EAST WEST What's Best?

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 5, 9 April 1945, Page 15

EAST WEST What's Best?

By

CAREFULLY placing the bunch of grapes on the fruit-dish, my wife remarked : “ Aren’t they beauties, and so cheap, too ? Only 4s. a pound ! ” Her face wore the pleased look of the thrifty housewife who has had good value for her money. Obediently I looked at the bowl : they did not. look so good to me. Only Barese Sultanas —a common type, of insipid taste. . Now, if they had been those luscious Reginas, large as a passionfruit, shiny as a thoroughbred, and nearly bursting with juice : then there would be something to it. But Barese Sultanas ; no, I just was not interested.

The expression on my face must have piqued her. “ Yes, I know they’re not as good as those you used to get in Italy. But they’re jolly nice, and if you won’t eat them, Susie and I will.”

She and Susie ate then, all right, but they were neither of them as practised as I was. Probably they got about a half between them. You see, they spat out the seeds and skins, and an expert never does that.

It was about eighteen months ago that I learned how the experts ate grapes. Straight after the Armistice with Italy, in September, 1943, in fact. The grape harvesting was in full swing then, and throughout the country labour was scarce. Even grandpa and grandma, usually exempt from work in the fields, had to lend a hand, while the modest contribution of toddlers of four and five was gladly accepted. So when Jim and I arrived at a farm and asked for food and shelter, offering in return to help with the work where we could, we were made very welcome.

Jim Stone and I were escaped prisoners of war. After the collapse of Italy, the Germans had swiftly taken over the various prison camps and had transported the unfortunate inmates to Germany. But Jim and I had had a lucky break en route, and some forty miles south of the Austrian border we had managed to jump the train and get away safely. So we were working our way down the peninsula to meet the Allies, and in return for the essentials of life we lent assistance where we could. When we had offered to help out with the work we had rather visualized doing odd jobs and chores round the farm. We had not bargained on being roped in for the regular work of the place or on putting in the same hours as the regular hands. There is no such thing as the forty-hour week in Italy, or even a half-holiday Saturday : the peasants work from sunrise to sunset, and there is no slacking, either. Rather lucky for us, really, that the day only lasted for about twelve hours. Why, we might have been there in midsummer, with its sixteen hours of daylight. But, taken all round, grape-picking is not a bad game at all. There are no thorns or prickles to worry you, and you do not have to pick away for about ten minutes to produce anything worthwhile. And there is a spice of danger to it, too : you never know when you are going to upset a colony of wasps that have chosen a certain bunch as their private larder for the week, and are grimly determined to defend their rations. And, of course, there are compensations, like those for the boy who has been left to mind the sweet-shop for the day.

In actual fact, I must confess, the compensations were about everything to me. Snip ! would go the scissors, and a nice, heavy, well-formed bunch would settle comfortably into my hand. Carefully, critically, lovingly, I would examine it, turning it from side to side. There would be the smaller grapes at the bottom of the bunch, and the greener ones at the top. But half-way down was the place. Just there would protrude the best of them all, two or three large, rotund, perfectly ripe, bulging with nectar. Then comes the glorious moment. A quick, practised bitethey are gone, and the luscious fruits go pop ! in my mouth, and flood it with sweetness, while with a quick toss I lob the newly ravished bunch into the basket. The flavour lies full and satisfying on my tongue, the juice slips easily down my throat, and is followed a moment later by the seeds and skin.

All this is the accepted thing while picking grapes. Everywhere are to be seen harvesters following the same routine. Snip, inspect, bite, swallow, and toss the bunch in the basket. Not even the children spit out the pips and skinsthat is what the amateurs and townspeople do.

But, of course, it is not always as pleasant as that. With types like the

Barese Sultanas, there is little but snipping and tossing. Such kinds have little appeal to the palate of the expert. They are grown primarily for making the common, everyday wines ; not for them the honour of being eaten at table or being made into the prize Vermouth for the rich man's cellar. The people of Italy drink wine almost as we drink tea, and this huge supply is prepared by peasants in countless little farms all over the country, and by broadly the same methods. First off, the grapes are collected and dumped into huge wooden vats about the size of an average country water-tank. When this is full ‘ the bottom is carefully plugged, and the crushing commences. Two men, with trousers rolled up above the knees, jump on top of the pile and commence to tread out the juice with their bare feet. Mention of this last fact invariably provokes the query, “Do they wash their feet first ? ” I am afraid I must disappoint the reader : the answer is,

“ Yes.” But I should add that the water-tap is usually some distance away and they do not as a rule put their boots on for the return trip !

To tell the truth, I was very anxious to settle this vexed question for myself, and watched the preliminaries to the operation with keen interest. I so far forgot my manners, too, as to observe on one occasion, “ I suppose the wine would

be tainted if you didn’t wash your feet beforehand.” I received an unexpected reply : “ Oh, it wouldn’t make any difference at all, the fermentation destroys all impurities.” I sincerely hope this is correct, because there seemed to be plenty on them. The grapes themselves are generally dusty and grimy, birds perch on and peck at them, whilst stray bees and wasps feasting on the sweet juice are often trapped amid the berries and finally squashed up with them.

