Over the past couple years, as anyone who knows me
personally knows, I’ve become the worst sort of insufferable wine dork. The
sort of person who enthusiastically reaches for the wine list, only to go “oh…”
and say to the table “well, this should probably be OK…”
Which is how I got to watching Mondovino, the 2004 documentary about the battle within the wine world between global capital – represented by mogul Robert Mondavi coming off bluff and American, wine consultant Michel Rolland who comes off like a full-on action movie Euro-villain, complete with pointy beard, car phone, cigarillo, and namedrops of Charles Aznavour and Gérard Depardieu, and finally the legendary wine critic Robert Parker (who honestly just seems like a bit of a sweetheart) – on one side, and a plucky set of artisanal producers in goofy rustic hats on the other side, as well as NYC wine distributor Neal Rosenthal, who compares the big names to George W. Bush (hell yeah).
Throughout, one thing that all say, though, is that wine is a civilizing factor. Not only does it elevate the discourse – “symposium,” let it be remembered, once meant a party where you got schnockered on the stuff – but they repeat that it is a consummate art, blending the lessons of nature with the handicraft of man, something I myself pretty much believe. But in conveying this message, here are some choice quotes on the subject, taken from the film.
“I think [Berlusconi] is helping, not just with wine, he’s much more open, trying to make things work better, trying to make the bureaucracy more modern.” – James Suckling, then senior editor, Wine Enthusiast
OK, we all have our moments… eh…
“Without art, without culture, it’s virtually impossible to make great wine. Generally, the indigenous people here have no sense of initiative.” – Arnaldo Eckart, Vinos Cafayate, the flagship producer in the Argentinean appellation of the same name
Great job guys. Amazing.
“In [the fascist period], Italian industry was stimulated and encouraged.” – Piero Antinori, of the legendary Antinori wine dynasty, and founder of Tignanello, the wine bougie enough to lend its name to Meghan Markle’s lifestyle blog
“Italy at that time needed a strong energetic hand. And
fascism did bring about a certain order.” - Albiera Antinori, his niece
Well fuck!
It’s a funny word, “fascism.” Widely misapplied of course.
In my youth, for instance, it generally applied to teachers enforcing quiet
rules during study hall, and much abused since. It’s an epithet I’m
particularly skeptical of, considering how broadly it can be applied
(regardless of the Umberto Eco definition or any other attempt to define the
concept), but these guys are at the very least amiable to the idea not just in
practice but in name, despite decades of reflection on the insanity of Europe
1930-45.
I’ve long been confused by this aristocratic version of conservatism, which bears little in common with its American counterpart, other than an opposition to liberal and leftist views. Its roots are instead in blood and soil, or after the Second World War, a nebulous conception of “culture.” And therein lies the rub, as these conservatives deem themselves to be cultured, that thereby justifies the actions that follow suit as those of virtuous men, and the resultant barbarity is merely deemed an unfortunate epiphenomenon of their actions, rather than an essential characteristic.
This stands in stark contrast to the American vision of
conservatism, particularly in an era in which the grandes dames Eastern
establishment Republicans – Nelson Rockefeller, et al. – have long since faded
into memory. Rather, the boorish and suburbanized American right has a bit of a
tendency to devalue the concept of high culture writ large, instead favoring a point
of origin not in laissez-faire capitalism and/or Evangelical Christianity – two
things that have a bit of a tendency to go together, a conflation of the
Kingdom of Heaven and the C-Suite. Sure, they fight culture wars, but these
culture wars are decidedly not over Vivaldi’s status within the canon or the nature
of an authentic Roquefort, but over salacious Megan Thee Stallion lyrics and
M&Ms.
