Preservation of American Hellenic History
Preservation of American Hellenic History
by Jason C. Mavrovitis
Early on the first Saturday after the fermented grape juice had been siphoned from the large barrels, Papou uncovered his shiny copper still. Perhaps three feet in height, it was stored under old sheets and tarps, and hidden behind two gigantic steamer trunks that he and my grandmother, Eleni, had used on their trip to Greece and Italy in 1931. The trunks, often opened for play by my sister and me, were covered with stickers of foreign-sounding steamships and hotels, some Greek, others Italian.
After cleaning and setting up the still on a small table, Papou filled it with the remains of mash and liquid from the large barrels and lit its kerosene burner. Next to the still he set a card table, and five or six chairs. The still was directly behind his chair. He brought a green felt table cover, playing cards, and gambling chips to the basement from their place in the heavy, dark wood bureau in the dining room, and suspended one bare electric bulb over the table. By mid-morning, one by one, his friends began to arrive and follow him down the steps to the annual meeting of the informal Grappa Society.
The game was poker. Red, white, and blue chips represented pennies, nickels, and dimes. Stakes were low. Passions ran high.
All day the game went on, and all evening and late into the night, and into the early, dark morning. The game went on until the still had completed its work. Cigarette smoke rose from the table and swirled around the light bulb, some of it of heavy and sweet smelling Turkish tobacco. Wine glasses and coffee cups filled spaces on either side of the players. Plates with the remains of sandwiches of prosciutto, capocollo, feta, provolone, lakerda, and sardeles were on the floor.
Behind Papou was the steady drip, drip of clear grappa as made its way down the spiral condensing tube into a heavy, glass container. Periodically, Papou would lift a small tumbler from the table, move it behind him until it was directly under the drip, and hold it there for thirty seconds. Then, without any fanfare, he would lift the tumbler to his lips and test a few drops of the liquor. He gave no sign other than a slight nod of his head.
A few days after the still had relinquished the last drop of condensate, Papou would take a twenty-four-inch long black case from its place on a shelf in the storage room. Nestled in it, in a bed of green velvet, was a beautifully handblown glass hydrometer. He lowered the glass work of art into a wide-mouthed jug that held the liquor gained from the still. With the care of a chemist, he added distilled water to the liquor, sharing the liquid with a second jug when the first filled. He continued the process until the hydrometer indicated that the alcohol content in each jug was 90 proof (45% alcohol), down from the 120-140 proof that had been delivered by the still.
Some of this liquor he put into a small, one-gallon keg without any additive. Some he put into two or three other kegs with flavorings that created whiskey or brandy in ways known only to him.
Bottles of Papou's liquors were secreted in the basement ceiling and walls. I learned this when I watched him retrieved a bottle for his fiftieth birthday. The bottles were named and dated: "Nitsa, September 1931, for wedding"; "Jason, March 1934, for wedding"; "Jimmy & Lily for 25 Anniversary"; "Leonardo 60 Birthday".
Papou's wine was our table wine. I did not know until later, after he had moved in the early 1940s with his barrels and still to Bay Fourteenth Street, that he made enough wine to sell. One gallon at a time, he sold his product to Greek and Italian neighbors who favored "homemade" over the wines in the store.
Our family prized Papou's brandy. We never knew when he was going to open a bottle. Invariably, it was for a family celebration that he had anticipated by ten, twenty, or more years.
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