I had some of the A-Mano Primitivo when I was in SF, at an amazing little restaurant called Osteria Del Forno, in North Beach, but I didn’t know its origins. Then, just yesterday, I read in The Wine Bible an odd fact that the article also notes: the Primitivo grape is genetically identical to California Zinfandel. I haven’t drunk much of that because they tend to be just a little more than I want to pay. Now, Primitivo wines aren’t the same (the NYT helpfully points out) as Zinfandel wines just because they’re practically clones: they’re still raised differently. Nonetheless, they’re worth drinking side-by-side if you’re the type to do that, and it’s worth considering one when you’re thinking of the other.
Petra’s father believes that there is no such thing as a good American wine, at least partially because his experience of the US consisted of Richmond, VA during the 1970s. I plan to convince him otherwise, if he’s ever willing to enter the country again after the trauma of living in Richmond. This determination is probably a proxy for the fact that I still resent my ex-girlfriend’s mother and never managed to convince her that software was a legitimate business.