Italians love having a glass of wine with their meal. Not necessarily every meal, but I have found often enough to make things tricky when it comes to my inconvenient wine intolerance.
In the last two years it has become apparent to me that red or white wine, sparkling or unsparkling will be guaranteed to make my stomach swell up like a giant gooseberry and keep me throwing up all night. Furthermore for most of the next day I will not be able to look at food without tasting stale yeast in the back of my throat and dry-retching. Same goes for any type of beer or ale... and for mixing too many liquors in one evening...
Trust, just when I decide to go Italy, a country boasting a magnificent history of wine-making I work out I can't drink the stuff without imploding or exploding, or both. Nothing can top the self-loathing I felt back in January when I had to turn down a glass of berry-red wine in the Chianti region whilst enjoying a hearty lunch in a farmhouse with my travel companion.
I have no idea medically why I react so badly, but something is telling me it may be to do with an intolerance or allergy to anything involving grapes and fermented...not fun as my poor Genovese family discovered this past easter, during which I spent most of the weekend crippled by nausea cuddling a plastic bucket after a night out involving a just tiny taste of Genovese beer and white wine.
Since that weekend they are quick to jump to my aid whenever a new acquaintance offers me a dash of wine, explaining that it if I were to drink the wine terrible things may happen...
A few weekends ago however whilst in the hills of Piemonte, we were invited to join the birthday party of the daughter of a family friend. A beautiful little thing with big blue eyes and blonde curls shaped like upright twisties on her head. She had just turned one and her father drunk on happiness (both literally and figuratively) insisted on treating us to some beautiful Sicilian white wine.
When we had first arrived at the party someone had already pressed a full glass of champagne into my hand ignoring my protests assuming I was just trying to be modest or polite. I had taken a few hesitant sips of the stuff, realized it wasn't going to happen as my stomach lurched unforgivingly, and with great mortification placed the plastic cup behind a large pot plant on the buffet table.
Now the father of the little girl began refilling our already still occupied cups with the golden Sicilian wine, telling us to shut-up in good humour as we protested.
'No! This Wine is beautiful! You are going to have some, you must try! I will not take no for an answer!'
He forced a fresh cup into my hand as my friend and I exchanged an panicked/awkward look. The memory of me violently throwing up into the bright yellow bucket over easter had scarred both of us apparently. I tried to squeeze in a polite rejection:
'Oh no, really, thank you but I have already had a fair bit to dri-'
'Nonsense!!! Your glass is empty!' he insisted.
'Oh but, no I am actually a big allergic..'
'Impossible!! no one is allergic to wine!!'
'Oh but you see -'
'This wine is sweet and beautiful! Impossible to make you sick!'
'It's the fermentation it-'
'-SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Drink!' was his final reply as he poured my cup to the brim. I fell silent and stared down into my sizzling cup of wine with terror. My friend next to me tried to keep from smiling.
At one point my friend's sister arrived at the party and as I went to greet her I slipped my glass into her hand, telling her to enjoy it. It did not good though. Noticing at some point I was now standing around with no drink, our host simply gave me another full cup.
We continued chatting with this man whose happy tipsiness began to work in my favor. Gesticulating wildly and often stopping mid-sentence to hug and greet a new guest, I took these moments to slip some of my own untouched wine into the cup of my friend. Meanwhile I took pretend sips from my slowly draining cup, a useless tactic I adopted more out of guilt than anything else.
Finally my cup was empty. Thank goodness and it even looked like I had drunk it all! I didn't have to look rude or ungrateful! Or go through the awkward horror of ruining our host's enjoyment of his beautiful wine by telling him the terrible tales of my violent alcohol-induced bowel movements!
But then to my horror the grandfather of the birthday girl wandered up to us with ruddy flushed cheeks, a sly grin and a huge bottle of Champagne. Without asking he filled our cups full once more. The Nonno was well on the way to 'I-Am-Totally-Sloshed-Town' and was determined to take all his guests there with him. He then surveyed the scene for more party-goers who did not seem intoxicated enough, selected his next victims with narrowed slightly blood-shot eyes, and stumbled off with a skip in his step. A true modern day Bacchus.
This time I gave up. Remembering I had left my book somewhere I excused myself to go collect it and in one swift movement emptied my cup into the hidden grassy knoll. I returned to the others and joined the conversation seamlessly.
No one noticed anything amiss, but later when I confessed to my sister's friend how I had guiltily disposed of my wine, she simply smiled and whispered, 'I know, Miranda, I know.'
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