Uncorked: My Journey Through the Crazy World of Wine
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Marco Pasanella's behind-the-scenes memoir through the world of wine will captivate wine lovers with its story of one man who decided, at age 43, to change his life by opening a wine shop.
As Kitchen Confidential and Waiter Rant explored the front and back of the house at restaurants, Uncorked offers a peek behind the curtain of the wine world.
Pasanella takes the reader into the underbelly of his store and the industry, which is steeped in history yet fanatical about technology and brimming with larger-than-life personalities.
Infused with rich details of his historic waterfront building in New York City and his sojourns to Tuscany, Pasanella's memoir is one of transformation through a project many fantasize about but few commit to. A colorful cast of characters rounds out this fascinating journey through the world of wine.
the Arbois. Although only fifty miles southeast from the famed Burgundy vineyards of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, the Arbois is best known for vin jaune (literally “yellow wine”). This sherry-like white couldn’t be further from the foresty and mysterious Pinot Noirs and crisp yet full Chardonnays for which Burgundy is famous. Made from a local varietal called Savagnin, vin jaune is created by putting the freshly pressed juice in small barrels that are then left to age. Unlike most wine, which is
enveloped the room. The smoke alarm went off. The gratinée was charring. Somehow we finished cooking the steaks and saved the asparagus. The wine started flowing: 2001, 1997, 1985! By the end of the evening, amid shots of Alessandro’s grappa, guests were exchanging e-mail addresses and promising to see one another again. Arm in arm and in twos and threes, the rest of the group slowly exited amid laughter. One couple lagged, making out in the soggy garden. Alessandro gave me a hug. The experience
ticket trip to her favorite place in the whole world: Burgundy. But Janet never made it back on the return flight. Her cell phone was off. Two days after she was supposed to have been back at work, I got a cryptic message that said our Pinot Noir–loving manager would be back in another two weeks: “There was work to do.” I wanted to hide her maple syrup. I wanted to break those red glasses. I wanted to let her go. But we were afraid. Given our headaches in finding good people, what was I going to
weathered steel and cherry cabinetry. The house is immaculate, like its owner. A sixty-four-year-old with a thirty-one-inch waist, Rosenthal is lean and focused and not at all the ebullient R. W. Apple of my mind’s eye. Lunch consisted of three things: a bowl of artisan pasta, half a homegrown heirloom tomato, and two one-third glasses of 1996 Brovia Dolcetto. The fastidiousness of its preparation was mesmerizing. I watched Neal carefully unwrap the artisan pasta and delicately plunge two
Anita Ekberg (the Swedish star of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita) as about realizing that we’re all going down, so at least we should enjoy ourselves along the way. Expecting cheerful nuggets of Italian sunshine and good fortune, the audience looked a little shocked. So was I. I’ve always been an uncomfortable poster boy for Italianness. Sure, I read Diabolik (comic mystery novels) and know every movie that Laura Antonelli ever made. I have family, friends, and a family house in Italy and even a local