Arneis the Alternative

The “Little Rascal” of summer wines

By Robyn James

Whenever we enter the dog days of summer, the search is on for refreshing whites to quench your thirst and complement your summer menus of salads, cold plates and seafood. New Zealand sauvignon blanc, Oregon pinot gris and Portugal’s vinho verde are always favored go-to summer whites. But what’s the new secret for a sommelier’s alternate summer white? Try the Italian grape arneis. You can’t really call arneis a “new” grape, since there are references hinting back to the 1400s and definite vineyard references to the grape in the 1800s.

If there were ever a wine region known solely for its red wines, the Piedmont region of Italy would be it. This is nebbiolo land, home to the majestic red wines of Barolo and Barbaresco, some of the hardest, most tannic wines on earth. Decades ago, wine geeks joked that these winemakers made wines for their grandchildren to enjoy.  Fans of these reds have usually assumed they were produced from 100 percent nebbiolo grapes and in most cases they were right. However, Italian law does allow winemakers to blend arneis into their Barolos and Barbarescos to soften the rock-hard tannins. Just as France permitted the Northern Rhone region to blend the white viognier grape into their tannic syrah as a miniscule softener, so goes Piedmont, Italy. Because of this potential blend, many locals refer to arneis as Barolo bianco or nebbiolo bianco even though there is no genetic thread to connect the grapes as relatives. Centuries ago, arneis was planted among the more valuable nebbiolo grapes in a field blend with the hope that the birds would swoop in to eat the cheaper, fruitier arneis and spare the pricey nebbiolo.

Roughly translated, arneis means “little rascal” or “difficult person.” It can be tricky to cultivate, prone to mildew if picked too late, and before the twentieth century winemakers had all but given up on it and extinction threatened.

Modern winemakers plant it in chalky, sandy soil to develop a light-medium body dry wine with more crisp acidity and structure. Common flavors are almonds, apricots, peaches, pears and hops. Winemakers in the United States, always up for a challenge, are planting arneis in Sonoma, Mendocino, Russian River and Oregon with great success. Even Australia and New Zealand are experimenting with plantings.

Two of my favorites come from the Damilano Winery of Barolo and the Cantine Tintero winery from the commune of Mango in Piedmont.

Damilano is one of the oldest wineries in Barolo, passed down to family members for many generations. They pride themselves on their arneis which is dry, delicate, with impressive acidity and full fruit flavors. It has pear flavors, citrus zest and finishes long. It sells for about $18.

Another family operated winery, Cantine Tintero produces Barbaresco, moscato, a rosato (rosé), a blended red, blended white and an arneis.

Possibly the best value I have ever discovered, this delicious white, under $12, has alluring floral aromas and flavors with great acidity and a pleasant spiciness. Branch out, try an arneis and cool off with something different for the summer.  PS

Robyn James is a certified sommelier and proprietor of The Wine Cellar and Tasting Room in Southern Pines. Contact her at robynajames@gmail.com.

When Honeybees Were Everywhere

Once, honeybees covered the clover-carpeted

ground, their steady hum linked so closely

with the clovers’ heavy heads and thread-like

stems it could have been, instead, the language

of these fragrant flowers — perhaps what they

whispered to one another in the early morning

light on a summer day as the barefoot children

burst from their houses and the dogs began

to bark and the milkman with his thick-soled

boots tromped through the yards, and mothers

dragged their laundry baskets across the grass

while bees scattered and the clover, briefly

trampled, rose again — their pale, dew-damp

faces poised to receive the bees’ next kiss.

– Terri Kirby Erickson

Beating the Heat

The endless battle with the Dog Days

By Bill Fields

We had a long list of defenses against the heat in the years before air conditioning — things to drink, eat or do — but moving into the last leg of an oppressive Sandhills summer they worked about as well as a fly swatter on a swarm of yellowjackets.

No matter how cold the Kool-Aid or TruAde, how juicy the watermelon or how still you could sit in the shade with a damp washcloth on the back of your neck, as the hot months continued there was a cumulative toll on the counter-measures.

Statistically, July has always been hotter than August by a little bit in Southern Pines, although the highest recorded temperature in North Carolina is 110 degrees, in Fayetteville, on August 21, 1983. By then, of course, central air wasn’t as foreign as Central America.

Growing up, given the swelter that usually had been endured since school let out, by the end of the Dog Days in early August it didn’t matter if the high was 88 instead of 91. It was still humid. Even the prettiest girls weren’t glowing, they were sweating. When he wasn’t working, Dad lived in his Bermuda shorts and white T-shirt, even if the latter didn’t have a pocket for his cigarettes.

There were the lakes (Aberdeen, Badin, White), but those were for special occasions and there could be complications. A kind but directionally challenged neighbor once allowed me to slip into the back seat with his kids for a trip to White Lake, but after several hours and what turned out to be very wrong turns in his Delta 88, we were amid the bars and pawn shops of Spring Lake nowhere close to the clear waters we were shooting for.

We eventually made it to White Lake that day for a brief swim, the whole adventure in sharp contrast to our usual water sport of running under a sprinkler in the yard, activity that was guaranteed to end with taking sand spurs out of your feet. Before my parents splurged and bought a small, aluminum-sided pool that looked like a large yellow can, my friends and I improvised. We dug a large pit and lined it with a spare plastic tarp, believing it would hold water and provide us with a private swimming hole. Fortunately, none of us later tried to become engineers.

I knew two window fans very well. One was old when I was young, its blades within a wooden housing with yardstick-like metal bars on the front, a few of which had gone missing in its lifetime. The other was more modern, a three-speeder whose high setting sounded like it could get a small plane aloft. Compared to the industrial-strength models you saw at the service station or feed store that were mounted on a tall stand and oscillated like the head of an attentive prison guard, ours were meager fans. But late at night, without a shirt or a top sheet, you’d talk yourself into believing they were doing some good.

Being in an air-conditioned space felt like a holiday. The best part of a night in a motel room on a rare summer road trip wasn’t the color television, the sani-wrapped glasses or even an honest-to-goodness pool, but an air conditioner you could crank up as much as you wanted. The food at Hoskins, our favorite place to eat on vacations to Ocean Drive, was matched by the restaurant’s chilled air that took the edge off a sunburn and made you feel, for an hour or so, that you were living large.

I remember when air conditioning came to our home in the form of a large window unit from Sears in the summer of 1974. Placed in a window on the east side of the house in the living room, it was powerful enough to cool the downstairs, although I was cautioned to keep it on low, lest the electric bill soar.

On the evening of August 8, 1974, when Richard Nixon, under so much heat, said he was resigning the presidency the next day, we watched on TV in the newly purchased cool. Summer, like a lot of things, was different.  PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north thirty years ago but hasn’t lost his accent or his ability to stay cool.