One of the less onerous jobs in journalism is being a food and wine correspondent. Fleetingly so designated, I was invited by the Italian wine promotion board to sample the wares of Frascati, Chianti and Barolo. My editor was indifferent to this hardship posting and insisted I go.
I flew to Rome where I was booked into a small but luxurious hotel near the Piazza Navona. A public relations minder greeted me with what he described as distressing news: an early start in the morning. "'Scusi, Signor Dunne", he said, "but we shall have to start at 10.30 a.m." I scarcely slept at the prospect.
Meet the boss
The minder collected me on the dot of 10.30 and brought me to meet his boss in the city centre. Though a minder's objective is to gain a favourable story about his client - in this case the Italian wine industry - of even more importance is to introduce the foreign journalist to his boss. That tells him (the boss) that he (the minder) is doing his job.
The boss was, he told me, Sicilian and Sicilians had age-old traditions. Before my blood had time to run cold, he explained the tradition he had in mind was having a glass of Marsala with some sweet cake in the morning. Thus fortified, I was driven by the minder to Frascati and a vineyard called Fontana Candida, which I think translates as "limpid fountain".
The owner showed me briefly around the vine-growing area; then, less briefly, around the bottling plant. One of the (few) hazards of being a wine and food correspondent is exposure to bottling plants. Vineyard owners take an unnatural interest in this part of producing wine. In a bottling plant, the romance of wine is reduced to the magic of a car assembly operation. Yet vignerons the world over salivate as they pronounce the words "stainless steel vats".
The tour of the vineyard over, we proceed to lunch in Frascati. I note the restaurant has two Michelin stars. We are not slumming . The starter is an enormous plate of Parma ham, accompanied by sundry vintages of Fontana Candida. This is followed by a no less enormous plate of pasta. There are now 12 different Fontana Candidas on the table. Next comes a veal cutlet which the plate is barely large enough to contain.
The owner proposes dessert. I tell him I was pooped. He bursts into tears. His wife, he says, has made an apple pie in honour of the visiting Irlandese and he cannot rule out the possibility that she may kill herself if I refuse to eat it. I eat. The minder drives me back to Rome and apologises for the long day. It is 3 p.m.
Time, obviously, for a siesta after the rigours of the day. I awake at 7.30 and head for the nearby Via Veneto. For all its renown, it is a curiously dull thoroughfare, just expensive shops and cafes. No Fellini, no Anita Ekberg.
Michelangelo's tipple
The following day I took a train to Florence. The local house of Antinori was unpopular in the trade for admitting that a lot of Italian wine was awful and reform was called for. Antinori had been based in Florence for centuries and carried the clout that old age gives you in the wine business. Michelangelo ordered wine from Antinori while he was painting the Sistine Chapel. He had to send in a second order, he complained to his Florentine suppliers, because Pope Julius II snaffled most of the first consignment.
Lunch with Antinori was one of the best I ever had. It consisted entirely of bread and olive oil. The breads were flavoured with subtle spicing, the olive oil was "extra virgin" - a marketing concept I have never understood. There were, as I recall, 12 different bottles on the table of Antinori Chianti Classico.
Something burning
I left Florence by train for Turin. For some reason, we went by Genoa. This is like going from Dublin to Kinnegad via Skibbereen. While wishing that Benito Mussolini would return to restore Italian railways to their former glory, I smelt something burning. I drew this to the attention to a passing conductor. He confirmed that a carriage was on fire, though he added - reassuringly as he may have thought - that the conflagration had not spread to the entire train.
It seemed a good time to broach the duty-free bottle of Paddy. I cannot, therefore, tell how I arrived in Turin but I do remember that it was after midnight and I was relieved the hotel had not given my room away.
The morning after, there was time to have a glass of Asti Spumante, the local sparkling wine which tastes of molasses with alcohol added. Then it was on to the serious business of Barolo. This wine packs a mule's kick. It is high in alcoholic strength and, ideally, should be regarded as a sleeping pill. I made it safely to Turin Airport, no thanks to Barolo, and slept soundly on the flights to London and Dublin.
On my return, the editor enquired about my well-being. "It was horrendous," I said.
"Then," the editor observed, "You will not want to go on the trip to Champagne next week." "Well," I said. . .