Amaro? No, It can’t be.

Amaro Nonino

Ok, i don’t know exactly why, but in this terrestrial mindset, there’s no reasonable threshold for anything less than sweet, or suggestively ripe. That goes for pretty much anything right? Altogether, if you have to choose between something sappy, or rightly similar, you’re probably going to choose the former...correct? Maybe. What makes the difference is pure taste, and that accounts for just about every majority vote for what is good in this country. Why yes, of course I’ll take the one with frosting on it! You there, I need more syrup for these moist pancakes that seem to have gone unriddled with fresh fruit! Does it make sense? It doesn’t for me, because I make really good pancakes. Is any of this sinking-in? If not, then let me be more specific in saying that everything in this world is not better-off being sweet, as supposed to dry, or bitter. There’s potential relief in the fact that an object which sounds like it has a disregard for our appetite, can actually be quite delicious. Think about how many times you’ve been to an ethnic restaurant and the easiest entree to pronounce is usually the one thing you order without question. So much of what we eat, drink and regularly enjoy, has to do with that blurry area which concedes to how good it sounds. 

Some of us eat a banana which, in appearance, seems rotten, does it mean it is really so? Leave that to the person who thinks about the expiration date of sour cream. However, there’s one thing that is a wonderful contradiction and and a definitive luxury all at the same time. It’s called “Amaro” which in the popular Italian, means: “Bitter.” Hmmm...that doesn’t sound like something you would like, or I would like, but it makes sense to me, since I’ve been to-and-fro with the calumniated birthname of this important digestivi. This merits description, so firstly, not all of them are bitter so to speak, and they come from parts of Lombardy, Calabria, Puglia, Tuscanny and Florence, where a brandy, or neutral spirit, becomes infused with the exotic and indigenous herbs, roots, flowers and spices that make the liquor itself. Usually, you can find everything from saffron, cardamom, cinchona, orange peel and rhubarb, occur in the makeup. Also, there are some highly-guarded methods of production and some dredged-up fantasies as to who created the first one, or what the necessity was. Though history has maintained a strong desire to accept its uses as a tonic, or an elixir to prevent indigestion and arguably, the nastier effects of embarrassing colics. I think It’s palate-cleansing at most, and if anything, it’s magic falls unto the bartender who, with potential, recalls its potency for curing the tedious boredom associated with the mixed drinks of yore. Amaro has a history too, dating recipes as far back to the mid-eighteenth century and probably longer, if this struggle to keep company secrets has endured for so long.     

Amaro Montenegro

Back to taste. Yes, it can be bitter, but also sappy at times, but there is breathing room for those who enjoy a bittersweet halfway point more often found in certain producers like “Nonino,” who deliver on the circumspection needed to make well-balanced Amaro. Imagine notes of toasted pignoli and almonds, set to the forefront of warm, freshly baked bread crust, cinnamon, clove and cherrywood nuances, with a delicate introduction of honeyed blood orange and torched golden raisin elements. All of which, coarse nicely within a long, pure finish where a blanket of malt gathers on the back-palate. That’s where the “bitter” effect escapes me, but it is all too good for passing it as such. However, if you want the traditional version of artisan bitters, then “Amaro-Montenegro” has one that comes through with a little hyssop, dried ginger, sassafras, and candied violets, implying a tremendous tribute towards something much more pine-driven, with an accentuation of caramel candy, wildflowers, tarragon, meyer lemon and honeycomb. 

I like them both, but as truth can be in the taste, there’s really no accounting for it. More personally, people will like either one, pending on their individual opinions, wants and expectations. I don’t have to describe something as less than it actually is, or rather, imply that something isn’t based definitively on what a label indicates, but I’m kinda doing that in some way aren’t I? The whole idea here, is to sort of peel-away the human expectation of need, when something printed on a label doesn’t completely advertise itself as having a singular presence on the palate. I think everything, limited to alcohol or not, is categorically insensitive and will not always represent an emerging theme in flavor. In some way, we fall prey to ubiquity of adjectives when it comes to popular drinking, and it confuses the hell out of us. How is “bitter” not bitter? I can’t answer that exactly, but why would someone refer to a large, spherical object with a citric interior, as a grape-fruit?

Three more misrepresentations include Jack, Bread, and Dragon varieties.

Brian Maniotis

Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us@: westchesterwine.com