The ‘prosecco shortage’ says much about our conflicting attitudes to fine foods
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Version 0 of 1. One thing I miss about my home town is going for a run up in the hills, through the warm morning mist, until the golden sunshine starts bathing the vineyards along the road again and – particularly in the early autumn, when the grape harvest comes – you can smell the scent of grapes in the air. In the distance, a Palladian villa overlooks the vineyards. The place is Veneto, the region in the north-east of Italy where I was born and raised, and where prosecco is produced. In London, the chances of going for a run up misty golden hills may be slim, yet having a touch of Veneto to hand is not that difficult – as long as there is a shop nearby with a refrigerator and a stock of chilled, misty-glass bottles of prosecco. Related: Britons spend more on prosecco than champagne for the first time Lately, prosecco has been in the spotlight in the UK. First came the news of prosecco outselling champagne in 2014. The figures were striking, with a 55% rise in sales compared to the previous year, and 12m bottles sold by Tesco alone. Then came the notion of the “prosecco socialist”, very much in tune with an era of austerity when everything seemed in need of a little downgrading. Whether it refers to a new risible version of champagne socialists, or to the ability of certain lefties to be better in touch with reality, this notion taps into the view of prosecco as a more affordable option to its French competitor, which has obviously driven its commercial success. But just at the height of that success, there came the recent sound of alarm. Apparently, a global shortage of prosecco would be on its way, due to too-high a demand in conjunction with 2014’s poor grape harvest. It is true that 2014 was a bad year for the prosecco vineyards of Veneto. A summer of extreme weather took its toll. In interviews with the local press, Stefano Zanette, president of the main consortium of prosecco producers, expressed concern about the global pricing policies of the wine, saying that prosecco needed to avoid becoming overly expensive. But, he added, it shouldn’t become too mass-market either. He was perhaps referring to the UK, which is prosecco’s biggest foreign market and also pays the lowest price for the Italian bubbly. It won’t be long before we see whether this alarm was justified or whether it was more to do with a marketing strategy. Or then again, perhaps it was just a vague worry that resonated, more strongly than necessary, with a western middle-class consumer’s tendency to panic. The case of the prosecco “emergency” echoes other recent cases. There were the alarm bells for quinoa shortages, rumours about a dearth of kale, chia, almonds, and even the imminent end of chocolate. These can be laughed off as examples of risible middle-class problems. Healthy Andean grain and semi-posh Italian booze have little in common, except they are both widely exported and both have become part of a middle-class lifestyle. On the other hand, these scares may be symptoms of today’s conflicted relationship with food. Fine food and fine wines have become more available than ever, yet we are aware of the fragility of the food supply chain in an age of climate change, natural disasters, and global markets, which are more ravenous than ever. Agricultural production is not limitless. A mixture of guilt and a sense of vulnerability has always been part of the western middle-class consumers’ experience, and is probably what makes them so responsive to any alarm about shortages in fine food and wine nowadays. Going back to prosecco, the specific reasons why the “alarm” made so many headlines in the British press may be deep-rooted and at the same time trivial: because of the big volumes of prosecco traded in the country; because of the British passion for Italian food-and-wine culture; because the democratisation of imported bubbly embodies a layered mixture of class-related issues; or maybe it just showed a sheer love for wine. In Veneto, people have a reputation for liking their wines, along with their grappa, the extra-strong spirit made from grapes, sometimes from the same glera grapes that are used for prosecco. My father would produce his own homemade wine – though not prosecco – and my uncles would produce their own grappa. In hindsight, this was clearly a brilliant strategy to prevent the angst of the global consumer. As for their political persuasion I am not sure, but I reckon it might be difficult to explain to them the implications of prosecco socialist. Grappa socialists would probably suit them, though. Next time I go back to Veneto I may look differently at those vineyards shrouded in mist. At least for a few minutes. Then, hopefully, prosecco will go back to being nothing more than the beloved, locally produced bubbly that has always been in my life, marking a celebration or a family reunion – medium-quality, nothing too fancy – along with moscato, its sweet counterpart. |