Dalmatia in a Glass: l'Ambra

Liquefied Ambra that comes from the sea.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table. It must be a good 20 minutes that I've been lost staring at a totally black bottle.

There it is, between an old-fashioned corkscrew and a glass of cheap wine that saves itself only for its color; a somewhat faded yellow, barely perceptible, which if needed I won't mind sacrificing (I've gotten tired of buying quality glasses, the broken ones still half full tend to form abstract figures on the wall and the mosaics of shards and fragments on the floor, as appreciable as they may be, are examples of aleatory art and have the sole defect of disappearing with a sweep of the broom).

When expectations run high, and the wait is not rewarded, I do it the Russian way… Over the years I've had to learn the arduous discipline of self-control. In establishments, gestures of that kind are not often welcomed with enthusiasm.

Not a single tremor, I'm as though paralyzed. I don't have the courage to open that bottle.

It arrived a few days ago, ordered by mail, and hasn't moved yet, except for a few insignificant rotations to better appreciate its curves. I've had breakfasts, lunches and dinners setting everything around "her", observing her in a sweet anticipation, made of infatuation and suspicion. Her label fascinates me. Black on black. The matte black of the paper that comes alive in contrast with the light-dotted black of the bottle itself, in which the brightness of the day is engulfed and reflected. It's almost clandestine, the white that approaches the red, standing out on an imaginary canvas that appears to me made of nothing, tracing the outlines of just two inscriptions.

You can't judge a book by its cover, but if they put it there, there must be a reason. If you love your wine, you'll want to give it the exterior it deserves, one that will speak to us of its essence. The label is the first contact we have, it's the first impression we'll form, telling us… "You were right"… Or nothing but to contradict us.

The label, the shape and color of the bottle, are its clothing, but I want its soul.
The sound of the cork sliding on the glass and suddenly popping out with a dull thud breaks the monotony of any thought, filling the room with that familiar sound I love so much… There's always an image that grabs me in that moment, giving back a piece of life that seemed lost.

I move closer just slightly, just to savor a faint trace of aroma. Not to grasp its every secret, not right away, not now. Haste is banished. One must know how to take the time, the necessary time. Sometimes a few minutes are enough, often something more, other times that interval that stretches from looking into the eyes of the person in front of you, to the sound of clinking glasses, the tapping of the glass on the counter, a hymn to the dead or to virtue.
A smell of nostalgia floods the walls of the nostrils. A fleeting encounter between a perfume barely sketched in the air and the ruby waves that will soon flood the mouth. It's the smell of a land I know well, one that vies with the Belpaese for the sense of homeland and belonging. A smell that carries within it the sea of childhood, the hay and the strawberry vine beyond the Adriatic.

The name evokes Ambrosia, food or drink of the Gods, and once the contents wrapped in that name are poured, it's as if liquefied resin were flowing out, which after millennia releases the fragrances kept within.

"BIBICh Ambra".

It is a Prošek.
Not to be confused – a grave mistake – with our Prosecco, whose notes one might detect in a not-so-distant pronunciation but which in reality stand almost at opposite poles.
I've never had a particular appreciation for those wines that taste of sweetness, with rare exceptions, and I don't mean sweetness on the palate, which is an entirely different thing. And when I allow myself them, they taste like extraordinary exploratory essays that, out of spite, want to intimidate you. A warning for past renunciations.
AMBRA is obtained from a mixture of dried grapes "Debito" and "Maraština", sun-dried on racks for 3 to 6 months, or in nets under the roof or on straw mats. Fermented with indigenous yeasts, aged and refined for years in small oak barrels.

It would be a dessert wine. Would be. I've always hated the word "dessert" paired with wine. Reductive, thankless, misleading. It's a "sunset wine", for a late autumn sunset, a summer one, for meditation and for the depths of winter to warm the heart. Ambra has no vintage. Blended gradually, year after year.
What does it resemble, just to give you an idea… Vin Santo, Passito, improper definitions. On the palate it is spicy, full and soft, and fresh. "Despite" its sweetness, I must add. For me it's a summer temptation to be served a little colder than usual.

Beyond the blend and the vintage, the color of a Prošek can have a wide chromatic range; from deep gold to dark brown, from amber in its countless variations to maple syrup.
The Prošek di BIBICh. Dark amber color. Neon orange. Dried figs and vanilla interpose with hints of carob and caramel (scents of games and countryside trips), with memories of apple, plum and cinnamon, and then a touch of candied orange, hence its freshness, and walnuts and honey and a savory note similar to… Similar to what?
To spiced tobacco I believe, and aromatic herbs. It is adorned by a distinctive touch, the retro taste of sherry. Smooth in structure, excellent acidity, 110 g/l of unfermented sugars, but these are unpoetic values that would best be avoided. I place it in my personal category of "Vini Volant". It flies away lightly, agile and loose, vibrant, silent and thunderous.

Oh yes, the caramel now tastes of burnt and recalls the flavors of an old kitchen, in an indeterminate and distant time, and blends with that of freshly made coffee in a small pot on a wood fire.
Bibić is in its fifth generation of winemakers and it's easier to find this AMBRA on a wine list in New York than here. I would suggest trying it first in a small glass, with a wide body and not too wide an opening, narrow if anything. The aroma will be able to develop its fragrances and the scents will persist and concentrate in the nose, harmonizing taste and aftertaste, developing complex and tertiary olfactory sensations. I would then take a large glass and abandon myself to the unpredictable back-and-forth of perception.
No! No dry biscuits. A handful of toasted walnuts, fresh if possible; an herbed cheese; a country-tradition paté; something rustic.

The Indecent Proposal. Pecorino and spicy Gorgonzola, together.

What remains? Long-lasting flavors.
It doesn't have to be, not necessarily, a sweet wine. It bites!

For those who want to be amazed.