👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. If you didn’t know better, Verduno Pelaverga sounds like an Italian aristocrat. A rather obscure one, admittedly. Maybe a forgotten opera composer. Or some old Piedmontese bloke who wears a linen scarf all year and will happily spend twenty minutes explaining how truffles should be shaved over risotto. It really doesn’t sound like a wine. But it is. Verduno Pelaverga DOC comes from the village of Verduno in Piedmont, and the grape is Pelaverga Piccolo, a rare local variety. Even the name has that very Piedmontese ring to it. Elegant, slightly grand, and not terribly helpful if you’ve never seen it on a wine list before. Verduno, Piedmont, Italy And then there’s Barolo. The two are, in a way, relatives. They come from the same part of Piedmont and have a connection to the Nebbiolo family, but that’s about where the similarities start to get interesting. Because Barolo is the rich cousin. Barolo got the big reputation, the expensive real estate and the rather impressive wardrobe. He’s the one everyone knows. Pelaverga stayed in Verduno and carried on doing its own thing. Which is quite something when you consider where Verduno actually is. This is Barolo country, after all. Verduno is one of the 11 communes where Barolo can be made, so there has never been any shortage of temptation to plant Nebbiolo instead. But the old Pelaverga vines survived. Someone decided they were worth keeping, even when there were probably easier ways to make money from the land. I rather like that. And the wine itself is nothing like the big, brooding Piedmontese red you might be expecting. For starters, look at it. It’s pale. Really pale. Almost translucent. It has the sort of colour that makes you check the bottle twice to make sure you haven’t picked up something much lighter by mistake. It also looks rather refined. Almost delicate. Then you sniff it, and things get more interesting. White pepper is the signature, but there’s also wild strawberry, raspberry and violet. That peppery note comes from an aromatic compound called rotundone, the same compound responsible for the distinctive peppery aroma you find in some other wines (cool-climate Syrah, Grüner Veltliner, Mourvèdre and Vespolina). It’s fragrant and fresh, with that lovely little peppery kick. Nothing heavy or brooding. It’s much more playful than that. On the palate it stays pretty light, somewhere around light to medium-bodied, with silky tannins and bright acidity. There’s enough structure to remind you that this is still a Piedmontese red, but it doesn’t make a big performance of it. Barolo would probably arrive at dinner in a dinner jacket. Pelaverga would turn up in a linen shirt, a silk scarf, sit down, and start talking to everyone. And honestly, it’s a very easy wine to eat with. I like it slightly chilled, particularly with antipasti, charcuterie, pizza, poultry, tomatoey pasta and mushrooms. That peppery side also makes it surprisingly good with spicier food, as the wine has that little bit of swagger. So no, Pelaverga was never going to become another Barolo. And perhaps that’s for the best. They’re from the same corner of Piedmont, with an old family connection through Nebbiolo, but somewhere along the way one cousin got the fortune and the other got the personality. I know which one I’d invite to dinner. There is one catch: you have to find the stuff. Pelaverga is made in tiny quantities, so it isn’t exactly sitting on every wine-shop shelf. Comm. G.B. Burlotto Comm. G.B. Burlotto is one of the names to look for, and the winery has long been associated with keeping this old local grape alive when it could very easily have disappeared. Comm. G.B. Burlotto been making wine since the 19th century, but Pelaverga was never the star. It was often planted alongside Nebbiolo and rarely bottled on its own, so it slowly began to disappear. Then, in 1972, Gabriella Burlotto planted a dedicated parcel of Pelaverga in the Massara vineyard. That small decision helped save the grape. Today, winemaker Fabio Alessandria works with Pelaverga from sandy, chalky sites around Verduno, keeping the winemaking gentle and letting that lovely peppery fragrance do the talking. So perhaps Pelaverga found exactly the right family. It’s an old Piedmontese grape, slightly eccentric, easily overlooked — but quietly stubborn enough to survive. Serve it slightly chilled, around 12–14°C, with prosciutto, salami, anchovies, pizza or tomato-based pasta. Its bright acidity and peppery freshness make it particularly good for warm-weather drinking, a red for when your brain says rosé but your heart stubbornly says wine with tannins. Picked the bottle up at Metrovino in Calgary. A uniquely brilliant food pairing for Verduno Pelaverga is smoky grilled bonito or seared tuna sashimi. Because this rare Piedmontese red wine naturally contains high levels of the aromatic compound rotundone - giving it a distinct, punchy white-pepper and floral signature alongside bright red cherry fruit - its light body and silky texture bridge the gap to rich, meaty fish without clashing or metallic bitterness. Thin slices of sushi-grade tuna, quickly seared until the outside is beautifully browned while the centre stays cool and completely raw. Pepper Sesame Crusted Tuna Sashimi Serves: 2–4 Prep: 10 minutes Cook: 1–2 minutes Ingredients 450 g (1 lb) sushi-grade Ahi or Bluefin tuna, cut into a thick rectangular block 1 tsp (5 ml) sesame oil ½ tsp fine sea salt ¼ tsp freshly ground black pepper 2 tbsp (15 g) white and/or black sesame seeds 1 tbsp (15 ml) avocado seed oil To serve Soy sauce, Ponzu or Yuzu Mayonaise / gochujang mayonnaise Wasabi Pickled ginger Thinly sliced spring onions Micro greens Method 1. Dry the tuna Pat the tuna very thoroughly dry with paper towels. This is important. A dry surface gives you a much better sear. 2. Season Rub the tuna lightly with sesame oil, if using, then season with salt and pepper. For a sesame crust, press the tuna firmly into the sesame seeds until all sides are coated. 3. Get the pan seriously hot Heat a cast-iron or heavy skillet over high heat until very hot. Add the oil and heat until shimmering and just beginning to smoke. 4. Sear the tuna Place the tuna in the pan and sear for 10–20 seconds per side. Use tongs to quickly sear the edges as well. You want a thin, cooked crust around the outside while the centre remains completely raw. 5. Slice Transfer the tuna to a board and let it sit for about 1 minute. Using a very sharp knife, slice it thinly across the grain. 6. Serve Arrange the slices on a plate and serve immediately with soy sauce, wasabi and pickled ginger, if you like. A little tip The secret is heat and speed. Get the pan smoking hot, make sure the tuna is completely dry, and don’t hang around once the fish hits the pan. Ten seconds can make a surprisingly big difference when you’re trying to keep that beautiful ruby-red centre. Happy sipping and savouring!

My first trip to Beaune wasn’t actually about wine. Which sounds a bit ridiculous when you consider where Beaune is. I wasn’t there hunting down Grand Crus or going from cellar to cellar. I certainly wasn’t trying to prove that I could tell a Pommard from a Puligny-Montrachet. I can’t. Not reliably, anyway. I’d gone for the art. There was one painting I really wanted to see. I’d known it for years, long before I knew much about Burgundy or its wines. It was Rogier van der Weyden’s The Last Judgment (Le Jugement Dernier), in the Hôtel-Dieu, or the Hospices de Beaune as most people know it. I actually knew the painting from university. It was part of my art-history degree. I wish I had a better story than that, but I don’t. It was on the syllabus. Yes, that art-history degree. The one that seemed like a slightly impractical choice at the time and then, somehow, kept popping up in my life. Interior view: The Last Judgement, polyptych c. 1443–1451 by Rogier van der Weyden, Hôtel-Dieu, Beaune, France I remember walking into the Salle des Pôvres and seeing the polyptych for the first time. The colours were incredible. Reds, blues, gold. They still looked so strong after all those centuries. There’s a reason for that, of course. The altarpiece had a major restoration between 1875 and 1878, and there have been other conservation treatments since. Still, standing there, that wasn’t really what I was thinking about. I was thinking about how clever the whole thing was. There are nine oak panels, and six are painted on both sides. The wings could be opened and closed depending on the occasion. On Sundays and feast days, they opened to show the full Last Judgment. It’s basically a medieval dramatic reveal. No Instagram. No TikTok. Just nine huge bits of oak and a very serious amount of preparation. The view with the wings folded of six panels with the donors kneeling in the far wings. The altarpiece was commissioned by Nicolas Rolin, Chancellor of Burgundy, for the Hôtel-Dieu, the hospital he founded for the poor. It was completed around 1445–1450. And this is the bit I find hardest to get my head around. This huge, spectacular painting wasn’t made for some grand palace. It was made for a hospital. People who were sick would have seen it. People who knew they were dying would have seen it. It was there to give them some comfort, but also, presumably, to make them think about what came next. Imagine being in a fifteenth-century hospital and having Rogier van der Weyden’s Last Judgment at the end of the room. I’d probably have found it slightly terrifying. At the centre is Christ, surrounded by saints and angels. Below him, the Archangel Michael weighs the souls of the dead. The blessed go one way, the damned another. There’s so much going on that you can keep looking and still miss things. And that brings me, rather unexpectedly, to wine. From Masterpiece to Wine Label A few years later, I was looking through wines from Beaujolais when I saw a bottle and stopped. I knew the picture on the label. It was the Archangel Michael. The same Michael I remembered from Beaune, with his scales, calmly weighing souls. The wine was Domaine Jules Desjourneys Chénas Le Jugement Dernier. And there it was: two things I’d never really thought of putting together—medieval art and wine—on the same bottle. Where Wine Meets Art The story behind the label is pretty simple. Fabien Duperray founded Domaine Jules Desjourneys in 2007. He was a Burgundy négociant before starting the domaine, and he’s also a serious art collector. He has more than 1,000 original works, and some of that collection has ended up on his wine labels. The bottles themselves get a lot of attention too. The labels, paper, wax seals, corks—it’s all part of the look. Which I quite like. There’s no sense of the label being something slapped on at the end. The wines cover Beaujolais and the Mâconnais, with Gamay from some of the better-known Beaujolais Crus and Chardonnay from places such as Pouilly-Fuissé, Pouilly-Vinzelles and Saint-Véran. Duperray also works with a lot of old vines, some 70 years old, some more than 100. The vineyards are farmed organically and biodynamically, with plenty of hand work and horse ploughing. All of that is interesting, but for me it still comes back to the wine. Why Chénas? Why this painting? Chénas: The Smallest Beaujolais Cru Chénas sits between Juliénas and Moulin-à-Vent. It’s the smallest of the ten Crus du Beaujolais, and it has always seemed a little overlooked to me. The name comes from chêne, meaning oak. These hills were once covered in oak forests. There’s also a story that King Philippe V ordered the trees to be cleared in 1316 so vines could be planted. I do like a forest. But apparently Philippe had other ideas. Chénas is Gamay, and it can be surprisingly serious. There’s plenty of perfume—peony, rose, iris—but also darker fruit, spice and something earthy underneath it all. The texture can be beautifully silky, but there’s structure there too. A lot of that comes from the soils. The higher slopes have pink granite, which helps give the wines their perfume and lift. Lower down, the stonier sedimentary soils bring a little more weight. And Chénas can age. That’s probably the part that makes the pairing work for me. You don’t really take in The Last Judgment in one go. You look at it, think you’ve got the picture, then notice something else. A face. A hand. Some tiny detail you somehow missed five minutes earlier. The wine is a bit like that. Give it some time and it starts to change. Things come forward, then something else appears. You notice more once you stop trying to take it all in at once. Maybe that’s all the connection really is. The painting and the wine both make you slow down a little. And I like that. Especially considering I only noticed the bottle in the first place because I recognized an angel.

