Rachel Black

Have you ever had a wonderful copious meal and regretted that last bite of panna cotta? A long walk after dinner will help but Italians have come up with an even more civilized cure–the digestivo.

A digestivo is an alcoholic beverage often consumed after a meal in Italy, although many of these drinks make appearances at the aperitivo (drinks before dinner) and are believed to stimulate the appetite. Digestive drinks include amaro, Vermouth, grappa, vin santo, herb-infused concoctions as well as a bevy of non-Italian drinks such as Whiskey and Cognac. They all have the main function of aiding digestion. These drinks have a long history that is tied just as much to Italian medicine and pharmacies as to the specialty beverage trade.

How did digestivi, such as Barolo Chinato, Martini, San Simone and Fernet Branca, go from being consumed as a medicine to drinks associate with more pleasurable, social moments. At one time digestivi were concocted and sold mainly in local pharmacies; now they have become popular ingredients in cocktails, particularly in North America. In particular, modern manufacturing, branding and distribution have played an important role in transforming the way in which these drinks are consumed. By looking at the changing meaning of these beverages, we can begin to understand the ways in which the consumption of digestivi has lost most of its medicinal meaning and taken on a new life in different cultures of alcohol consumption.

I will be presenting this paper at the Food in Bloom Conference in Bloomington, Indiana on June 3, 2010.

During my time at the University of Gastronomic Sciences from 2007-2008, I started thinking about the idea of taste memory. How is it that certain producers consistently make wines from year to year that have coherence in their taste? What role does taste play across generations of winemaking families? Could taste memory explain the coherence of specific wines from vintage to vintage? Is it taste memory that helps create the identity of specific wineries? What happens when there is a revolt against this memory? What other forms of taste memory exist and what role do they play in culinary identity? How are other taste memories preserved or not? Wine is a unique example of a much larger question of taste memory and its role in changing culinary tastes, which potentially have major nutritional repercussions. Because it can be conserved for many years, wine is a unique ‘food’ and cultural artifact: it offers an ample window onto the theoretical question of how tastes change over time.

I became fascinated by the Banca del Vino (wine bank) started by Slow Food. This very special cellar is located under the Pollenzo campus of the University of Gastronomic Sciences. The driving motivation behind the Banca del Vino is twofold. First, wines are aged longer than the usual release time so that consumers can enjoy them once they have aged enough to reach their maximum potential (a rare occurrence these days since producers and distributors cannot afford to cellar wines). Second, there is an extensive collection of old wines at the Banca del Vino that is intended to help preserve taste memory. These wines will help winemakers and those in the wine trade understand the taste of wine over the longue durée. One complication in this project is that wine is organic and continues to evolve over time–like human memory, wine’s sensory elements (color, scent, taste and mouth feel) change and fade as it ages. How does this biochemical evolution effect taste memory?

While conducting ethnographic research on wine in the town of Barbaresco, I was struck by a second instance of taste memory at work in the wine world: most wine producing families keep an “infernot” (a small cellar that is usually dug into the earth) and these cellars hold the families’ wine memories, which often consist of bottles dating back to the beginning of the family’s production history (usually the first half of the nineteenth century). These collections are important for reminding the current winemaker (often a family member) of the main sensory themes and they help give their wine a consistent style. Some producers described this as taste coherence. While there is talk of tradition in production methods, I started to wonder how much of these ideas about tradition are still driven by taste memory, even as technology increasingly factors into winemaking. Does tradition depend more on taste than method? If so, what has been the impact of taste fads, promoted and awarded by wine critics such as Robert Parker and the Wine Spectator, on the value of this historic record? Wine banks and private family collections can be seen as historical ‘documents’ that require a unique cultural interpretation involving the senses.

Michele and some lovely uva nera

When I was in Turin last month I returned to the field where I did the research for my PhD dissertation, the Porta Palazzo market. I was very anxious about going back after many years and only a few sporadic visits. I was going to find out what had happened during my absence, to find my old friends and informants and to see if I could salvage the manuscript I had written about this magic place.

As I approached the market from via Milano, I felt the same uncertainty I initially had when I first started my fieldwork: would I be accepted by the people at the market, would they remember me, how had our relationship changed from when I was here each day working next to the vendors doing my shopping and living a large portion of my life in piazza? What personal questions would they ask me (because they always do ask personal questions) and how would I tell them about the changes in my life? How would I recount all the places I had been and lived? How would I bring our worlds together again?

The first people I encounter were Luigi and his family at the candy stand. They were possibly the hardest people to get to know, with their guarded Piedmontese manners and closed family circle. As the shy smile rolled across Luigi’s face, I knew he remembered me. The whole family began to ask me where I had been? Where did I live now? We fell into our old prattle about life, health, relationships and happiness. Everything had changed but everything had stayed the same. I would soon learn that this largely held true for most of Porta Palazzo.

That week I went to the market each day. I spent time with my old friends. I drank wine and ate salami with Oscar and Walter. I went to Said’s house to break the Ramadan fast and catch up with his wife Naima. I even got to meet one of their beautiful daughters, who is a new edition since I first met this young Moroccan couple in 2002. At the farmers’ market, Pier let me mind his vegetable stand while he went to fetch his truck and his uncle Michele made me taste each type of grape he had brought to market as I waited. Andrea still looked as much in love as the last time I saw him selling bananas and pineapples. He told me about what happiness his relationship brings him. While there was some joy, there was also the usual storm clouds: everyone lamented the poor economy (like they always do) and talked about the impossibility of going forward in such a depressed state. No one except Piero had left (and that was family feud) the market. We are all a little older. There are more children. Most importantly, the market marches on as it satiates the city’s hunger.

