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The Art of the Tasting
"As nothing in this world is purely coincidental and as certain unexplainable events, in which we take part as subjects, often happen without us realizing that we were destined for them, even though we feel, as I do at this moment, that we have somehow been remotely directed, we either start to live in accordance with celestial forces, or we choose to ignore them. Nomen est omen. In this case, Santa Lucia, a beautiful young woman who chose martyrdom instead of a carefree life, is an example of the lives and nobility of vintners." - Zoran Leko (Kozlovic)
I am trying very hard not to get used to this. Every morning I get a white-tablecloth breakfast complete with a cappuccino, Istrian ham, fine cheese and warm pastries. When I inquire at reception about transportation from Brtonigla to Pula, I am told I can take a bus, a taxi, or San Rocco can arrange a private car for me. "Whatever you want, Miss Lucier."
While I am out touring wineries with my own personal guide and driver, my room gets magically cleaned, my bed made and fresh towels replenished in my bathroom (it is not the spa or the gourmet restaurant, but the clean towels everyday that excite me the most). When I get back and ask what time dinner is, I am told with a shrug, "Whenever you want, Miss Lucier." In the meantime, I can linger in a scalding-hot, high-pressure shower, or I can sprawl out in the jacuzzi with a book and the massage jets blasting ("Whatever you want, Miss Lucier").
I have booked accommodation in Pula for $17 a night starting tomorrow, and after that $12 a night in Athens. Needless to say, my expectations are not high. For now, though, eating chocolate barefoot in my yoga pants in a freshly-made queen-size bed, writing about Istrian food and wine, I have never felt healthier, more relaxed, more content or more blessed.
Thanks to the quality of the wines I'd consumed during my pairing dinner, my headache only lasted a half hour the following morning. With the aid of plenty of water and a healthy dose of ibuprofen, I was bright and chipper when I shook the hand of my tour guide, Dan at 9:30. He showed me to his vehicle, opened and closed the passenger-side door for me, and gave me a choice of regular or lemon-lime bottled water.
Our first stop was the Kozlovic Family Winery, one of the big kahunas of Istrian wine producers. We idled in front of a remote sensor gate in the shadow of Momjan Castle until someone let us in, then drove up to the main house. Antonella, a fourth-generation owner, met us in the driveway with a smile and a warm handshake. It's customary that Kozlovic be taken over by the son who shows the most affinity and love for the family business, and it wasn't difficult, as Antonella described the unique and complex dialogue Kozlovic shared with nature, to gauge her devotion to her craft. The winery itself is built into a hillside in the hidden valley of Valle, fortified in the back with a heather-covered stone wall to prevent landslides, the vines in the front slanting toward the sun across from the medieval village of Momjan. The way she explained it, it sounded more like poetry than science - the reciprocal relationship with the natural world, the delicate balance of sacrifice, effort, knowledge and love it took to produce one of the most noble creations made by human hands. Immediately I knew I was in the perfect place to begin my education on wine-making.
It was more a prayer, I realized, than a process. First you have to be lucky enough to find yourself in a fertile valley with the right soil at just the right elevation and temperature and with just the right amount of sunlight. Then you have to choose a grape variety which thrives under those specific conditions and plant and harvest it at just the right time. "It can't be too wet or too warm," Antonella explained. "We have to bring the temperature of the grapes down quickly or fermentation will start too early." During fermentation, the grapes are kept in airtight vats where the temperature and humidity are carefully regulated.
Antonella led us down into the cellar, and I closed my eyes and willed my breakfast to stay down as we descended into the residual vapour of wine. Aging, Antonella said, is another crucial determinant of the outcome of a wine. It can be aged for a longer or shorter amount of time, bottled and sold immediately as fresh wine or put into barrels to be enhanced with the flavour of different types of wood. Different-sized barrels (different ratios of wood to wine) produce different results, and some barrels, called Barriques, are charred on the inside to impart a light, medium or heavy "toast". Wine can also be aged further in the bottles, or mixed with a combination of young and mature wine to produce a hybrid. Where most producers ship their wine to stores as soon as it's bottled, sometimes printing suggestions on the label to wait a certain amount of time before opening for optimum taste, Kozlovic doesn't even market their product until they feel it's ready for consumption.
"What's the longest you would age one of your wines?" I hoped the question wasn't too ignorant. Antonella told me their award-winning Santa Lucia had come in first place as a ten-year-old wine at an international competition in London in 2011. "Yes," I said, "but what's the longest you WOULD wait, if you had an older wine?"