Given this relegation of conservative principle to religious and market forces, the Vivaldi and Roquefort wind up being liberal-coded, at least among the professional classes. The PMC finds themselves drawn to the local and the refined, regardless of the political valences by which that expresses itself in the world writ large. The actual material implications are irrelevant, because in a post-1960s world, this attitude constitutes both distinction (Bourdieu shout out whaaaaaa!!) and a rejection of the admitted plastic ugliness of mainstream American society. And in this way, there is a mistaken conflation of values and consumption, a Frasier Crane attitude that cannot bear the idea that its stated values and its explicit desires are incommensurate.
This isn’t too complicated, and one thing Mondovino
points out, as they discuss the market cap and production statistics of every
winery they visit, is that this level of artisanship is largely illusory. The great
Bordeaux houses are shown to be what they are, which is to say savvy business
enterprises that rely largely on the allure and aura of terroir and tradition
as marketing devices.
Let it be remembered that despite what the European nostalgists of food and wine might say, this is nothing new. When the famed 1855 Classification was instituted in Bordeaux, it was not based on the unique qualities of the soil and climate – geology, meteorology, and agronomy still being infant sciences at the time – or even the subjective taste of some initial panel of gouty barons. Rather, the basis was simply the market prices as they existed in 1855, with Lafite, Latour, Margaux, and Haut-Brion being the most expensive at the time and therefore earning the title of “first growth.” The 1855 Classification then cemented this status (humming “reification” under my breath right now), with the only substantive change coming in 1973 when Chateau Mouton-Rothschild was promoted from second to first growth – and in certain sectors, c’était une scandale.
Post-1960s, and back in the Anglosphere, this became the
model for the corporate artisanal, exploited en masse. Think about the early
days of Starbucks, back in the ‘90s. This wasn’t just a cuppa joe, this was craft,
complete with global-village aesthetics in the storefronts and the names of
exotic destinations for the beans – you’re not just having a cup of coffee, you’re
going to Bali, man! Never mind that it is an industrial product just like any
other produced in the sorts of appalling conditions that one can get away with
in the Global South, never mind that the company that produces it will
mercilessly crush any attempt at union organizing and aggressively greenwashes
its activities, this is “fair trade” coffee, even if it’s the diarrheaccino
that Jenny from Sales is sipping on her way into the office. You consume the
good thing, and you yourself become the good thing.
The conservatives – whether the Ferragamo-wearing gout cases or the American boors – have no such hang-ups.
For a point of comparison to all these types, think about the Ratliff family in the most recent season of White Lotus. We have Saxon, the punchable-face finance bro eldest son, who makes a point of demonstrating how much he doesn’t give a fuck, and his mother Victoria (played to a T by Parker Posey), who fawns over luxury scents – “cut grass, tuberose” – while complaining in equal measure about the various filths and impurities and affronts to her Carolinian upper-class propriety, whether in the form of Southeast Asia being Southeast Asian, or the army of uncouth and mildly criminal wealthy expats (more later, a whole essay worth there), and in between there’s the father, Timothy, a bit of a white-collar crook himself just starting to face the consequences of his actions. On the other side, we have the daughter, Piper, the not-quite-Buddhist seeker who eventually realizes what a princess she actually is, and between all of them there is the younger son, Lochlan, the teenage dope who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing and occasionally gives out a handy to blood relatives. I could keep going, trope upon trope, extending the metaphor to its breaking point, but let’s stop there.
But I’m writing this cynical take as they’re delivering the carciofi alla giudia with a glass of Fiano. I am clearly part of the problem.
So what do I do with that? Do I hem and haw about my
consumer choices in a desperate attempt to find morality and authenticity?
Indeed, it’s in my recent position as an actual food and drink editor (ayyyyyy) that I actually have to be around all of these tropes (in addition to a large number of actually lovely people), and at least attempt to make nice-nice with them, even as I clench my molars. As much as I like the foie gras and the pigeon, I am ill-equipped for the social dimension of this world.
For now, I order the grappa – the carciofi and the amatriciana were perfectly fine – made from the must of the legendary Ornellaia wine. Even if I can’t help but side-eye the name “Antinori” on the bottle.
