Of course, it’s not like I never drank wine in my life. I have, and more than enjoyed it, I saw it was important. However, I can’t say I “got” wine. Prior to my wine exposure at IWM, I struggled with the complimentary relationship between wine and food.  Cooking has always been one of my passions, so I can appreciate the use of wine as an essential ingredient. However, I couldn’t internalize the idea of wine as an integral component to a flawlessly prepared meal.  This changed a few weeks ago at my first formal wine tasting.

Prior to the tasting, I told myself to abandon my uncertain and somewhat cynical opinion of how wine and food interact with each other.  I had been schooled; I was primed; I was ready. But while I did my best to convince myself, my taste buds were still somewhat naïve and skeptical—until my wine epiphany.

All it took was a sip of the 2004 Ada Nada Barbaresco Cichin and a perfectly prepared taste of braised veal cheek with polenta to make me see the light.

In that white-light moment, I struggled to find the perfect words from the wine nomenclature I’d so recently been steeped in. But the only words that came to my mind were these: “Holy cow, that’s fantastic!” Just to make sure that this experience was something special, my skeptical taste buds and I went in for a second try.  My mouth savored the tender and juicy veal cheek as it softened the tannins in the Ada Nada. I focused on the spices and fruit that the red wine had to offer; I had finally been struck by the beauty of a perfect pairing.

This “ah-ha” moment has transformed my opinion on pairings and has become another driving force for my wine curiosity.  I not only find myself excited to taste wine, but also thriving on the experience I had.  I look forward to opening my senses and my mind to a world of “ah-ha” moments as I cultivate the career—and the tasting journey—that I’ve embarked on.

The eyes of the wine world remain on Hong Kong because of the city’s staggering auction results, but that phenomenon is not quite an accurate picture of the wine scene on a day-to-day basis.   Upon my arrival, many clients here told me of how they saw many wine merchants open businesses in hopes of capitalizing on the spending frenzy frequently reported by Bloomberg and other major media, only to close their shops just as quickly as that frenzy ended.  The newspapers would have had me believe that a throng of local collectors would greet me at the airport with blank checks and ask me to fill their cellars unto bursting with Italy’s best wines.  What I’ve found is less a mania for collection and more a profound love of wine, and I like it.

Hong Kong’s passion for enjoying life’s finer things manifests itself in an obsession to understand wine, and not simply to bid wildly on Lafite at auction.  The wine lovers of Hong Kong move beyond first growths and Parker scores and search for the story in each bottle, and they appreciate the way a farmer can put his heart in a bottle, just as art lovers appreciate how Van Gogh put his heart onto a canvas. (Would Ales Kristancic cut off his ear?  Would you be surprised if he did?)  When you think about it, the deep appreciation felt by Hong Kong wine aficionados makes sense; a culture largely influenced by principles of Feng Shui is naturally adept at feeling what lies beyond plain sight.

Today I met a friend for lunch who has recently taken classes in Italian wine, Champagne and Burgundy, who is preparing to take her Level 3 WSET exam for fun, and who will travel to Piedmont and Bordeaux this year.  The joy she gets from the education in wine makes the journey itself a destination. This attitude is inspiring, and this attitude drives me and my peers in the Hong Kong wine community.

When I arrived in Hong Kong bearing the strange gifts of Italian wines—like Ales’ biodynamic beauties that call for you to open underwater and decant overhead—I wondered how both I and my wines would be received.  I was fully confident in IWM and our ability to contribute to the wine community’s thirst for the world’s very best wine, and I felt sure I could serve both the people and the wines properly.  But would anyone care to understand what was in these bottles? I was fortunate to meet some of the leaders in the HK restaurant scene early on, and on meeting them, I knew we had found the right place, and the right partners, to share our passion.

