Take 2: Writing about Ghiomo Wine

For comparison to the original form of the journalism assignment, check out the Only in Italy post.

When the pinball machine of clanging thoughts renders studying hopeless, respite is best found at the local wine bar. It may be the soothing familiarity of the battered tables, the slightly musty chill of ancient stone walls or the random Italian rap soundtrack. A more likely answer for some of my classmates is the flirtatious brown-eyed bartender who delivers drinks with a saucy wink. For me however, his value lies not in his admittedly charming appearance but in his uncanny ability to recommend my next favourite wine: bold, distinctive and friendly to a student budget. In a recent bout of procrastination, my classmates and I tasted a breathtaking glass of a local Barbera-Nebbiolo blend, its mysterious label displaying only the name Ghiomo and a deconstructed sketch of a sundial. Days later, we were still discussing the wine with moans of appreciation. Clearly it was time to take this relationship to the next level and visit the winery itself.

Tucked off a narrow country lane outside of Guarene d'Alba, Ghiomo was marked only by a gravel driveway surrounded by rolling vineyards. A penned-up dalmation barked wildly at our tentative approach, provoking the subtle twitch of a curtain as a nonna peered suspiciously out a window. Within seconds, an animated Giuseppino Anfossi stepped outside and greeted his unexpected visitors with great enthusiasm. He quickly ushered us into a large but cluttered office doubling as a tasting room. Gingerly stepping over the scattered toy cars and tricycles that alerted us to the presence of small boys, we took our places with anticipation at the long wooden tasting table.

Regaling us with stories of the family history, Anfossi, a second generation wine-maker deftly opened a series of wines and placed them on the table. Glasses swiftly appeared in front of us, an Arneis poured with one hand as the other wind-milled, emphasizing his exuberant nature. Our eyes widened at the first scents released as we swirled the pale-lemon liquid. Pear, honeysuckle, citrus, spice, lilac all flooded the nose. The aroma was so heady, so fresh, that we allowed the fragrance to develop, savouring the moment before tasting.

In the meantime, Anfossi pointed out the simple cream label, the name Ghiomo embossed at the top in gold cursive with two hands reaching to clasp each other below. As a labour of love, he and a friend blended the Arneis from their two best vineyards to create this wine.

Enough anticipation. The first sip was clean, cool and even a little oily as it coated the mouth. Crisp tang of just-ripe pear melded with floral honey, but with a sharp burst of acidity to cut the sweetness. This was no lacklustre canned fruit salad abandoned on the breakfast table in favour of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. The combination of refreshing bite and robust fruit so ripe its scent rises from the skin was an intoxicating reminder of summers past, never mind our current swaddling of wool coats. We stealthily finished our glasses, loath to waste even a drop.

Anfossi’s eyes glowed as he described the inspiration for each wine he generously poured. His hands flew through the air, punctuating his ready laughter and wit. At least, I’ll have to assume it was wit as he spoke only Italian and I, alas, speak almost none. But his constant smile, intensely passionate commentary and proud display of each bottle as we continued to taste were eloquent enough. And then, he slowly poured the wine that started it all, produced as a fundraiser to restore the ancient village sundial depicted in the simple label.

Bursting on the senses in a blaze of ruby-red, it tasted of slightly smashed, summer-drenched raspberries, warm juices oozing in the bottom of a plastic U-pick pail. Followed immediately by a sucker-punch of cinnamon and spice, fresh-split oak trailed shyly behind. Smooth warmth with no marring bitterness slid down the throat. All that remained was a lingering scuff of sandpaper tannins in the mouth, reminiscent of a lover’s unshaven cheek just before the brush of a kiss.

As we steadily drained our glasses of sundial wine, sun-scorched green pepper and baked earth joined the fray, paying tribute to the growing season of the grapes. With every drop, fresh nuances unfolded. How could one glass ever be enough?