For an anthropologist returning to the field can be one of the hardest things to do. However, it can also been one of the most interesting and fruitful activities. Returning to Porta Palazzo after a five-year break I had new questions to ask about the market. I saw more continuity. I could grasp long-term changes and trends. Yes, it was all the same but all different as well.

Wine is personal. In particular, when I talk about Piedmontese wines I feel like I am telling a part of my own life history. Over the past ten years, I have spent a great deal of time wandering the hills of the Langhe, learning about this complex place and developing an appreciation for the excellent wine that is made in this part of Northern Italy. Keeping this in mind, I truly believe that tasting wine is about subjective tastes and unique experience. When we taste a wine it enters into our taste memory as a new sensation but it is also compared and combined with past sensations, smells and memories of all kinds. When I drink Nebbiolo from the Langhe it is a new, unique experience each time but somewhere in my mind it meshes with my memories, giving coherence to what I am tasting.

Objectivity eludes me when it comes to the subject of Piedmontese wine; the anthropologist takes over trying to understand the place, the people who worked the land and their stories. I can’t help but look beyond my glass. Last night when my partner Doug opened a bottle of 2001 Cascina delle Rose Barbaresco Rio Sordo, we felt as if we were having a conversation with friends. We both know the town of Barbaresco very well and have had our own adventures along these steep hills. Our memories of long Nebbiolo-filled lunches in little osterie in Neive and Treiso still make our mouths water. The best part of all is that we know Giovanna and Italo who made this wine and despite the distance between San Francisco and Barbaresco, we felt closer to them as we talked, ate our risotto con funghi and enjoyed this lovely wine. At moments like this I am struck by wine’s incredible ability to foster connections, the imagination and dreams.

The bottle that Doug chose was still young but it was very true to place and the people who made it. The Nebbiolo grape is notoriously difficult to work (from the vineyard to the cantina) and in particular it does not often express an intense colour despite its incredible tannic  structure. The Cascina delle Rose Barbaresco is a case in point–the ruby red colour lacked density and screamed Nebbiolo. There was a marked note of sour cherries on the nose and an earthy odour that reminded me of a walk in the vineyard when the seasons are changing from fall to winter. As I buried my nose in the glass, I could smell the decaying underbrush along the strada di Rio Sordo as it dips down off the main road and I shivered a little at the thought of the cold fog setting in. When I finally got my lips to the glass, I realised right away why Barbaresco has such a long life in the cellar: the tannins hit the front of my palate and the lovely acidity filled my mouth for a balanced finish. With the creamy risotto finished with Parmigiano cheese, this wine found its match.

My passion for Piedmont may be personal; it comes from having experienced the place and made friends with folks there over many glasses of Nebbiolo on chilly winter afternoons spent in the subterranean depths of a cantina. My view of wine is perhaps at times overly romantic but I can’t help but feel that each bottle of wine I open has a story to tell me and that my own imagination and experience are part of that sensory narrative. The wines of Piedmont have some of the most intriguing stories to tell and I most certainly won’t forget last night’s bottle of Barbaresco and what it said to me.

Perched on top of Rabaja just a short distance from Barbaresco, I sat waiting in the dark for the massive cellar door to open. A sweet smell of wine filled the air and the slow buzz of equipment filled my ears as Roberto flipped on the lights and went about his business of checking tanks. Wine making does not sleep this time of year and the process of fermentation must be constantly monitored and controlled. A year of hard work is now riding on the technical and artisanal ability of the vignaiolo. The cantina is where nature, culture and technology come together to produce wine, the embodiment of the complexity of these relations. This is what has been occupying my mind since I came back to the Langhe in Septemeber. Each day when I look out at the hills as I ride my bicycle to Pollenzo, I can’t help but feel the excitement and tension of the harvest.

When I returned to Piedmont, I had hoped to take part in the grape harvest, to learn first hand about life in the vineyard and the cellar this time of year. Sadly, I have found myself spending more time behind my desk than out in ‘the field’. There are a number of reasons for my lack of access to the sloping vineyards of the Langhe, but the main problem is the labour legislation that governs seasonal work, in this case the grape harvest. Between regulations that block foreign workers (I am a foreigner of the lowest order as a non-EU citizen or extracomunitaria as they say in Italian) and the unions that control seasonal labour, I have found myself gazing at the vineyard and peaking through the door of the cellar as a distant spectator. This is a truly frustrating situation for an anthropologist who likes to get her hands dirty and sweat next to the other workers.

Despite numerous contacts and some well-developed relationships with wine producers in this area, I have not insisted on taking part in the harvest. In Italy there is usually a way to get your foot in the door if you are persistent. I have not done this: I would hate for my friends and informants to incur a costly fine because of my presence in their vineyard. This is not the first time ethical issues have kept me from fieldwork and I have had to redesign my research. Practicing ethnography requires flexibility and creative thinking.