So we called the hotel from a phone booth in Monforte around 2:30PM, and found they had managed to redeem themselves somewhat. I don’t know what favors they had to call in, but they’d secured a visit to Luciano Sandrone’s winery, which is admittedly quite an honor.

Signore Sandrone met us in person, and proceeded to guide us through his brand new winery for an hour and a half, speaking to us in Italian, which we both understand just fine, and Ivonne answering in a little Italian, and me cracking a few jokes in English with plenty of hand-waving (which gives all Italians an automatic +4 on rolls for their understand-foreigner ability).

In particular, on being admitted into the sanctum sanctorum where the bottle await shipment, I mentioned ‘Fort Knox’, and he snorted and replied it was the bank’s gold. People living off the land and banks… a long history.

Anyhoo, communication was all one-way until we sat down to try the wines, and we got to his Nebbiolo d’Alba. Partly it was the incredibly dense red fruit nose, partly it was my ex-sales-guy garrulousness which just couldn’t be denied any longer, but I gushed with praise for his wine, en francais dans le texte.

Seeing how close la France is, it should have come as no surprise that he understood me just fine. (Yes, I was still waving my hands around.) So we babbled away in Italian and French about how his wine reminded me of good Bourgogne Pinot Noir, and how he tended the vines on a steep natural theater facing south, and how, wow, that’s how they tend their rieslings in the Mosel valley in Germany where we were in October, and yes, yes, you get it exactly, let’s stop drinking the 1999 vintage, it’s too young anyway, gimme a minute and I’ll get the 1989.

This, my friends, is called unlocking a secret level.

We stayed another 45 minutes happily tasting his dolcetto, his barolo, his barbera from 17 years ago in a babble of three languages and in a total meeting of minds.

The hotel recommended a stop in Monforte, for the 180° view of the Italian Alps, to the West and North.

To sweeten the deal, they also told us that it was the native town of the guys who founded Paramount and that we could see the mountain which inspired the logo from there.


Now a quick googling shows that :
* the Paramount founders were all yanks
* the mountain in the logo has changed several times
* there’s no consensus on what mountain it was originally
* the only italian contender is il Cervino far to the North
* Cervino doesn’t looks anything like the Paramount logo

Once you’re over the fact that you’ve been sold a cartload of bovine pre-owned grass, you can get back to admiring the town, and it’s view, which are, indeed, breathtaking.

Like the chutzpah of certain people.

I would kill for a view like this… less than one hour from Torino, which has a strong economy and plenty of jobs…

*hint, hint, nudge, nudge*

Ok, so 10:30AM is nothing to write home about, but it’s a definite improvement over yesterday, no?

The breakfast was certainly worth it, but the reason we got up so bloody early was so we could finalize arrangements to visit some local winemakers. We’d sent a list of some we’d like to see two weeks ago, and been assured the hotel could set them up for us. Last minute. Cuz they’re personal friends.

Right.

This morning, still nothing and every one they called was busy. We ended leaving for some more photography with an appointment to call the hotel later to see if they’d sorted it out.

Needless to say, we were not happy campers. Translation: Princess was seething!

We’d bought a new silk top with a black and white print for the occasion. We’d raced up and down hilly roads to make it there before they gave away our table. The reservations’d been made days in advance.

It was a small violation of the definition of the Michelin stars, since as a one star it should only have been worth the stop, not the detour… but everyone said it was the best in the region, and nothing was going to keep us from sampling what the Relais San Maurizio‘s kitchens had to offer… and we were not disappointed.

The menu mated some of the great Piemonte classics with local wines, and the staff were courteous and discrete.

An adjective which did not quite fit some of our fellow diners, one of whom had to carried out by her friend in a fireman’s carry, as she was rather the worse for drink, while one of my countrymen proceeded to bore his date silly with what I must admit is an unfortunately common conversational gambit in my home country: the ‘me, me, me’ speech.

Oui, I was quite the revolutionaire in my youth… I’ve been all over l’Afrique, and almost joined Medecins Sans Frontiere… I have the most lovely Nebbiolo in my cave, much better than this one! Ah, if I were twenty today, le gouvernement would be in for a wild ride! etc, etc, etc…

His date looked ready to commit seppuku, and we trying to keep the snickering to a dull roar while we applauded the maitre d’ for giving us more of that incredible goatcheese washed with Marc de RieslingM and refreshing our glasses.