Chianti Classico

Adults, of course, drank wine. More specifically, adults drank red wine from glasses the size of bowls. Ahead of our first party, a quick search online had informed me that Chianti was a suitable partner for rabbit ragù pappardelle, so I found a discounted bottle at the supermarket and cleared the shelf. Looking at my haul, I assumed "Chianti" was the name of the grape (little did I know that this assumption wasn't completely unfounded). I knew nothing about what I held in my hands. It was just another red wine.

The event was a resounding success, and I stepped out of the kitchen to be handed a glass. I took a generous swig. My lips puckered: astringent, but fruity. A mouthful of raisin and dark cherry. For the next decade I would drink almost nothing else. Chianti was my drink of choice, and somewhere along the way it became part of my personality.

On that first shopping trip I noticed some of the other bottles were labelled “Chianti Classico”. It was more expensive, but otherwise seemed to just be a fancy version of the same wine. I had no idea how a DOCG worked, much less how seriously Italy takes its historic centres. What I didn't understand, standing in that aisle, was that the word on the label wasn't a grape or a grade. It was a place, and the place had laws.

Ten years after the dinner party, I worked through the WSET and came to know Chianti Classico properly: the original heartland between Florence and Siena, its own DOCG, distinct from the wider Chianti that had grown up around it. And always the black rooster, printed on the neck of every bottle. When Beth and I decided to visit Chianti Classico in June this year, it felt like the closing of a loop that had been open since that first dinner party.

At the hire desk in Pisa, I collected the keys to the little Audi that would carry us through the Tuscan hills. I’d snagged a deal with one of the major companies a few months before. The car appeared to be brand new, only a handful of miles on the clock. I declined the additional coverage nonetheless.

We had landed late, and by the time we cleared the greater Pisa area, the sun had long set. Eager to begin, we stopped at a shop in one of the towns on the way through and bought ourselves a bottle of Chianti (non-classico, from a volume producer). I had spent ten years learning the difference between the two, and on my first night in the heartland I bought the one from outside it. It was all of five euros, and we wanted to get to our B&B before midnight.

Castellinuzza

The first morning, Beth and I wandered down to the buffet-style breakfast and picked a few odd pieces before taking a seat at one of the small wooden tables. A door to the courtyard had been left ajar, and a racket of cicadas a few thousand strong chirped without pause. Soon a woman appeared to take our order for coffee. We went through our itinerary for the day: the pool first, a given, and then our first tasting of the trip at a small winery on the other side of Greve.

In daylight, we walked around the accommodation. Beth had booked us a room at Castellinuzza di Cinuzzi, a family estate near Lamole, high in the hills above Greve. It is warm and characterful at every turn. We would later learn that the family have owned the property, and made wine on it, since 1570, making it one of the oldest registered producers in Italy. The vineyard is tiny, just two hectares, planted mostly with Sangiovese and a little Canaiolo and Malvasia Nera. The rooms are named after the grape varieties found, past and present, in Chianti Classico.

Lamole is the smallest of the named villages within Chianti Classico, and every one of its vineyards sits above 500 metres. Up here, Sangiovese ripens later, and tends to make perfumed, elegant wines rather than broad, powerful ones.

The village name carries more weight than it once did. In 2021, the Consorzio's members voted to recognise eleven Unità Geografiche Aggiuntive, Lamole among them, though for now only Gran Selezione may print one on its label.

It is a telling direction of travel. The appellation isn't loosening; it is becoming more precise about place, and more particular about who may claim it.

The two blending grapes Castellinuzza's grows on its two hectares, Canaiolo (the name of the room we stayed in) and Malvasia Nera, are both native, and from the 2027 vintage natives will be the only partners Sangiovese is permitted in Gran Selezione.

Later in the week, we would sit for a tasting in the Castellinuzza cellar and drink wines that endure as my favourites of the trip. First came the pool, and then off to a tasting at a small winery a short drive from the village of Montefioralle.

Podere Bucine

Podere Bucine is a tiny, family-run estate clinging to the slope just outside the village. Beth suggested parking in the lower gravel lot and tackling the steep chalk path on foot. We were running late, so I decided to ignore her advice, and drive the path instead. It was past noon, and the air rippled over the white road in the mid-thirties. I wanted to stay in the air conditioning of our brand-new hire car for as long as possible. I pressed on.

