It's strange to remember that in the late 1970s the best-selling imported wine in the United States was an effervescent red from Castello Banfi called Riunite. I have never liked Banfi's wines. Who does? But there's no denying that this sickly, Coca-Cola-style "wine" was a marketing coup. Riunite was sold as a "Lambrusco," and at least it made millions of Americans vaguely aware that there was an Italian wine of that name that could be red, cold, and fizzy.
By 1980, millions of cases of Riunite were being imported into the United States every year, peaking at a whopping 11.2 million cases in 1984, and screw-top Lambrusco gained coast-to-coast renown as a ghastly party plonk. Reputations are curious things, and once tarnished, they rarely resurrect. But Lambrusco is an exception: In the past couple of years, its image has undergone a surprising revolution. The sugary spritzer of our summery youth has become a dry, elegant dinner wine of our middle age.
Lambrusco is the name of both the red grape and the winemaking area that comprises four zones in Emilia-Romagna and one in Lombardy. The Etruscans cultivated the Lambrusco grape, and the Romans, who marveled at its productivity, prized the wine. Today, the best Lambruscos can possess — if they try — a refined earthiness, a youthful vibrancy. In addition to the classic red, they can also be white or rosé (usually fermented with little skin contact), and there is even a white version known as metodo classico, which is bottle-fermented, like Champagne.
Sparkling red has been an Italian staple for a long time. Visitors to Italy in the 18th century invariably remarked that most of the red wine there was fizzy, not still. But as with Champagne, Lambrusco's more supple qualities are easy to bastardize and commercialize. Lambruscos are not supposed to go up your nose and coat your tongue with sweetness, à la Riunite. They are supposed to cut cleanly through rich Emilian food like ragù alla Bolognese and grilled mortadella. In other words, they are intended to enliven, not engorge.
As importers have become shrewder, and drinkers more adamant that they have only authentic stuff in their glasses, perhaps the fortunes of Lambrusco were bound to change. The first limited-production Lambrusco appeared in America in 1995. By last summer, the New York Times critic Eric Asimov was able to make the Lambrusco renaissance official — at least in New York — by declaring that "real Lambrusco has as much to do with the candied industrial stuff as assembly-line Beaujolais nouveau resembles good cru Morgon."
