IX.vi. Of Barrels, Batteries, and Balsamico

"Culture is Italy's oil, and it must be exploited."
- Gianni de Michelis

Deep in the dusty countryside south of Modena is the agrarian crossroads of Spilamberto, a settlement of a few thousand ageing inhabitants unremarkable with the exception of a small museum dedicated to balsamic vinegar. Early on a Sunday morning, after briefly stopping in a noiseless Modena to see Willigelmus' stone carvings on the Duomo, we traveled by bus to the town, which was fortunately rendered less sleepy than usual by a sprawling, not very serious antique fair, doubtless timed to coincide with the weekly tasting that was to be offered, we thought. Simon, blessed with a palate beyond his years, had the idea to visit this haut lieu of culinary rarity, with Mila and I obviously consenting. The balsamic museum requires a special reason to visit; it is as difficult to locate on a map as it is to reach by public transportation.
    A temple to the most rarified liquid in the world, we entered the place and were asked to sit and watch a short film relating to the production of Balsamico Tradizionale, the unique product the small museum works to elevate above all others. Cinematographically, this introduction seemed worthy of the sacred balm, employing all the most sophisticated production techniques: time-lapse photography of the stormy local countryside, rough-grained focus shifts between laden vines and aged harvesters, and a subtly panning interview with the suit-sporting director of the museum, grave as Gorbachev or Kissinger in describing the superiority of the local vinegar.
    Finally, we made our way up several flights of stairs to a small room in which a group of sexagenarian men had us taste the fruits of their labour in the form of tiny spoonfuls of vinegar older than any of us youngsters. Clearly among the few visitors that day, we seemed to receive extra attention from the masters who regarded the small attic as a sort of after work club. We were shown the particular qualities of their quarter century old production; it's clear, red colour, lack of impurities, particular odour and, lastly, exquisite taste. The process for scoring each variety at the annual competition was described in detail, and we were shown a huge table laden with half a thousand samples awaiting judgment. The entire daftly complex procedure for cooking, pouring, and curing the grape resin was expatiated with the utmost earnestness, as though we were the heirs of the mage-like knowledge accumulated within these men.
    The museum's workshop is not unique. It so happens that in countless unassuming attics across the small area that lies between the alluvial banks of the Reno and the outskirts of Modena men and women tirelessly tend to their own eight barreled batteries of balsamic vinegar, for profit, pleasure, or pride. Only once a year, fifteen percent from each barrel is moved down the chain to the next, constraining production to a mere litre or two per battery, the entire region's aggregate totaling no more than sixty thousand tiny vials of the ruddy-black liquid per annum.
    No one can plausibly make a living from producing Balsamico Tradizionale; its magic lies in its extreme frivolity, its absurd level of refinement. Enjoying the acid in anything less than its purest form becomes an exercise, mostly in vain, of finding ingredients to match. The masters in the attic are akin to DaVinci or Joyce in their deliberate lengthiness of process, their refusal to compromise, and the unassailable quality of their final product. All this for a few drops of elixir, tasted and gone.