The going was immediately rough. Our little Audi bounced over the large stones that littered the path, and as we turned the first bend I could see conditions were only set to worsen in the distance. I had made a mistake, but worse was to come: I would attempt to turn around. The path was scarcely wide enough for the car, but we found a spot where a smaller track ducked down into a row of olive trees. The Audi teetered back and forth on the uneven ground as I manoeuvred to face into the trees. I asked Beth to get out and check I wasn't about to hit anything. Slam. The car bottomed out on the ledge, and my heart dropped further still. I thought of the hire desk in Pisa, of me declining the additional coverage. I revved, rode the clutch, and hauled the car to safety. We drove back down to the small car park where Beth had originally suggested we park, and scrambled up the same path on foot.

We arrived at Podere Bucine with beads of sweat rolling off my brow and onto my glasses, and were greeted by our host. I felt all the more foolish seeing how intimate the setting was. A handful of tables looked out over the olive trees back towards Montefioralle, and only one other couple sat happily taking in the view. No tour was waiting. No group had left without us. We settled into our seats, and the host returned promptly with the antipasti boards we had added to our booking.

The first wine was a white, a Toscana of Trebbiano Toscano and Malvasia Lunga del Chianti: pleasantly refreshing, with stone fruit amongst the citrus. A fine start, and a welcome distraction from the possibility that the hire car was a write-off. Those two grapes carry some history here. For decades the law required them in Chianti's red blend, and since the 2006 vintage they have been barred from Chianti Classico altogether. Still grown in the region, they now get a bottle of their own.

Three reds followed in quick succession. First, the Chianti Classico 2024: fine intensity, the characteristic cherry and red fruit with a suggestion of raisin, refreshing acidity and a silky texture. It is a surprise how welcome a bold Italian red feels at the height of a blistering summer's day. Next, the 2023: more of the same, with perhaps more separation between the layers, trading a touch of acidity for something more savoury. Finally, the Riserva 2022. The oak was, as expected, more prominent, and the palate felt more complete.

An excellent set of wines. But already the slow revelation of the obvious was dawning on me. Sangiovese was planted all around us, and of course it would be in every glass we drank.

With a minimum of 80% Sangiovese, and the balance in red grapes only, the variety is less an ingredient of Chianti Classico than its premise. What moves from bottle to bottle is the time and selection spent on it, up the ladder from Annata to Riserva to Gran Selezione.

We wandered back to the car, and after a nervous inspection of its underside, we visited Montefioralle before heading back to the B&B.

Cantine Mirabilis

Down in Greve, we had lunch on the square, which was nothing worth writing about. Afterwards, we crept through the shaded portions of the street, hopping from one strip of shadow to the next, and ducked down into Cantine Mirabilis, a wine cellar beneath the town.

Inside, the space opened up to a vast cellar. Every wall was lined with bottles. Hundreds of them, floor to ceiling, rooster after black rooster, all of them Chianti Classico. Dotted about the floor, the same bottles were loaded into self-service dispensers. We’d seen these at wine bars in the UK, though never quite this many in one place. The man at the bar handed us a card to use with the machines, and we set about our treasure hunt. Around each corner we found another wine shrine.

We tasted our way up the whole ladder: Annata, Riserva, and finally Gran Selezione, each step a little darker, a little more polished, a little longer in the finish. They were good wines, some of them very good. But by the Gran Selezione I could have told you the story of each glass before I'd tasted it. Cherry, then raisin, then savoury; more oak, more weight, more time. The same grape, the same hills, the same voice, speaking a little louder at each rung.

We were tasting small measures each time, which were deceptive in their price, but the debt rolled up quickly. Soon we were close to the limit on the card, and decided to finish with a more expensive option. We turned to the Super Tuscans, wines made in Chianti Classico but not allowed to call themselves Chianti Classico at all. It was the first glass in two days that wasn’t primarily Sangiovese.