Mark’s designs for Dakota Prime’s enhanced wine program will offer HK foodies countless opportunities to discover what’s beautiful about wine—and not merely what’s most familiar. And his innovations are evocative of the Hong Kong restaurant scene in general. When Giovanni Perna at Domani recommends a new Italian wine to me, I don’t think twice about trying it, even if I experience only a fraction of the passion he feels for this wine.  When I dine at Tuscany by H, I don’t open the menu; Chef Harlan tells me what he thinks and I trust him completely.  (If you’re a fan of great service, watch him operate on any night and you’ll see how much he genuinely cares about every guest’s experience that night.)  At the new Otto e Mezzo, GM Danilo Nicoletti’s face lights up like a Roman candle when he talks about the art of Italian wine and his own culinary artist, Chef Bombana, and the collection of fine art in the restaurant itself is an ode to a time and place in Italian culture.  Make no mistake: Hong Kong is an awesome place to be a wine lover.

If you’re reading this with a glass of wine in hand, as I have been while writing this post (I’ve been drinking Movia 2006 Pinot Grigio—I usually don’t love Pinot Grigio, but this is art, my friends), I hope you’ll drink to Mark’s success in guiding us wine lovers to profound wine discoveries. May I suggest the San Guilano Barbaresco paired thoughtfully with Macaroni and Cheese and perhaps a side of Porterhouse?

Adversity can breed excellent art. For example, it’s an accepted notion that artists need to suffer for their art. This is undeniably true for blues musicians. The pain of relationships often forces blues musicians experience raw feelings, and then they release those feelings in their music. This art-born-from-suffering concept can hold true for many artists working in multiple genres. Certainly the horrors of the Spanish Civil War inspired Picasso to tell the story of the bombing of the Basque town by German pilots in his painting Guernica. It vividly shows the horrors of war, in particular the suffering of civilians. But does this theory relate to wine?

I think it does.

In many ways, wine requires both peace and prosperity. For one thing, the land must be in a harmonious state to produce wine’s most basic and beautiful raw materials: the grapes. The vineyard owners must have a healthy cash flow in order to manage the considerable expenses of the operation. But what of the winemaker him or herself? Take for instance the historic Gaja Barbarescos from the 1970s. Gaja made these wines during a time when he was sharply criticized for reducing his yields, using small French oak barrels, even vinifying and bottling single vineyards separately.  And yet, these wines show the passion and the conviction of a young man who dared to defy his colleagues, even his father. They demonstrate the fortitude of a visionary who believed that his wines could rival the finest in the world. They are wines that changed the way people understood Barbaresco.

So what is an original piece of history worth? Is it tens of thousands, even millions of dollars? I would venture to say that to buy a piece of history for well under $500 is a true value. To experience a part of wine history that is still in perfect condition for this price is a remarkable value. Moreover, the fact that you or I can own, drink, enjoy, and imbibe history itself demonstrates the core values of IWM because in many ways Sergio’s mission is similar to Angelo Gaja’s—to show the world that Italy produces wines that are not merely enjoyable, not merely value-conscious, not merely beautiful, but can transcend being just a bottle of wine and become a bit of history itself.

Recently, my girlfriend Melissa and I went to a local Italian restaurant (for reasons soon to become clear, I’m opting against naming it). We’d been there a few times previously and enjoyed the food. The owner is a nice guy who’s really into wine. Naturally, he and I get along.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a nicely dressed hostess and a suited gentleman. We were seated right away, and our jackets were removed by the host and manager.  We were presented menus by the server, and the manager followed with a wine list. The list was 100% Italian, a big plus for me because there’s nothing that bothers me more than going to an Italian restaurant that offers more Californian than Italian wines. The owner and I decided on a 1997 Giacomo Borgogno Barbaresco, an absolute steal at $50 a bottle. I was happy. Everything seemed to be going so well.

When dining at restaurants of this caliber, I usually don’t like to order; I generally leave it in the hands of the manager or server. This time was no different for me, and I told the manager, whose judgment is usually spot on, to order for my girlfriend and me.

The first course was Mozzarella di buffalo with roasted peppers and an eighty-year-old balsamic vinegar. This was fantastic—simple but fresh. The mozzarella was actually buffalo and the peppers actually roasted in house; the eighty-year-old balsamic was a nice touch. Nothing makes me angrier than going to a restaurant, ordering Mozzaralla di buffalo, and discovering that they’re calling Polly-O string cheese Mozzarella di buffalo! I was pleased to see the genuine article.

The second course was also wonderful: Prosciutto di San Daniele with baby eggplant salad. The Prosciutto was sliced thin and fresh. The eggplant was perfectly cooked with a little crunch to it. I love eggplant, though if it’s mushy, we have a problem. This eggplant was delightful in every respect.