After an hour or so of trampling, when about half the vatful of grapes has been trodden over, the first draw-off of juice takes place. The plug at the bottom is carefully removed, and a rather dull, dirty looking liquid flows out. This is called “ mosto ” and to me is among the most delectable of drinks. It is nothing but pure grape-juice (plus a proportion of impurities !), and is delightfully sweet and palatable. But it does not appeal to the Italians, who, accustomed to drinking the matured article, scornfully refuse it. Too sweet and no kick,” they say. Jim and I always used to come back for a second and a third time. “ Ach, these crazy English,” they mutter disdainfully, regarding us with a wondering eye, “ How can they stomach it ? Why, plain water is far better.”

The zealous trampers, their legs stained a bright purple, resume their task, and in due course all the “ mosto ” is drawn off. The heaviest of the job is now over, and both men thankfully clamber out of the vat and take their rest. Little drops of juice fall from the hairs of their legs to the ground as they savour their leisure and slowly drink the real wine—“ a man’s drink”— has been brought specially to refresh them at this particular moment.

There is now little left to do. The stalks and skins, the seeds and pulp, now bereft of the all-important juice, are due for a further crushing : this time a mechanical one. They are carefully scraped into a wine-press, a sort of cylinder the size of a 20-gallon keg and squeezed and compressed until every last drop of liquid is extracted. This is not, as I first imagined, due to the inherent thriftiness of the peasant, but because the sap of these stalks and the juice inside the skins themselves both provide the best ferments or “ starters,” and the more of it that can be obtained the better the brew will “ boil.” Finally the press is dismantled, revealing a solid cake of what is called the “ resti ” (remains). These, one would think, would represent the final “ unusables,” except perhaps as manure, but

their role is not over yet. They, too, help the fermentation. In due course, therefore, they are evenly spread over the top ■of the “ mosto,” which a few hours earlier formed a part of them, and which now reposes lidless in a vat in a dark corner ■of the cellar.

The following day I draw off some of the “ mosto.” It is not so dull or dirty now, it has a purer colour, and it has a

“ bite ” to the taste, a slight fizzy feel to the tongue. I am becoming quite intrigued with this stuff. I decide I will follow its development, so a day later still I try another sample. The “ bite ” is still more pronounced, the fizzy feel more marked. In some ways it resembles a first-grade apple cider. I feel I could go for it in a big way. But perhaps tomorrow will be better still. * It is. To me it is perfect. Less cloying, a real tang about it, rather like a sweet champagne. I try a somewhat larger sample, and then another. Yes, it is the goods all right. That kick is the kick of alcohol. I could put up with this in large quantities. I wonder if one could stop the process at this stage. This brew just cannot be bettered.

Unfortunately the fermentation cannot be halted. Every day from now on the “ mosto ” becomes less and less sweet, less and less fizzy, more and more alcoholic. And then comes the time, approximately a week from the beginning, when the “ padrone ” in charge says, “ Right, it’s wine now.”

Wine in a week ! It can’t be. Why, wine takes years to mature, even the old Agriculture Department stuff back home. There must be some mistake. But there is not. It is wine now, the “ padrone ” says so.

So that is how it is in Italy. I had always thought their

stuff was worldfamous because it was so old, so mature. The “padrone” explains : “It is wine now because the fermentation is finished.

It will certainly improve with age, if it gets a chance. But it will not get that chance. These thirsty men of mine will clean it all up before the next grape harvest . . . And now here is some wine from the same vines, but this is ten years old. Do you notice a difference ? ”

I do. It is more mellow, less sharp, and yet drier somehow. There is a suggestion of the same flavour, and it is milder, more palatable. But to me it still does not touch that three-day-old “ mosto,” that “ liquid perfection.”

“ That’s because your taste isn’t educated,” he says. “ I see you don’t smoke, therefore you will prefer the sweeter things. Smokers like their drinks more on the savoury side. But when once you are accustomed to wine as we are, you, too, will never look at ‘ mosto.’ ”

“ I doubt it,” I reply. That taste lingers with me, somehow. I rather imagine three-day “ mosto ” must be one of the high-ranking drinks in Paradise. * Now I am home in New Zealand, and I have been back about a year. We three ex-prisoners of war are having a drink before dinner in front of a fire.

“ Yes,” says Frank, who feels he is an expert, “ Vermouth is the stuff, you can’t beat it. There’s not a nicer wine to be had.”

“I’m for Chianti myself,” says Bill. “ Now, there’s a drink for you. Nice and dry, and plenty of kick. Where can you find a better drink than that ? ”

They turn to me. “ What do you think ? ’they ask. “ Vermouth, or Chianti, or what ? ”

I ponder a moment. Thoughts and tastes of that three-day “ mosto ” pass through my mind , . . But some-

how, somehow , . . “There is no question about it,’’ I reply. “Not a shadow of doubt. The best of them all, anywhere, anytime, is—BEER.”