Stomping the Grape in “La Cantina”

After my parents (and I) moved out of North Beach, my father took up winemaking in the vast, shadowy basement of our new house in the Bayview District of San Francisco. He seemed quite pleased to have all that room to “calpestare l’uova.” Translated that would be “stomp the grapes.” These were the halcyon days of real winemaking, no chemicals or kits, no how-to books, no fancy equipment.

 

Mid-20th century, the Bayview, Portola, and Visitation Valley districts were primarily occupied by blue collar working class immigrant families like mine. Both my parents came through Ellis Island, became U.S. citizens but never, thankfully, did they leave our Italian culture behind.

 

My father ordered his grapes in person at a location unknown to me then and even now.  I could tell it was a big deal because he was even more serious than usual a few weeks before grape delivery day.  He, and his wine-making paesani, really did attempt to crush grapes once or twice using the bare foot method but quickly realized a real, authentic, Italian grape-press would be more effective.  

 

And thus was born the many years of winemaking activity in “la cantina.” Every year, usually in the fall, my downstairs concrete play area became off-limits to me and my friends.  We had to “andare fuori a giocare”, in other words play out on the streets. “Go!” My mother would shout. “Keep the birds away or they’ll get drunk.”

 

I knew it was the day of the grape delivery because my father became very quiet on that particular Saturday morning, my mother became unreasonably focused on her day’s cooking, and I knew to stay out of their way. I went down to the basement early and quietly positioned myself out of view but well in sight of the unfolding events.  

 

We lived on a busy street, near an even busier intersection, crisscrossed by green buses, a few cars, and plenty of hurried pedestrians dodging both. For me, it was all about listening for the rattle of a massive, rickety old truck to arrive.

 

And when it came, it came careening around the street corner with such menacing force the tires seemed to scream “Get out of my way! I’ve got grapes to deliver!” Thankfully it always did avoid striking the ever-present No. 25 Bryant bus. The truck, not identified by any sign of a company name or logo, would come to a sudden halt just short of crashing into our stucco house.  I was the only one who seemed relieved. 

 

It was now that the careful grape inspection and discussion ensued out on the sidewalk, in Italian of course. Since I was always within hearing distance and understood the language (read and wrote it too, and still do), I gleefully held my breath as the conversation became a little heated. 

 

It was as if a ritual played itself out as the grape-grower voiced his opinion of the “quality” of the load which inevitably differed from that of my Dad’s. Mom and I stayed clear. It was not our place to assess, or stomp, the grapes. I don’t recall any haggling over price as such behavior would have been viewed as bad form in our strict Italian household.

 

Once the shabby wooden boxes filled with juicy, ripe grapes were dumped into the huge oversized vat housed in one of the deep dark corners of the basement, the work began in earnest.  It seemed like big messy gobs of goo to me but, apparently, this was the work of the Wine Gods.

 

Men, as grizzled as my father, came from around town and up from down the Peninsula to ponder and wonder in deep appreciation over the sight.  Barrels of wine were being born!

The grape press process was the messiest of all. It all lasted several days, maybe even weeks, but eventually grapes were properly pressed, red liquid was transferred into barrels and those barrels were carefully sealed and laid out on their sides.  

 

Conversation around this scene was never-ending. There were discussions about the amount of sugar in the wine, Was it too sweet? Were the barrel corked correctly? How much wine would be available to give away? After the proper length of time had passed, my father would proudly present friends and family with large glass jugs of “vino rosso”. What did this elixir taste like? It was medicinal! It was strong! I believe the phrase is “Ha fatto crescere i  peli sul petto.”  It put hair on my chest.

 

Towards the end of his life, my father gave away his barrels, big wooden vat, and, of course, the beloved grape press. He gave it all to a friend affiliated with Ghirardelli Square and that is where I saw it for the last time many years ago.  Recently, I checked the alcove near the Chocolate Building. The grape press was gone, according to the concierge, sold to a wine shop in Sonoma. No photos now, just my memories of stomping the grape.