Because my surname is Gallo, the first question when giving my name to a stranger is, “Are you related to the wine people?” My answer is always, “Yes. My father made wine for 45 years.” Let me tell you about him.
Angelo Gallo, my father, was born in Dugenta, Province of Benevento, in the Region of Campania, Italy in 1901. The Campania region is in southern Italy and generally identified with its capital, Napoli. We were Neapolitan! This is a part of Italy that has been inhabited since prehistoric times and has enriched its population over time with a culture equal to none. When I was a child, Daddy, as I called him, continually stressed how we were endowed with this culture and to “trust it.” I always have.
While this culture produced for a select educated few, great literature, artistry, music, and drama, the Italian farm family culture was built by oral demonstration. Education seldom exceeded the fourth grade for the farm family, if any at all. All of this is preface to my wine story. Daddy learned wine making by oral demonstration from his family and others in his village that were taught by the generations that preceded them. I have never seen any written evidence of any procedure, or recipe, about making wine among my father’s possessions. So, that brings us here. My memories of the Gallo family Wine – Angelo’s Way.
I was born on October 12th. This was wine making time in upstate New York where we lived, as well as in Dugenta. My wife and I were in Dugenta during an October and witnessed first hand the trucks carrying the wine harvest rumbling through the main street of Dugenta on their way to the crushing mill. This wine story begins in Schenectady, New York in late September and into October. Well, no, it really starts in summer.
The wine makers that I watched were Daddy, Uncle Dominic and Uncle Ralph (Daddy’s brothers), and Uncle Vincent (Daddy’s brother-in-law). It would be unusual for all of these men to be together at one time unless it was at a wedding or a funeral. But it was not unusual for my uncles to see each other quite often. Because they were all hard working men during the week, Saturdays were set aside for “fixing things”, while Sunday was for church and family visiting. During these Sunday visits prior to the wine making time, the ritual was always the same.
“Angelo, you gonna make wine this year?”
“I don’t know, Dominic. I think so. How about you?”
“I think so. What about Ralph and Vincent?”
“Vincent for sure, but I don’t know about Ralph. He’s always busy with the store.”
The amusing part of this is that my father made wine for more than forty-five years. But it always was, “Angelo, you gonna make wine this year?” “I don’t know…”
This ritual crosshatched between the four men as the Sunday visits continued. Just substitute different names above. Latter, the Sunday ritual continued to step two. The subject would be about what they had heard from their “sources” about the Zinfandel grapes in California. Had anyone heard about the price? When was the harvest expected? Were the grapes good? Inevitably the time arrived when the grapes would have to be ordered.
Schenectady had an active farmers “market place” especially during the 30’s and 40’s when these recollections took place. The market was on Broadway perhaps a block or two from the axis of town, Broadway at State Street, State Street being the traditional “downtown.” Schenectady is built on a foothill running from the top of the hill, which is called Mont Pleasant, down to the Mohawk River, or downtown. We lived in Mont Pleasant. So, when Daddy announced that he was going “down Broadway” to “get the grapes” we knew that Angelo was going to make wine again.
Tucked away in the North East corner of the market place were the permanent produce dealers. The dealers assembled enough orders from Italian vintners to order carload lots. It seemed that every year the grape crates changed in size and weight. One year it might be 28 lb crates, or it might be 32 lb, or 36 lb crates. If my memory is right, a 32 lb crate produced about one gallon of wine. So Daddy would order, say, 200 crates, which would bring the gallon quantity safely under the federal limit for non-commercial wine making.
Angelo’s wine cellar was literally in the cellar of our home. It was a room about 12 by 14 feet. On the 14 foot wall opposite from the entrance door were four wine aging barrels on their side with the “bung hole” facing up. The balance of walls contained shelves on which were placed glass jugs and bottles. On the floor were other glass jugs and a Seven and One-half gallon wine vinegar cask. Outside of the wine cellar was another area where Daddy kept the crushing equipment, which consisted of a hand driven crusher, wine press, and 4 crushing barrels. Crushing barrels have one end removed and stand on end vertically. I have used the word “barrel” for ease of understanding; however, Daddy’s were larger than the smaller U.S. standard of 31.5 gallons. I would say they were on the order of 50 gallons, maybe 60. In Dugenta I saw crushing barrels that were, no doubt, 100 gallons.
After the wine had been made the previous year, it was put through a “racking” or decanting process. In Daddy’s case it was three for sure. New wine settles foreign material to the bottom of the vessel in which it is contained, so it is decanted into another vessel. More on this later. The point is that the wine aging barrels are empty when the new season starts. So they must be cleared out of all foreign “stuff” before the process begins anew. Notice I said, “cleared out”, not “cleaned” in the harsh way the term implies.
