Some of our most cherished travel memories–I’m speaking of my wife and myself–have been of Sunday lunches spent among Italian locals. We enjoy sitting next to them in restaurants up and down Italy, trying to absorb the relaxed and convivial vibe they give off. Sometimes we even get invited to their tables.

And in the Italian home, the family-oriented Sunday pranzo is a sacred tradition in every region. Long leisurely affairs. Nothing’s hurried. The chance for members of multiple generations to reconnect, cook, talk, laugh, and argue in each other’s company, and savor some wonderful food and wine without any time limit.

Whether at a ristorante, or at Nonna’s (grandmother’s) house, Sunday lunch foods are typically more substantial than weekly meals. All sorts of antipasti; hand-made pasta (often a traditional regional specialty) served with hearty sauces slow-cooked during the week. Roast meats or game. Local fresh vegetables. Sweets to finish.

If you’re lucky enough to be invited to a Sunday lunch, don’t show up empty-handed: Bring wine! Which begs the question: what’s an appropriate “Sunday wine?” In short, a wine that matches the occasion and the dishes being served.

A Sunday wine usually is something more substantial to match the hearty cuisine, and nicer than the average weekday wine, but not necessarily extravagant or excessively showy. Sundays aren’t as special as holidays, so maybe leave that 200 euro Brunello di Montalcino or 40 year-old Barolo in the cellar for Natale or Pasqua. But Sundays aren’t Mondays or Tuesdays either, so a splurge is in order on something nicer and more refined than an ordinary weekday wine. And remember the occasion: lunch will last a while, so you’ll need more than one bottle. Maybe two or three or even more. So here again, another reason the “splurge” bottle price shouldn’t break the bank.

Help is at hand, in the form of Barbera, from the Piedmont region. Nebbiolo may be Piedmont’s most famous grape, but Barbera is actually its most-cultivated. It’s easy to grow and provides great yields, making it among a handful of red wines that local producers sell while they’re waiting for their tannic Barolo and Barbaresco to age and mellow out.

The area around Asti, east and south of Torino, produces what is recognized as the best Barbera in Piedmont. Within the Asti district, the denomination Nizza DOCG is renowned for its bigger-bodied Barbera that stands up to more substantial dishes and can be a perfect “Sunday wine”. These have been aged in oak at least 18 months, and often more. Plenty of elegance, nuances and character.

Barbera can be a bit of a chameleon wine-wise, which illustrates its versatility. It can also be produced as lighter, juicier and zesty wines that are fresh and fun–perfect for warming up the family conversations before the meal gets into high gear. In either case, the higher acidity—and lower tannins—are hallmarks of the grape, making them perfect food partners for a range of courses.

The larger Nizza DOCG Barberas usually run about 25 - 35 euros in stores, and 40 - 60 euros in restaurants (slightly more in the US). The younger, fresher Barbera D’Asti is typically 15- 20 euros in stores and 25 - 30 in restaurants. At these prices, they’re a splurge, but not an over-the-top extravagance, and will allow you to, as the Italians might say “arrivare cosi carico di vino da dover aprire la porta con i piedi” (Come loaded down with enough wine that you have to push open the door with your feet.)

There are a number of good Barbera producers within this price range, but I’d highlight one of the stars, Michele Chiarlo. Their style of Barbera winemaking emphasizes structure, deep color, velvety mouthfeel and a long finish, but also freshness. The producers typically guide their viticulture and winemaking processes to avoid overblown alcohol and excessive oak aging, both of which will distract from the beauty of the fruit.

The Michele Chiarlo Nizza “Cipressi” perennially wins awards and is a classic of its kind. If you feel the need to impress your host with a single-vineyard bottle, look for their Nizza Montemareto for perhaps 10 - 15 euros more. But “Cipressi” itself will impress and delight. And if you want something lighter to start with, try the Michel Chiarlo Barbera D’Asti “Le Orme”, a perfect example of the vibrant young freshness that comes with a typical asti. A fun wine.

Food Pairings: the Nizza does well with all manner of meats, pasta with hearty meat sauce, fowl, steaks, risottos and medium-aged cheeses. In other words, almost no matter what Nonna decides to cook (or what you choose to order at the Ristorante), this will be a wine of substance that will pair well. And, as mentioned, if you want something lighter to start with, the Barbera D’asti is perfect for antipasti, salami and the like.

All to say that these Barberas are great Sunday wines. Along with soul-satisfying food and lively company, they’ll help make the time fly as you’re caught up in the moment. In fact, if you’re dining at a restaurant, you may get up from your lunch table hours later to find people lining up outside the restaurant for dinner. Yes, it happened to us.

The Augustan-era aqueduct skirts the foot trail, which goes up the southern slope of Mount Subasio and overlooks Valle Umbra. Not a cloud in a late April sky. Endless shades of green. First sounds: A rooster and a cuckoo.

Poppies, butterflies, mushrooms, flying beetles. Oak and fig trees. A Judas tree, the pink pea flowers in bloom. Olive groves.

And cacti.

Smells: Freshly cut grass, rosemary.

A sight: the Tre Archi.

And at last, three hours in, Collepino, a tiny mountain hamlet, is gained.

