The Rake Magazine

About three months ago, John and I decided we were in a rut. We went out to eat and then to a movie; we went to a movie and got a bite to eat. There was something missing. Music. So we pledged to go out at least twice a month and listen to some band we'd never heard of in a venue that doesn't cost a ton.

This is a high-risk venture. On any given week, there will be a long list of possibilities. Most charge $5 or $10 at the door. Few give you a sample of the music before you go. We've sat through some incredibly tepid performances, including a folk singer who billed himself as "like Bob Dylan" but sounded more like one of the Muppets, except off-key.

There have been some good experiences, too. We ended up at 7th Street Entry one night, waiting well past 11 o'clock for an up-and-coming hip-hop band to appear. We were the oldest people in the place by about 10 years, which actually added to our enjoyment. The best part of the night was watching a crowd of really beautiful, high-energy kids dance.

But last night, we struck gold at Acadia's grand re-opening celebration, with a band led by the singer Gabriel James.

I'd been aware that Acadia closed its Franklin and Nicollet location but was, until I saw the notice for the celebration yesterday, unaware they'd moved to take over the old Riverside Cafe space on the University's West Bank.

I was disappointed when we first walked in. The Riverside was terrific in its day, but that slice of building has gone through some hard times. It's beat-up and very musty inside, desperately in need of ventilation. The crowd was standing elbow-to-elbow, and the whole room smelled of body emissions, stale cigarette smoke, and damp leather shoes. To tell the truth, I was ready to turn around and leave.

But the musicians onstage, a three-man bluegrass band called Dragich and the Polemics, were fun to watch — in particular, their string bass player, a tall, wholesome-looking young man who danced with his instrument in a dashing Fred Astaire-ish way.

Acadia has an extensive beer list and 28 varieties on tap, which made my husband happy. They'd also tapped a keg of Surly Furious, a dark, hoppy beer from, of all places, Brooklyn Center, MN. I had a glass of some perfectly acceptable house wine, for $4, and noted (for what it's worth) that Acadia's bar food looked to be a notch above the norm.

So we stayed. And I'm so glad.

Because after Dragich and his boys left the stage, Gabriel James -- the small, skull-capped man who'd been standing in front of me just moments before and blocking my view -- went up. And he began to sing.

According to his website, James plays "an eclectic mix of acoustic jazz," but frankly, I don't think that gives him, or his band, enough credit. Backed by a percussionist, a bass player, a fantastic trumpet player, and a woman who played both keyboard and flute, James had the sort of unique, unnameable sound of early R.E.M. His songs were original, aching, funny, weird. I would gladly have paid $20 just to hear him perform. Instead, parking and wine included, it cost me about $8.95.

The calendar on James's myspace lists only TWO performances this spring — the one last night and another (also at Acadia) on May 10. This is a shame — and probably means that despite his talent, he's supporting himself working a regular old day job, which is really too bad. The 40 minutes he was on stage last night went by way too fast and I would have loved to see him again next week. Or, for that matter, tonight.

Perhaps I'm the only one who wasn't paying attention to the complications caused by the European Union. But I'll admit, I'm surprised.

When we booked our trip to Italy -- after receving an unexpected bequest from my husband's mother -- the euro (which had been under a dollar not long before) was trading at about $1.20. By the time we boarded our plane last week, it was $1.55 and rising steadily, which meant we could no longer afford the trip we had planned.

John and I reassessed quickly, eliminating one city and several amenities. The best solution would have been to shorten the trip by two days, thereby cutting out two hotel stays and several meals, but Northwest would have charged us so dearly to make the change, we would have netted a loss. So we forged ahead, eating dinner roughly half the nights in our rooms rather than a restaurant, which in this country certainly is no hardship. . . .

In fact, we had some really lovely meals: fresh bread; prosciutto from the local alimentari; a delicious sharp, soft cheese called tallegio; and the best oranges (nearly all Italian oranges are of what we Americans call the "blood" variety, with bright red fruit) I have ever tasted in my life. In addition, each night we would open a bottle of some local wine that we purchased for about €3.50, or $5.

After a time, John and I began competing in the markets of Italy, a how low can you go sort of game, where each of us would try to find a bottle of something both cheap and remarkable. The best was a Sasso Alto Montepulciano d'Abruzzo 2006 for €2.59 (around $3.90) that we found in a dingy, back-street supermarket in Florence. It was rich and satisfying, a cherry red wine with lots of blackberry and vanilla and dark Tuscan earth. Not complex, but perfect for our middle-of-the-bed picnics. And I have no doubt that when we look back on this trip in the decades to come, it will be those nights we remember most fondly. Food and wine in a small hotel room, oranges so juicy we needed towels to keep the quilt clean, the sounds of city life coming from the darkened porthole window overhead.