With effort, all the barrels were brought up from the cellar to the back yard. The crushing barrels were scrubbed with a brush, stood on end, and filled with clear water. The crushing barrels would leak for days on end until after about a week they would have tightened up and leaked no more. The wine aging barrels were cleared of wine “mud” with dried beans. Daddy would put a pound, or so, in the barrel and then shake the living daylights out of the barrel. After each wine aging barrel discharged clear water from its bunghole it would be returned to the cellar. They did not require tightening because they never had a chance to dry out like the crushing barrels that were only used once a year. Also from day to day Daddy would clean the glass jugs using the same bean process to rid the jugs of wine “mud.” Bottles were cleaned with bottlebrushes.
The wine grapes were delivered during the week because wine was made on Saturday and Sunday, if necessary, and it required the freedom of both days. Bright and early Saturday morning the process began. Crate tops were pried open with a crow bar, lifted high into the crusher and emptied of their contents into the crusher to be crushed. The first few crates were slow in processing because the crusher rollers always need adjusting between seasons. Properly adjusted, the crusher rollers, which mesh into each other, gently split open the grape, but does not mash them. Then it is just a matter of crate after crate until the crushing process is complete and the barrel tops are covered with clean discarded bed sheets. Then that’s it for crushing, except cleaning up, and perhaps more bottle washing.
One day later and the wine is “boiling”…fermenting! The bacteria that is required for the fermentation of the grape is on the skin of the grape fruit so the wine pulp must be an integral part of the total wine mixture for fermentation to continue. As the fermentation works, it’s noisy. Also, during fermentation the grape pulp separates from the clear liquid and begins to float. With separation, fermentation slows down. The “noise” diminishes. It is at this point in the wine making process where it becomes more an art than a process. Daddy would listen to the wine at least twice a day; morning before work, and afternoon after work. When it was the right time, the wine would be turned, that is, the pulp floating is reintroduced into the clear wine liquid and the fermentation chemistry is fortified. It would get noisy again! Daddy had whittled a stick similar to a walking stick onto which a six inch cross piece was attached at the bottom of the stick. The wine pulp was stirred with this stick, which Daddy kept for as long as I can remember. This went on for the balance of the week until Thursday evening, or Friday when the wine crush went “quiet.” At that point the mixture is left alone; wine pulp floating on clear wine liquid. Then Saturday morning the “pressing” part of making wine, Angelo’s way, started. Early, real early.
The crushing barrels sat on construction cinder blocks, which gave sufficient height to properly drain the barrels. There was a bunghole at the bottom of the crushing barrel several inches or so above the bottom of the barrel. Now the tricky part. Daddy had whittled another bung that was about a foot in length and could easily be manhandled so just the right amount of wine would be released when used. The reason that a petcock was not used is that a petcock will quickly foul because the wine is not yet free of all pulp. When the moment of truth would arrive. Daddy would drive the bung into the crush barrel with a mallet. With wine gushing out, Daddy would then insert the larger bung. Catching the liquid beneath the bunghole was an enameled child’s bathtub.
On the wine aging barrel would be placed a large wine filter funnel. The activity at that point was to wiggle out the bung and release enough wine into a bucket held over the tub and to empty the bucket of wine into the wine aging barrel. The funnel was rotated from an aging barrel when the barrel was full to a certain point. How much, I don’t remember. The clearer first draw of wine needs to have added to it the flavors from the wine pulp. Thus the reason for leaving room in each wine aging barrel for “pressed” wine. That ratio is another element of the art that Daddy knew.
As a crushing barrel exhausted its wine it would foul the bunghole with wine pulp. For a while the bunghole could be cleared with Daddy’s special bung, but eventually it stopped flowing. Another bung was tapped in and the process moved on to the next crushing barrel. When all crushing barrels ceased to flow by gravity, the pressing step was next. That was where I helped the most.
Each crushing barrel was wrestled off its stand and tilted over onto its side so that one could reach into the barrel and retrieve the wine pulp with an enameled kitchen pot. Even for an adult, the reach into the barrel was belonging their arm’s length. So what best could it be than to have a youngster who could crawl into the barrel to ladle out the wine pulp? That was my job. After I left home for the service, the job went to my next younger brother. The aroma of wine that is in a crushing wine barrel is one that once breathed in is never forgotten. But the job must be done quickly lest one become drunk with the vapors.
