Palmento: A Sicilian Wine Odyssey (At Table)

Palmento: A Sicilian Wine Odyssey (At Table)

Robert V. Camuto

Language: English

Pages: 312

ISBN: 0803239955

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Inspired by a deep passion for wine, an Italian heritage, and a desire for a land somewhat wilder than his home in southern France, Robert V. Camuto set out to explore Sicily’s emerging wine scene. What he discovered during more than a year of traveling the region, however, was far more than a fascinating wine frontier. 
Chronicling his journey through Palermo to Marsala, and across the rugged interior of Sicily to the heights of Mount Etna, Camuto captures the personalities and flavors and the traditions and natural riches that have made Italy’s largest and oldest wine region the world traveler’s newest discovery. In the island’s vastly different wines he finds an expression of humanity and nature—and the space where the two merge into something more.
Here, amid the wild landscapes, lavish markets, dramatic religious rituals, deliciously contrasting flavors, and astonishing natural warmth of its people, Camuto portrays Sicily at a shining moment in history. He takes readers into the anti-Mafia movement growing in the former mob vineyards around infamous Corleone; tells the stories of some of the island’s most prominent landowning families; and introduces us to film and music celebrities and other foreigners drawn to Sicily’s vineyards. His book takes wine as a powerful metaphor for the independent identity of this mythic land, which has thrown off its legacies of violence, corruption, and poverty to emerge, finally free, with its great soul intact.
Watch the Palmento book trailer on YouTube.

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music. cos traditional wines were solid, structured, and substantial: architecture, I said. The Pithos wines were intangible, variable, fleeting: music. When Titta arrived, Giusto was happy to share my critique, adding hand gestures. “Architecture is beautiful, but with time it disappears,” Giusto said in Italian, mangling my thought. “But music . . .” He held up his hand. His fingers moved as though stroking the wings of a butterfly. “. . . Music is lasting.” “Bello,” Titta nodded meaningfully. I

at the same time disconcertingly unrefined, aboriginal. It was the wine of someone who had left the trail and wandered off on his own. From drinking it I knew that Frank had thought about things more than the rest of us. Perhaps too much. “The only thing I want to do is make a direct product from grapes, and to lead a simple life,” Frank said, tearing a piece of bread and resting his elbows on the tabletop. “I prefer to make an authentic product that is a little rough in its presence than to make

might have been the mantra of the foreigners, but at that moment it didn’t seem to concern this old man in search of something red and easy to fill his trunk with. I thought about stopping him to talk, but he moved too quickly—disappearing up the drive of black earth. friday evenings in solicchiata mean the social event of the week: a wine tasting at Bar Sandro Dibella. This is not a bar in which I expected to find a wine tasting. There are no sommeliers, smartly dressed clients, works of art, or

neighbor tells him to use a certain variety because it is productive and produces big grape bunches — everything we don’t want in wine today! Also, the easier a wine oxidized, the better it was for Marsala. It was a mess. We had to start from zero.” In the early 1980s Diego began to experiment with international grape varietals, not only to prove what he believed Sicilian terroirs were capable of but also to challenge local thinking. Diego lifted his glass and paused to speak. “The big problem on

your telephone and parked illegally. The first of the crudi arrived—a pair of raw marinated langoustines and a few prawns in lemon and oil accompanied by a small portion of merluzzo (cod) seasoned with garlic and pepper flakes. More than bene, the seafood was so finely delicate as to hardly need chewing. Each morsel softened my heart as it slid, dripping its marinade, down my throat. To find fresher I would have had to put on a wet suit. When the first dish was gone, I broke the first of many pieces of

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