42 AMERICANWAY
JANUARY 1 2008
It’smidafternoon. A couple of elegantmid-
dle-agedwomen and an octogenarianman
sit on the bar stools behindme. The ladies
aredrinkingProsecco; thegentleman is im-
bibing an espresso lacedwith grappawhile
he rattles the pages of
Il Manifesto
. Each
of them has a leashed dog. The proprietor
slides me a small plate of crostini with lo-
cally producedMontasio cheese to go with
the wine. He doesn’t knowmy name, nor
I his, though he and I have been joined in
this ritual at GranMalabar once or twice a
year for a decade now. Somehow, that has
always seemed tome tobeafittingarrange-
ment in Trieste, where hospitality is never
of the unctuous kind. You slide easily into
an Italian tableau and then slide back out,
confident that this is neither some prac-
ticed fantasyland nor a frail ecosystem but
instead thestuffofnaturalhumanexchange
—which is themiracleofTrieste, a city that
hasbeenbludgeonedwith frightful regular-
ity and yet remains likemymanbehind the
bar: afigureof cool, unruffleddecency.
MyTrieste stories
are all this way,
pleasurable andunself-consciously authen-
WhenIsee themanbehind thebar, IseeTrieste.
¶
He’s
wiry,withdarkMitteleuropean featuresandanairof
quiet intensity. “WhathaveyougotbyRencel?” Iask.
¶
I’maskingabout anobscure Slovenianwinemaker
namedJoskoRencel, and I’veput thequestion tohim
in impeccableItalian.Theproprietorcouldnotbe less
impressed.Hewhirlstowardthebankof500orsobot-
tles stationed behindhim, roots through a box below
the bottom shelf, pulls out three bottles byRencel—a
Sauvignon, aMalvasia, anda late-harvest redmade
with refosco grapes — and sets them in front of me.
Checkmate.
¶
“Is itpossible tohaveoneof themby the
glass?”Iask timidly.
¶
Theproprietorcouldcrushmy
spirit here andnow. Instead, he gives a casual wave
of the hand, saying, “Tutto è possibile.” Everything is
possible.He thenuncorks theSauvignon.
GranMalabar (left)
andAl Bagatto; a
canal inTrieste
