The Boss Abroad: Vin Santo, Holy Wine of Tuscany

In the fall of 2013, Siciliano's Market owners Steve and Barb Siciliano spent two weeks in Italy. What follows is an account of one tremendous meal made all the more memorable because of one tremendous wine: Vin Santo (now available at Siciliano's).

Italian T-bone

By Steve Siciliano

One evening Barb and I were the only diners in a small restorante in the Tuscan hill town of Loro Ciuffenna. We had just finished sharing a massive, perfectly cooked T-bone. Before the steak came, there was an antipasti of olives, cured meats and three crispy crostini topped respectively with beans and olive oil, chicken liver pate and paper-thin sheets of cured fatback.

I was feeling a bit guilty about downing crostini slathered with lardo, but reasoned that the two bottles of red wine we drank with the meal—a Chianti Classico Reserva and a vino nobile di Montepulciano—would help offset the inevitable uptick in bad cholesterol. The restaurant owner walked up to the table. Si, I assured him, the bistecca alla Fiorentina was molto bueno. Si, we would have an after dinner drink. “Due vin santo, per favore.”

Drying grapes

That afternoon we had visited a small, family run winery on the crest of a high hill on the outskirts of Montepulciano. We watched while the owner’s son pumped sangiovese grape must from a stainless steel fermentation tank into a pneumatic wine press. We were told that the pressed grape skins that a worker was shoveling onto the bed of a pickup would be sold to a local grappa producer. We followed the owner’s daughter into an old stone building where vino nobile di Montepulciano was aging in huge oak barrels and then into another old but smaller building where bunches of recently harvested malvasia and trebbianno grapes were drying on wooden racks. The daughter, in almost a reverential whisper, informed us that the grapes would be used to make holy wine.

Tuscan vineyard

“Holy wine?” I asked.

“Si, holy wine. Vin santo.”

Vin santo is virtually unknown outside of Italy. It has been produced almost exclusively in Tuscany for centuries and probably obtained its “holy” moniker because it was the wine that Tuscan priests traditionally used during the celebration of the Mass. Undoubtedly, winemakers in other regions of the world haven’t tried to replicate the style because the process of making true vin santo is so labor intensive. It is also very unpredictable.

During the drying process, which can last for up to six months, the grapes that are used in the production of vin santo lose most of their moisture and their sugars become intensely concentrated. Winemakers gently crush the shriveled grapes then combine the sweet juice with a madre, a slurry of yeast and sediment from past vintages. The must is racked into small oak barrels which are then sealed and left alone, sometimes for as long as five years. While the fermentation is progressing, the barrels are never opened and never topped up; and as the slowly fermenting wine evaporates it acquires a lovely amber color and a sherry-like oxidation. When everything goes right, the result is a wine that is truly extraordinary. If something somewhere in the process goes wrong, the winemaker gets a barrel full of vinegar. 

The vin santo we tasted at the winery that afternoon was certainly not vinegar. It was nicely sweet but not cloying, with aromas of dried fruit and intense flavors of honey, raisins and spices. 

The vin santo we drank at the restorante that evening might have been even better, although I’m willing to concede that the antipasti, the steak and the two bottles of wine might have sharpened my oenophilic senses. After finishing the last drops of the amber liquid Barb and I agreed that we were hopelessly infatuated with Tuscany. Since we were also more than a little tipsy. I motioned to the waiter for the bill. He brought it a few minutes later, along with two more half-filled tumblers of vin santo.

“But I didn’t order these.” I protested in slurred English.

“Gratuito,” he said and smiled.

It’s a good thing our hotel was just a short, wobbly walk away. It would, of course, had been rude to refuse such graciousness.

Castello di Brolio Vin Santo, 2005 Vintage, $66.69/500ml
Now available at Siciliano's Market

The Boss Abroad: Six Days in Loro Ciuffenna, Tuscany

In the fall of 2013, Siciliano's Market owners Steve & Barb Siciliano spent two weeks in Italy. What follows is an account of one leg of that trip.

The streets of Loro Ciuffenna

By Steve Siciliano

Loro Ciuffenna is a small town tucked in the southern foothills of the Pratomagno, a range of medium-sized mountains located in the northeast region of Tuscany. The town was built up along the sides of a deep gorge and, if you’re brave enough, you can cautiously shuffle up to the waist-high railing of an ancient stone bridge just off the central piazza and gaze far down below at a tumbling mountain stream. Among the stone buildings that rise up along the steep cliffs is a water-powered mill dating from the 13th century, and just downstream from the mill is the small hotel called Casa Eugenia where Barb and I stayed during our six days in Tuscany.