👩‍🍳-Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. There are wines you taste, and then there are wines that take you somewhere. The first inhale of La Oveja Torrontés stopped me in my tracks. Its aromas were disarmingly comforting—like stepping into a home you’ve never been to but somehow remember. And once I discovered where it came from, that feeling made even more sense. La Oveja is made by Julia Zuccardi of Bodega Santa Julia in Mendoza, Argentina, a winery built around three generations of family devotion. The name itself says it all: La Oveja means “the sheep,” and the charming little sheep on the label was drawn by Julia’s children. Even the winery’s philosophy is summed up beautifully as “CUESTIÓN DE FAMILIA” - a family matter. And apparently, this family knows how to make a very good glass of wine. A Sip of Mendoza I’ve never been to Argentina. Which, frankly, feels like something I should probably rectify. But this wine managed to transport me thousands of kilometres without the inconvenience of airport security, lost luggage, or someone reclining their seat directly into my knees. One sip and I was in Mendoza. Well… emotionally in Mendoza. Then I looked at photographs of Bodega Santa Julia and things got worse. The light, the colours, the vineyards, the mountains, the sense of space—it all had that particular magic that makes you start mentally packing a suitcase for a trip you haven't even planned yet. There was something about those images that felt both completely foreign and strangely familiar. Like remembering a place you’ve never actually been. Suddenly, Mendoza wasn't just a dot on a map. It felt like a promise. A slower rhythm. Wide horizons. Sunlight. Vineyards. Mountains. And that wonderful Latin American sense that life is meant to be enjoyed generously and preferably around a table. This wine didn't simply make me imagine Argentina. It made me crave it. All photo credits: Santa Julia Winery Meet La Oveja Made from 100% Torrontés, La Oveja is an organic Argentine white with the kind of aromatic personality that announces itself before you've even taken a sip. Think white peach, pear, lychee, orange blossom and citrus zest—fragrant without being overwhelming, fresh without becoming austere. And this is where Torrontés gets interesting. It can smell almost flirtatiously floral and fruity, yet the palate isn't simply sweet or soft. There’s a lovely freshness and mineral character underneath all those beautiful aromas, giving the wine energy and keeping it wonderfully food-friendly. No oak is used, allowing the fruit and natural character of the grape to take centre stage. The minimalist approach to winemaking feels perfectly suited to the wine: nothing unnecessary, just a beautifully expressive glass of Torrontés. And then there’s the price. Always an important detail when you find a wine this charming. It's the sort of bottle you can open on a Tuesday night without waiting for a special occasion—and then suddenly your Tuesday night feels considerably more special. Just remember: drinking La Oveja is a little like inviting a fun-loving sheep to dinner. Delightful, aromatic, and just mischievous enough to keep things interesting. So, What Do You Eat With Torrontés? This was the part I was particularly excited about. Torrontés loves aromatic foods, herbs, spice, citrus and a touch of heat. Its floral character can handle bold flavours, while its freshness cuts beautifully through richer sauces. So I decided to take it somewhere warm and fragrant: Thai-inspired coconut-poached fish with ginger, chile, lime and tender greens. And this pairing? Well, the sheep approved. The creamy coconut milk brings richness, the ginger and chile add warmth, the lime provides brightness, and the fresh cilantro lifts everything at the end. The Torrontés does something rather clever here. Its aromatic fruit echoes the fragrant ingredients in the dish, while its freshness keeps the coconut sauce from feeling heavy. The result is a pairing that feels almost effortless. A little bit of Argentina. A little bit of Thailand. And somehow, they get along beautifully. Thai-Inspired Coconut-Poached Fish Serves 2 | PREP TIME 20 minutes | COOK TIME 20 minutes Course: Main, Pescatarian For our couple's dinner, I decided to elevate the experience by pairing this delightful wine with a sumptuous Thai fish entrée, beautifully infused with spice and ginger. The combination was nothing short of heavenly, perfectly complementing the vibrant essence of La Oveja. Thai-Inspired Coconut Poached Fish features a fragrant, slightly spicy aromatic broth and perfectly cooked fish served on a bed of tender greens and rice. Ingredients 400-450 grams / 1 lbs firm white fish, such as halibut or cod, cut into smaller cubes Salt to taste 2 tbsp flour 2 Tbsp. cooking oil (avocado, olive or coconut oil) 1 small white onion, or 2 shallots, thinly sliced 1 to 2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced 1 Tbsp. minced fresh ginger 1 Thai chile, thinly sliced (remove seeds for less heat) - optional 1 can (400 ml / 13 1/2-oz) coconut milk 1 cup seafood or chicken stock 1 tsp. fish sauce 1/2 lime, zest and juice, divided 2 handfuls fresh spinach 1/4 cup fresh or frozen peas Fresh cilantro leaves and stems, for garnish 1 to 2 scallions, thinly sliced, for garnish Jasmine rice for serving Instructions Season the fish fillets evenly with salt and coat them lightly with flour. Shake off any excess flour. In a skillet, heat oil over medium heat and sauté the fish fillets in batches until they are lightly caramelized. Set them aside. Using the same skillet, add onion and cook for about 5 minutes until it becomes softened. Then stir in garlic, ginger, and chili, cooking for an additional 2 minutes until fragrant. Next, add coconut milk, peas, seafood stock, fish sauce, and lime zest to the skillet. Bring the mixture to a gentle simmer, then stir in the spinach until it wilts. Nestle the fish fillets into the coconut broth, ensuring they are mostly submerged, and reduce the heat to low. Cover the skillet and cook until the fish is just cooked through and opaque, approximately 4 to 6 minutes. After removing the lid, add a good squeeze of lime juice (start with about 1 tablespoon, taste, and adjust as needed). Garnish with cilantro and scallions, and serve the fish and coconut broth over jasmine rice. The Verdict: A Pairing Worth Travelling For There is something wonderfully democratic about a good food-and-wine pairing. You don't need a Michelin-starred kitchen. You don't need an elaborate dinner party. And you certainly don't need to know every technical detail about the wine. Sometimes you simply need a bottle that makes you stop, smell the glass, take a sip—and think, Oh, I like this. La Oveja did exactly that for me. Its fragrant Torrontés found a natural partner in the ginger, chile, lime and coconut of this Thai-inspired fish. The wine brought freshness to the richness of the coconut milk, while the food gave those beautiful floral and fruit aromas somewhere to play. And somewhere between Mendoza and Thailand, I found myself transported. No passport required. Although, after this bottle, Argentina has officially moved much higher on my travel list. And if Mendoza is anything like this wine, I have a feeling I'm going to like it very much. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. We first wandered through the enchanting streets of Noto back in 2014, a visit I’ve written about before in another story. I still remember the warm, honey-coloured stone, the elegant Baroque buildings, and that wonderfully unhurried feeling the city seemed to have. Everywhere you turn, there is another beautiful church, palazzo, or quiet street that makes you want to stop and look. Wine is just as much a part of Noto’s landscape. Here, centuries-old traditions, native Sicilian grapes, and the warm Mediterranean sun come together to create wines that feel unmistakably connected to the place. A glass of Noto wine is, in its own way, a little taste of Sicily: sunny, generous, and best enjoyed slowly. Nero d’Avola Nero d’Avola is Sicily’s most important native red grape, known for its versatility and full-bodied character. Depending on the winemaking style, it can range from a lighter, fruit-forward wine to a bold, dark-fruit powerhouse. Whether you’re planning a lively get-together or a quiet night in, Nero d’Avola has you covered. It’s a grape that delivers flavour and drama in equal measure, keeping your taste buds entertained from the first sip to the last. Known for its sweet, approachable tannins and medium to high acidity, Nero d’Avola offers aromas of black cherry, plum, blackberry, and raspberry. Many examples also bring savoury notes of liquorice, tobacco, coffee, and spice. A little thrilling, a little comforting, and always delicious. The flavour profile of Nero d'Avola makes it an excellent match for a variety of foods: Meat: It pairs well with grilled or roasted meats, hearty stews, lamb, and duck. Pizza and Pasta: Nero d'Avola is known as a great "pizza wine" and pairs wonderfully with rich, creamy tomato sauces, meat ragu pasta dishes, or a meat-lover's pizza. Vegetarian Dishes: For vegetarian options, it complements black lentils, shiitake mushrooms, or eggplant parmigiana. Cheese: Choose sharp, aged cheeses that can stand up to the bold flavours of the wine. Let’s discuss the wine we’ve chosen: Mazzei Zisola Sicilia Noto Rosso DOC, 2020 I’ve discovered a Nero d'Avola that achieves that elusive "perfect balance" without straining your wallet, who doesn’t appreciate a great wine that’s budget-friendly? While there are cheaper and more expensive options available, you can enjoy something that is comfortably priced in the mid-range. It’s a win-win! Established in 2003 in the picturesque Noto region of Sicily, the Zisola winery is a proud endeavor of the Mazzei family, who have a rich heritage in Tuscan winemaking. This winery embodies the family's passion for quality, showcasing the unique terroir of Sicily through its carefully crafted wines. Zisola is meticulously crafted from traditional "Alberello" (bushy) vines that thrive in the breathtaking landscape near Noto, an area celebrated for its extraordinary beauty - you can read my post about Noto here. The wine benefits from the proximity of the sparkling sea and the mineral-rich limestone soil, which work together to beautifully balance the natural exuberance of the Nero d'Avola grape with a vibrant freshness. This elegantly structured wine reveals a captivating bouquet of ripe forest fruits, intertwined with the zesty essence of sunny orange peel. The result is a complex and harmonious flavour profile that lingers on the palate, providing a long and satisfying finish. The bright ruby red wine is celebrated for its balanced, fruit-forward flavour profile and elegant structure. Expect prominent notes of ripe dark fruits such as black cherry, plum, and berries. This vintage also reveal complex hints of numerous flowers and fresh herbs, including sage and Sicilian rosemary, complement the plummy fruit and lead to a savoury long and layered finish. It is light, smooth, and tannic. The wine is aged for 10 months in small French oak barrels, with some of the barrels being new. Producer Website. Pairing choice The Mazzei Zisola Sicilia Noto Rosso DOC 2020 is like the perfect wingman for Eggplant Parmigiana, it knows just how to accentuate the flavours without stealing the spotlight. With its rich, savoury notes and a balanced acidity, it dances beautifully with the tomato, cheese, and eggplant like they’re at a well-choreographed Sicilian tarantella dance party. This wine doesn’t just cut through the richness of the parmigiana; it practically slices it a new one! And with soft tannins and a medium body, it cozies up to the creamy cheese and earthy eggplant like their old friends sharing stories over a glass of good wine. Cheers to a delightful pairing! Eggplant Parmigiana Servings: 4 | Preparation: 30 minutes | Cooking: 1 hours Course: Appetizer, Main, Vegetarian Parmigiana di Melanzane - or Eggplant Parmigiana, or as I like to call it, Eggplant’s Glorious Renaissance - is the crown jewel of Italian comfort food. Think of it as a pasta-free, vegetarian lasagna: layers of fried or roasted eggplant meet luscious tomato sauce, melting mozzarella, and the nutty, savory depth of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Every bite feels like a warm Italian family gathering, where everyone is welcomed with open arms. The origin story is just as dramatic as the dish itself. Campania, Sicily, and Emilia-Romagna all claim ownership, and the debate gets heated. Naples might have thrown the first culinary party with a published recipe back in 1837, but many believe the name comes from the Sicilian word parmiciana, which references the dish’s layered look, and perhaps the love affair it inspires with eggplant. Every bite is a slice of Italian history: cheesy, saucy, and endlessly comforting. Yes, I make my Parmigiana di Melanzane with béchamel. I know, I know… the Sicilians may have opinions. Traditionally, parmigiana doesn’t need it, but this is how I make mine: layers of roasted eggplant, tomato sauce, mozzarella, Parmigiano and a silky béchamel. It’s richer and creamier, somewhere between a classic parmigiana and lasagna. So, apologies in advance to any Sicilians reading this. I mean no offence. I’m simply standing by my béchamel. Ingredients: Eggplant 1 kg eggplant – about 4, sliced lengthways 8mm (1/4")-thick slices with skin on 2 tbsp coarse salt 3-4 tbsp olive oil for brushing Tomato sauce 700 ml tomato puree, 100% tomato, no flavourings 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil 1 small onion, finely diced 3 garlic cloves, finely minced 1 tbsp fresh basil, finely chopped 3/4 tsp salt 1/4 tsp black pepper Béchamel 2 tbsp butter 1-2 tbsp flour 300 ml milk Pinch of salt Black pepper Cheese 250 g mozzarella, shredded 100 g Parmigiano Reggiano, finely grated Instructions: Preheat the oven to 180°C /350°F. Prepare the Eggplants: Wash and slice the eggplants, then place them in a bowl with a little coarse salt. Allow the eggplants to rest for a while so that some of their moisture can drain. Afterward, remove them from the bowl and shake off any excess salt. Fry/Grill the Eggplants: Start by heating some olive or avocado oil in a frying pan. When it’s nice and hot, fry the eggplants until they’re wonderfully golden and crispy. For a healthier twist, try grilling them outdoors or indoors, or bake the eggplants on a baking sheet with a drizzle of olive oil. Make the Tomato Sauce: In a saucepan, combine some oil and minced garlic and onion. Heat until the garlic becomes fragrant, then add tomato puree, salt and pepper. Cook the sauce for 15-20 minutes, then stir in fresh basil and continue to cook for another 5 minutes. Make the béchamel (if you are using) or Mornay sauce (essentially a béchamel sauce with cheese) Melt the butter over medium-low heat. Whisk in the flour and cook for about 1 minute. Gradually whisk in the milk until smooth. Cook, stirring constantly, until thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, about 5 minutes. Season with salt, pepper. Keep it fairly loose, you want it creamy and pourable rather than stiff. Assemble the Dish: Use a baking dish with a capacity of about 2.5–3 litres (10–12 cups), whatever shape works best for your eggplant slices. Spread a thin layer of tomato sauce over the bottom. Then layer: eggplant → tomato sauce → béchamel → mozzarella → Parmigiano Repeat for 2–3 layers, depending on the size of your dish. Finish with tomato sauce, béchamel, mozzarella and plenty of Parmigiano. Don't drown each layer in sauce. You want distinct layers of eggplant, tomato and creamy béchamel. Bake: Bake at 190°C / 375°F for about 35–40 minutes, until bubbling and beautifully golden on top. Let it rest for 15–20 minutes before cutting. Variations and Tips: - You can use a pre-made perfect tomato sauce if you prefer. - Adding fresh basil leaves between each layer can enhance the flavour. - Be cautious with the salt, as the eggplant will already be salted at the beginning. Storage: The eggplant parmigiana will keep in the refrigerator for up to two days. You can also freeze it either raw or cooked. Happy sipping and savouring!

