My 300th post. Not an incredible wine. A bit of tar on the nose. Tart cherries and a little too metallic. However, it takes me back to our time in Montepulciano. We are eating cacio e pepe pizza, with pecorino and honey. There's a picture of Jack Nicholson and the owner of the restaurant on the wall. The same owner comes to our table to see how we're enjoying our food. A big, jolly man. He is eyeing my red flannel shirt, and he asks me to stand up as he's feeling my sleeve with his fingers. "What is this?", he asks. Says I, "It's flannel." "Flannel..." he says, searching for words. "It's... magnificent!"
He embraces me. We hold each other for a longer amount of time than Americans typically would. I just go with it. I'll never forget him, and I wonder if he still thinks of me.
Listening to the Pogues
My 300th post. Not an incredible wine. A bit of tar on the nose. Tart cherries and a little too metallic. However, it takes me back to our time in Montepulciano. We are eating cacio e pepe pizza, with pecorino and honey. There's a picture of Jack Nicholson and the owner of the restaurant on the wall. The same owner comes to our table to see how we're enjoying our food. A big, jolly man. He is eyeing my red flannel shirt, and he asks me to stand up as he's feeling my sleeve with his fingers. "What is this?", he asks. Says I, "It's flannel." "Flannel..." he says, searching for words. "It's... magnificent!"
He embraces me. We hold each other for a longer amount of time than Americans typically would. I just go with it. I'll never forget him, and I wonder if he still thinks of me.
Listening to the Pogues
Mar 14th, 2026
Montepulciano, Siena, Tuscany, Italy