Many Tuscan hill towns are surrounded by immense stone walls that were erected as protection from invasions during the middle ages. If you’re traveling in Tuscany by car, you park in lots outside those walls and walk up to the towns on steep, narrow, stone paved roads called vicolo (little streets). There are no walls surrounding Loro Ciuffenna—apparently it wasn’t strategic enough to be worth invading. But, as in most Tuscan towns, unless you live there or work there, you are not permitted to drive on the streets. After parking our rental car, Barb and I rolled our suitcases up and down the vicoli looking for Casa Eugenia.

The front door of Casa Eugenia

Because we were a bit frazzled after getting lost on our drive up from Chiusi, and because we had such a hard time communicating our predicament, we were euphoric that we were able to find the hotel so easily. That euphoria quickly dissipated after discovering that the only entrance to the hotel—a glass door—was locked. After a few minutes of knocking and peering into the dark lobby, Barb noticed a hand written sign—suonare il campanello—and after consulting our Italian/English dictionary we were able to deduce what the words meant—ring the buzzer. We kept ringing that buzzer for five minutes. Finally I left Barb with our luggage and walked back up the vicolo where I saw an old lady walking slowly behind two little white terriers.

“Buongiorno,” I said.

“Buongiorno,” she answered.

“Inglese?” I asked hopefully.

She stared at me. I pointed down the vicolo towards the hotel. “Casa Eugenia,” I said. “We’re staying there. The door is locked.” I made a gesture that I’d hoped would convey an attempt at opening a door.

“Eh?” the lady said.

“Casa Eugenia.” I said again, pointing. I put my palms together and laid my head on my hands. “We’re sleeping there,” I said, pointing again. “We can’t get in.”

She walked a little ways down the vicolo until she spotted Barb standing at the door with our luggage. “Ah,” she said, followed by a lengthy stream of (to me) unintelligible Italian.

She began walking and not knowing what else to do I followed. After a few minutes we were in Loro Ciuffenna’s piazza. She stopped abruptly and pointed towards one of those little cafes with a few outdoor tables that in Italy are called bars.

“Andare,” she said.

“Andare?”

“Si, si. Andare.”

Before the rain

I relunctantly left my new friend and walked into the bar. Two old men were standing at the counter drinking espressos and there was another old man standing behind the counter. All three eyed me suspiciously. “Inglese?” I asked the man behind the counter without much optimism.

“Yes, I speak English,” he replied in a British accent. I was so surprised to hear perfect English, let alone perfect English with a British accent, in a small hill town in Tuscany, and so relieved that I was actually able to explain my dilemma, that I had to restrain myself from hugging him. He happened to be the hotel owner’s father. He told me that his son Carlos was running errands and that his daughter-in-law Francesca was at the dentist. He made a phone call. “Carlos will be there in five minutes.” I found out later that Carlos’ Italian grandfather was stationed in England during World War II and that his father had been born there.

Carlos and Francesca turned out to be extremely charming hosts. They too spoke very good English, minus a British accent. Each morning they laid out wonderful breakfasts of sweets, fresh fruits, meats, cheeses, cold cereal, crusty Tuscan bread and huge, steaming cups of excellent coffee. They offered advice and printed out directions for our day trips in Tuscany. They gave us suggestions on where to eat, places to go and things to see.

After the rain

One morning after an all-night rain they convinced us that it would be too dangerous that day to drive. When Barb and I were walking through Loro Ciuffenna’s narrow streets after breakfast we saw that the tumbling stream had transformed into a roaring, deep-plunging, mist-generating torrent. We hiked up a high hill on the outskirts of town, up through neat vineyards and stands of olive trees to an ancient stone church. While we rested we gazed out at the mist-draped valley and watched bolts of lighting flashing in the distance. The next day we heard that some tourists had died in Chianti when their car veered off a rain-slick road.

On our last evening in Loro Ciuffenna we were sitting outside the bar in the piazza when the old lady walked up with her two little dogs. Communicating with fragments of Italian and a good deal of hand gestures, we learned that her name was Deena, that the names of her dogs were Romeo and Juliet, that her husband had recently died and that she was suffering from a lung ailment. She went into the bar and came out with a pack of cigarettes.

“Buonasera,” she said and smiled as she walked past us.

“Buonasera,” we answered.

Steve & Deena