We had a few weeks of solo time, and a weekend getaway to the Beaujolais wine region felt like the perfect escape without the kids. Nestled just north of Lyon, Beaujolais is renowned for its eponymous French AOC wine. While it officially falls under the Burgundy wine region, Beaujolais sets itself apart with its distinct climate, grape varieties, and rich history. In recent years, the region and its wines have gained popularity, emerging from the shadow of Burgundy to capture the attention of wine enthusiasts. Villefranche-sur-Saône Our journey began in Villefranche-sur-Saône, the capital of the region. We explored a lively indoor market where we picked up everything needed for the perfect picnic: creamy goat cheese, fresh vegetables, and some local specialties with names that sounded far too fancy to pronounce - like grattons (crispy fried pork bacon) and fromage de tête (head cheese) - the kind of delicacies that makes you question all your life choices. Also, let's be real: there is nothing quite like the delightful chaos of a Saturday market in a French town! Oingt Next, we ventured to Oingt, located in the beautiful Pierres Dorées (Golden Stones) region. Often praised as one of France's most picturesque villages, Oingt features charming narrow streets, quaint galleries, and ochre-yellow stone houses that transport you back to medieval times. We savoured our lunch - the exquisite yet questionable market finds - atop a hill, surrounded by the breathtaking rolling hills and vineyards that make Beaujolais so special. From lovely Oingt, we headed directly to the epic Beaujolais Crus regions - this is where our wine adventure truly begins! Unlike in Burgundy and Alsace, the term "cru" in Beaujolais refers to entire wine-producing areas rather than individual vineyards. In the Beaujolais Cru lineup, which is listed from south to north, we have an impressive selection: Brouilly, Côte de Brouilly, Régnié, Morgon, Chiroubles, Fleurie, Moulin-à-Vent, Chénas, Juliénas, and the charmingly named Saint-Amour. You might notice that many producers shy away from putting "Beaujolais" on their labels. Why, you ask? Because they want to maintain a classy vibe and keep une certaine distance from those mass-produced Nouveau wines. In fact, vineyards in the cru villages are not allowed to produce Nouveau at all. Morgon We visited The Caveau du Cru Morgon that serves as the heart of the Morgon appellation's winemakers. This cellar welcomed us with its extensive collection of Morgon wines, showcasing the rich diversity and unique characteristics of the region. As we browsed through the carefully curated selection, we discovered great wines at a range of price points, allowing us to experience the exceptional quality and craftsmanship that Morgon is known for. The atmosphere was lively and educational, making it a place for both seasoned connoisseurs and newcomers alike. Moulin-à-Vent You guessed it: Moulin-à-Vent actually has a moulin à vent—a windmill—and naturally, it demands to be photographed. Because really, if you visit Moulin-à-Vent and don’t take a picture of the windmill, did you even go? Morgon and Moulin-à-vent Wine was tasted. Windmill was photographed. Mission accomplished. Juliénas We concluded our visit to Beaujolais at Le Cellier de la Vieille Église in Juliénas - mais oui, it's a wine cellar with a twist as it is in a former church! After being deconsecrated in 1868, this holy haven became a shrine to wine, thanks to the enthusiastic efforts of Victor Peyret, an incredibly generous local who obviously loved his grapes. Today, it’s the go-to spot for Juliénas residents and visitors, especially during the annual Wine Festival, where the only sin is not having a good time. Picture wine lovers clinking glasses, sharing stories, and trying to remember where they parked their deux chevaux! The Prize is awarded to the top advocates of the Juliénas vintage - journalists, writers, and artists - all of whom are casually judged by Bacchus, the slightly tipsy god of wine, who definitely knows how to throw a party. Cheers to that!

👩‍🍳- Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. The Legacy of Kékfrankos from West Hungary Péter Wetzer makes beautifully distinctive wines in the rolling, storybook hills of Sopron, where Hungary meets Austria. His vineyards are scattered across the landscape, some so tucked away they feel almost hidden on purpose, shaped by the ever-present Pannonian wind. Each plot has its own character, and that individuality shows clearly in every bottle. He farms organically, with a level of care that suggests a real connection to the land. His 2.5 hectares feel less like a vineyard and more like a small, thriving ecosystem, full of plant life, wildlife, and the quiet rhythms of nature. Everything is done by hand, as you might expect from someone so closely involved in every step. In his old cellar, fermentation happens naturally, driven by native yeasts that have become part of the winery’s identity over time. The wines that emerge are lively, expressive, and a little untamed, reflecting both the landscape they come from and the thoughtful, hands-on approach behind them. Spern Steiner Kékfrankos Importer Website (Canada) Kékfrankos (KAYK-frahn-kosh) is the Hungarian name for Blaufränkisch (also known as Lemberger in Germany) and is a grape valued for its balance of freshness and depth. One of Péter Wetzer’s standout wines is his Spern Steiner Kékfrankos. Made from 60-year-old vines in the historic Spern Steiner vineyard, established in 1684, it offers both vibrancy and concentration. The vines grow in sparse slate and quartzite soils, which naturally limit yields and contribute to the wine’s structure and intensity. The grapes are hand-harvested, then fermented naturally in open vats for about three weeks. The wine is aged on fine lees in used Hungarian oak barrels and bottled without fining or filtration, with only a minimal addition of sulphur. In the glass, it shows dark berry notes, especially blackberry, alongside hints of juniper, herbs, and violet. The palate is juicy yet refined, with fresh acidity, smooth tannins, and a long, mineral finish. It’s a thoughtful, expressive wine with a clear sense of place. Food Pairing I paired this wine with Hungarian lamb stew - báránypaprikás - a dish that proudly showcases paprika in all its glory. Traditionally served with galuska (soft, slightly rustic dumplings similar to Spätzle), it’s rich, comforting, and full of bold flavour. I have written about paprika, and galuska in detail here. The Kékfrankos is a natural match. Its firm tannins and dark fruit cut through the richness of the lamb, while its subtle spice echoes the warmth of the paprika. Everything comes together in a way that feels balanced and seamless, with each element complementing the other. It’s a pairing where both the wine and the dish shine, elegant, satisfying, and easy to enjoy. Hungarian Lamb Stew, Báránypaprikás Serves 4 | PREP TIME: 30 minutes | COOK TIME: 2 hours Course: Main Succulent Hungarian Lamb Stew infused with aromatic paprika. This hearty dish combines tender pieces of lamb, slow-cooked to perfection, with the rich red spice, creating a warm and comforting meal that's bursting with flavour. Ingredients 700 g / 1½ lb lamb, cut into cubes 2 tbsp fat (lard, tallow, or olive oil) 1 medium red onion, diced 2–3 garlic cloves, minced 1 tbsp paprika 1 tsp salt 1 medium tomato, diced ½ green bell pepper (or Hungarian pepper), diced 100 ml / ⅓ cup red wine Instructions In a saucepan, heat the fat. Add the finely chopped red onion and garlic, and sauté them for 5 to 8 minutes. Next, add the bell pepper and tomato, both chopped into 0.5 cm cubes, and cook for an additional 5 minutes. Pour in about 500 ml of water and let it simmer, allowing the liquid to reduce. Add the lamb, cut into 2.5 cm (1 inch) cubes, and season with salt and pepper. Sear the meat for another 10 minutes. At this point, take note of how much water the lamb has released. Adjust by adding enough water to just cover the meat, and continue cooking until the lamb is tender. Remember to stir occasionally and replenish any evaporated liquid as needed. In total, the stew will require about 3 liters of liquid. For the final addition of liquid, you can use wine. Serve the dish generously over a bed of Spätzle, whose soft, chewy texture is perfect for soaking up the rich, savoury sauce. For a simpler option, buttery boiled potatoes work beautifully, while steamed rice makes a lighter, neutral base that lets the flavours of the dish shine. Complete the plate with something bright and tangy on the side - cornichons, dill pickles, sauerkraut, or other fermented vegetables. Their acidity cuts through the richness of the meat and sauce, adding freshness and balance to every bite. For an extra touch, serve with a spoonful of the pickling brine or a crisp green salad dressed with a sharp vinaigrette. Happy sipping and savouring!

Liquor : Digestif / Cocktails | Isère, France | Website 👩‍🍳 -Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. La Chartreuse: The Queen of Liqueurs, A Heritage of Flavour and Craftsmanship Many people associate "Chartreuse" with a vibrant and lively green, reminiscent of fresh spring leaves and lush forests. This beautiful colour is inspired by a remarkable liqueur of the same name, which draws its origins from the majestic Chartreuse Mountains in southeastern France. Crafted with love by the dedicated Chartreux monks (also known as Carthusians) in their historic distillery, this exquisite liqueur is located in the Isère region, just a short 25 kilometres from the city of Grenoble, where my family happened to enjoy eight wonderful months. Monastère de la Grande Chartreuse, Saint-Pierre-de-Chartreuse, France | Sip & Savour You are stepping into a medieval mystery steeped in history as you discover Chartreuse, a fascinating liqueur with a recipe cherished for over 400 years. This unique blend comprises 130 different ingredients, and its closely guarded formula is known only to two friars at the Monastery of the Grande Chartreuse. The recipe is recorded in a 17th-century manuscript, kept in a secret safe accessible only to the superior of the Carthusian order. Le Granier en Chartreuse (Entremont-le-Vieux) | Sip & Savour Inside the Grande Chartreuse Monastery, an impressive 24 tons of hand-selected herbs, plants, and flowers are carefully dried, crushed, and blended in their Herb Room, guaranteeing a perfect mixture every time. This artisanal process culminates in the exquisite blends being transported to the distillery. In 2018, the distillery found its new home at the Aiguenoire Distillery in Entre-deux-Guiers, nestled deep within the stunning Chartreuse massif, after many years of production in Voiron. There, the herbs undergo a careful maceration in alcohol and are distilled using state-of-the-art stainless-steel stills. The resulting liqueur then gets to enjoy a nurturing aging process in French and Hungarian oak casks. After a few years of aging, the monks taste the liqueur to decide when it’s just right for bottling, putting their expertise to use with careful consideration. Half of the plants used in this liqueur come from the Alpine region. Some of the notable plants include: juniper berries, vulnéraire, centaury, citrus rind, cinnamon, mace, lemon balm, dried hyssop flower tops, peppermint, thyme, costmary, arnica, genepi, angelica roots, olive leaves, centella asiatica, ginkgo biloba, safforn, and fennel seeds, and that yellow chartreuse is similar to above, adding cardamom seeds and socctrine aloes. Cellar tours at the Caves de la Chartreuse in Voiron For those interested in this captivating story, the Caves de la Chartreuse in Voiron offers delightful cellar tours that reflect the monastic origins of Chartreuse. A major highlight of the visit is the opportunity to see the world's largest liqueur cellar, featuring massive oak vats that are used for aging the spirits. While the main distillation and aging operations have moved to a new facility nearby, the historic cellars and a special "single cask" aging process are still maintained at the Voiron site. Visitors of legal drinking age will find even more delight, as the tour concludes with a complimentary tasting! You can also stop by the on-site cocktail bar to sample different varieties and unique cocktails. The well-stocked gift shop offers a wide range of Chartreuse products, including exclusive bottles like the Foudre 147, which can only be purchased there. Costs of tour around 12 euros/person, approximatively 1h 15 minutes long. Types of Chartreuses Chartreuse originally boasted an impressive alcohol content of 69%, and it was primarily viewed as a medicinal beverage. Over time, it gained popularity among locals as an effective digestive aid. In 1784, a monk made adjustments to the recipe, sweetening it and lowering its alcohol content. Today, the distillery produces a variety of Chartreuse offerings, including Vert/Green Chartreuse, Jaune/Yellow Chartreuse, Elixir, Special Cuvées, and Exceptional Cuvées. - Green Chartreuse (Vert): This version has a strong herbal flavour and an alcohol content of 55°. "A powerful herbaceous, peppery nose, a fresh palate with minty notes, pine sap and citrus fruits. Bittersweet tea at the end of the mouth prolongs the tasting". - Yellow Chartreuse (Jaune): A sweeter and milder variant (43°) that features "A fresh and spicy nose. A soft structure. Scents of turmeric, citrus and anise. Floral notes extend the tasting". - L'Élixir végétal de la Grande-Chartreuse: This is made according to the original recipe from 1605, with an alcohol content of 69°. It can be consumed as a grog, in infusions, or on a piece of sugar. It is sold in small, wooden-covered bottles. - Special Cuvées: Representing more recent vintages, these blended liqueurs crafted from Jaune and Verte Chartreuse, providing discerning aficionados with an even broader spectrum of tantalizing scents and flavours to explore. - V.E.P. (à Vieillissement Exceptionnellement Prolongé ): The talented brothers expertly craft a remarkable cuvée that undergoes an extended aging process in carefully selected oak barrels. This meticulous method imparts a rich complexity and depth of flavour that sets it apart. Available in both the vibrant Yellow and the lush Green varieties, each option presents its own unique tasting experience. If you ever get the chance to savor this exquisite cuvée, don't hesitate, it's an extraordinary journey for the palate! Just keep in mind that this exceptional quality comes at a premium price. What's the best way to enjoy it? Locals love it straight, chilled, but room temperature is also delightful. In a tulip glass or a Cognac glass; just be cautious with ice cubes as they can disrupt the liqueur's structure. This liqueur is increasingly prominent in creative cocktails worldwide and is a favourite among pastry chefs in Voiron and the Isère region of France, who skillfully incorporate it into their delectable desserts. Enjoy its versatility! Chartreuse Tiramisù SERVINGS 9 | Preparation: 25 minutes, plus 4 to 24 hours' chilling Indulge in this creamy, decadent tiramisu recipe that effortlessly combines rich coffee with the unique herbal notes of Chartreuse liquor-soaked ladyfingers. The layers of velvety mascarpone create a luscious texture that melts in your mouth, while a generous dusting of rich cocoa powder on top adds a delightful contrast. This irresistible dessert is guaranteed to be a captivating conversation starter at your dinner table, so take a moment to brush up on the fascinating history of Chartreuse! The addition of this distinctive liquor enhances the classic Italian dessert, infusing it with an extraordinary depth of flavour that is sure to impress your guests. Ingredients 1 package (24) Lady Fingers (Savoiardi) 4 large egg yolks, cold 1/4 cups / 60 ml heavy whipping cream 16 ounce / 450 g mascarpone cheese at room temperature 1/3 cup / 65 g granulated sugar 1 teaspoon / 5 ml vanilla extract 1 cup / 240 ml brewed cold espresso 1/3 cup / 80 ml green or yellow Chartreuse Cocoa powder for dusting the top (about 2 tablespoons) You’ll need an 8×8-inch / 20x20 cm (or similar-sized) pan. Instructions Add whipping cream to a mixing bowl and beat on medium speed with electric mixers or a stand mixer. Gradually add sugar and vanilla extract, continuing to beat until stiff peaks form. Beat in the eggs one by one. Gently fold in the mascarpone cheese until thoroughly combined. Set the mixture aside. In a shallow bowl, combine coffee and the Chartreuse liqueur. Quickly dip the ladyfingers in the coffee, ensuring they are just moistened without soaking, and lay them in a single layer at the bottom of the pan. Spread half of the mascarpone mixture evenly over the ladyfingers. Add another layer of dipped ladyfingers and then smooth the remaining mascarpone cream over the top. Generously dust cocoa powder over the top using a fine mesh strainer for an even distribution. Refrigerate for at least 3-4 hours or overnight before serving to allow the flavors to meld. Notes: Make-Ahead Instructions: tiramisù tastes even better when prepared in advance, allowing the flavours to develop. It can be stored in the refrigerator for 2 to 3 days. Notes: I often get the question, "Do I really need to use mascarpone for tiramisù?" And my answer is a mix of yes and no! Traditionally, tiramisu uses this special Italian dairy, which brings a lusciously light texture and a subtle flavour that elevates the dish. As many of you may know, tiramisù is a modern dessert and it hails from northern Italy and made its debut in the 1960s. Its charming name translates to "pick me up", perfectly capturing its essence with invigorating ingredients like coffee, mascarpone, eggs, and ladyfingers, simply perfect for a little boost after a long day! Now, while I cherish the authentic mascarpone, I’m all for flexibility in the kitchen! Sometimes, I swap it out for full-fat cream cheese. It’s a fantastic option that’s more accessible and budget-friendly! Just keep in mind, it creates a denser texture, so I recommend folding in some more whipped cream for that delightful fluffiness we all love. Enjoy your Tiramisù Adventure! Happy sipping and savouring!