I’m happy so far. The Barbaresco is starting to open up. The nose is beautiful. Bright rose petals and fall leaves start to blossom in the glass. The wine is perfectly balanced with a slightly sweet note of balsamic. Melissa and I are smiling; it’s a wonderful food and wine synergy so far.

The third course was risotto with wild mushrooms and truffle oil. And that was when the bombshell dropped.

As the waiter crossed the room with the risotto in his hand, I could see that the dish didn’t look right.   Closer, closer he walked, and my apprehension grew. The waiter approached the table. I looked around in anticipation for the manager, hoping he would intercept the dishes and send them back to the kitchen. He was not to be found. Melissa loves risotto and looked at me with dismay. Disappointment showed on her face.

The “risotto” was not risotto. It wasn’t that gloriously relaxed ooze of Carnaroli, wafting truffle and glowing with a sheen of butter. Instead it looked like nothing as much as Uncle Ben’s cooked in a risotto style. I almost fell off my seat! I felt embarrassed, conflicted and anguished. Should I say something? Should I send it back? I didn’t want to make the owner feel bad or make a scene in this small restaurant. Everything had been going so well. And now… this plate of faux risotto. I was gobsmacked.

Melissa convinced me to eat it, and it actually tasted good for commercial boxed rice, though eating the dish did nothing to convince me that what was on the plate before me had any connection to risotto other than its name.  The rest of the meal was a blur to me. I couldn’t get over the risotto catastrophe. I found myself looking around the restaurant seeing if anyone else ordered the faux risotto dish. There was a part of me that wanted to walk over to the table in the corner and tell them they were eating a box of Uncle Ben’s. Did they know too? I kept trying to make eye contact with them. The entire meal had become a punch-line to a really bad foodie joke.

The problem was that I liked the restaurant. I liked the manager. In fact, I still like both. I keep on wondering, should I have told him of this kitchen disaster? Is it possible he wasn’t aware? Or is it possible that even he thought that what the chef had sent out that night was actually risotto? Part of me cannot fathom the idea that a chef worthy of a salt grain of integrity could send a dish out like that, and another part of me can’t fathom the idea that a chef in an Italian restaurant would call that dish “risotto.” And then one last part of me still can’t get over the fact that they charged me $25 for the boxed rice disaster—and that I paid it.

Still conflicted, I wonder, what would you do? Would you go back? What do you do when you have a seriously mixed restaurant experience at a place you genuinely, and generally, like?

The first I reached for was the 1999 Palari Faro, a Nerello Mascalese and Nerello Cappuccio blend from Sicily.  Still deeply colored, the nose was fairly closed until it woke up after half an hour in the decanter and showed dried plums, dusty earth and spice rack deliciousness.  Then I popped the 1997 Castell’in Villa Chianti Classico Riserva. The warmth and concentration of the red cherry fruit so typical of Sangiovese impressed me. This was the most fruit driven of the wines, something I’d expect from a warm and sunny year, and I was surprised how the usually sandy tannins of Sangiovese were so ripe and well-integrated.

Then there was the 1998 Fanti San Filippo Brunello di Montalcino that I took to Apiary last Monday (check out their corkage fee-free Monday nights!).  No brick notes had edged into the rim, and the aromas were just giving up the first whiffs of development with leather and dried leaf.  Comparing the 1997 to 1998 Tuscan wines, I still prefer the more reserved 1998s.

Finally, there was the stately 1998 Rocche dei Manzoni Barolo Cappella Santo Stefano.  This is a wine I carried back from my visit to the winery in 2002, when I hauled the original wooden case right past the customs officials. This single-vineyard Barolo was probably the most promising of them all, yet it is still reticent to express all its aromatic nuances and its firm tannins have yet to fully meld into the structure. I think I’ll put the rest of these bottles at the back of the fridge and forget them for four or five years.

The reward of cellaring has paid off so far, though I admit it’s tough to resist the temptation to fill up the space I’ve freed up in my storage.  Still, I think I hear some 2005 Barbaresco clamoring. Nature abhors a vacuum—it’s only space, and I might as well fill it.