“Angelo, don’t let him stay in the barrel too long. He’ll get drunk”, Mama would admonish.
The wine pulp ladled out was put into Daddy’s wine press and it truly was Daddy’s press. Many of the Italian immigrants didn’t own the wine making equipment and borrowed it from others. I remember distinctly the proud day that Daddy bought the press. Where else but “down Broadway.”
The wine press would be filled with wine pulp and the press blocks and gear head placed over them. The gear head was manually ratcheted down squeezing out the wine. The “first press” was a rather gentle press. Just enough to bring out more wine that was darker but still with some clarity. This wine run-off was added proportionately among the aging barrels filling them up further. The process was repeated until all the wine pulp had been first gently pressed.
At that point the wine pulp was once again returned to the press and squeezed, but this time, harder. The run-off added again to the aging barrels proportionately. The day ended when all the wine pulp had been pressed and was in the press all at one time. Yes, all at one time, as difficult as that is to believe. The press stayed full for several more days. Every day following, the press was ratcheted a “click” or two more and another several cups would drain from the press over the ensuing hours. Sometime during the following week, the press would be opened and the pulp removed the final time. By this time the wine pulp had been squeezed so much that it took a hatchet to break the pulp away from the press. The pulp would be taken out to our garden area in our backyard and spread as fertilizer. You guessed it, fantastic garden!
During the same following week, Daddy would add ounces of the “last press” wine to each wine aging barrel to keep them full. The barrels were not “bunged” immediately until Daddy was certain the wine was completely at rest. During the days following the wine making, the wine aging barrels would just every slightly froth, which meant the wine, was not yet at rest. When it was, Daddy would hammer in the bung, and the wine rested for about ten months.
As we say today, “fast forward” to about August of the next year. Remember, during this time the Gallo family is drinking wine last made, not the new wine. The process for bringing new wine to the level of table wine suitable for drinking is called “racking” by wine experts, or decanting, to draw off the clear wine liquid leaving the “junk” behind. Daddy always did this by siphon, not petcock, even though it was a slow process. After removing the bung from the wine aging barrel, the wine would be siphoned into ten-gallon glass jugs. The siphon used was a piece of 3/8th inch rubber tubing about five feet long. The siphon decanting process was slow because the siphon was inched into the barrel with little movement so as to not disturb the “mud” at the bottom of the barrel. At the moment Daddy detected that the siphon was reaching “mud”, he stopped. Later, from the large glass jugs, the wine was siphon “racked” into gallon jugs. There it would stay until needed for the table. Every so often, Daddy would siphon “rack” a number of gallons into the traditional bottles one uses for the table and graced ours.
After the wine aging barrels were substantially emptied of the “good” wine, the balance of the wine was drained by petcock, filtered, and used in one of two ways determined by my father. Some was still suitable for drinking; otherwise, it went into the wine vinegar barrel. Even the vinegar was decanted later. Great stuff.
I personally experienced watching my father take the “first draw” on the siphon after the aging process was completed and the decanting process was to begin. The moment of truth! Always the same result. With the first taste, Angelo Gallo declared his wine fit for a king. Like a farm crop failure, wine making can fail, and fail they do. I remember the conversations among my uncles when they discussed about how so-and-so’s wine spoiled. Over a span of more than 45 years, Angelo Gallo never produced a “bad glass of wine” as it was expressed. Many people approached my father to buy his wine, but he never, ever, sold any. He would give you a bottle, and tell you that he would teach you the process of winemaking, which he did to many.
The fame of Angelo Gallo’s wine was dramatized as he lay on his deathbed at Ellis Hospital, Schenectady, New York. At that time, my cousin, Louise, and her husband, Joe, owned a notable restaurant in mid-Manhattan, New York City. Joe always gave Angelo’s wine high marks, especially since Joe had access to his restaurant’s wine cellar and knew something about the subject of wine. When Joe and Louise visited Angelo in the final hours, Joe brought a bottle of the finest, most expensive, wine his restaurant served. He previously made an arrangement with the nursing staff to pass out to each of the family members present, including a few nurses, a disposable hospital “pill cup.” And with that, Joe poured wine into each of our cups, including Angelo’s, and gave his toast to Angelo Gallo, including “great wine maker” to the salute.
Now you have experienced my attempt to walk you through the story of, The Gallo Family Wine – Angelo’s Way. I hope you enjoyed my memories, and perhaps, learned a little. And this is the end of the story a few years before Daddy died.
“Angelo, you gonna make wine this year?”
“No, Dominic. The California wineries are making it as good as I can. You ought to buy some”