Art is often called food for the soul. Wine is praised in much the same way. The metaphor may be worn thin, yet in Italy it feels effortlessly true. Art isn't confined to museum walls; it spills into churches, cafés, and quiet piazzas, while wine flows through long conversations, family tables, and centuries-old traditions. You don't set out to find either so much as stumble upon them on your way to lunch. In Italy, beauty isn't a destination or a luxury. It is a way of life, woven into the everyday, waiting to be discovered in both a glass of wine and a sunlit street corner. Carpe diem, carpe vinum I've just come back from a week in Rome, and I'm still carrying the rhythm of the city with me. Art wasn't something we squeezed in between meals or aperitivo, it was the reason we went. It was also our first trip there without the kids. The last time we followed this kind of itinerary, they were still small enough to be bribed through museums with gelato. They survived churches, ruins, and long explanations about frescoes with a kind of exhausted dignity I still find impressive in hindsight. Rome was crowded and hot in that relentless summer way, where the air shimmers above the cobblestones. Yet even in that unbearable heat, the city has a way of dissolving discomfort the moment you are absorbed into its offerings. Looking back, what remains is the unbroken thread of the past: a fragment of carving on the corner of a building, a statue of Mary silhouetted against a perfect cloud like a Renaissance painting, and an ancient monument that has stood in the same place for nearly two thousand years while everything around it changes. Casa Manlia, Palazzo di Manilio | The Column of the ​Immaculate Conception | Caffè Martini Colosseum / Trastevere Credit: sipandsavour.blog The odd thing is how unremarkable it all feels to the city itself. People pray beneath world-famous paintings, sip espresso next to triumphal arches, and sell trinkets just steps from where Caesar met his end. Nothing feels staged there, it all simply unfolds as part of everyday life. Wine sits in the same register. It doesn’t arrive as an event. It’s poured without ceremony at lunch, opened again at dinner, occasionally appearing at 11am in a way nobody seems to justify or regret. It’s part of the rhythm, not an interruption to it. Italian Art and Wine: Matching Famous Artists with Italian Wines Somewhere between museum mornings and long, gloriously unfussy evenings over dinner, the idea began to take shape. Not as a grand theory, more as one of those little games that refuses to leave you alone. What if Italian art and Italian wine were speaking the same language, just in different materials? Not through dates or documented history, but through temperament. Colour, texture, mood, and a certain way of seeing the world. So I started matching them. What if Italy's greatest artists could each be introduced through a glass of wine from the landscapes they once called home? Before the art historians and wine purists sharpen their pencils, though, a small disclaimer. Many of these artists never tasted the wines I've paired them with here. Amarone, Super Tuscans, and Prosecco are relatively recent creations. But the regions behind them - from Veneto and Tuscany to Campania and Sicily - have been making wine since Roman times, and often long before. Of course, the Italy we know today did not exist until unification in 1861. Giotto, Michelangelo, Raphael, and Caravaggio lived in a peninsula divided into kingdoms, republics, duchies, and papal territories rather than a single nation. Even so, the vineyards, hills, and soils that define these regions have remained remarkably constant across the centuries. Titian never poured himself an Amarone, and Leonardo almost certainly didn't debate Super Tuscans over dinner. Yet they would have known the wines of their own regions, ancestors of the bottles we enjoy today. So pour yourself a glass - preferably Italian - and let's wander through the vineyards and masterpieces of Italy together. Giotto - Fiano di Avellino Every great story has a moment when everything changes. In Italian art, that moment begins with Giotto, whose paintings replaced distant symbolism with something startlingly new: people who looked and felt unmistakably human. The First Breath of the Renaissance Before Giotto, much of medieval European painting existed in a world of symbols and divine perfection. Figures floated against golden backgrounds, their expressions solemn and distant, more spiritual than human. Then came Giotto di Bondone (c. 1267–1337). Born in the hills of Tuscany, Giotto marks one of those rare moments in art history when painting suddenly starts to feel recognizably human. In the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, figures no longer float against gold backgrounds like decorative symbols. They stand in rooms, they lean into each other, they react. And the expressions feel almost too relatable: in The Kiss of Judas, Judas leans in with the awkward determination of someone fully committed to a bad decision, while Christ looks less like a distant divine figure and more like someone quietly thinking, “Well… this is happening”. Elsewhere, the angels aren’t doing much better. In the Crucifixion and Lamentation, they’re openly distressed, no serene distance, just full emotional overload, like they’ve all agreed things have officially gone too far. It’s surprisingly modern: grief looks like grief, shock looks like shock. No symbolism required. Giotto's frescoes in the Scrovegni Chapel, Padua What Giotto changes most is presence. His figures occupy space in a way earlier painting doesn’t really succeed at. Bodies have weight, feet touch ground, gestures land with consequence. Even architecture starts to feel believable rather than decorative. Giotto was a transitional figure who bridged the Gothic period and the early Renaissance. Often called the "father of the Renaissance", not because he invented it, but because he changed the terms of painting. With him, art began to represent human experience more directly rather than merely hint at it through symbolic or stylized forms. If Giotto were a wine, he would be Fiano di Avellino. The connection isn’t immediate in a flashy way. Fiano doesn’t reveal itself immediately. It doesn’t rely on sweetness or obvious fruit. Instead, it builds shape slowly in the glass: texture, tension, quiet depth. Like Giotto’s figures, it has presence. Not decoration, but structure, a kind of grounded clarity that holds everything together. There’s also something about endurance in both. Giotto’s frescoes, still legible centuries later, carry the same sense of permanence you find in Fiano as it evolves with age, becoming more layered, more golden, more complex without losing its core identity. And perhaps most importantly, both feel rooted. Giotto in the early formation of Italian visual language; Fiano in the volcanic soils of Campania, stubbornly local, true to itself. Botticelli - Prosecco From Giotto to Botticelli, only about 150 years pass. Yet rather than a simple progression, it feels as though art itself has changed temperament, becoming lighter, more lyrical, and more concerned with beauty than solemnity. Beauty, Lightness, and the Joy of Spring Sandro Botticelli (c. 1445–1510), the great master of the Florentine Renaissance, gave form to a world where reality and dream seem to exist in perfect harmony. His figures move with effortless grace, carried by flowing hair, delicate drapery, and a rhythm that feels almost weightless. In The Birth of Venus and Primavera, everything seems in motion, but nothing feels heavy. Beauty appears without effort, carried on myths, romance, and the quiet promise of spring. Primavera (Spring), late 1470s or early 1480s, Uffizi, Florence Like Botticelli’s paintings, Prosecco is defined by brightness, ease, and a kind of irresistible charm. Produced in the hills of northeastern Italy across Veneto and Friuli-Venezia Giulia, it’s known for lively bubbles, floral aromas, and notes of green apple, pear, honeydew melon, and honeysuckle. Fresh and approachable, its appeal lies in pleasure rather than weight or intensity. The connection to Botticelli is in its sense of effortless movement. His figures seem carried by wind and rhythm rather than structure or force, and Prosecco moves in much the same way - light, lifted, and immediate from the first sip. Neither is concerned with drama or complexity for its own sake. Instead, both value freshness over intensity and elegance over excess. Like Venus emerging from the sea, Botticelli's paintings leave an impression of lightness and effortless grace. Prosecco does the same by capturing the same distinctly Italian gift for making beauty feel natural, generous, and uncomplicated. Leonardo da Vinci - The Artist Who Refused to Be One Wine After Botticelli’s world of brightness and ease, Italian art begins to shift. With Leonardo da Vinci, it becomes more questioning, more layered, and far harder to define in a single line. Chianti Classico, Super Tuscan, or Vin Santo - The Tuscan Trifecta Most artists are relatively easy to match with a single wine. Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519), however, refuses to fit so neatly. Rather than pairing him with one bottle, it feels more natural to pair him with a landscape: Tuscany. Tuscany was where Leonardo's mind first took shape. Born in the village of Vinci and later apprenticed in Florence, he grew up in a world where art, science, engineering, music, and philosophy were not separate pursuits but different expressions of the same curiosity. Although his career took him to Milan, briefly to Rome, and eventually to France, the habits of mind that defined him were formed in Tuscany. If any place speaks Leonardo's language, it is the cradle of the Renaissance itself. Its wines, then, become different expressions of the same landscape: Chianti Classico for balance, the Super Tuscans for innovation, and Vin Santo for patience and reflection. Chianti Classico - The Foundation The strongest starting point is Chianti Classico, the historic core of Tuscany. Built on Sangiovese, it is structured, balanced, and quietly precise. Nothing dominates: acidity, tannin, fruit, and earth sit in careful proportion, each one supporting the whole. That sense of order feels very close to Leonardo’s thinking. Beneath the beauty of his work lies a mind constantly measuring, observing, and refining. He understood that harmony is rarely accidental, it comes from discipline. Chianti Classico works in much the same way: its elegance is controlled, not decorative, and its strength lies in balance rather than excess. Super Tuscans - The Innovator Yet Leonardo never stayed within boundaries for long. He questioned established ideas and pushed into new territory, often far ahead of his time. That instinct finds a clear parallel in the Super Tuscans. When winemakers stepped outside traditional rules to experiment with new blends and methods, they weren’t rejecting Tuscany’s identity. They were expanding it. The result was a category defined by curiosity and invention, producing wines that broke convention while still belonging to their place. Like Leonardo, Super Tuscans are driven by exploration. They show what happens when deep knowledge meets the freedom to experiment. Vin Santo - The Thinker Then there is Vin Santo. If Chianti represents structure and the Super Tuscans invention, Vin Santo reflects Leonardo’s patience. It is a wine that develops slowly, often aged for years before release, asking for time rather than attention. Leonardo was equally attentive to process. He studied water, movement, anatomy, light, always focused on how things change rather than how they appear at a single moment. His notebooks are full of observation rather than conclusion. Vin Santo mirrors that mindset. It doesn’t reveal itself quickly. Instead, it unfolds gradually, rewarding patience with depth and quiet complexity. As it happens, Leonardo's connection to Tuscan wine isn't merely symbolic. At Villa Da Vinci, near his birthplace, wines are still made from the vineyards surrounding the estate. Their labels feature details from his paintings and sketches. Villa Da Vinci Better still, Chianti Classico and Vin Santo both date back to the Renaissance, so Leonardo would almost certainly have known wines from the same Tuscan traditions, even if he was far too busy dissecting cadavers, designing flying machines, and painting masterpieces to leave us any tasting notes. So Which Wine Is Leonardo? All three. Chianti Classico reflects his balance. Super Tuscans reflect his curiosity. Vin Santo reflects his patience. Taken together, they form a more complete picture than any single bottle could offer. If there is a preference, Super Tuscan might come closest, because Leonardo was, above all, unwilling to stay within limits. But even that answer feels incomplete, which is probably the most accurate way to describe him. Some minds fit neatly into categories. Leonardo’s never did. Michelangelo - Barolo If Leonardo is the mind that refuses to settle, constantly moving between ideas and possibilities, Michelangelo feels like the opposite impulse: everything compressed into form, force, and resistance. Controlled Force,Compressed Intensity Michelangelo Buonarroti's (1475–1564) work doesn’t feel like it was made. It feels like it was extracted. In David , the tension is internal, everything held just before release (the sculpture depicts David before his battle with Goliath). In the Sistine Chapel ceiling, bodies twist through space as if thought itself had physical weight. Even in Moses, there’s a sense that restraint is doing most of the structural work. The unfinished Slaves make this even clearer. Figures emerge from marble that still refuses to fully surrender them. You don’t see a finished form so much as a negotiation still in progress. Michelangelo’s idea, that the figure already exists inside the stone, isn’t poetic when you look closely. It feels almost literal. The resistance is part of the work. Slaves (unfinished), 1519–1534, Galleria dell'Accademia, Florence The same tension that gives Michelangelo's work its extraordinary energy defines Barolo. Neither reveals itself immediately; both unfold through time, moving from restraint toward expression. Young Barolo is tight, almost withholding. The tannins dominate early tasting like structure before pleasure. Fruit is present but controlled, as if it’s being kept in check deliberately. With time, it starts to open, but not evenly. Aromas appear in layers rather than waves: dried rose, sour cherry, something earthy that feels more like memory than flavour. Nothing arrives all at once. With age, Barolo reaches its fullest expression. The tannins integrate rather than disappear, and what once felt austere becomes layered and expansive. Earth, leather, truffle, and dried fruit unfold with depth, carrying both power and refinement in the same frame. Like Michelangelo’s figures, it never feels fully relaxed. It moves through stages of restraint, emergence, and depth, revealing itself not at once, but over time, in tension, release, and resolution. Raphael - Brunello di Montalcino If Michelangelo was the master of power and drama, Raphael was the master of harmony. Where Michelangelo's figures are full of movement and intensity, Raphael's are graceful, balanced, and serene. Harmony as Ideal Brunello di Montalcino is one of Italy's most celebrated wines, admired not for immediate exuberance but for its patience, balance, and quiet confidence. Made exclusively from Sangiovese and aged for years before release, it reveals itself gradually. At first it can seem reserved, but with time it opens into layers of ripe cherry, dried rose, earth, leather, and spice. Its greatness lies not in power alone, but in the way every element is woven into a seamless whole. That same sense of harmony defines the work of Raffaello Sanzio (1483–1520). Among the great masters of the High Renaissance, Raphael became renowned for compositions of extraordinary balance, where beauty arises from perfect proportion rather than dramatic effect. In paintings such as The School of Athens, complexity feels effortless. Figures, architecture, and perspective are arranged with such clarity that the eye moves naturally through the scene. Every gesture has purpose, every space feels considered, and every figure belongs. Raphael does not reduce complexity; he organizes it into something calm, coherent, and complete. Brunello achieves much the same effect. Its structure is firm but never austere, its richness balanced by freshness and elegance. Rather than drawing attention to individual flavours, it allows them to unfold as part of a seamless whole. Like Raphael's paintings, it rewards patience, revealing depth through balance rather than intensity. In both, harmony is not the absence of complexity but its resolution. Each reminds us that the highest form of refinement is often the least conspicuous, where every part contributes to a whole that feels both natural and inevitable. Titian - Amarone della Valpolicella / Soave Classico If Raphael represents harmony brought into perfect balance, Titian begins to loosen that structure, letting colour, atmosphere, and emotion take over. Titian & Two Wines of Veneto Few artists embody the richness and versatility of Venetian Renaissance painting like Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) (c. 1488–1576). Born in the Alpine village of Pieve di Cadore, he moved to Venice as a boy and spent almost his entire career there, working from his renowned studio until his death. Over more than six