Antonella didn't seem to understand the question. "This winery opened in 1999," she replied."The Santa Lucia wasn't produced until 2001."
It wasn't until later, when she opened a bottle of the mother of all wines for me to taste, that I understood. "The Santa Lucia is made from Malvazija grown only in this area." Antonella pointed to one square inch on a map of their vineyard. "Even in the neighbouring vines, five feet away, the microclimate produces a different result. Here everything is perfect."
Shaking my head at the dizzying complexity of it all, I finally admitted my embarrassing lack of knowledge on the subject. "I hate to think of how many clumsy pairings I've made over the years," I laughed, thinking of the number of times I'd grabbed a wine - probably the cheapest wine, whether it was red or white, sweet or dry, young or aged - as an afterthought in planning a meal.
"The moment you decide to learn about wine," Antonella said, "is always the best moment. What happened before doesn't matter." Now her logic became clear. Istrian people were different from the rest of Croatia. Like most of them, Antonella Kozlovic didn't think in hypotheticals. Reality was the only thing worth considering, because it was the only thing that made a difference. In wine-making, where so many tiny things make a difference, it isn't worth the wasted energy to speculate on 'if only'.
Taking a whiff of the liquid gold in my glass, I began to understand why the ancient Greeks referred to wine as 'the nectar of the gods'. "This won first place out of how many countries?" I asked, tipping the glass to my lips.
Antonella gave me an odd look. "The world," she shrugged. This wine stayed down.
After that we visited Degrassi Winery in the nearby town of Savudrija. Our host, Dan said, was self-conscious of her English so he translated for me while she took us on a tour. The vineyards, she explained, are distributed on two types of land - red and white - which are distinguished by red and white labels on the bottles. The quality of both types of soil is what sets Degrassi apart from other producers.
Inside the cellar, they keep a collection of antique vintner's tools and even remnants of ancient terracotta wine amphorae, some of which they still use for aging. I nodded and couldn't resist interrupting as Dan began to tell me about the shape of the amphorae. Having minored in Classical Studies, I knew the pointed bottoms were designed for storage in export ships, and the style of 'shoulders', or broadened tops where the handles were, helped distinguish wines from different regions of the Mediterranean. Many Istrian wineries described wine-making as a family tradition going back hundreds of years, but it was as old as civilization itself.
We enjoyed a sampler of cured meats and local cheeses to go along with the tasting in the garden. Degrassi did all the Istrian standards - Malvazija, Muskat, Teran - but also specialized in Terre Bianche (white soil) and Terre Rosse (red soil).
"How do you like it?" Dan asked when I tried Degrassi's famous red, Refosk.
I wasn't sure if he was referring to the wine or the tour, so I answered for both. "It's bittersweet for me," I replied honestly. "You can't find products like this anywhere else, and I know that when I leave here, I'll probably never get the chance to try them again."
I don't know whether it was my jeans and hiking shoes, my ratty side bag or my out-of-control hair (it was long before I'd left home; now, with all the extra nutrients I was getting, it was growing like a weed), but it was slowly dawning on Dan that I wasn't some trust-fund Ivy Leaguer running on Daddy's credit cards. "This must have been very expensive," he remarked. "A multi-day tour with a private guide."
"Yes," I conceded, "but I would rather have an experience like this than, say, a really nice car. This is far more valuable to me."
Dan raised his glass of water in a cheers. "So enjoy now."
We were only an hour late for lunch at our last stop. Besides being a notable distillery, Sinkovic is an agroturizam, which means they produce everything they sell. This is becoming increasingly difficult here. A recent initiate in the European Union, the Croatian government has begun to impose increasingly strict regulations on the production and marketing of local products in an attempt to encourage imports. Small businesses like Sinkovic were fighting hard to keep the tradition alive. After having lunch there, I was prepared to do everything in my power to make sure they succeeded.
Along with one more wine tasting, we enjoyed a soup of corn, beans, potatoes and pork that was typical of Istria (a nod to eras past when peasants would throw whatever they had into a pot and cook it for hours over the fire until it became something delicious). This was followed by two different pasta dishes, both, of course, homemade: gnocchi with wild white asparagus (it was in season) and shoulder prosciutto, and fuzi with Istrian ox goulash. Besides raising and curing their own ham, Sinkovic has ten acres of vineyards, fruit and vegetable gardens and 150-year-old buildings inside which they both house guests and make honey, jam, cheese and olive oil. They are especially famous for their grappa, of which they distill 10,000 bottles each month. They also have their own pigs for truffle-hunting.