Nothing is open. Not even to buy a candy bar or bag of potato chips. But there is the reward of a sight, from a stone patio.

Downward.

Le Marche instantly makes you feel at home, and its white Verdicchio wine is a welcoming social lubricant. It’s one of the region’s—and Italy’s—greatest white wines, and a personal favorite. I always have a “reserve case” of Verdicchio stashed under my office desk at home in California.

Bracketed by the Apennines and the Adriatic, the region of Le Marche is blessedly not touristy. Many non-Italians have never been there and know little about it. But it has a well-deserved reputation as a very livable place. We have friends and neighbors who have moved there. The charm of Le Marche sneaks up on you—it doesn’t shout. That may be why even some Italians haven’t cottoned on yet. When I told a Tuscan friend that my wife and I were headed to Le Marche for a five-day visit, she sniffed and asked “Why? There aren’t many famous or artistic towns, they’re far apart, and in between is basically, well…nothing.”

Wrong, as we happily experienced for ourselves. We’ll take another helping of that “nothing”: the gentle rolling hills and variegated agricultural landscapes are winsome. Le Marche has bucolic splendor galore, the countryside dotted with farms and pretty medieval towns.

Marchigiani people are genial, relaxed and grounded. They wear their normality effortlessly. Urbino, for example, is an artistic, cultured town, with a high-powered university right in the old city center. But local residents keep it down-to-earth.

Up the hill from Rafael’s birthplace, nearby residents congregate at Enoteca Magia Ciarla. A Friday night regular spots us hovering outside and beckons us to come in. “Come try these appetizers the owner just baked. And he found a new Verdicchio he’s pouring for half-off!” Later we squeeze into a cubbyhole table for dinner at Trattoria del Leone, near the Piazza della Repubblica. The locals dining next to us have brought along their golden retriever, who leans against my wife as the owners (and we) smile.

In the western hills lies Cingoli, the “balcony of Le Marche”. We arrive for the town’s festa del bosco (woods festival). The medieval streets are full of cheerful marchigiani families and food stalls. An amiable woman in a food truck makes us scrumptious panini with chicory and delicious spreadable Marchigiani sausage, ciasculo. Know where we can find wine? “Ma certo”, she says; out pops a bottle of local Verdicchio and 2 glasses.

So, about the wine. The Verdicchio grape grows well in the rolling hills around the town of Jesi, and also higher west in the hills around Matelica. It ripens slowly and steadily, aided by the moderate Adriatic climate. This explains its underlying acidity and fresh fruitiness, qualities that winemakers preserve by fermenting the grape juice in stainless steel or concrete, thereby avoiding malolactic fermentation.

Some of the most characteristic Verdicchios hail from the DOC Castelli Jesi, made up of the 20+ communes west of this mediaeval town. These are young, fresh, and inexpensive wines. Totally dry, delicately fruity, with crisp minerality. Lower alcohol 12.5 - 13%. They’re medium-bodied with moderate structure, definite character, and a decently long finish. You might get a scent of delicate white flowers. In the mouth, you’ll taste citrus lime, aromatic herbs and toasted almonds. While most are meant for young consumption, the riservas have more weight and complexity, and the acidity gives them enough backbone to age up to 10 years.

A fine representative example: Pievalta Tre Ripe Verdicchio di Castelli Jesi Classico Superiore 2024. Widely available for 12 - 16 euros in Europe and $16 - $24 in the US. At European restaurants, about 20 - 25 Euros; in the US, $25 - $35.

Food pairings: We like Verdicchio because it’s so versatile–equally comfortable rubbing shoulders with either appetizers or a full meal. The crisp acidity cries out “you’ll love me even more with some food!” It becomes a real palate cleanser between bites, a thirst quencher, and even a great complement to foods with a bit of fat content (such as salumi and cheeses). Honestly though, Verdicchio works well with everything from salads, seasonal vegetables, seafood and seafood pastas to poultry.

Some ideas: try it with a tagliere of salumi and cheese, calamari fritti or seafood risotto.

John Gayley is chief wine correspondent for “Sundays in Italy.”

In this edition of “Sundays in Italy,” a break from, well, Sundays in Italy. The question for today is why I am attempting to read Finnegans Wake. You know, the “novel” that James Joyce worked on for seventeen years and was published, finally, in 1939. The Irish critic and poet Seamus Deane called The Wake “in an important sense, unreadable,” and plenty of others concur, with or without the ‘important” attached to that formulation.

And yet, two years ago, I organized a small group to tackle The Wake. The five of us meet every other week on Zoom for an hour, first to read aloud and then to discuss the chosen passage, typically three-pages long. And we’re still at it. To be precise, we’re now up to page 144 in the Penguin Classics softcover edition that runs 628 pages. So, let’s see. We’ve read 144/628 X 100= 22.92993630573248 percent of The Wake!

At the rate we’re going, we’ll finish The Wake in six years, eight months and twenty days—which would bring us to Jan. 04, 2033. For a total reading time of eight years, eight months, and twenty days—half as long as it took Joyce to write it. Hop!