decades, he transformed Venetian painting, evolving from luminous, colour-driven compositions to deeply expressive late works that helped redefine Western art. One wine hardly feels sufficient to capture that journey. For Titian's early period, Soave Classico feels like the natural match. Grown in the volcanic hills east of Verona, it is elegant and restrained, with notes of citrus, white blossom, and a gentle mineral edge. There is a clarity to it: light on its feet, carefully shaped, and quietly refined. It reflects a younger Titian, whose compositions remain precise and whose mastery of light is disciplined and controlled. Works from this period include Sacred and Profane Love (c. 1514), Flora (c. 1515), and The Assumption of the Virgin (1516–1518). Later Titian belongs to Amarone della Valpolicella. Made from partially dried grapes and matured through long ageing, it is deeper, richer, and more textured. Notes of dried cherry, spice, cocoa, and tobacco unfold slowly, with weight and warmth replacing early restraint. The brushwork in his later paintings follows a similar logic. Less defined, more atmospheric, and driven by emotion rather than structure. Taken together, the two wines trace the arc of his artistic evolution. Yet it is Amarone that leaves the strongest impression. It does not reveal itself quickly; instead, it builds in layers, shifting between intensity and softness. Like Titian in his maturity, it is less concerned with form than feeling, less about clarity than presence. While masterpieces such as Bacchus and Ariadne (1522–1523) and Venus of Urbino (1538) mark the height of his mature style, his late works - including The Penitent Magdalene (c. 1565) - show an increasingly expressive, atmospheric approach that finds its closest counterpart in Amarone's depth and complexity. What remains constant is his extraordinary command of colour and mood. Even as structure loosens, the work never loses coherence. Instead, it gains depth, as if time itself has become part of the composition. In that sense, Titian bridges two worlds: the disciplined clarity of the Renaissance and the emotional richness that follows it. Caravaggio - Taurasi If Titian's world is defined by colour and atmosphere, Caravaggio's is shaped by light and shadow. A master of dramatic realism, he used light not merely to illuminate his subjects, but to reveal their humanity in all its vulnerability and intensity. Chiaroscuro and Concentration:The Physics of Drama in Paint and Wine Michelangelo Merisi, known as Caravaggio (1571–1610), stands at the edge of the Baroque, where the balance of the Renaissance gives way to something sharper, more immediate, and far more human. His paintings are built on chiaroscuro and tenebrism, not just methods of modelling light, but ways of deciding what matters in a scene. Light doesn’t gently illuminate; it cuts in. It isolates a face, a gesture, a moment of recognition, while everything else recedes into shadow. In his world, darkness is never empty. It holds tension, creates suspense, and gives even the smallest gesture a kind of psychological weight. Caravaggio rarely begins at the beginning. His scenes drop you straight into the middle of things, at the exact point where something has already shifted, or is about to. Ordinary people become participants in moments that feel at once sacred, violent, and intensely real. There is nothing decorative about his sense of holiness. Saints, soldiers, tax collectors, executioners, they are all rendered with the same uncompromising physical truth. No one is idealised. Grace, when it appears, arrives in the same space as rough hands and tired faces. The sacred doesn’t float above the world; it appears inside it, unadorned and unannounced. Rome still holds his work in situ. Three churches preserve his paintings exactly where they were meant to be seen, alongside others now housed in the city’s museums. Moving through Rome, you begin to follow him almost unintentionally, from one chapel to the next, each encounter more immediate than the last. The clearest example is the Contarelli Chapel in San Luigi dei Francesi, where the St Matthew cycle still hangs in its original setting. Standing there, the experience becomes disarmingly direct. The light in the paintings is not simply part of the composition, it is what gives the scene its meaning. Without it, there is no story at all. The Calling of Saint Matthew | The Inspiration of Saint Matthew | The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew at the Contarelli Chapel San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome, painted between 1599 and 1602 Taurasi, Campania’s great Aglianico wine, feels as though it belongs in the same world of forces as Caravaggio. It comes from inland Campania, shaped by volcanic soils left behind by Vesuvius and the region’s deeper geological past. These are lands formed by destruction and renewal at once. Volcanoes erase without hesitation, yet over time they leave behind soil of extraordinary vitality. What once destroyed the landscape becomes the condition for its richness. Caravaggio’s art rests on a similar contradiction. His paintings are built from conflict: light and darkness, violence and grace, collapse and revelation. Nothing is softened or idealised. Beauty exists not in spite of tension, but because of it. Taurasi carries that same elemental character. Deep in colour, firm in structure, and layered with black cherry, leather, tobacco, smoke, iron, and volcanic earth, it is a wine of weight and presence. There is no easy generosity here. Instead, there is concentration, intensity, and a sense of power held carefully in balance. The connection is not simply darkness or depth. It is that both are born from opposing forces. Vesuvius reminds us that destruction and creation are often inseparable. Caravaggio's paintings find light within darkness; Taurasi finds elegance within power. Neither softens the truth. Instead, both show that beauty is often forged under pressure, emerging stronger because of it. Artemisia Gentileschi - Etna Rosso From Caravaggio to Artemisia Gentileschi, the shift moves from a more masculine register of dramatic force, like Vesuvius, powerful and destructive, to a more feminine one, like Mount Etna, equally intense but more continuous, alive, and ever-present. Courage, Fury, and the Female Gaze Volcanic wines have a way of carrying their landscape inside them: heat, pressure, and time translated into structure rather than spectacle. Etna Rosso is a clear example. Grown on the slopes of Mount Etna in Sicily, it opens with lift and brightness, almost restrained at first. Then it deepens. Red cherry, wild herbs, smoke, and a stony mineral edge emerge gradually, as if the wine is holding something back rather than announcing itself. There is tension here, but it is controlled, continuous, and alive. That same quality of controlled intensity runs through the work of Artemisia Gentileschi (1593–c.1656), the great female voice of the Italian Baroque. Where Caravaggio fractures the scene with sudden illumination, Artemisia builds it with a different kind of force. Her paintings do not erupt outward; they hold inward pressure. Figures are fully present, anchored, physical, unidealised, but what defines them is not spectacle. It is agency. You feel women not as symbols or ornaments, but as participants inside action that belongs to them. She often paints at moments of decision rather than collapse or shock. The instant just before resolution, where will and consequence are still locked together. The tension is not theatrical; it is internal, concentrated, sustained. Light in her work behaves less like interruption and more like focus. It clarifies rather than disrupts. It pulls attention toward structure, toward bodies that occupy space with certainty rather than fragility. Etna Rosso carries a similar temperament. It does not demand attention through force. Instead, it unfolds in stages, revealing depth without breaking its own balance. Nothing is exaggerated, yet nothing is easy. Even the volcano that shapes it deepens the metaphor. Mount Etna has long been personified in feminine terms in Sicilian tradition - “Mamma Etna”, or the ancient goddess Aetna - an image of power that is not explosive in isolation, but continuous, generative, and self-renewing. Seen this way, Artemisia’s Baroque is not a counterpart to Caravaggio’s by opposition, but by modulation. If his world is rupture and impact, hers is continuity and held intensity. Both are uncompromising. They simply define force differently. And there’s a quieter thread running through both her story and the wine as well: resilience. Artemisia built her career against real constraints, while Etna Rosso comes from one of Europe’s most demanding landscapes. In both cases, what lasts isn’t ease, it’s strength shaped over time. Bernini - Barbaresco Caravaggio and Artemisia shape drama through light and stillness; Bernini transforms it into movement carved in stone. Barbaresco and Bernini: Structure in Motion Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598 – 1680) had an extraordinary ability to catch change at the exact moment it becomes irreversible. In Apollo and Daphne, that idea is almost literal: fingers turning into leaves, skin hardening into bark, a body still fleeing even as it begins to root into the earth. It is not simply a sculpture of two figures, but the instant between one state and another, stretched just long enough for transformation to be visible. That sense of suspended motion runs through his work. In The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, marble no longer feels like stone. Fabric twists as if still falling, breath seems held mid-release, and opposing states - ecstasy, surrender, resistance - coexist in a single unfolding moment. Nothing settles. Everything is in the act of becoming. Rome itself feels shaped by this logic under Bernini. Fountains erupt as if frozen mid-motion, chapels stage revelation, and architecture becomes less a frame than a performance space. That same idea of transformation finds its counterpart in Barbaresco. Often called the “Queen” of Piedmont wines, Barbaresco sits in contrast to Barolo - and offers a different expression of the same grape, Nebbiolo. Where Barolo can feel dense and restrained in its youth, Barbaresco is more immediate: more perfumed, more open, more expressive from the start. Part of this comes from its landscape. The soils of the Barbaresco zone, with their higher sand content, tend to produce softer, more supple tannins. The result is a texture that feels less like structure alone and more like form coming alive, closer to flesh over bone. Like Bernini’s marble, it gives the impression of softness emerging from something inherently rigid. There is also a visual quality to Barbaresco that feels almost deceptive. Its colour is often lighter and more translucent than Barolo, yet the aroma rises quickly and expansively: rose, white pepper, liquorice, dried herbs. It creates a sense of lift that belies its underlying depth, much like Bernini’s ability to make stone feel airborne. At its core, the parallel is simple: Bernini turns marble into motion caught mid-becoming; Barbaresco turns structure into something immediately alive. Both belong to a Baroque world where nothing is ever fully still, only continuously unfolding. Canova- Franciacorta From Bernini’s charged motion, the Baroque gradually cools into something more restrained in Canova’s Neoclassicism. Lightness, Grace, and Effortless Form Franciacorta is Italy's most refined sparkling wine. Produced in the rolling hills of Lombardy using the traditional method, it combines fine mousse, vibrant freshness, and remarkable precision. It feels almost weightless in the glass, yet that elegance is the result of years of patient ageing and meticulous craftsmanship. Antonio Canova (1757–1822) achieved something remarkably similar in marble. His mythological figures, dancers, and noblewomen seem to defy the weight of stone, carrying a quiet grace that appears completely natural. Nothing feels forced, yet every gesture, fold, and contour is the product of extraordinary control. The connection lies in this shared illusion of effortlessness. Franciacorta's refinement is earned through time, discipline, and precision, just as Canova laboured over marble until it appeared soft, fluid, and almost alive. In both, true mastery conceals the work behind it. Like a Canova sculpture, a great Franciacorta feels light but never slight: elegant, balanced, and quietly enduring. Modigliani - Lagrein From Canova’s polished stillness, art gradually loosens its classical restraint and moves toward the elongated modernism of Modigliani. Elegance, Melancholy, and the Art of Restraint Amedeo Modigliani (1884–1920) reduces form until only essence remains. Few artists developed a visual language as immediately recognizable as Modigliani’s: elongated necks, almond-shaped eyes, tilted faces, and figures that seem suspended between elegance and melancholy. Working in Paris in the early twentieth century, he stripped portraiture down to its emotional essentials, creating subjects that feel at once intimate and distant, fragile and self-assured. Lagrein comes from the north of Italy and carries a distinctive sense of place. Native to the alpine landscape of Alto Adige, it is a wine of depth rather than exuberance, known for its dark colour, velvety texture, and quiet intensity. There is an understated refinement to Lagrein that resists easy categorization, much as Modigliani’s portraits stand apart from the major artistic movements of his time. The parallel lies in their shared combination of elegance and mood. Modigliani elongated forms not to make them more realistic, but to make them more expressive, creating portraits that feel stretched toward poetry. Lagrein achieves something similar through flavour and texture. Beneath its dark fruit and soft tannins is a subtle tension, a note of introspection that lingers long after the first impression. Like one of Modigliani’s portraits, a great Lagrein is graceful, haunting, and quietly unforgettable. A Final Toast to Italy I chose these eleven artists and sculptors because they are, to me, the crema della crema. Not as a definitive list, and certainly not as a ranking, but simply as a way of exploring the conversation between Italian art and wine without trying to tell the whole story. The truth is, the deeper you go into Italy, the more you realise that any list is only a starting point. From Giotto's first steps toward perspective to Modigliani's modern lines, Italian art doesn't move neatly from one chapter to the next. It branches, circles back, reinvents itself, and somehow remains Italian throughout. Every generation adds another layer without erasing what came before. Italian wine feels much the same. A crisp Soave, a patient Barolo, the richness of Amarone, the effortless elegance of Prosecco. Each expresses its landscape in a different voice. They're not simply wines to drink, but places, histories, and traditions poured into a glass. In the end, I don't think this is really about comparing artists with wines at all. It's about paying attention. The longer you spend with a great painting - or a great bottle - the more it reveals itself. Neither rewards rushing. Both ask for curiosity, patience, and a willingness to look, or taste, one more time. Perhaps that's why Italy captivates us so completely. It teaches you that beauty isn't something to consume quickly or tick off an itinerary. It's something to linger over. Saluti! 🍷 Prologue: An Evening in the Taverna The first jug of wine had barely been poured before Giotto raised his cup. Giotto: "To painting people who finally look like they're standing on the same earth as the rest of us." Botticelli smiled. "Perhaps. But they still hadn't discovered spring." A ripple of laughter circled the table. Leonardo da Vinci, turning a wine jug in his hands, asked, "Have you noticed? The shape of this vessel distributes the weight perfectly. I wonder if..." Michelangelo interrupted. "Leonardo, for one evening, can something simply be a jug?" "It can," Leonardo replied, "but it could also be improved." Raphael raised his glass. "Must every supper become a competition? We haven't even reached the cheese." At the far end, Titian studied the deep ruby wine. "A beautiful colour," he said. "Venice would approve." Caravaggio leaned over. "Only if the light chooses the guilty one." "It always does in your paintings," Titian replied. "And dramatically." Artemisia Gentileschi smiled. "No. Someone has to decide where the light belongs." Bernini, never one to resist, gestured animatedly. "Stone moves, if you ask it correctly." Canova sipped his wine. "Or after the struggle has disappeared." Michelangelo grinned. "Marble settles every argument." From the corner, Modigliani quietly sketched everyone on a scrap of paper. Leonardo glanced over. "You've made my neck impossibly long." "I've merely improved everyone's proportions." Modigliani answered. Botticelli looked at the drawing. "I rather like it." Caravaggio frowned. "Where are the shadows?" "I left them to you," Modigliani answered. The table erupted with laughter. Another loaf of bread was broken, another fiasco bottle emptied, and the conversation drifted from patrons to pigments, from marble to muses, from Florence to Venice and back again. Finally, Raphael lifted his glass once more. "To the work." Titian smiled. "And to what outlives us." Caravaggio raised his cup. "Provided the wine lasts until morning." Artemisia laughed. "It won't." Then, another bottle was opened. No one objected.