Teenage me would have thought this cellar was heaven. Knowing nothing of grapes, altitude or ageing, the bottle guaranteed him a style: a place, a grape, a way of doing things. Fundamentally, this guarantee is the whole point of an appellation, and it is not a small thing.

But a guarantee is also a limit. A cellar of hundreds of bottles that are, in the end, variations on a single theme poses an awkward question. What defines a wine: the place it comes from, the grape it is made with, or the person who makes it? There seems to be ever more focus on terroir, which increasingly feels like a chorus of desperate pleas to be acknowledged as unique and or valuable whilst being bound by the limitations of an appellation.

Castello di Verrazzano

Castello di Verrazzano sits on a hilltop a few kilometres north of Greve. Records of the estate go back to the twelfth century. Upon arrival, the tour and the history start immediately: In 1485, Giovanni da Verrazzano was born here, in 1524, sailing for the King of France, he became the first European on record to enter the bay of what is now New York. The bridge between Brooklyn and Staten Island still carries his name.

The valley Verrazzano left behind already had a reputation for its wine, and two centuries later it would have a legal boundary. In 1716, Cosimo III de' Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, drew a line around Chianti and decreed which wine could carry its name. It is often called the first legally defined wine region in the world. The rules of Chianti are older than Italy itself.

The recipe came later than the boundary. In 1872, Baron Bettino Ricasoli set down at his castle at Brolio what he believed Chianti should be: led by Sangiovese, softened with Canaiolo, and lightened with a white grape, Malvasia. He also noted that wines made for aging could leave the white grape out. Nobody seemed to remember that part. In 1924, the producers of the historic zone formed a consortium and took the black rooster as their emblem.

We tasted the estate's Chianti Classico first, and then the wines made outside it: an IGT Toscana and, once again, a Super Tuscan. A pattern was emerging. Even one of the grand old houses of the region keeps a foot outside the appellation.

When Italy's wine law arrived in 1967, it set Ricasoli's recipe in stone. By then the Chianti name had already spread far beyond these hills, and much of it was being sold cheaply and by volume.

Some of the region's producers sought more, perhaps in pursuit of the prices commanded in Burgundy and Bordeaux. They left out the white grapes, blended in Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, and accepted the humblest label Italian law could give them: vino da tavola, table wine. They became known as the Super Tuscans, and the prices skyrocketed.

Then the rules gave in. In 1996, Chianti Classico became a DOCG in its own right, and a wine made entirely from Sangiovese became legal for the first time. From the 2006 vintage, white grapes were banned outright.

This rich walk through the history of one of Italy’s oldest wine producers, and the region in which it is situated, then ultimately culminated in a display of Verrazzano’s very own Super Tuscan.

We were shown to a table in the restaurant. All of the wines for the tasting were poured simultaneously, for me, Beth and the other two dozen parties that had been seated. A recap on each of the wines was given by our tour guide, with a recommendation for which of the courses we enjoyed them with, but ultimately we were left to taste the wines independently.

Each of the courses were excellent, and our tour guide was charming. The opportunity to sit and enjoy the wines alone with Beth was welcome, and we worked our way up the ladder we were so very used to. The Super Tuscan was a happy addition for Beth, as she has always favoured the Bordeaux blends. For me, I was beginning to accept that this trip would be a study in the slight variations and different presentations of Sangiovese.

With a producer with the stature of Castello di Verrazzano moving to produce a Super Tuscan, it leads one to wonder if the focus of Chianti Classico is shifting as a whole. With a full belly, and a more than tipsy head, I gave the subject intermittent thought in the taxi back to the B&B.

Savignola

A persistent theme of our trip had been a difficulty in getting to the various venues for each of our tastings. Of course, as we would be drinking at each of the tastings, I didn’t want to drive and miss out. Our accommodation being out in the secluded hills near Lamole, we were not only too far from civilization to walk, but also too far to be within reach of any willing Taxi services.

Fortunately, we had managed to convince one driver, Daniele, to ferry us to and from our appointments each day. Keen to give Daniele a night off (though he was incredibly helpful and friendly), we had seen a sign outside one of the many driveways on the hill, advertising a Pizza night. A few kilometers down the hill, it was certainly walkable.