I get it. The Big Question is Why. I mean, why read a book that, on the at-random page (11) I just turned to, contains this sentence:

Come nebo me and suso sing the day we sallybright.

As might be imagined, my alter ego has lots of questions:

Are you nuts to attempt this?

Fair. NO ONE should try to read The Wake solitary. On one’s own. OK, maybe, I suppose, to listen to. I’m not an audio-book guy, but here’s an informed recommendation from a committed Wake listener.

Still, a group read really is the way to go. On Zoom, each of us registers, literally, our own voices, as we take turns, Haggadah like, reading aloud the assigned block of text. There’s an intimacy there. Did Joyce want his book to be read aloud? Heard, like music? Experienced communally? Could be.

The reading done, the remainder of our time is spent puzzling through the text—lots and lots of puzzling, as we address the (countless) questions that came to mind as we first read or listened to the passage on our own. We share frustrations and laughs and, at times, wonder at the beauty that can be found in The Wake. (Prigged!)

Wait, did you just say beauty?

I did. p. 116: “So hath been, love: tis tis: and will be: till wears and tears and ages. Thief us the night, steal we the air…”

“Thief us the night”—yes, that one pierced me. A bit of F. Scott you know who there?* Joyce is a sly magpie. The shinier the object, the better. *Tender…published by F. Scott in 1934.

But it’s also pretty filthy, right?

Definitely. p. 139: “to rouse his rudderup…” Not sure exactly what that means, but it sure sounds dirty. You’ll find this refuse indulgently scattered throughout. The Wake revels in smut. Huhu!

But then again, funny at times?

Well, I’d say the smut can be pretty funny. But that aside, there’s always some play of words that pries a hoot or two or three out of me in our homework passage. Joyce has a yen for a punning, Nursery Rhyme style sense of humor. p. 103: “by the waters of babalong.” p. 143: “throughout the eye of a noodle.” He’s not afraid to be silly—good for him. And good for us, to tap our inner child.

You’re still not saying WHY you began at this.

Right. I was trying to dodge that. No longer. First, I can’t say it’s because I’m a huge Joyce person. I’ve read Ulysses (easy-peasy compared to The Wake) and the Dubliners collection of short stories. Yes, the ending of The Dead is magnificent: “His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly…” Still, novels wise, I have more of a traditional narrative, Middlemarch sort of taste, and short-story wise, give me Chekhov over, well, everyone. NO TRUE READER should die without reading his “The Lady with the Dog.” The short story just does not get better than that.

So, The Wake. I’m a natural contrarian, to a fault. So many have called The Wake unreadable that naturally I wondered whether that was really true. Is there no meaning to be extracted from The Wake—is that what people are saying when they call it unreadable? None at all? Well, what then was Joyce up to in spending seventeen years writing something unreadable? It must have meant something to him, right?

The Wake felt like a challenge. It was there. I’d determine for myself if it was really unreadable! Booil.

And?

It’s not unreadable. I’m not just turning pages, dazed and glassy eyed. Now, “meaning,” as we generally think of that word, is elusive. But the story has a rough arc, mainly tracking the central character of HCE. Who is a kind of mythological Everyman. Omnipresent in time, in history. Praised and derided—we are given to believe he’s committed a crime. Yes, the story contains endless eddies. You’ll feel disoriented in these whirlpools, and I suppose you’re meant to. (Tiptiptip!)

What’s up with gobbledygook like (Tiptiptip!) to end paragraphs in this Q &A? Kind of annoying.

It’s an insider Wake joke. Joyce often uses such phrases. I’m not sure why. Perhaps as a sort of punctuation mark. Maybe he’s trying to wake us up—ha ha. I guess I’ve become a Wake Head. There should be a T-shirt for that.

It all sounds kind of absurd.

Now we’re talking! Joyce engages a sense of the absurd. Speaking for myself here, I don’t mind a plunge into the absurd in the crazy times in which we live. AI-generated images of Trump as Jesus, Elon Musk, phallic like, brandishing a chainsaw, Petulant Pam (Bondi) quoting the Dow to a congressional panel, all of that.

So The Wake echoes the absurd character of our “real life” in today’s times.

That sounds a bit too English Lit class like, but sure. Of course we’re talking personal taste. As I kid, I loved reading Ogden Nash’s nonsense poems. Even printed them out, on mimeograph, for a youth group I was in. (“The cow is of the bovine ilk; One end is moo, the other, milk.”) I treasured, and still do treasure, Bob Dylan’s surrealistic lines. “Desolation Row” gives us “Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood/With his memories in a trunk…” I don’t know what that means. I do like the image. The Wake gives us all manner of surreal images. p. 127: “pink sunset shower, red clay cloud, sorrow of Sahara...” Any of those could work as a name for a $25 cocktail at a New York City bar.

As you know, not EVERYONE finds The Wake unreadable.

True. There is a huge body of Wake scholarship out there. Bent on interpreting The Work. Occasionally I dip into this stuff, but I can’t say I find it terribly helpful. When my group embarked on The Wake, I suggested we make use of A Skelton Key to Finnegans Wake, by Joseph Campbell and Henry Morton Robinson. I’m sorry to say, given Campbell’s reputation as a world-class explorer of mythology, that I don’t find A Skelton Key helpful. It just seems to me that Campbell and his co-author are often winging it. So for better or worse, I’ll wing it on my own, with the (indispensable) aid of my reading group.