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. If aliens landed in Hungary and tried to figure out our national cuisine, they would probably conclude that Hungarians eat breaded pork chops more often than any other food on planet Earth. And they wouldn't be entirely wrong. Officially, Hungary's national dish is gulyás (aka goulash), unofficially, however, rántott hús (breaded pork cutlet) is the dish that quietly runs the country. For many Hungarian families, rántott hús isn't just Sunday lunch; it's a lifestyle. It can appear at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sure, Saturday and Sunday are when it normally thrives, but then it's practically mandatory. Even when there's enough food on the table to keep every Hungarian grandmother calm for five whole minutes, a platter of breaded pork somehow still makes an appearance. And if it doesn't fit on the table, it quietly waits on the kitchen counter. You know... just in case. So, Is This Dish Actually Hungarian? Ask almost anyone in Hungary and they’ll tell you rántott hús is as Hungarian as paprika. Then cross the border. In Austria, you find Wiener Schnitzel. In Slovakia and Czechia, similar breaded cutlets appear. In Northern Italy, there is Cotoletta alla Milanese. Suddenly, Hungary’s beloved comfort food looks less unique. But that is where the story becomes interesting. Recipes do not carry passports. They travel with people: soldiers, merchants, cooks, and families. They cross borders, adapt to local ingredients, and eventually become part of new cultures. The better question is not always, “Who invented it?” Sometimes it is: “How did it become ours?” Řízek at ŠNYCL, Prague / Cotoletta alla Milanese, Osteria Conchetta, Milan Rántott hús, Buja Disznó(k), Budapest / Wiener Schnitzel, Meissl & Schadn, Vienna One Dish, Many Borders Central Europe has always been a crossroads of cultures, and food moved along with people. For centuries, the Habsburg Empire united half of Europe under one crown, one bureaucracy, and about seventeen languages nobody in Vienna fully understood. The empire may have been complicated politically, but it was remarkably efficient at spreading ideas, including culinary ones. Both Milan's cotoletta and the classic Wiener Schnitzel are traditionally made with veal, although the Milanese version is distinguished by its bone-in cutlet. In Hungary, Czechia, and Slovakia, however, the recipe gradually evolved to suit everyday family cooking. Pork - and later chicken - became the preferred choice, making the dish more affordable and accessible. The dish changed because people changed it. It travels, adapts, and eventually becomes something people feel has always belonged to them. At some point, debating ownership becomes less interesting than appreciating the journey. Every culture added something. Nobody owns the breadcrumb... So, Seriously... Who Invented It? The short answer: probably the Italians - but the story is complicated. One of the earliest documented examples resembling a breaded cutlet appears in medieval Milanese records. Similar preparations later spread through northern Italy and the Habsburg lands, where cooks adapted them to local traditions. A famous story claims Austrian Field Marshal Joseph Radetzky brought the recipe from Milan to Vienna in the 19th century. It is a great story, but historians generally consider it more legend than fact. Breaded cutlets were already known in Austria before then. Tonkatsu at Wagokoro Tonkatsu Anzu Hanare, Tokyo, Japan And the journey continued: Italian immigrants later carried their version to Argentina and Uruguay, where it became milanesa, now a beloved South American comfort food. Then Japan Entered the Story... Just when the breaded cutlet seemed destined to remain a European classic, Japan gave it an entirely new identity. During the Meiji era in the late nineteenth century, Japan enthusiastically embraced yōshoku - Western-inspired dishes reimagined to suit Japanese tastes. Among them was katsuretsu, Japan's interpretation of the European breaded cutlet. The real transformation came in 1899 at Tokyo's renowned Rengatei restaurant. Rather than following the European method of shallow-frying, the chefs developed a deeper-fried version that reflected Japanese cooking techniques and preferences. Another defining change was the introduction of panko. Made from crustless white bread, its light, airy flakes absorb less oil than traditional breadcrumbs, creating the crisp, delicate texture that has become the hallmark of Japanese fried foods. The meat changed as well. As it had elsewhere, veal gave way to a more practical and affordable choice - pork, or ton in Japanese. The result was tonkatsu: a dish inspired by Europe, yet unmistakably Japanese. Served with finely shredded cabbage, steamed rice, and a tangy, sweet-savory sauce, tonkatsu quickly became one of Japan's most beloved comfort foods. From there, the breaded cutlet began another journey, inspiring dishes such as Korea's donkatsu and countless regional variations across Asia. Each culture made it its own, proving once again that great recipes rarely stay where they begin. One Family, Many Accents From Milanese kitchens... to Viennese cafés... to Hungarian Sunday lunches... to South American restaurants... to Tokyo’s tonkatsu counters... the humble breaded cutlet has traveled farther than most people ever will. But the most interesting part was never who made it first. It was how every culture made it their own. And honestly, that is a much better story. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think there is a forgotten slice of rántott hús sitting on the kitchen counter. You know... Just in case. The Wine Situation I never thought I would find myself writing about a wine pairing for schnitzel. Schnitzel, rántott hús, milanesa, tonkatsu - these are comfort foods in the truest sense. Crispy, golden, familiar. They're usually enjoyed with a cold beer, a simple table wine, or whatever happens to be within reach. But then I opened a French Chardonnay, and this bottle made me reconsider. Côtes d'Auvergne AOP When someone says French Chardonnay, most people immediately think: Burgundy. Not this time. Jura? No. Languedoc-Roussillon? Not there either. This Chardonnay is produced by Saint-Verny in the heart of France's volcanic Auvergne region, a rugged, mountainous area with a strong identity and a long winemaking tradition. Home to the Côtes d'Auvergne AOP, officially recognized in 2011, the region is known for elegant Gamay and Pinot Noir reds, as well as fresh, mineral-driven Chardonnay. Although Auvergne lies between Burgundy and the Rhône Valley, it is officially part of the upper Loire Valley, as its vineyards stretch along the Allier River, one of the Loire's main tributaries. Puy-de-Dôme The vineyards are located in the Puy-de-Dôme department of the Massif Central, near Clermont-Ferrand, where vines are planted at elevations of 350 to 540 metres. The combination of volcanic basalt, clay, limestone, and granite soils gives the wines their distinctive freshness, structure, and mineral character. The region also holds a personal memory for me. It was there that I first tasted French wine as an eighteen-year-old, on my first trip to France as an adult. Was I already infatuated with French wine back then? Not really. I remember those winery visits only vaguely - possibly because I was experiencing the wine rather than documenting it. The bottles, I suspect, were partly responsible for the missing details. It's a small connection, but it gives this bottle a meaning beyond what's in the glass. It makes it part of my own journey. And perhaps that's why it feels like such a natural companion for a dish that has spent centuries traveling the world and has always had a place at my family's Hungarian Sunday lunch table. Chardonnay Is Not Just Chardonnay Just as the breaded cutlet evolved as it travelled from country to country, Chardonnay (and indeed every grape variety) reveals a different personality depending on where it is grown and how it is cultivated. In other words, the same grape variety expresses itself differently depending on its environment and cultivation. Over centuries, natural mutations within Chardonnay vines have produced numerous clones, each with subtle differences in berry size, cluster shape, ripening behavior, acidity, aromatics, and texture. These are not different grape varieties, but distinct genetic selections that represent different expressions of the same variety. Chardonnay grape Chardonnay is perhaps the best example of this remarkable diversity. While climate, soil, and the choices made in the vineyard and winery have the greatest influence on a wine's style, clonal selection adds another layer of complexity and nuance. This is especially evident in North America. Much of the continent's Chardonnay is rooted in a handful of influential selections, most notably the historic Wente selection, introduced from Burgundy to California in 1912. In Canada, growers often combine Wente and Dijon clones, crafting wines that balance vibrant acidity with elegance and depth while expressing the character of their vineyard sites. The result is a grape capable of extraordinary range. Some Chardonnays are lean, mineral, and restrained, while others are richly textured, floral, and generous, with layers of orchard and tropical fruit. They are all unmistakably Chardonnay, yet each tells a different story. Chardonnay 809 offers a fascinating example of this clonal diversity. This Burgundian selection is classified as a Musqué clone, a more aromatic expression of Chardonnay resulting from natural mutations within the variety. It shares some floral and aromatic traits associated with the Muscat family while retaining the freshness, acidity, and structure that define Chardonnay. It still has the elegance, structure, and balance that Chardonnay is known for, but it carries an extra layer: floral notes, brighter aromatics, a slightly exotic character, and so, a more distinctive personality. It is not a different grape. It is Chardonnay showing a different side of itself. Chardonnay 809, Saint-Verny, Desprat Saint-Verny The bottle I picked up at Metrovino in Calgary, comes from Desprat Saint-Verny, a historic family-owned producer in Auvergne founded in 1885. The vineyards sit among the volcanic landscapes of the Chaîne des Puys, planted on soils shaped by ash, lava, and basalt. That volcanic origin gives the wines a distinctive sense of place: freshness, minerality, and a subtle character that connects the wine to the landscape where it was born. Desprat Saint-Verny official website Why It Works with Schnitzel For this pairing, I stepped away from the traditional potato sides and served the schnitzel with braised sauerkraut - cooked with bacon and onion. It's a simple, rustic accompaniment, but it gives the dish exactly what it needs. Even after the cabbage is rinsed before cooking, it retains a lively acidity. That gentle tang creates a natural bridge to the wine, while the smoky richness of the bacon is lifted by the Chardonnay's bright acidity, which cuts through the fat and refreshes the palate with every bite. The citrus notes in Chardonnay 809 echo the squeeze of lemon that traditionally finishes a schnitzel, while its delicate floral aromas and ripe fruit bring freshness to the crisp, savoury crust. The pairing that feels both comforting and surprisingly elegant. Crispy Breaded Pork Cutlets with Braised Sauerkraut Serves 4 | Prep time: 20 minutes | Cooking time: 25 minutes Traditional sides for breaded pork cutlets vary by region. Austrian schnitzel is often served with potato salad, cucumber salad, parsley potatoes, or lingonberry jam. Hungarian breaded cutlets are commonly paired with rice, mashed potatoes, fries, or pickled vegetables. Italian cotoletta alla Milanese is frequently accompanied by arugula salad with tomatoes, roasted potatoes, or a simple lemon wedge. Japanese tonkatsu is traditionally served with shredded cabbage, steamed rice, miso soup, and pickles. For this recipe, I chose braised sauerkraut. The combination of a crispy, golden breaded cutlet with tender, flavourful sauerkraut is simple, affordable, nutritious, and satisfying. Rich in fibre and probiotics (when made with traditionally fermented sauerkraut), it's a wholesome meal that's both comforting and guaranteed to please a crowd. While traditional versions are often made with veal or pork, chicken breast is an excellent lighter alternative that works just as well. With just a handful of everyday ingredients, you can create a comforting meal that feels both timeless and a little special. Braised Sauerkraut Ingredients: 1 jar of sauerkraut (standard grocery-store jar is usually 650–900 g / 1.4–2 lb before draining) 1 large onion, sliced Bacon or pancetta (optional) Rendered bacon fat or olive oil, as needed Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste half of an apple, sliced (optionl) Instructions: Rinse the sauerkraut under cold water to soften some of its sharp acidity, then squeeze out the excess liquid. In a pan, sauté the bacon or pancetta until it releases its fat. Add the sliced onion and cook until softened and lightly caramelized. If needed, add a splash of olive oil. Add the sauerkraut - and the sliced apples, if using - and continue cooking for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until it develops a little colour and the flavours come together. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Crispy Breaded Pork Cutlets Ingredients: 4 boneless pork loin or leg cutlets (about 150 g / 5 oz each) ½ cup all-purpose flour 2 eggs, beaten 1½ cups fine breadcrumbs or panko Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste Lard or avocado oil, for frying Lemon wedges, for serving (optional) Instructions: Prepare the meat: Place the pork cutlets between sheets of baking paper (I prefer this over plastic wrap, as it avoids any contact with plastic during pounding) and gently pound them with a meat mallet until thin, around 6 mm / ¼ inch thick. Season both sides with salt and pepper. Set up the breading station: Prepare three shallow dishes: one with flour, one with beaten eggs - slightly salted, and one with breadcrumbs. Bread the cutlets: Coat each piece of pork first in flour, shaking off the excess. Dip into the beaten eggs, making sure it is fully covered, then press into the breadcrumbs until evenly coated. Fry: Heat a shallow layer of oil or lard in a large pan over medium heat. Fry the cutlets for about 2–3 minutes per side, until golden brown, crisp, and cooked through. Serve: Transfer to a paper towel or wire rack to drain excess oil. If there happen to be any leftovers - which is always a bold assumption - they make a fantastic next-day sandwich. Tuck a cold cutlet into a crusty roll with mustard, pickles, or a little cabbage and enjoy it the way many Central Europeans have for generations: standing in the kitchen, pretending it was “just a small snack”. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Locsolkodás | Vintage Hungarian Easter Postcard, 1930s–40s Easter is one of the most important celebrations in the Christian calendar- sometimes even more significant than Christmas, depending on where you are. For those of us who love food and wine, it's also one of the year's best excuses to gather around a table. My own Easter memories begin in Hungary, where the holiday meant painted eggs, family lunches, and the wonderfully chaotic tradition of locsolkodás (Easter Monday sprinkling): boys and men would make the rounds armed with buckets of water - or, thankfully in later years, bottles of perfume - to sprinkle the girls in exchange for decorated eggs, sweets, or a small drink. Slightly inconvenient if you were on the receiving end, but unforgettable all the same. At its heart, Easter commemorates the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, a story of sacrifice, hope, and renewal. Alongside those Christian traditions survive much older spring rituals celebrating fertility and new life. It's an unusual but beautiful coexistence, where the sacred and the folkloric come together to mark the end of winter and the beginning of a new season. The holiday had its own comforting rhythm at home: carefully painted eggs, a house ready to welcome visitors, an early morning church service for those who observed it, and a table filled with dishes everyone looked forward to all year. Whether you celebrate its religious significance or simply welcome the arrival of spring, Easter has always been a holiday centred on gathering, sharing good food, and enjoying the company of family and friends. Roast lamb, glazed ham, fresh spring vegetables, or even an indulgent truffle mac and cheese all feel like a well-earned reward after another long Canadian winter. These days, my Easter celebrations are wonderfully simple: good food, good wine, and people I genuinely enjoy being around. That's reason enough to raise another glass. Easter Classics and Their Ideal Wine Matches Symbolism aside, Easter is also one of the year's great food holidays. Here are a few classic dishes and the wines that bring out their best. Lamb A traditional Easter centrepiece, especially roasted with garlic and rosemary, lamb pairs beautifully with Pinot Noir, Chianti, Northern Rhône Syrah, or - if you've been saving one - a mature Barolo. Ham Sweet, salty, and wonderfully indulgent, glazed ham shines alongside a dry or slightly off-dry Riesling or an aromatic Gewürztraminer. Fish Often served on Good Friday, fish pairs naturally with crisp whites such as Sauvignon Blanc or a mineral-driven Chablis. Eggs Devilled eggs, quiche, and other egg dishes are surprisingly good with a dry Brut sparkling wine. Sparkling wine deserves a place on almost every Easter table. Its bright acidity and refreshing bubbles pair effortlessly with eggs, seafood, salads, creamy starters, and even glazed ham, making it one of the most versatile wines you can pour throughout the meal. Whether you're observing centuries-old traditions or simply bringing family together over lunch, Easter offers the perfect opportunity to slow down, enjoy great company, and open something special. Our Loire Valley Easter Menu: Pâté Berrichon and French Goat Cheese I could have chosen any number of traditional Easter dishes, there’s certainly no shortage across Europe (or even here in Canada and other Catholic countries). But I landed on one from the Loire Valley in central France. Honestly, it’s mostly because of the wine (this is a wine blog, after all)… and, more broadly, because I have a soft spot for the region itself. Pâté berrichon The dish is pâté berrichon (pah-TAY beh-ree-SHON), a rustic Easter specialty from the historic Berry region. It's a savoury pie filled with seasoned pork and veal, wrapped in buttery puff pastry and baked with whole hard-boiled eggs running through the centre. Rustic, comforting, and made for sharing. France, naturally, adds its own charming twist. Every Easter Monday, the medieval town of Levroux hosts its famous Easter Fair, complete with a competition for the world's longest pâté berrichon. Not the prettiest. Not the tastiest. Simply the longest. The current record, set in 2024, stretches an impressive 25.3 metres. It's delightfully French, wonderfully eccentric, and impossible not to smile at. Goat cheese Goat Cheese Platter: Chavignol, Valençay, Saint-Maure de Touraine, Salles-sur-Cher, Pouligny-Saint-Pierre The Loire Valley is also considered the spiritual home of French goat cheese, with five AOP-protected varieties ranging from elegant ash-coated pyramids to classic logs. Young cheeses are creamy and delicate, while older examples become firmer, nuttier, and more complex, making them a perfect partner for rich pâté. Authentic Loire cheeses can sometimes be found here in Calgary, although imports remain limited. Fortunately, Quebec produces outstanding goat cheeses with the same fresh, tangy character, making them an excellent local alternative. Half the fun is discovering something new at your favourite cheese shop. Check out my favourite local cheese shops here. Quebec Goat cheeses | Say Cheese Fromagerie, Calgary Wine to Match Your Pâté and Cheese This is where the Loire Valley really shines. Pâté berrichon calls for wines with enough freshness to balance its buttery pastry and savoury filling. If goat cheese joins the plate - and I highly recommend that it does - the pairing naturally shifts toward Loire whites, whose lively acidity and minerality complement both the pâté and the cheese beautifully. If you're serving only the pâté, lighter Loire reds work wonderfully: Touraine Gamay Sancerre Pinot Noir Saint-Nicolas-de-Bourgueil Their bright fruit and moderate body complement the richness of the pie without overwhelming it. If goat cheese is on the table, reach for one of these Loire whites: Menetou-Salon — elegant Sauvignon Blanc with lovely floral aromatics. Sancerre or Pouilly-Fumé — classic Sauvignon Blanc combining bright citrus, flinty minerality, and crisp acidity. Vouvray — expressive Chenin Blanc offering texture and freshness. Savennières — a more structured, complex dry Chenin Blanc that's worth seeking out for a special occasion. If you're shopping on a budget, don't overlook Loire wines labelled IGP Val de Loire or even Vin de France. Many talented producers choose these designations to give themselves more freedom with grape varieties or winemaking styles, and the wines can offer outstanding value. A well-made Sauvignon Blanc or Chenin Blanc from these categories will still deliver the bright acidity and freshness that make the Loire such a natural partner for pâté and goat cheese. Dreaming of the Loire It's easy to understand why the Loire Valley has inspired artists for centuries. Between the winding river, vineyard-covered hills, medieval villages, and fairy-tale châteaux, it's a landscape made for long lunches and leisurely afternoons. My ideal Easter would be spent in Levroux with a generous slice of pâté berrichon, far too much goat cheese, and a perfectly chilled glass of Sancerre. Add a little sunshine and nowhere else to be, and I'd happily stay all afternoon. Perhaps one day retirement will make that dream possible. Until then, recreating a little Loire magic at home seems like a very good alternative. Château de Chambord and Château de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley A Glass of Sancerre No Easter menu inspired by the Loire would be complete without mentioning Sancerre. Perched on a hilltop in the eastern Loire Valley, this medieval town has been producing wine since Roman times, with generations of monks helping refine its vineyards long before Sauvignon Blanc became its global calling card. Today, Sancerre is regarded as one of the world's benchmark expressions of Sauvignon Blanc. Its distinctive flinty soils produce wines that are vibrant, mineral, elegant, and remarkably food-friendly—especially alongside the region's celebrated goat cheeses. Walking through Sancerre's cobbled streets with a glass in hand, overlooking rows of vineyards stretching toward the Loire River, it's easy to understand why this small corner of France has become one of the world's great wine destinations. For me, Sancerre captures everything I love about the Loire Valley: history, craftsmanship, remarkable food, and wines that never shout but always leave an impression. It's the bottle I reach for most often at Easter, and one that always reminds me that the simplest meals, shared with good company, are usually the most memorable. Sancerre is more than just a wine. It’s a taste of history, a sense of place, and the pure joie de vivre of the Loire Valley. Pascal Jolivet Sancerre Blanc “Signature” 2024 For our Easter lunch, we choose a Sancerre white from winemaker Pascal Jolivet: fresh, bright, and just sharp enough to cut through a rich dish like this meat pie, especially when paired with our favourite Loire cheese. Founded in 1987, Pascal Jolivet is one of the Loire Valley’s most respected producers, known for elegant wines that capture the true character of Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé. Following a "natural vinification" approach (using indigenous yeasts and minimal intervention), the wines are defined by balance, freshness, and a strong sense of place. That terroir comes from a mix of soils, from mineral-driven limestone to flint, which adds a subtle smoky edge. Today, with over 120 hectares of vineyards, the estate crafts wines that are precise, expressive, and quietly luxurious. Perfect for pairing with seasonal dishes and celebrating the flavours of spring. Credit: maisonpascaljolivet This bottle is the estate’s signature white, it offers bright, zesty flavours of white grapefruit, lime, and green apple, finishing crisp and flinty. Grape Variety: 100% Sauvignon Blanc Winemaking: Stainless steel vats Tasting Notes: Elegant, feminine, perfectly balanced Pairings: Aperitif, shellfish, raw and cooked fish Serving Temperature: 10°C (50°F) Aging Potential: Up to 10 years Winery website: https://pascaljolivet.com/en/ Pâté Berrichon - French Easter Pie Servings: 6 | Prep time: 30 min | Cook time: 40 min Whether enjoyed warm or at room temperature, pâté berrichon is delightfully simple to prepare. And the best part? Leftovers magically appear for the next day, unless, of course, your teenagers discover them first! Ingredients 500 g / 1.1 lb minced pork, veal, sausage meat, or a mix 6 eggs: 4 hard-boiled, 1 raw for the filling, 1 raw for the egg wash ½ bunch parsley, chopped 2 shallots or 1 medium onion, finely chopped 1–2 garlic cloves, minced 2 sheets puff pastry 50 ml / 3 tbsp white wine (optional) Salt, pepper, and nutmeg to taste Instructions Wash, drain, and chop the parsley. Peel and finely chop shallots/onion and garlic. Boil 4 eggs until hard, peel, and set aside. In a bowl, mix the meats with one raw egg, parsley, shallots/onion, garlic, wine, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Place half of the filling on the small rectangle of dough, leaving a 1.5 / 0.5" cm border all around Arrange the four eggs lengthwise in the center of the filling Brush edges with the remaining beaten egg, cover with the second sheet, seal, trim excess, and use scraps for decoration. Brush the top with the egg wash and make two small holes / chimney in the centre. Bake at 180°C / 350°F for 35-40 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature or even cold with a salad. Unlike pâté berrichon, my native Hungary has its own version called Stefánia szelet, which is just as much of an Easter favourite. It skips the pastry entirely and instead comes as a baked, paprika-seasoned meatloaf made with ground pork, breadcrumbs, garlic, and pepper. Slice into it, though, and you’ll spot the same signature surprise: a neat line of boiled eggs running through the middle. Different style, same delightful eggy Easter surprise. Cheers, and Happy Easter!