On the way back, Dan talked about the hilltop towers in every town we passed. Not counting churches, Istria is home to 230 steeples, which historically were used for communication, the use of bells and lights signalling births and deaths as well as potential threats to nearby towns. Gazing out at their silhouettes spearing the cloudless blue sky, I noticed a sharp white backbone contrasting the green hills on the horizon. Clouds? No, not clouds. I don't know if it's because the air in Croatia is so clear or if they're just closer than I thought, but in that moment I realized you can see the Alps from the Istrian Peninsula.
Unable to think of any other way to express my gratitude, I tried to give Dan a tip when he dropped me off at San Rocco. He held up an arresting palm. "You don't have to do that here," he said. I didn't know whether he meant this country, this town, this tour or this specific tile of flooring, right now. "Keep your money," he smiled kindly. "Buy yourself something beautiful."
The next morning I went with a different guide to visit two more wineries. The first was Franc Arman, founded in 1850 and now one of Istria's leading producers, turning out over 100,000 bottles a year. The owner Oliver, however, will tell you it's more about quality than quantity, and not just quality of wine, but quality of life. "For me," he said, "Istria is all about good living, and that means eating wonderful food and drinking excellent wine."
Just to prove it, he stopped in the middle of the tasting to bring me down into the cellar, where he filled my glass from the enormous oak barrel containing his family's famous Teran. The aroma alone will make your head swim. So deep and robust was the earthiness of the ruby wine, it almost made me wary of taking of a sip. There was a distinct funk to it, like strong aged cheese. The flavour, however, was more complex than any wine I've ever tasted. Simultaneously rich, dry and full-bodied with notes of plum and tobacco, it was one monster red.
It didn't occur to me how much I'd learned already until our visit to the last winery on the itinerary, Pilato. I'd lost count of how many glasses I'd been poured over the past two days - probably dozens - but by now I was well-versed in the art of tasting. You aren't meant to drink the whole glass, not even most of it. For this reason vintners always provide a 'spit bucket' for you to dispose of whatever you don't finish before moving on to the next wine. As little as one or two sips is perfectly acceptable.
"Do you prefer white or black?" The third-generation owner - a petite woman not much older than myself - was selecting Pilato's finest vintages for me to try. Another thing I'd learned: if you ask for a glass of red wine in Croatia, they will have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. There is white wine and there is black wine. Red is rose. This actually made more sense to me. I half-hoped we might start referring to red wine at home as 'black'.
"Normally I prefer black," I told her candidly, "but in Istria I've found the whites are better." Teran is the region's only real red, and it's characteristically rough.
The owner nodded and carried the bottles to the table. "Very true," she said. "Which is your favourite so far?"
"Well," I cocked my head, considering, "I know the Malvazija is the most famous, but I really like the Muskat." Istria's whites are so diverse and complex that some, like the Kozlovic Santa Lucia, can even stand up to red meat. Muskat wines tend to be sweeter, often paired with desserts, which is probably why they're my favourite.
I used to be under the impression that pairing wine and food was about balancing rich with light, sweet with savoury, but in fact a rich meal calls for a robust wine, and a light dessert with a delicate one, so the vintage complements but is never overpowered. Furthermore, red grape varieties do not necessarily produce red wines. Rose is a made from red grapes which have been processed in the way of a white wine.
After the wineries we toured the medieval village of Motovun, a historic hilltop town situated 270 metres above sea level. Although my tour guide had no way of knowing this, Motovun was the town that had sparked my love affair with Croatia before I'd even decided to come here. Conquered by Venice in 1278, Motovun is filled with ancient Venetian architecture and stone frescoes of lions clutching closed books - a symbol of wartime when leisure is not allowed. In the entrance gate are coats of arms from different ruling families and two Roman gravestones dating back to the 1st century. My guide and I walked the surrounding walled walkway, from which you can see all four corners of Istria, then ducked into the local shops for free truffle samples.