Anything else left to say?

Answer: Finn MacCool! Kiss. Kiss Criss. Cross Criss. Kiss Cross…Slain.

Attention, please. Here’s Chief Wine Correspondent John Gayley with a yarn about his one-off stint as a teacher for a wine class in Puglia:

My wife and I have been to Puglia three times, but there’s always something to learn about this region’s wines. So I signed us up for a Puglian wine class in Lecce. We love Lecce, a lively place dubbed ”the Florence of the south” because of its ornate baroque architecture rendered in the local golden stone. Lecce also sits near some dramatic rocky sections of Adriatic coastline, stretching down the Salento peninsula in southernmost Puglia at the tip of Italy’s “heel”. A short distance inland from the coast, grapevines, wheat fields and millennia-old olive trees intermingle.

The wine class was offered by Lecce’s oldest cooking school; the owner had helped with our first trip and I knew him fairly well. A month before our trip, I checked in with him just to confirm. A bit flummoxed, he said he’d double-booked the date, and had to cancel the wine class because he was expecting a regular annual group for a week-long cooking/cycling extravaganza. But after a pause, he said “It’s an exclusive group, but I’ve got an idea. You come anyway, and YOU can teach THEM about Puglian wines. We’ll say you’re a Californian wine guy with in-depth knowledge of Puglian wines who happened to be passing through.” (This was mostly true). I just had to bring all the wine I needed to teach the class.

I cloistered myself to bone up on Puglian wines. Building a wine class is hard work: you have to pre-taste all the wines to ensure you can describe them correctly. Sometimes you have to taste different brands to find the right ones. But…anything for the team, right?

Once in-country, we scoured Puglia in search of the best local wines for the class. We arrived at the school in our tiny Fiat rental, the boot laden with bottles, and once dinner began, I got down to business. I talked through a carefully choreographed series of points on each of 5 the profiled wines, selected to accompany dinner courses. Very logical order, lightest wine to biggest.

What I didn’t anticipate was an overly enthusiastic waiter who immediately opened every bottle I’d brought, without regard to which wine I was describing. He poured them all willy-nilly every time he saw a glass fall below the “half-empty” mark. What ensued was something Italians might quaintly call “un casino” (a bit of a mess). No one could keep track of which wine they’d tried, which wine I was describing, and which was presently in their glasses.

But none of this seemed to matter; everyone liked what they drank, and seemed to enjoy having some guy waxing eloquently about the stuff in their glasses. So if it was a “casino”, at least it was an “allegro casino” (a happy mess). Many of my charges declared it was the best wine class they’d ever attended (even if only one of them had ever actually attended a wine class previously). As they wobbled off to their rooms, our host caught my eye and gave a thumbs up. I basked in my status as a Puglian wine expert emeritus.

So which wine was their favorite? No one there could probably say, so I’ll do the heavy lifting. When in Salento, choose a local hero: Salice Salentino DOC. A lively medium-bodied red wine from the plains north of Lecce. Typically a blend of two grapes: Negroamaro (80% - 90%) and Malvasia Nera (10% - 20%). Negroamaro is a dark, bigger bodied red that can deliver spicy flavors and occasionally some dark fruit. It’s tannic and can age well, but that also makes it pretty stern when young. However, when blended with Malvasia, a lighter, fruitier and aromatic red, the mix instantly becomes softer, less tannic, and more immediately accessible for younger drinking. The inherent fruitiness starts to smile. A perfect Mutt-and-Jeff blend. (Think what happens when you add Grenache to Syrah in a classic Rhone blend.)

My go-to- wine is Talò Salice Salentino, from Cantine San Marzano, one of Puglia’s most storied wine cooperatives. 85%/15% blend. Checks all the boxes. Can be found pretty widely for about 10 - 15 euros retail, and 20 - 25 in restaurants or wine bars. Probably more like $25 - $30 in US restaurants. For a slightly bigger-boned version (a few euro more) look for the Salice Salentino Riserva of Leone di Castris. Also worth noting: Negro Amaro’s spiciness makes for an interesting mid-weight rosato; darker in color, and no shrinking violet flavor-wise. It pairs well with a surprising range of dishes.

Food: Puglian Cuisine—especially on the Salento—is simple. Many dishes descend from cucina povera, (i.e., what peasants on local farms could scrounge up from the fields and artfully make into food): bitter greens—broccoli rabe, chicory—as well as tomatoes, olives, fava beans, chickpeas, etc. Gallons of olive oil, some of Italy’s best. Pasta made solely with durum semolina wheat and water–no eggs, no salt. Red meat is comparatively rare, although seafood including octopus, red prawns, tuna and cod– abounds. All the makings of the classic Mediterranean diet, for which Salice Salentino is a perfect partner.

Ideal food pairings: A simple primo such as Orecchiette Cima di Rape, local pasta “ears” topped with broccoli rabe tips. Or for a secondo, Cozze Ripiene—stuffed mussels in a spicy but herbaceous tomato sauce. We also pair back home in California with Thai dishes.

