Rionero in Vùlture, a tiny village crouched on the hem of a quiet volcano, is where Basilicata’s worthy red wine is born. Ancient gift of the Greeks were the vines called Aglianico, still flourishing, somehow, stitched up nearly three thousand feet onto the shoulders of the long-sleeping Vùlture, their black-skinned fruit nourished by the volcano’s ashes and the nearness of the sun. The yields of the rich fruit of the Aglianico is each year less, not for the nature of things but for the dearth of a new generation of vine workers. Even now, the production is sadly small. Young, the wine is untamed, full of acid and tannin and potential. After five years, an Aglianico can ripen into a wine sitting on the fringes of nobility. After an all-night rain and the next morning’s mushroom hunt in the forests above Rionero in Vùlture, this dish, with a 1992 Aglianico and a half-loaf of coarse, whole wheat bread taken, warm, from the village forno, made our lunch.
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The silky French vanilla sauce that goes with everything.
Round out these autumn greens with tart pomegranate seeds, crunchy pepitas, and a shower of Parmesan.