Vintner Luciano Sandrone in Barolo Italy

Nebbiolo Grapes from Castiglione Falletto

I spent six months in Barolo, Italy (pop. 646) living out of a tent in the garden of a local farmhouse. Through the Pittatore family, I was able to secure work picking wine grapes for famed vintner Luciano Sandrone.

Luciano Sandrone purchased his first vineyard in 1970, and launched his namesake venture in 1977. Sandrone had to work for years as a cellarman in the Marchesi di Barolo Estate in order to save enough money to purchase his first vineyard on the famed Cannubi Hill, which is reputed to produce impeccable grapes.

Though his wines have earned him international acclaim, Sandrone is still the object of scorn to many of the region’s vintners. The son of a bus driver, he is widely viewed as a newbie and easily dismissed. Not so by his loyal crew.

After careening at breakneck speed through the vineyard roads, 11th century castles whipping past, we arrive at a row of flatbeds lined with empty red crates. Most of the crew members are friends or relatives of Sandrone's. They are wrist-deep in the vines, hands reaching through the jungle of leaves to the tight bunches of Nebbiolo grapes.

Nebbiolo, the varietal responsible for Barolo wine, derives its name from nebbia, the Italian word for fog. This annual fog penetrates the Langhe come fall; the air temperature drops and, because of this, these grapes can rest on their vines, maturing.

A gruff voice rises sudden over the crew members’ conversations and I see a faded blue beret bobbing above the vine leaves. Sandrone stands only 5’6”, wears small, thin glasses, a dirty white undershirt, navy cotton pants looped over his shoulders with burgundy suspenders. He has a thin cheroot smoking from his 60-year-old lips.

Grape Picking Techniques

He stops at the row’s end. Clipperless, he plucks a voluptuous bunch of Nebbiolo grapes from the vine with his bare hand, stained a velveteen purple-black. With a pair of carpenter’s scissors, he begins to prune away all desiccated grapes with splits in their skins, bearing the white fur of mold. He speaks and the tractor-driver translates.

“He says to never throw the grapes into a crate. Place them in there gently.”

Sandrone hands me a pair of spring-loaded clippers. He pats the driver on the back and walks to the end of the row, disappearing over the slope. I am left alone with the crew, which clips in rhythm, the sound an arena of typewriters. The fog swirls above us, but I can still see the distant hilltop towns of La Morra and Castiglione Falletto, pushing their gaunt castles into the air.

Soon, I fall into rhythm, forearms thrust into the thick brown branches, clip, catch, cut, repose, another clip of the stem, a cutting away of the lesser grapes. I fill crate after crate, moving from this row to the one above it.

Standing on a slope of this grade for hours is evil on the back, one leg extended behind as a brace, the other bent forward in an awkward and perpetual calisthenic. My shirt is filthy at the belly, stained purple with grape juice and dirt. When the choice arises—drink wine or make wine—drink wine, every time.

Editor's Note: This is an abridged version of a food-and-wine memoir that will be published by the University of Nebraska Press in the Spring 2010.