The main look and feel of the little island settlement of Ortigia is bleached white stone, set against the sun-splashed blue sea. Squint hard enough on gazing out at the waters and you may see the Athenian fleet coming fast. A massive armada of over one-hundred wooden warships (triremes) powered by oarsmen, archers and slingers primed for action…

That’s my daydream, anyway. Living in the Past is one way to experience Italy as a regular visitor from the ever-stressful States, and it’s pretty easy to do that here in Ortigia, which connects to “mainland” Syracuse through several short bridges. Nargiza and I stayed in Ortigia last fall, and it was a highlight of a week’s trek through Sicily.

Ortigia was the original heart of the Greek city-state of Syracuse, founded in the 730s BCE by colonists from Corinthia. The Athenian naval expedition, launched in 415 BCE to try to quash the gathering power of Syracuse, was a crushing failure for the Athenians.

The stage was set for Plato’s visit to Syracuse, in 388 or 387 BCE, now “the most powerful state in the Hellenic world,” its opulence “legendary,” the classics scholar James Romm writes in his 2025 book, Plato and the Tyrant. Before visiting Sicily, I spoke with Romm about his book for my podcast. It’s an excellent read, not least for its recreation of the world in which Plato found himself.* On walkabouts in Ortigia, I fancied myself thinking I stepped where Plato once did, and that is actually conceivable, as at the Piazza Duomo, in Plato’s time the site of a Greek temple dedicated to Athena.

Plato was bent on exploring the ripe subject of Tyranny, a key theme in the masterwork, as it turned out, he was writing—The Republic. Syracuse, in the iron clutch of Dionysius I, also known as Dionysius the Elder, a full-blown Strongman and first-rate hedonist, made sense as a template for Plato’s musings. His big idea was to try to make Philosophers out of Kings or, somehow, Kings out of Philosophers. This wasn’t just an abstract, theoretical notion for Plato. Something of an operator himself, he tried to enact this project in Syracuse. He failed utterly. Indeed, according to some reports, he so irritated Dionysius the Elder that the tyrant sold him into slavery as a punishment. Plato was supposedly ransomed by friends and, in any event, he got back to Athens and eventually finished The Republic.

A must-see in Syracuse is the Ear of Dionysius, as it’s called, which can be found a half-hour or so’s walk from Ortigia in the Neapolis Archaeological Park. The “ear” is a big cave carved out of limestone. The Tyrant stuffed his enemies here and supposedly eavesdropped from the outside, the excellent acoustics afforded by the vaulted ceiling, legend has it, allowing him to hear the whisperings of his prisoners. Here’s the shot Nargiza took on our visit.

Probably Dionysius couldn’t really the whisperings, but so what—it’s a good tale. And the cave does look like an ear, right? The legend’s inventor, it appears, was the wily Caravaggio, that bad boy of his day, who arrived in Syracuse in the early 17th century after escaping from prison in Malta. While there, he knocked off his painting the Burial of St. Lucy, which can be seen today at the Church of Santa Lucia in mainland Syracuse, a short walk from the archeological park.

Naturally, these wanderings make one hungry and thirsty, and for relief my strong recommendation is for an extended lunchtime at the Ortigia street market. Check out the numerous food stalls and trust your eye and nose. Grilled octopus, fried calamari, it’s all good we found, on two successive days. Squeeze the lemon wedge, add the sea salt, never mind about a fork. My beverage of choice is cold beer. Take a nap, and as evening approaches, stroll to the western side of the island, find a spot on the waterfront promenade for an aperitivo and watch the sun sink into the sea. If a sunrise over the water is your thing (the hour a bit early for me), you can find that too, from the eastern side of Ortigia.

Why one would would ever want to leave is a difficult question.

*If one isn’t altogether resistant to letting the present creep in, this passage from Romm's book reminds of a certain person now in charge of America—and suggests the Tyrant really is a kind of archetype:

“While eliminating the talented and the best, Dionysius is said to have almost promoted the worst…In a moment of unusual candor, Dionysius reportedly said, when he heard complaints that he’d promoted a villain, ‘I want there to be someone who’s hated more than I am.’”

For this edition, a tale with a chaser from Sunday in Italy’s chief wine correspondent, John Gayley:

On our trips to Italy, my wife and I often stay at winery properties. There you can—literally—roll out of bed into a vineyard. This way, you get to see the winemaker’s raw materials during the growing season. Plus, there’s more relaxed time to hear their story, see their place and taste a range of their products.

We sometimes base ourselves in the Chianti Classico district between Florence and Siena, near the centrally-located wine town of Castellina. In particular, we’ve stayed several times at the local winery Rocca delle Macie, a passion project of Italo Zingarelli, the famed Italian film producer, and his extended famiglia.

A few miles outside Castellina, they’ve lovingly restored an 11th century mediaeval hamlet into Riserva di Fizzano, with 22 apartments, a piazza and a swimming pool set amidst vineyard blocks and olive groves. The early morning cool is perfect for getting out in their vineyards. Fizzano also hosts a restaurant serving both traditional and upscale Tuscan dishes such as their fat spaghetti-like pasta known as Pici, and locally-hunted meats, such as Cinghiale (wild boar). That’s in case you don’t want to cook or drive 10 minutes into town for dinner.