Still, we did a fair amount of grumbling at first about how the cost of the euro was eating into our precious vacation fund. The more we tried to economize, however -- e.g. ordering primi plates and house wine in restaurants rather than three courses with expensive bottles, as tourists who came before us have routinely done -- the more irritated our hosts became. And it wasn't only us. I could watch the animosity play out between other Americans and our Italian hosts. There has always, I suspect, existed a battle between merchants and travelers: they rely on us financially but resent us for trampling through their country and neglecting to learn their language; we want to take advantage of everything they know and have and sell, yet resent the prices they charge.

In the wake of the European Union and the euro, everything relationship-wise has worsened. Tourists feel cheated even before they land in Florence or Venice or Rome. And businesspeople in this country (where employment owes a whopping 67% to the service and tourism industries) are seeing crowds thin and people spend less. So they're reasonably defensive and upset.

I thought this was the end of the story -- a cultural war that waxes and wanes and happens to be in a peak phase right now -- but last night I had a converation that broadened my understanding. We had stopped in a coffee bar and struck up a halting, broken conversation with a very genial barista. At one point, I asked if conversion to the euro had been difficult -- meaning, mostly, whether it was tough to recognize the new coins and bills.

But he took it another way entirely.

"Terrible," he told us (and I'm paraphrasing, because some of this was communicated with hand gestures). "Everything in Italy costs twice as much as it did when we had lire."

It turns out [and you probably already know this] that economically powerful countries such as France and Sweden drew in less well-off ones -- including Italy and Spain -- forcing everyone to adhere to a standard currency that allowed the wealthier Europeans to maintain their quality of life while the poor wound up spending 75-100% more for essentials, such as food, cigarettes (hey, they seem to be essential here. . . .), and gasoline.

The barista explained all this while tossing a 50-cent coin in the air. He looked simply resigned. As for me, I left the coffee bar far less inclined to complain about my lean vacation funds. Also grateful on behalf of working-class Italian people that at least, they need pay only €2.59 for a very good bottle of wine.

I spent my 42nd birthday on a motorcycle, riding through the hills of Umbria and stopping for a late lunch in a beautiful little village called Orvieto. It was, from beginning to end, magnificent.

Famous mostly for Classico, a distinctive white wine blend, Orvieto is slanted straight up and home to a remarkable cathedral that has striped stone walls and streaked, marbleized stained glass, and a chapel with the entire book of Revelations depicted in glorious paintings by Luca Signorelli. John and I stopped briefly but had only a few minutes to look. Then we found Ristorante Antica Cantina, a savory-smelling little trattoria, where we ate homemade pasta with ragu and truffles — one of the best simple meals I've ever had.

We left Rome the next day, bound for Florence, and decided to take the train directly back to Orvieto. We wanted to spend a full hour or two in the cathedral. And lunch had been so spectacular, we were both anxious to try dinner there.

But the train to Orvieto was a bit late [where IS Mussolini these days?] and by the time we got in, bought a bottle of Classico for €3.50 (a little over $5), and found a nice hotel, we were beat. Also just a tad over budget. We're taking a beating on the dollar-euro exchange rate, of course. And well. . . .there is all this wine and food to experience. . . .

So we sat in the hotel room, drinking the entire bottle which was crisp and semi-sweet and full of tropical fruit: banana, kiwi, and lime. Then, for the sake of ease and because we'd so loved it, we headed back to Antica Cantina, anxious — cost be damned — to see what the full dinner menu would bring.

We walked in right past the owner, who had served us the day before. He scowled — a large, bearded man, rather like Stromboli in Pinnochio — and we assumed it had nothing to do with us. We sat. A waiter came to take our drink order. And when he brought us the tiny half-flask we had asked for (mostly out of politeness, because we'd had enough wine), he also set down a bread basket. That's when I realized I was really hungry, queasy almost, and had had a bit too much Classico on an empty stomach.

So, I reached for a slice of bread and asked for some olive oil. . . .

Utter mayhem ensued. The owner was sitting at a neighboring table, drinking himself (who knows how heavily?). He heard my request, jumped out of his seat, bolted to our table and said, "Order now!"

I explained in my five words of acquired Italian that I needed just a moment to consult the phrase book, that we'd been in for lunch the day before — didn't he recall? — and would like to try something else. But the menu was all in Italian and difficult to parse.

He heard all this (or not), and raised his voice this time: "You order NOW!"

