In between charters, we docked the yacht in the capital city of Sicily, Palermo.  Shabby-chic is an overstatement and an oversell - don’t believe Lonely Planet on this one!

Okay, I’m not trying to start a handbag fight here over the reputation of this great and ancient city.  Founded more than 2700 years ago, this was the epicentre of Euro-Arabic culture, and it’s architecture and food reflect this greatly.  Still.  The garbage hasn’t been collected in days, the pavement is crumbling like sandcastles, and houses have cracks so large I wouldn’t be suprised if someone told me they’re special windows to help alleviate the stifling heat.  But of course, homie to the core, I’m not too precious about these things.  Afterall, each city has their charms, and here, the taxi drivers talk like gangsters, our yacht agent offered to organize a ‘Godfather’ themed dinner for our guests in an authentic castello, and Dolce&Gabbana is in town, booking out the prestigious Grand Hotel Villa Igiea and hiring real-life Men In Black to guard the fort.  Like really - how cool is that?

And of course, like with many of my tales, Palermo provided me another opportunity for reflection and insight into the world of wine.

I was roaming around the main shopping and tourist strip looking for a cocktail dress for a friend’s Roman wedding.  It was generally a bad day as I experienced first hand Sicilian retail service - one lady claimed the dress I admired is one size fits all, but with sign language and raised eyebrows, was really trying to tell me the ‘all’ didn’t included my size.  Another was upset with how I was pulling dresses out from the rack, that she felt compelled to stay my hand, until I was properly educated on how best to view them.  Absolutely frustrated and left feeling rejected, I battled the 39 degree heat and 60% humidity to find a place to eat.

Much friendlier people in the hospitality department.  With sweat beading down my temples, I found my oasis - a side-street pizzeria with what looked like the crustiest, bubbliest pizza in Palermo.  I sat down while Nona handed me a menu and called me Bella.  Promptly, I order the Sicilian special Pizza alla Norma, with salted ricotta and grilled eggplant.  Then, for the first time in the longest while, I ordered a glass of house Prosecco.

The last time I ordered Prosecco was at one of my sister’s pre-wedding parties.  I was still learning about wines, and, eager to impress my brother-in-law’s Rockpool buddies, I ordered a bottle of Conegliano-Vadobbiadene DOCG Superiore Prosecco.  I thought - aperitif, pre-dinner, light and dry - winner.  It wasn’t received well.

My brother-in-law, one of the best sommeliers that I know for his humble disposition, wise-cracks and passion, scoffed at it!  He said, ‘No one’s gonna drink this.’  And he was right, Mom and Dad stuck to orange juice, Uncle Oscar went straight to the Cognac and  his Rockpool somm mates DID NOT TOUCH IT.  Like, it was offered, and was rejected.  

Later on when I started fine dining and became a somm myself, I understood why.  As much as I’d say, ‘wine is mood’, ‘wine is occasion’, and ‘wine is time and place’, the truth is, if I see Doyard by the glass and a Prosecco by the glass, 10/10 I’m going for le Champagne.  In fact, if I don’t like the Champagne offered and there was a Prosecco on the list, I’d order neither and have a gin and tonic instead (or a Negroni…).  One of my colleagues even refused tasting a Prosecco we were thinking of putting on our winelist because, well, it's Prosecco and they all kinda taste the same.  In our silly somm minds, Prosecco was for ladies with botox and poolside Bellinis (because real Champagne, the ones that ‘we’ drink, is too fucking precious to mix with mere fruit).  Snobfest abound in the somm world.  We extoll the virtues of Champagne, call Spanish Cava the new cool, and Aussie sparkling (make sure its method traditionelle!) is backyard buzz, but Prosecco?  No place except for customers who don’t know better.

But here I am, and nothing was a better idea.  The wine came, and that lovely frizzante zing on the palate was the pardon I needed for ever insulting this delicious beverage.  First, touch of sweetness, reminscent of green packham pears and lime blossom.  Then, a peep of ripe lemon rind, the acidity dancing on my palate like fairies on a field of white flowers.  It was clean and pure, like a soft wet wipe over my weary, perspiring brows.  It was a great gulp. 

The pizza came.  This reaffirmed my steadfast faith in wine matching, as the salty ricotta and bitter charred eggplant waltzed with the fruit aroma of the prosecco.  It cleansed my palate after each bite with its light sparkle.

I sat there, overlooking a Renaissance church, across from a woodwork shop in a laneway leading to a gelateria, and I realized that wine is time and place.  All the books can give you qualitative analysis on regions and varieties, and you can debate all you can with fellow somms and connoisseurs.  But what is special about a ‘moment’ is when you are off-guard, not thinking critically, just wanting to indulge, to be satisfied, to be surprised.  And at that moment, in the pizzeria, as a customer, I truly didn’t know any better until Nona showed me the way.

*Sorry for the lack of cool pics on this post - I really dropped the ball on this one! Referring to the last picture of Frank Cornelissen's 'Munjebel',  I first encountered his 'Magma' bottling in the cellar of one of the restaurants I worked at.  Each day we'd hope that someone would order that damn wine because we were told, with much intrigue and titillation, that it is the friggin bomb.  Sadly, its reputation for being too 'rad' scared us off from selling it to anyone, and I never got to try it.  I must say, upon tasting the 'Munjebel' in Palermo - which, apparently, in its previous carnation was called 'Mongibello' - in Italian it means Mount Etna -  I was treated with an eruption of flavours in my mouth ;).  Oranges and spice lingered with beeswax, pawpaw and even a touch of garrigue.  We sculled it.    

**Blog posts are not necessarily in chronological order, and is based on travel notes and fond memories.