Onto the vino. Chianti red wine is predominantly Sangiovese, often with some other native grape varietals thrown in. Chianti Classico rules the roost as the best expression of the territory. Or rather, the rooster rules the roost, since the Gallo Nero of the Consorzio Chianti Classico adorns the neck of every bottle.

The Chianti Classico district isn’t large—an hours’ driving top to bottom—but the terrain varies quite dramatically within short distances. Sangiovese grapes are heavily influenced by their specific growing conditions—altitude, microclimate, soil makeup, etc., leading to wines whose character differs depending on place. So the local consorzio has delineated 11 sub-zones to try to link some of the variations in territory to the differences you’ll find in your wineglass.

The Castellina sub-zone is slightly lower and warmer than others, with calcareous limestone soils. All in all, this leads to some of the most balanced and perfumed wines of the entire district. Rocca delle Macie Chianti Classico offers a perfect entry-point into what the Castellina area has to offer. Medium-bodied wines with just a bit more heft and color; velvety tannins; succulent red fruit tastes (think: strawberries and cherries); and zippy acidity.

For both antipasti and primi, I’d choose the Chianti Classico Annata (usually the youngest, most recent release, intended for early drinking). This bears an easily-recognizable wine-colored label. In contrast, for typical Tuscan secondi such as braised Cinghiale or Bistecca, I’d opt for the Chianti Classico Riserva, with its black label. And If you want others nearby (just down the gravel road) that offer similar balance, try the wines of Bibbiano or Lilliano. Generally all these can all be found for 12 - 16 euros retail and 25 - 30 euros in restaurants ($30-$40 in the US).

To reach places like Riserva di Fizzano, a car is almost required. You’ll often end up on the unpaved gravel strade bianche that crisscross the territory. These are legitimate commuter roads for the locals, whose dusty cars reflect the nature of their commute. But these roads often have the best views and yield the greatest treasures. The “backroads” aspect also provides a bulwark against the invasion of mass tourism. Many outsiders avoid these roads, not least because they’ve heard all Italian drivers are crazy. But we drive everywhere in Italy except for the biggest cities.

In fact, I’ve learned that our biggest driving dangers tend to be self-inflicted. One day, we headed back to Fizzano after some blissful hours exploring the surrounding district. In late afternoon, it was still hot and we all needed the pool, and the adults needed a glass of vino. We parked the car in the hillside lot, sauntered up to the piazza and ordered some liquid reward.

In the midst of our post-excursion euphoria, our son arrived and said “you need to come to the parking lot; the car is in a tree.” He’d been reading Harry Potter, and I thought maybe the Flying Ford Anglia story had overheated his imagination. But he insisted, so off I went to check out this rumor. Lo and behold, the car wasn’t where I’d parked it on the sloping hillside. It was...in a tree. WTH? Welp, I had forgotten a golden rule of parking manual transmission cars in hilly Italy: always stall the car in 1st gear and yank (really hard) on the parking brake.

Luckily it was a small car and we extracted it back to terra firma. But I had to drive into Siena the next morning and face the music at the rental office. I fully expected a call to the carabinieri, an enormous repair bill, or…Instead they looked at the car, looked at me, looked at each other and then burst out laughing; “gli americani sono pazzi!”, one chuckled. Meaning, the Americans are crazy. But then he said he’d give us a replacement car, subito–-immediately. Much relieved, I got my new wheels, and as I was leaving, the attendant put his arm around my shoulder and said “Hey Harry Potter, use the hand brake next time and the car won’t fly!”

Yes, it’s worth lifting a glass of Chianti Classico to the accommodating humor of the locals. Salute!

“OK, Starobin, I’m headed off to Italy for a few weeks. I’ve got the usual guide books—but if I want a broader view, of history, culture, modern Italy, that sort of thing—what else should I be reading?”

Got it. An easy recommendation is Sir David Gilmour’s The Pursuit of Italy: A History of a Land, Its Regions, and Their Peoples. Published in 2011, it takes the story into Berlusconi’s Italy, and as all the reviews say—an Economist book of the year!—it’s readable and insightful.

Still, I prefer to see “foreign” countries—foreign to me, as one born and raised in America—from the inside out. And that’s a perspective that is always best afforded by a native of the land. Sorry, Sir David, as much as you know about Italy and Italians.

So here's this suggestion, The Legacy of Italy, which has the virtue of being, I’m willing to guess, unknown to most non-Italians. It’s a collection of essays by Guiseppe Prezzolini, adapted from lectures he delivered for a college course on Italian civilization. First published in 1948, it’s not a new book but it holds up well.

More than well: On the whole, The Legacy of Italy is a charming, deft, sometimes pithy and not infrequently ironic unpacking of many things that people think they know about Italy, the tone and style set by the enticing title of the first essay—“The Origins: why Italians are not Romans.” I’d like to know his answer—wouldn’t you?

We’re offered, too, a reflection on Dante as “the anti-Italian,” Italy’s often-dubbed national poet—his work actually “having had little influence” on “national habits and customs.” OK, then! Admittedly, I have a weakness for the contrarian point of view.

