Montalcino

“What we need now is a corkscrew.” Brusco dei Barbi in the New Yorker (1979)

By chance, our English-language blogmaster came across this short piece below, published in The New Yorker in 1979. Evidently, it’s a transcription of a neck talker that accompanied a bottle of Brusco dei Barbi on its journey to Toronto. The editor found it intriguing enough to transcribe it in its entirety for the magazine. We’ve transcribed it here.

Click here for a scan of the page from the magazine.

First released by the winery in 1969, Brusco dei Barbi is a blend of Sangiovese and Merlot, a fresh and food-friendly wine, very Tuscan in character, meant to be drunk in its youth.

As the New Yorker editor notes, “what we need now is a corkscrew.”

Enjoy!

Old time ago in Tuscany lived Brooskonhe “named Brusco”: A man with grandness of heart and healty of body: just love women, so wine and hunting; because wretched, Brooskonhe accompanied himself with an hired assassin “named Bhaycchoe” searched by lawmen of Montalcino.

He remained continuously on the secret refuge “Molino dei Barbi”, escaped via underground conduit of “Asso” river when hunt down by lawmen and stopped long-time in derelict place of “Orcia” river. But at corner of “Fattoria dei Barbi” just named “Fiore dei Barbi” resided one prosperous Woman: Attractive for elegant manners of walking gently, like to estoy inoffensive below high plants surrounding the factory.

Both companions gained quickly devoted attachment to kind female, therefore at “Posole” hostelry, one day during the lounge, Bhaycchoe, discharged revolver to expel antagonist in love and raised knife to finish him; on the contrary have been captured and subdued under control.

This is the story.

After this unfortunate chance Brooskonhe just turned to his normal life: No married and great hunter, lived with many dogs as friends, united sleeping, only nourishment bread and wine on the complete peaceful and solitude of natural world.

—Tag hanging from the neck of a bottle of Italian red wine bought in Toronto.

What we need now is a corkscrew.

The New Yorker
October 1979

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