Italian red wine: The start of the affair

I was taught to admire and respect, even revere, the great red wines of France: the growths of Bordeaux, the crus of Burgundy, Hermitage, Côte Rotie. No one taught me to admire Italian red wines; I simply fell in love with them.

The prelude to the affair was a wine tasting hosted by the occasional group of shippers and experts called Forum Vinorum in London in 1987, masterminded by Nicholas Belfrage MW. This was a revelation — or a series of revelations. Valpolicella, at least as made by Quintarelli, did not have to be the thin insipid stuff which had given us hangovers and heartburn at student discos, but could have marvellous depth and purity of fruit. Bardolino from Guerrieri Rizzardi was capable of red cherry freshness and bite, not just sourness.

Then there were the exciting, precise Chiantis made by Paolo de Marchi at Isole e Olena, as far away from the pale-coloured and indifferent stuff presented in straw-covered fiaschi as you could imagine, and pure Brunello from Altesino not aged for too long in unhygienic barrels.