His take on “Humanism: a splendor dearly paid for by Italy,” continues in this iconoclastic (though never grumpy) grain, and his pungent musings on “Italy: the great seducer,” could not help but win my smile:

“Perhaps Italians are not exactly creators of virtuous or ethical standards or imbued with a sense of man’s rights but certainly in the fat as in the lean year, they knew how to encourage a taste for life. If they have not always known how to make money, they could always tell you how to spend it.”

Right, perhaps not exactly…

Yes, there’s a controversy here, so let’s not shirk that. Prezzolini, who was born in Perugia, the seat of Umbria, in 1882, knew Mussolini personally. In fact, he published, in 1911, Mussolini’s first book, Il Trentino, veduto da un socialista—a treatise on the Alps region known as Trentino, at this time controlled by the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, as viewed by a Socialist. Mussolini back then was in his pre-Fascist, pre-il Duce phase, as a prominent Socialist publicist and organizer. Two decades later, with Prezzolini now on the faculty of Columbia University as a Professor of Italian, an Italian cultural activities center he headed was accused by critics of spreading Fascist propaganda—a charge that both he and Columbia vigorously denied.

In an essay in The Legacy of Italy grappling with Fascism, Prezzolini, typically, is unflinching:

“…Fascism is not to be considered an episode, but a phase in the history of Italy; not something accidental, like a malady, but essential like a moment in development; something not foreign and strange but autonomous and natural, even if a bit extraordinary…Fascism was made by Italians, directed by Italians, accepted by Italians, supported by Italians. It did not fall until the armies of the Allies penetrated Italy.”

Isn’t that verdict all the more bracing coming from a native son? Prezzolini lived to see one hundred, and in his obituary, The New York Times noted that he had written 57 books (!), had helped to popularize in Italy Walt Whitman and William James, and even as he was approaching the century mark, still read, daily, seven newspapers published in four different countries. My favorite line from the obit is on his book Spaghetti Dinner: A History of Spaghetti and Cooking, which the Times food critic Craig Claiborne called “one of the most amusing books on pasta.''

Ah yes, pasta as an inspiration for literary mirth. And in Legacy of Italy, you’ll find an essay on Pellegrino Artusi, whose 1891 cookbook, La scienza in cucina e l’arte di mangiar bene (Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well) is deemed by Prezzolini, for once not in an ironic or contrarian spirit, a true “masterpiece.” I’ll let him close out this appreciation:

“If it should puzzle anyone to find a chapter on cooking in a book dealing with Italian civilization, the writer of these pages will suggest that he has not yet been able to see where our soul begins and our body ends.”

Buon Viaggio!

Creamy, salty, cheesy, peppery, that bacon-like crunch—and piping hot. The best carbonara I’ve ever had was at a hotel restaurant a few paces from the Warsaw airport. Probably the chef was Italian? Or maybe not. This was a few years ago, but I can still taste the experience. Possibly my craving for a favorite dish was especially intense because I had just spent a stressful week in wartime Ukraine. That can do it.

Carbonara begs for unpacking. Forget what tourist guides tell you about this “Roman classic.” Food historians, those diligent sleuths, know better. Carbonara is a modern creation, emerging as a popular dish in post-World War 2 Italy. But it quickly crossed the pond. It seems the first published recipe for carbonara was for a restaurant guide to early 1950s…Chicago.

It’s often said that carbonara developed as a spin on the bacon and eggs ration of American GIs in Italy. I like that story a lot and very much want it to be true.

Let’s dispense with purity rituals. “True” carbonara doesn’t have to be made with guanciale. Pancetta works too—in fact, in 1960s Rome, with guanciale hard to find, pancetta was the standard. Carbonara’s creaminess can come from the use of actual cream. Wine and even bell pepper have at times graced carbonara. Any number of pastas will suffice, from spaghetti to rigatoni.

Best, then, to think in terms of preferences. I’ve had terrific carbonara made with pancetta—I’m thinking of a lunch at a little place in Foligno, in Umbria— but I do prefer guanciale. It feels more substantial. I have nothing against grated parmesan. But I prefer Pecorino Romano. Call that a vote for sheep over cow. Lots and lots and lots of freshly-cracked black pepper. No cream—I think that cuts the sharpness of the dish.* OK, it has to be served really hot—there’s an absolute inarguable must. And afterwards, an espresso.

Does Rome dish out the best carbonara in Italy? Possibly. That would take a lot of field research to confirm. But the best carbonara I’ve ever had, in Italy, was at an osteria in Florence that featured Bistecca alla Fiorentina. So there.

Yes, try this at home. For me, as my wife, Nargiza, can attest, no visit to our apartment in Spello is complete without at least one stab at carbonara. You’ll probably find, as I have, that the dish never comes out the same way twice.

The fun starts with the visit to the local Superconti, a has-everything supermarket where I can use my senior citizen’s discount card. At the deli counter, in my best broken Italian—hand gestures help—I have cut a slab of guanciale and another of Pecorino Romano. From the bin for freshly-made pastas, I usually take something resembling spaghetti.

