Likes it's clear that Miss Ross is really into wine, likes 'specially Chianti, and yes has been really into our Dino as well.....at least since high school days as she relates, "To laugh about how I had no idea Buca di Beppo was a chain, and called every day to get hired as a host in high school because The Godfather was my favorite movie (the only R-rated one I was allowed to watch), I knew all of Dean Martin’s hits by heart, and I had a “tight five” comedy routine about my nonna’s house ready for theatrical kitchen tours."
We largely loves her publicly professin' that she "knew all of Dean Martin’s hits by heart," and superbly saw that as a quintessential qualification for workin' as a host in a Buca di Beppo restaurant!
We keeps on havin' our Dino-hearts wonderfully warms by findin' more and more pallies liftin' up the name of our Dino and givin' their personal Dino-testimonies! We thanks Miss Marissa A. Ross for namin' the name of our Dino in her prose and the pallies at "Bon Appétit" for puttin' it into print.
To checks this out in it's original source, likes simply clicks on the tag of this Dino-gram. And what better youtube Dino-croon to share with all youse Dino-philes then our most beloved Dino's virile version of "Little Old Wine Drinker Me."
Yours In Dino,
Dino Martin Peters
All Chianti Is My Kind of Chianti
BA’s wine editor has a not-so-guilty pleasure.
BY MARISSA A. ROSS
APRIL 16, 2019
Welcome to Red Sauce America, our coast-to-coast celebration of old-school Italian-American restaurants.
My husband refuses to go to Little Italy with me because we always end up eating at the first restaurant featuring an adorable old man outside with a thick accent, a mouthful of flattery, and a promise of Chianti. Yes, I’m a sucker, and I don’t care. The food is never as good as my husband’s (my mother-in-law is from Emilia-Romagna), but it’s not about the food. It’s about the Chianti.
Chianti begs to be poured from straw-woven fiasco bottles in the company of oversize Sophia Loren portraits. The glasses are always too small or too big but somehow just right. Simply the color of “red wine,” Chianti often smells and tastes just as nondescript (despite the multitudes its patron-saint grape Sangiovese possesses). Sure, it has the potential to be earthy and romantic, its flavors of cherry and plum ringing with acidity like the strings of a mandolin. Or it can just be table wine.
And that’s how I prefer it: to pour it, to drink it, to talk over it with hands flailing. To let it take me back to childhood dinners at Vince’s Spaghetti in Ontario, California, where my father washed dishes as a kid. To laugh about how I had no idea Buca di Beppo was a chain, and called every day to get hired as a host in high school because The Godfather was my favorite movie (the only R-rated one I was allowed to watch), I knew all of Dean Martin’s hits by heart, and I had a “tight five” comedy routine about my nonna’s house ready for theatrical kitchen tours. To reflect on how I didn’t appreciate the crowds my grandfather drew when he’d hijack the piano at Nordstrom to play Liberace’s Italian medley. To remember all the things I don’t when I’m sitting at my own dining room table, dissecting the latest bottle from the Loire or discussing that morning’s NPR talking points.
Maybe that’s why I love drinking Chianti at restaurants. It always brings me back home.
Marissa Ross is Bon Appétit's wine editor.