“Oh gosh… it’s so hard to pick a wine for you! You know so much about wine. What on earth could I possibly bring?” Listen, don’t WINE! I don’t actually know that much about wine either. Anyone who studies it seriously will tell you the more you learn, the less you feel like you know. It’s like history… or trying to fold a fitted sheet perfectly. I’ll tell you exactly how to make me happy. Here’s the cheat code: bring an aromatic white, bursting with terpenes: those magical little compounds that make wine smell like a mini vacation in a glass. Easy, right? If it floats like perfume, flirts with flowers, radiates citrus, and murmurs of fresh herbs carried on a Mediterranean breeze - that’s the one. Still uncertain? Very well, let’s be more precise. In most cases, grape varieties do appear on wine labels, but how prominently they’re shown depends on the country and producer style. And remember: wines with high terpenic content can be anything but predictable - from sumptuously sweet to elegantly bone-dry, always aromatic, always a little enchanting. Here’s a quick breakdown by grape: High Terpenic Wines Muscat / Moscato and the other colourful family members The terpene superstar. Expect orange blossom, grape candy, rose, lychee, jasmine. In Italy, “Moscato” is almost always on the label (e.g. Moscato d’Asti) - like being kissed by a sparkling peach. Sweet and playful, yes, though I must confess: the bubbly style isn’t quite my glass of wine. “Zibibbo” appears on Sicilian wines (especially Pantelleria) -a summer opera aria, all sunshine, perfume, and a little dramatic flourish at the end - which I really love! In France, it may appear as Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains - which can be dry, sweet, or even sparkling - or as Muscat d’Alsace, typically made in a dry, elegant style. In Hungary, it’s known as Sárga Muskotály (Yellow Muscat): equally aromatic, yet often crafted in a refined, still expression that allows those lovely terpenes to truly sing. Gewürztraminer Intensely floral, lychee, rose petal, tropical spice. Typically labeled by grape everywhere it’s made - bold, heady, and gloriously too much (in the best way!) Riesling Especially aromatic styles. Lime blossom, citrus oil, stone fruit - and yes, petrol. Always proudly listed in Germany, Austria, Australia, the U.S., etc. In Alsace, France as well if is made of 100% Riesling grapes - perfection in liquid form: dry or sweet, it's sharp, and smarter than everyone at the table. Torrontés Perfumed: rose, orange blossom, tropical fruit. Always listed in Argentina (it’s their signature grape) - ¡Re bueno! a floral flirt grown in high-altitude areas of the Argentinian Andes. Viognier Apricot, peach, honeysuckle, jasmine. Usually listed, especially in single-varietal bottlings. In France it is listed with Rhône Valley, AOP wines (a very good 'lower' tier), but not in Condrieu: wines from this appellation are legally required to be 100% Viognier, so the label will read "Condrieu", but not necessarily "Viognier" - the fancy stuff : all apricot silk and honeysuckle charm, effortlessly sipping in the VIP lounge of white wines. Malvasia Aromatic, floral, candied citrus. Often included in the name (Malvasia delle Lipari, Malvasia Bianca), but not always if it’s part of a blend. Often a sweet wine - like your sweet, eccentric aunt - floral, a little nostalgic. Moderately Terpenic Wines Albariño Peach, citrus blossom, salty sea breeze. Always listed in Spain (Rías Baixas) and elsewhere - the zesty lovechild of a peach and a sea breeze, proudly made in Galicia, Spain. Fiano Honeyed, pine resin, herbs. Usually listed on Italian labels, but sometimes embedded in the regional name rather than highlighted (Fiano di Avellino DOCG) - like honey drizzled over a pine tree at an Italian picnic. Chenin Blanc Apple blossom, quince, honeycomb. Commonly found on labels from the New World, particularly South Africa, as well as on labels from its home (and hopefully mine one day!) in the Loire Valley - refined, eccentric, and worth every golden sip! Sauvignon Blanc While thiols do most of the heavy lifting, terpenes support citrus / floral notes. Always appears on the label (Loire Valley, France, New Zealand, Chile, etc.) - zippy, sassy, and totally unapologetic. Arneis White flower, pear, almond. Appears on Piedmont labels (Roero Arneis DOCG), but not common outside Italy - charming and delicate, the introvert of Italian whites, a rare bird! In short: Yes, you’ll usually see the grape name on bottles of Riesling, Gewürztraminer, Sauvignon Blanc, Albariño, Viognier, Torrontés, and Chenin Blanc. For the more traditional Italian grapes (Fiano, Arneis, Malvasia, Zibibbo), the grape name often appears alongside a regional designation - but it’s there! If you still reading this and want to sound nerdily fabulous, these are the common wine terpenes: Linalool → orange blossom, citrus Geraniol → rose Nerol → lemon verbena Citronellol → citrus / geranium α-Pinene → pine, resin So next time you panic in a wine shop, just mutter the word "terpenes". If the clerk nods knowingly, you’ve found your people. If not… well, you’ve got a great story ... and probably a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Happy sipping and savouring!

Our week in Rome revolved around three great Roman temptations: art, wine, and the daily dilemma of what to choose at the lunch and dinner table. I had already shared the art and the wine (you can catch up on that little adventure here). This story is about the third temptation, and how, in the city that gave the world carbonara, I somehow ended up ordering tripe. Before you wonder how someone could visit Rome and not immediately head for the pasta, let me explain. Was I a fan of Roman cuisine? Absolutely. Was I swept away by Rome's legendary pasta dishes? Well... this is where things get complicated. Pasta, the very symbol of Italian cooking, especially in Rome, has never been my great love. I know. It's practically a confession. In fact, I don't think I've ever shared a proper pasta recipe here. I probably cook pasta two or three times a year, which, according to my children, is my greatest failure as a mother (that, and the no-dog policy). They grew up with surprisingly little pasta, a hardship they have enthusiastically compensated for as students living thousands of kilometres away from me. Scusi! 🍝 So, eating like a Roman should have meant working my way through the holy quartet of Roman pastas: carbonara, amatriciana, cacio e pepe, and pasta alla gricia - the cacio e pepe cousin made even more indulgent with crispy guanciale. And I did try. Sort of. On our very first evening in the Eternal City, we had a reservation at one of Rome's excellent trattorias. While most visitors would probably have gone straight for one of those iconic pasta dishes, I opened the menu and immediately spotted something else: Trippa alla Romana. Yes, tripe. I ordered it without hesitation. It arrived exactly as it should: tender pieces of tripe simmered in a rich tomato sauce, generously finished with Pecorino Romano and fresh mint, accompanied by excellent crusty bread and a beautiful glass of wine to help me contemplate the fact that, only a few hours earlier, this had been part of a cow's digestive system. Sì! Welcome to Rome. Trippa alla Romana at Poldo e Gianna Osteria The truth is, I loved exploring Roman cuisine and was simply more curious about the dishes beyond the famous pasta classics. Rome has a wonderful way of taking the cuts many people overlook and transforming them into dishes that are deeply connected to the city's history and traditions. Now, that is much more my territory. I have never been intimidated by the less celebrated parts of the animal. Liver is probably my favourite, but I'm equally happy with gizzards, oxtail, and tongue. My husband, however, has never quite shared my enthusiasm for these kinds of dishes, especially when tripe is involved. The compromise was obvious. He ordered the pasta. I ordered the tripe. Naturally, we both sampled each other's choices and, somewhat surprisingly (mostly to him), survived. And those stolen forkfuls of carbonara and cacio e pepe? They confirmed what I had suspected all along: they really are delicious. I still wouldn't order a whole plate for myself, but I'm very grateful that someone at the table did. So... What Exactly Is Tripe? Let's address the elephant - or rather, the cow - in the room. Tripe is stomach. Yes, the edible lining of the stomach of farm animals, most commonly cows, but also sheep and pigs. Cows, being complicated creatures, have four stomach chambers, and each one produces a different type of tripe with its own texture and personality. The flavour is surprisingly mild; it's the texture that steals the show. Think tender, slightly chewy, and exceptionally good at soaking up whatever delicious sauce or broth it's cooked in. The best part is the honeycomb tripe: the part taken from the second stomach chamber, with a distinctive honeycomb pattern that's perfect for trapping rich sauces. A small nutritional bonus: tripe is not only a dish with a long culinary history; it is also surprisingly nutritious. Beef tripe is low in calories while providing valuable nutrients, including vitamin B12, along with minerals such as zinc, selenium, calcium and phosphorus. A quick search reveals well over 100 traditional tripe dishes around the world - from soups and stews to sausages, sandwiches and even grilled versions. Mexico has menudo, the famous spicy soup often credited with curing everything from winter mornings to bad decisions the night before. In Vietnam, thin slices of tripe are a classic addition to pho. France has tripes à la mode de Caen, a traditional Normandy tripe stew, along with andouille and andouillette, its famous offal-based sausages. Spain has callos a la madrileña, a rich Madrid-style tripe stew flavoured with chorizo and paprika. Back home in Hungary, pacal is simmered in a rich paprika sauce - essentially a tripe paprikash. Clearly, humanity has been very creative when it comes to cooking stomach. Quinto Quarto: The Heart of Roman Cuisine As mentioned, Rome's famous pasta quartet is only one part of the city's culinary story. Wander into almost any traditional trattoria and look a little further down the menu, and another tradition reveals itself - one built around quinto quarto, the "fifth quarter". The term dates back to the old slaughterhouses of Testaccio - Rione XX of Rome, a historic working-class neighbourhood - where the finest cuts of meat went to the wealthy, while workers were often paid with everything else: tripe, oxtail, liver, heart, sweetbreads and other overlooked cuts. Faced with these humble ingredients, Roman cooks transformed necessity into some of the city's most enduring dishes. That's the spirit of cucina povera ("poor kitchen"): waste nothing, cook slowly, and let simple ingredients shine. Coda alla Vaccinara transforms humble oxtail into one of Rome's great comfort foods. Pajata, made with veal intestine, isn't for everyone, but it's among the city's most authentic dishes. In spring, Coratella con Carciofi pairs lamb offal with fresh artichokes, while Animelle prove that sweetbreads are far more delicious than their name suggests. And then there's Trippa alla Romana, the reason you've read this far. Today, quinto quarto is no longer food born of necessity but one of the defining traditions of Roman cuisine. What began as resourcefulness became a philosophy of respect for ingredients, long before "nose-to-tail" cooking and sustainability became fashionable. Testaccio Market, Rome The Wonderful Wine We Drank with It The danger of eating in Italy is that every course seems to come with a story and sometimes the wine wants one too. For our Roman dinner, we deliberately chose a wine from beyond the city limits. We had already explored the wines of Frascati, the beautiful wine region just outside Rome, so this time we followed our curiosity east to the Marche region and a 100% native Verdicchio. It wasn't the obvious choice, but perhaps that was exactly what intrigued us. Our meal was already an eclectic mix of flavours, so we were looking for a wine versatile enough to keep up. Il Priore – Castelli di Jesi Verdicchio Riserva DOCG Classico from Sparapani Frati Bianchi Winery comes from the hills of the Castelli di Jesi, where Verdicchio thrives on clay soils at around 400 metres above sea level. While the label may look like an Italian tongue twister, it's really just a precise description: a Riserva made entirely from Verdicchio, produced in the Classico zone, the historic heart of the Castelli di Jesi appellation and one of the region's finest areas. Hand-harvested grapes and careful ageing - 10 months in stainless steel followed by another 10 months in bottle - produce a wine with impressive depth while preserving the freshness and vibrant character that make Verdicchio so distinctive. The birthplace of Il Priore: Poggio Cupro Vineyard, Marche | Sparapani Frati Bianchi Winery When the bottle arrived, I immediately noticed the label. Hand-drawn, it features the Prior of the ancient Frati Bianchi hermitage alongside the silhouette of Monte San Vicino, the mountain overlooking the Verdicchio-growing hills. More than just decoration, it feels like a small portrait of the landscape, history, and tradition captured inside the bottle. In the glass, the wine opens with inviting aromas of ripe yellow fruit, acacia blossom, and the subtle almond note that Verdicchio is so well known for. The palate is beautifully balanced, rich and textured without feeling heavy, with bright freshness and a distinct mineral edge that carries through to a long, savoury finish. It proved to be a remarkably versatile wine, pairing beautifully with our rather eclectic menu: tripe and pasta alla gricia as our primi, followed by veal and cod for our secondi. Choosing a single bottle for an entire meal is always a bit of a balancing act. You scan the menu, look for the common thread between very different dishes, and hope the wine is as adaptable as you need it to be. Thankfully, this one rose to the occasion. Our menu at Poldo e Gianna Osteria The dessert, a traditional Roman crostata - a rustic ricotta tart with its signature lattice pastry, a dusting of icing sugar - and a traditional tiramisù called for something a little sweeter. The answer was a glass of Florio Marsala Superiore Riserva SR1909, a beautifully aged fortified wine from Sicily, made from Grillo grapes and matured in oak for over four years. Rich, warm, and gently nutty, it was the perfect way to bring a memorable Roman dinner to a close. I won't include a recipe for Trippa alla Romana here because, unlike many of the dishes I write about, this isn't one I've felt the need to recreate at home. Some meals belong where you first discovered them, and this is one of mine. Tripe isn't difficult to find in Canada. If curiosity gets the better of you, ask your butcher, find a good Roman recipe, and give it a try. Who knows? You may go to Rome dreaming of carbonara… …and come home talking about tripe. Happy sipping and savouring!