Back in the kitchen, I try to try to crisp the guanciale without burning it and thereby spoiling the rendered fat (most of which goes into the sauce). A big decision is whether to use only egg yolk or some of the white in the mixture. I think some white is needed to attain peak creaminess. And for that finishing touch of pasta water—how much to use? There are innumerable recipes to guide one through this hectic process. But my technique, probably for worse, is to soak up a whole bunch of them, online, and then, in the moment of making, trust my instincts.

My enduring struggle is with temperature. The “finished” dish is never as hot as I like it to be on that first forkful at the table. As hot as it was that time in Warsaw. Obviously, I thought, a proper plate was needed. In Foligno, a ten minute or so train ride from Spello, Nargiza and I found just the thing at a housewares shop—a pair of wide-rimmed plates with a kind of well in which the steaming pasta concoction can be deposited. Trap the heat!

And so, with an extra ladle of excitement, I repaired to the kitchen. This time, I felt, would be different. I cycled through the steps, managing to avoid all my previously-made mistakes, like the time—rookie blunder—I poured all of the pasta water down the drain.

At table, I heaped the carbonara into the bowls of our new plates. A grind or two of cheese on top, a fresh scattering of coarse black pepper, fork lifted…

It still wasn’t hot enough. But there’ll be a next time. Of course there will be.

*All of this said, my first carbonara, at a restaurant in Paris in the summer of 1981, on my just-out-of-grad school backpacking tour through Europe, had cream in it—I’m pretty sure of that. And it tasted awfully good.

One of the (many) wonderful things about Italy is that a good wine can be found for a reasonable price. By reasonable I mean, whether you’re dining at a trattoria, osteria or ristorante, a bottle in the range of 20 to 35 euros. (At the current rate, from about 23 to 40 U.S. dollars.)

To help inform you choices and your thinking about Italian wines, introducing John Gayley, chief wine correspondent for “Sundays in Italy.” John lives just south of San Luis Obispo, in one of California’s largest wine districts, and in his retirement from management consulting he has been working at local wineries in both the vineyards and the cellars. Italian wines have been his passion for forty years. John has visited 16 of Italy’s 20 regions to sample the wines and annually attends wine-tasting tours put on by Italian industry reps. He plans to visit #17—Calabria—in the spring. A tough job but…

For each of his posts, John will recommend a single wine and dishes to pair with. And with that, here’s John:

Sundays on the Sicilian coast…sunny, breezy ocean views, and a leisurely seafood pranzo. Oh, and did I mention they have vino?

Sicilian wines are having a moment. The loudest hoopla is (rightly) focused on wines from the slopes of Mount Etna, but there are fantastic wines made from all over the island. This is thanks to a continuous stream of investments, new techniques, new generations of winemakers and new ideas. Big swaths of Sicily are in the midst of what might be termed a “great repurposing”: taking vineyards and grapes previously used to make high-volume, lower quality wine products, and refining them into small gioielli gustosi.

I’d like to introduce you to one of my new best Sicilian friends: Grillo, a sleek vino bianco. Historically Grillo was the main grape component of Marsala, the sweet fortified wine. It was also often sold in bulk up north as the base wine for vermouth. The grape is grown mostly in the southern and western parts of Sicily, characterized by intense dry summer heat.

If farmed attentively, however, Grillo’s thick skins tolerate the heat well and preserve its characteristic aromas, tastes and crisp acidity. Most often it’s fermented in stainless steel or concrete tanks to highlight its lean, fruity, freshness. If aged on its lees—that is, the fermenting yeast—Grillo’s mouthfeel becomes slightly creamier and the fruits more nuanced and exotic.

Key characteristics: Medium-light bodied; a nose that offers layers of pretty floral notes and some exotic fruits. The taste is bright and fresh: citrus, grapefruit, orange flower, occasionally green apples, and herbal notes such as sage or thyme. Many Grillos also have a nice saline minerality, but that doesn’t overwhelm its other enticements. Typically, 12% - 14% ABV.

Food pairings: Grillo is a versatile accompaniment for seafood including grilled fish and shellfish. It also pairs well with Sicilian starters, light pasta dishes or risotto (especially with seafood), vegetable dishes and Mediterranean salads. Slightly bigger and creamier versions also pair well with poultry or with mature cheeses.

There are 10 - 20 excellent producers of Grillo, with a range of styles and price points. It’s becoming better known outside southern Italy, and is now fairly widely available at online wine stores, as well as large-volume and high street wine retailers. Compared to the wines from Etna, Grillo is still comparatively inexpensive. I’m seeing retail bottle prices of 12 - 20 euros, depending on outlet and producer; restaurant prices of approximately 25 - 30 euros (in Europe) and $30 - $45 (in the US.).

Here’s a good example: Tasca d’Almerita Cavallo della Fate Grillo from their Tenuta Regeali estate near Palermo. Medium-bodied and acidic, but with intense aromas and complex fruit flavors. Lovely long finish. Grapes harvested in two stages to capture its minerality and acidity, and also to enhance the structure and pronounced flavors. Fermented in stainless steel and aged on lees for 4 months. ABV: 14%. I’ve found this retail for around 18 Euro. Molto molto piacevole.