Below is a sample from a collection of envelope addresses we have received at our wonderful, old world, Vineburg post office. This collection began in about 1984 and continued on until about 1990: at which time the shoe box they were being collected in became too full and the collection stopped. Recently while clearing out an old file cabinet, this shoe box was discovered. Thought you might enjoy seeing the various interpretations of both our winery name and my name. We still receive some doozies occasionally, but much less often, so our family must be gaining in brand recognition. Still, at the time this collection was accruing, there was a temptation to give up the Gundlach part of the name. If we had wanted to become a large winery, we would have been forced to, for obvious business reasons. Instead, we stayed small, and put our faith in people like you. At the winery, many of our guests take great pride in being able to properly pronounce our name. We don't take that for granted. Thank you for learning to say “Gundlach Bundschu.”
This month, we received a wonderful letter, properly addressed, included below for your enjoyment.
“Un Vino Americano a Roma”
November 18, 2008
Julianne Van Wagenen
There is a small, sixty year old Italian sommelier from Sorrento named Oreste Perna. He holds your winery in the highest of opinion.
I started working for him as an English teacher at his cultural association in Rome in the summer of 2007. A few months later he offered me a trade. I could take his entry-level sommelier course at the association in exchange for some lessons of English. Sure, I thought, it could be fun. I like wine.
I was first introduced to wine when I was 15, one of three teenage girls in the dark of my friend’s garage, pouring pink wine from a box into plastic cups. The experience sold me on the attributes of vodka. About as disgusting as wine and gets you drunk quicker.
I began the sommelier course as a 23 year old American abroad—I drank anything you put in front of me, indifferent to what time of day it was, what I was eating, what I’d been drinking the previous round. Give me tacos and Riesling, spaghetti with clams and a mojito, a peanut butter sandwich on Wonderbread and Passito. Then, suddenly, I was thrown into this distinguished course; I was sniffing and swirling and slurping Barolo, Montepulciano, Aglianico, Chardonnay, all of the Pinots, Falanghina. I was claiming to smell tar and roses, black currant, a cornucopia of berries, tart apple, canned figs, chestnut. I was alleging ruby red with reflections of garnet. But in reality all that I smelled was wine and all that I saw was red and yellow.
After four months of classes I only managed to pass the final test by pretending to be unable to express myself in Italian and by presenting the sommelier with a bottle of 2003 Gundlach Bundschu Cabernet Sauvignon which my mom had sent from The States for him. He beamed, “AAH! I didn’t know your mother was a wine intenditrice (someone who understands wine).” I just smiled. I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t sure my mom really knew anything about wine other than that she liked it.
A few months later he called me. Could I come that evening to do live translation of a wine meditation he was hosting? There were a few English speakers that didn’t understand any Italian. When I arrived I was appalled to see my mom’s bottle of Gundlach Bundschu open on the display table. NO! I thought. We can’t meditate on my mom’s wine! It might be vinegary, it might taste like cork or fungus or may be just bad wine!
Then he told me who the guests would be—his colleagues from a Sommelier Association. We’d spend two and half hours examining two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, one American and one Italian. And as the group arrived I started to panic. “American wine! Oreste are you mad?! I will take one sip and not more. American wine gives me headaches,” said one Italian sommelier.
It was the general opinion of the group that America has poor soil, young vines, and a dearth of experience. I hid behind my notes, sheepishly hoping no one would pinpoint my accent as American. Signore Perna didn’t hesitate, however, to mention that my mother (indicating me with a Vanna White flourish) had picked the bottle out and sent it as a special gift. Why Mom, WHY?!? I thought. Then he whispered in my ear that he was a bit concerned. He’d taken a good look at the wine through the bottle and it appeared brown. He’d let it air over two hours and it still smelled strongly of alcohol. He wasn’t sure it was a very well-balanced wine. Hadn’t I told him my mom was an intenditrice?
We poured the wine. The Italians made dubious faces as they smelled it. We swirled it. Black currant and pepper? “Hmmmm.” They said pensively. Then they tasted it and their faces changed. A subtle current of smile flashed across the room. No Italian wanted to be the first to concede anything. There was a long, swirling silence. Finally, Signore Perna turned to me, “Complimenti to your mother. She really does understand wine. This is one of the best wines I’ve ever tasted in my thirty-odd years of being a sommelier. At auction this bottle could go for 1,000 euro.” Everyone in the room nodded their heads solemnly in agreement.
As we finished the bottle I told them how the people of Gundlach Bundschu of Sonoma Valley had dressed up as bandits and stopped the Napa Valley wine-tasting train. Italians love cowboys. They all agreed that Sonoma Valley wine must be far superior to that of Napa.