Fifteen minutes down the tarmac slopes, we were already fretting about the task that would be walking back up on the way home. Another fifteen minutes passed, and we arrived at the driveway we had spotted. The path, reminiscent of the chalky path up to Podere Bucine, led to another estate.

Savignola has been making wine since 1780, from five hectares that produce around 25,000 bottles a year. It has a Chianti Classico, a Riserva and a Gran Selezione, like everywhere else.

The heat had been building all week, and that evening it felt different: heavier and stiller, the air pressing down on the hills. We took our seats overlooking the valley. The woman who welcomed us handed over a wine list. There was no food menu, we would have whatever came out. Quite refreshing. She gave us the blurb on each wine, and immediately our ears pricked.

The Furbacco, she told us, was a light red, served chilled. I love a lighter red, I have fully bought into the fad. A distant soul from my teenage self, I rarely pick the heavy hitters anymore. After a week of drinking medium to full wine, this was a godsend.

It was bright purple in the glass, almost violet at the rim. On the nose: crunchy cherry, wild strawberry, raspberry, a little fresh herb. In the mouth it was light, juicy and lively, gone almost as soon as it arrived, and it left me reaching for the glass again. It was delicious and moreish.

When the bottle was done, the woman left it on the table. I read the label. Furbacco is 100% Sangiovese.

It was the same grape I had been drinking all week, from the same hills. I had spent days convinced that Sangiovese only had one thing to say in Chianti, and here it was, saying something else entirely.

Furbacco's rebellion has nothing to do with its grape; by variety alone, it could have been a Chianti Classico. It rebels in style and in label: young and fresh, made for the table rather than the cellar, and bottled as IGT Toscana, without the rooster. And it comes from an estate that also makes a Gran Selezione. Here, it seemed, was more evidence that change was coming to Chianti Classico.

We were halfway through our pizzas when the wind picked up. Wine lists flapped free from beneath wine bottles. Within minutes the sky over the hills had turned, and the storm broke. At each estate, we’d heard how the valley was desperate for rain. Here it was, all at once.

Beth called Dannielle. We’d hoped to leave him for the evening, but we were desperate. The prospect of slogging up kilometers of hillside in the midst of a storm was enough to push us over the edge.

We abandoned the last slices, but somehow found the time to purchase another bottle of Furbacco, and ran down the rocky path to the roadside. It felt like Daniele was with us impossibly quickly, as though he had been waiting for our unpreparedness. We showered him with gratitude, and once we had settled I remarked how at least the valley would finally see some rain. Dannielle didn’t share my enthusiasm. Worse than the lack of rain, it seemed, was the threat of hail. Remarkably, we were back in our room at the B&B before anything fell from the sky.

The cellar at Castellinuzza

After the storm, the hills looked refreshed. No hail had been reported. The air was cooler than it had been in days, the roads still dark with moisture. And the week ended where it had begun, at Castellinuzza, this time in the cellar beneath the house.

We tasted each of their wines in turn, climbing the same ladder we had climbed at Bucine and at Mirabilis. The Chianti Classico came first, bright and taut, red cherry lifted by the acidity that only altitude seems to give. The Riserva followed, deeper and more layered, but still with that Lamole perfume, a floral note that hung above the fruit rather than sitting inside it. Each step up added depth without adding weight. These were wines made from the same grape, under the same rules, as every other glass I had drunk that week. And they were the best wines of the trip.

The rebels had been easy enough to find: a Super Tuscan at Mirabilis, the IGTs at Verrazzano, a bottle of young Sangiovese down the hill. Yet the best wines of the trip came from the oldest, most traditional estate of all, a family that has been making wine on these slopes since before there were any rules to follow.

It isn't a contradiction. Furbacco can only be playful because the rooster exists, its edge is measured against the rules it chooses to ignore. And Castellinuzza only feels steeped in heritage because others are free to play, because a cellar full of bottles that all sound the same would make even the best of them sound ordinary.

We dropped the car in Pisa, unblemished, despite our best efforts, and joined the queue for airport security.

Now when I buy a bottle of Chianti Classico in the supermarket, I carry the wisdom of what to expect but more so what could be expected of the grape that once felt synonymous with the region in which it’s grown. That is, if you’re willing to break some rules.