My friend from Rome has a habit of falling in love in the street.
We might be walking down to the supermarket on a grey Saturday morning when he stops dead, puts a hand over his heart, grabs my elbow to pull me back and says, eyes wide with shock, “Did you see THAT? That’s IT! I AM IN LOVE!”
Meanwhile, the love of his life walks on, entirely unaware of the commotion behind them. To be honest, I rarely see what the fuss is about, but for a moment the day seems a little brighter for it.
Talking him down with rocks
I have to be careful when we taste wine together, because he is often in raptures. So when he fell for a Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio from Campania, I tried to cool his enthusiasm by talking about rocks and soil.
In particular, I talked about a rock you’ll find in many bathrooms, sitting on the edge of the bath: pumice.
The vineyards of Lacryma Christi grow on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, in soils built up over centuries of eruptions from a mix of ash, lava and pumice. Much as I love wines from volcanic regions, that lump of pumice by the bath is about as close as many of us get to a volcano in everyday life.
It’s also a useful way to think about the wine. Like pumice, the Lacryma Christi we tried had a porous, airy lightness to it. Wines from hot climates can sometimes taste syrupy or baked, with the sun pushing up ripeness and alcohol until one glass feels like plenty, especially alongside a heavy pasta. The difference in weight is something like the difference between an Aero and a plain bar of milk chocolate.
Tears without the lava
The name sets you up for something else. Lacryma Christi means “tears of Christ”, and legend has it that the vines grew where those tears fell on Vesuvius. Add a volcano to that and you might expect tears of molten lava, with an opening blast of heat followed by slow, heavy fruit.
That’s not what you get, and the wine is none the worse for it. It is light the way joy is light.
A wine for checked tablecloths
This is a wine for a little Italian restaurant with red and white checked tablecloths. It’s romantic and yet modest, and it does what good Italian wines so often do, leaving room for the food and a good story.
It doesn’t pass by unnoticed, and it isn’t quite as simple as a “Ciao bello!” and a smacking kiss. But like my friend’s Saturday morning loves, it makes the evening a little brighter.