Because of their perishability, truffles cannot be shipped overseas, which means the closest thing we have in North America is truffle oil, about as close to real truffles as sweet-and-sour chicken balls are to what they eat in China. This, combined with their scarcity, makes truffles the most highly-prized food on the planet. Fresh black truffles can sell for as much as €1200 per kilogram. White truffles, due to the fact that no one to date has been able to find a way to grow them, go for four times that. Truffle farmers around the world have worked tirelessly to recreate the conditions in which white truffles are found, trying everything from importing the soil from Motovun Forest (which is famous for them) to planting the same trees near the same spores that are found there, so far to no avail. For now, highly-trained truffle-hunting dogs and pigs are the best they can do. I'm sure if they did find a way to cultivate them, white truffles wouldn't be nearly as special. They are just fungi, after all.
Fungi or not, truffles were a luxury which only added to the deliciousness of my last night at San Rocco. Another dinner was listed in my itinerary. I wasn't sure if it included an appetizer and dessert or just a main course, and debated over ordering one if it didn't. I wondered if drinks were extra.
When I sat down in the dining room, the waiter brought me a Sember sparkling rose from Zagreb, and a moment later a roasted cherry tomato amuse bouche with Istrian ricotta "to start". Oh God. Another wine pairing. And this was AFTER the two tastings I'd already had during that day's tour.
Realizing I was in it for the long haul, I prepared to pace myself. This was a marathon, I had to remember. Not a sprint. I knew now that I wasn't expected - wasn't SUPPOSED - to finish every glass I was poured. I took a few delicate sips, just enough to experience the way the flavours complemented each course, and then slid the glass graciously to the side. I drank plenty of water in between, and made sure I had an ample bread basket at my disposal.
I am proud to say that I not only kept track of, but understood and appreciated everything I was served. After the amuse bouche, there was chilled Istrian veal carpaccio with raw fennel and shaved Parmesan, paired with a CO Malvazija. Next was a drier Ravalico 2012 Chardonnay with creamy frittata and black truffles, then a 2011 Sauvignon Blanc from Slovenia that was lighter in colour and drier still, served with polenta with mushrooms and sea scallop. After that was my favourite course of all: homemade Istrian pasta in cream sauce topped with a ridiculous amount of shaved black truffle. Just smelling it, I understood the full-bodiedness of the wine it was paired with - a Mala 2011 mix of Malvazija, Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. Only an Istrian white could stand up to a dish like this.
"And to finish..." the waiter brought me a dry Cuji 2012 Teran. It wasn't the wine, but his words that startled me. That's it? I sat up a little straighter. I did it? The Teran was served with slow-cooked Istrian veal atop potato puree, wrapped in Istrian ham and garnished with shrimp. Rich, rich, rich. There was a palate-cleansing mixed fruit sorbet with mint, and then dessert: cream of lemon served in a lemon cup with a battered and fried lemon wedge and preserved lemon chip garnish. This was something I knew without a doubt, as I took the last bite, I would never taste again. Draining the Novacco 2012 Muskat (half-sweet), I was feeling pretty good about myself. The candle on my table had burned down by half. I wasn't exactly sober, but I wasn't seeing double either, and I was able to express to my waiter with an appropriate level of articulateness that this had been one of the truly great meals of my life. I could swear I heard applause as I stood and made my way steadily back to my room, which I found and got the key in the door on the first try.
Two more truly great things happened that night. I received an e-mail from the company with whom I was trying to book a horseback tour to Machu Picchu in Peru. They informed me that the tour I was interested in was not confirmed, since they didn't have enough people to run. There was another 4-day tour that was confirmed, but it didn't include a visit to Machu Picchu, which was my main reason for making the reservation in the first place. "There is, however", the organizer wrote, "another way to make this happen." She went on to suggest a customized tour that would be shorter than the original one I'd booked and longer than the 4-day trek. It would be the same price as the longer one but would not require a small-group fee or single supplement and would include a train visit to Machu Picchu. "Is this something you would be interested in?"
I fired off a brief and exuberant "YES!" and moved on to the next message from airbnb.com. I'd contacted my next host in Pula earlier that day to let him know I would be arriving by taxi tomorrow afternoon. Now he was responding to ask why I was taking "a racy. Isn't it...um, pricy?"
"Yes," I replied, "very. But so far I haven't been able to find any other way. There are no buses that run directly from Brtonigla and those which run from nearby towns are at weird times." He wanted to know how much they were asking for the ride. "Eighty euros," I messaged back. "Or six hundred kuna."
There was a beat of dead air in the conversation window, then, "I'll do it for forty." Maybe Pula wouldn't be so bad after all. When I asked at the front desk if it would be a problem to cancel the taxi they'd arranged for me, the receptionist shrugged and shook her head.
"Whatever you want, Miss Lucier."
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