Preservation of American Hellenic History
Preservation of American Hellenic History
by Jason C. Mavrovitis
In early September, Papou went to the wholesale fruit and vegetable market in Manhattan to arrange for delivery of crates of red and white grapes from California. With neighborhood children watching, men lowered the crates through the courtyard access into the basement and the loving and expectant care of Leonardo. (His Italian name is more appropriate for winemaking than "Louie.")
There were two or three fifty-gallon wood barrels standing in what had been the coal storage room. Set on top of one of the barrels was a grape press. It was old and worn, its metal parts rough and dark, its wood stained. At the top of the press was a trough, shaped like a V. It had interlaced, opposing spiked rollers on either side of the V. These, turned by gears that linked to a long-handled manual crank, pulled the grapes down between them, squeezing out the juice, which fell into the barrel with the grapes' pulp and skins. The press greedily devoured the grapes as we fed them in from the top. When the first barrel was filled, we moved the press to the second and third barrels in turn. Each received the must(1) of a particular grape.
I helped Papou, putting my hands under his as he turned the crank and dropping grapes into the press at his command. He rarely had any other help in the process. It was his private and happy labor. I often wondered whether he had learned the wine-making process as a child in Calabria or from Italian friends in the United States. I liked to think of him as a boy helping his grandfather as I helped him.
The basement was dark, light coming only from dim forty-watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling on extension cords. End of summer dampness condensed and trickled down the cold, black steel posts that supported the floors above. After what seemed like endless hours of pressing, the crates were empty and the barrels full. We breathed the aroma of grape must.
In the semi-darkness of the cellar, Papou used his skill to help the grape juice transform into three kinds of wine, each with its own character. He inspected the barrels every night after returning from his job in the City. He would strike a match and lower it slowly into the space just above the bubbling juices. He watched to see if the flame died as he lowered it close to the liquid. If after a few seconds the flame continued to burn, indicating the absence of carbon dioxide and the end of the must's fermentation, it was time for him to begin the next step of the process.
Leonardo siphoned the fermented juice out of the large barrels into smaller ones that he had prepared earlier. I choked on the fermented juice several times when he taught me how to prime the rubber siphon by sucking on it like a straw. He had treated the barrels with the smoke of burning sulfur in the weeks before delivery of the grapes. During the process, the whole house smelled of burning sulfur. With her furious protestations, Lily made Leonardo believe he was where burning sulfur prevailed ~ Hell. He never learned to contain the fumes.
Leonardo sealed some barrels immediately. To others he added measures of sugar and perhaps of yeast to initiate a second fermentation of the already-once fermented juice. He left several gallons of must and the remains of the wet mash in the bottom of the barrel as raw material for the creation of grappa.
He created three wines. One was a robust, deep red, burgundy-colored wine with the intensity of claret and the roughness of Chianti. The second, a soft, gold, white wine was a very dry, white varietal. The third, a golden-colored sparking muscatel, was slightly sweet and very full-flavored with a huge bouquet. These Leonardo placed in casks for aging. He moved them from cask to bottle over time, as the spirit of Bacchus inspired him.
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