He was not in the business of bread, he went on. He was in the business of bruschetta and pasta and zuppa. He pointed to the piece of bread out of which I'd taken a bite, leaned down into my face and screamed, "YOU ORDER NOW!!!"

Well, we did. John and I ordered exactly the same dishes we'd had the day before, down to the mixed salad. Five minutes later, our meal was literally thrown on the table in front of us. We ate like prisoners being watched. And the moment we'd put our forks down, the dishes were cleared and a check slammed onto the table along with a pen.

I take from this experience three things: One, that I did not do my homework properly. I made a cultural gaffe in asking for olive oil before ordering my meal, and for this I feel sincerely stupid. Two, that the tourism industry is suffering from the exchange rate that has us — and nearly every other American tourist — discussing finances before they sit down to a European meal.

And three? That there is a completely insane restaurateur running loose on the streets of Orvieto.

We arrived in Rome yesterday around 2 p.m. This after 18 straight hours of travel, consisting of two hours in the MSP airport (who knew we'd whip through security in 30 seconds?), eight hours on the flight to Amsterdam, four hours in Schipol, and another hour 58 minutes in the air.

I don't sleep on planes [I can barely sleep in beds, for Christ's sake!]. My head was still stuck back home: Did our son make it to school? Was anyone feeding the cat? Had our daughter had anything new pierced in the scant day since we left? Weary and worried, I found Rome formidable.

Everything sounds and smells different here. The streets are made of cobblestone, which gives the rain a darker odor and car tires a hollow bumping beat. There are throngs of people snaking down narrow alleyways, flashing neon Farmacia signs, tiny stores selling €200 shoes.

Around 5 p.m., I felt irrationally daunted. Strung out, stupid, and desperately in need of a drink. Still unshowered and in our two-day-old clothes, John and I went to a supermercato called Sma. It was under a furniture store, accessible only through a subway-like set of stairs. The aisles were crazy -- some straight, others curling, with no pattern at all -- but in the back of the store (or maybe it was the left in the front), there was a small wine section. We sifted through the bottles, mostly Italian, a few French.

There were rows of a Barbera d'Alba 2006 from the Cooperativa FRA Produttori for €4.99 each, plus one dusty, scuffed bottle of 2005 marked one Euro less. It had to be a mistake, I told John. Throughout Europe, 2005 was the best year in decades. There was no way we could buy this wine for the equivalent of $6. But when we went to the cashier, she rang up the Barbera d'Alba for exactly €3.99.

I don't know that any wine has ever tasted so good to me. Fruity and musty with a little bit of the dark, rocky rain I'd been smelling all afternoon. The day softened into evening. We drank the entire bottle in our room at the Hotel Italia, then fell asleep -- blissfully -- for a little over 11 hours. And when we woke up this morning, the sun was out and everything was new.

I'm typically leery of wines with cute, punny, or outrageous names. Goats do Roam. The Unbearable Lightness of Riesling. Fat Bastard. They're all truly dreadful. So I was expecting little when I uncorked the Rosenblum Cellars Côte du Bone Roan 2005 from Chateau La Paws.

Here's a surprise: I loved it. And that was before I found out that a large percentage of the profits from this wine go to benefit Paws for a Cause, a nonprofit operating in all 50 states that trains service dogs for people with disabilities.

First, the wine. It's a big, lusty, Parker-ish red made of Carignane, Syrah, Zinfandel, and Mourvedre. Nothing subtle here. There's tons of brilliant fruit -- mostly cherry, currant, and plum -- with a weighty infusion of oak, pepper, and allspice.

Yet, it's smooth. Unlike a lot of the California wines, this one doesn't slap you around. It lies neatly in the glass -- viscous but still -- and bursts into the mouth but finishes clean. The 14.9% alcohol can be a bit overpowering. But it won't leave you thirsty for days, the way tannic Cabs from Napa sometimes do.

Add to that the service aspect, and there could be no better reason for spending $13.99 on a bottle of wine. Winemaker Kent Rosenblum is a veterinarian by training, and in February 2008 he donated more than $43,000 in proceeds from Côte du Bone Roan and Côte du Bone Blanc to Paws for a Cause, to help train assistance dogs for people with disabilities, including hearing loss, cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy, and spinal cord injuries.

This organization even has a "seizure response" program that teaches dogs to recognize seizures and protect their owners from the attendant dangers, such as falling and choking.

It is a rather odd thing, I think, that service animals are so universally effective. There could be no more visible cue to a person's disability than the presence of a dog with a brightly-colored coat and stiff, tented harness. But the marriage of wise canine and frail human somehow promotes an unassailable dignity for both.

I can think of no better way to spend my wine budget. And in this case, the drink itself is of quality, even apart from the good that it does.