[p. 4 of 4]

[Mathews continues...]

then a wonderful a little restaurant:mdash;it's now a large horror—and I would sit down, have a nice meal, and drink a bottle of Brolio Chianti. The wine was very strong, so strong that I was not able to get up from the table at the end of the meal. I would have to explain to the waiter, "Look, I'll pay for my meal, but I cannot stand up." And he would reply, without missing a beat, "Brolio cuts your legs out from under you." So I would sit there for awhile and then eventually get up and make my way back to my hotel.

Finally, it was time to make the trip to the castello. They sent a limousine for me and another guest—he happened to be the man who had served as the German consulate in Florence during the Second World War. He had saved innumerable Jews, Resistance members, and other difficult people from being arrested, helped them flee from the country, and so forth. But when the Americans arrived they arrested him and put him in jail. I spoke to him about the best teacher I'd ever had, who was German, and my love for Heine, and Rilke, and so on and so forth, and he cried, because he never expected to meet an American who would feel warmly towards him. I said, "Listen, I adore German culture." I do so somewhat less now, but never mind.

SK: Heine has always interested me. I feel like he's a touchstone I've never been able to touch.

HM: Well don't get stoned before you touch him. You have to learn German to read him. He's what Wordsworth wanted to be. You like music, right? Listen to the songs that Schumann set, and learn what they are saying.

Anyway, we arrived at the castello. We were escorted to our rooms, and didn't change for dinner in the English sense, thank God, meaning we didn't have to put on dinner jackets. So I came down in my not-very-well-cut gabardine suit, just a ridiculous caricature of an American. They were all very polite. I sat next to the contessa; the conte was at the other end of the table. The whole family was there—two brothers and three sisters, perhaps. We had a first course, and then a man came in bringing the red wine. I said in my inadequate but nevertheless efficient Italian, "I am so curious to see what you will serve, because while the '43 Brolio is older, I find the '44 even better." The count looked at me and said, "Bring this man five wine glasses at every meal." And I thought, "What have I done?" Every meal I would be presented with five different wines. It was fabulous. I demonstrated that American civilization wasn't totally hopeless—all thanks to my drunken dinners at Sabatini. Wine is so much fun. I didn't know anything about it at the time. Did you know that Chianti Classico is made from four different grapes, including one white wine grape? And of course now they've started to make wine from just....

SK: Sangiovese...

HM: Bravo! Compagno! Good for you. I'd like another glass of wine. I think I'll have a glass of prosecco.

SK: I'll have what Harry's having. I have to go to the bathroom, I'll be right back.

HM: Listen, over the urinal, there's a photograph of the Piazza San Marco at acqua alta—it's fantastic. I think meals should last forever. I was telling Arlo that he was unforgiveable for ending our lunch at 5:30 the other day.

AH: I had to put it to a halt after three bottles of wine.

HM: And the Campari before. Shall we go to the bar and have another drink? To conclude, I'd like to say that I think there's no real relationship between food and literature, except in the consumption aspect of it. But wine is something else.