.
"Um, Sergio, we're in Toscana now," Steve said. "And we leave in two days. How do you expect us to reach Piemonte?"
"If we leave at seven a.m., we can get there by noon," I said. "That gives us plenty of time to taste the wines in barrel and some in the bottle, too."
"Great," Steve said. His enthusiasm for our Italian adventure had clearly waned; I think he suspected that he was hostage to a lunatic. "Are you aware that it's currently two in the morning?"
I considered his argument. "I see your point, but I have a solution," I said. "We'll drink a generous amount of grappa so that we can fall asleep immediately." Maurizio was already inside, picking a good bottle.
Five hours later, Steve and I, both in sunglasses and looking paler than usual, met at the car. We nodded at each other and hit the road. Three espressos and a sunrise later, we had regained our color and our ability to communicate using more than one syllable. Steve, who, after having accepted his fate seemed his usual upbeat self, asked why I chose to show him this particular estate.
"Barolo today is all about modernist producers, with a few traditionalists still hanging on," I said. "The modernists have exaggerated their techniques to the point that Barolo's identity doesn't exist, and the traditionalists have trouble making wines that inexperienced consumers in the US can appreciate. However, Conterno applies technology and makes sure to maintain Nebbiolo's character, producing an elusive happy medium." All of this was true; however, I was secretly hoping that Franco would let us try the Granbussia, the best Barolo in the region.
As we passed Alba on our way to Monforte d'Alba, slopes covered in vineyards began to pop up next to the road. Steve peered out the window. The vines were heavy with grapes; harvest time was approaching.
"I can't believe this," he said. "Everyone's vines look exactly the same."
Most people would have been surprised as well. It's usually easy to distinguish a good producer from a bad one because their plots of land are visibly different. A bad producer lets his vines grow tall and wild, so he doesn't have to bend while picking them or tend to them often. But not here. Here, the vast differences in the taste of the fruit derive from the dramatically diverse microclimates. Each rolling hill possesses its own microclimate-in some spots, you can walk 20 yards down a hill and feel the temperature drop 10 degrees; the soil composition changes with each foot. All winemakers in Barolo understand their land intricately, and each yields great fruit from it. Some choose to destroy this beauty because they feel the world could never understand it. Others, like Conterno, choose to illuminate it. I could see it in his face: Steve was smitten.
At Conterno's estate, we toured the vineyards and greedily tasted from all the barrels they would allow us access to. Then we graduated to bottles--Dolcetto, Barbera, Barolo, and, at last, the spectacular Granbussia. We were glassy-eyed with satisfaction (and also probably with fatigue) and our mouths were stained purple.
That night, on the empty Autostrada on the way to the airport, we discussed the day.
"I'm not sure that I ever understood the concept of terroir until now," Steve said. "Certainly, I've never seen such an example of it. I feel like I've just been to my own Mecca." I understood exactly what he was talking about, and I was glad to introduce my friend to one of the great holy grounds of wine.
Today, I'm offering wines from Conterno's estate so that you can experience what Steve and I experienced over a decade ago. Nothing delights me more than giving wine-lovers the chance to drink truly outstanding wine--and the 2005 Aldo Conterno Granbussia Riserva is exactly that. In addition to the most recent vintage of this holy grail of Barolo, I'm giving you the chance to purchase the very first vintage of Granbussia, the 1971. It's a rare and astounding chance to try the alpha and the omega of this wine.
No matter which of his wines you choose, from Barbera to Barolo, Aldo Conterno is a master. Welcome to the Mecca, tasted at the comfort of your own table--or join us at ours when we play host to Franco Conterno, son of Aldo, on Wednesday, October 18 for one of our "Legends of the Cellar" dinner events.
