An Ashtabula Wine Country Adventure

Ohio’s in the midst of a grape-growing, wine-making revival, and its wines are winning wine competitions on a national level. Ashtabula County has more wineries per square mile than any other region of the state and is home to over half of the wine grape acreage in Ohio. Many vineyards grow local varieties like catawba, cayuga, concord, chambourcin, and niagara, but are also experimenting with French varietals such as chardonnay, pinot noir, and cabernet franc.

The first time Paul and I drove the wine trails of Ashtabula County was right after their Covered Bridge Festival in the fall. We drove along the backroads surrounded by spent corn stalks and then, all of a sudden, we were no longer on pavement, but on dirt. Using a printed on-line map, we searched for bridges and wineries. Once we found a bridge, we read the plaques, walked on it, looked down at the water, and snapped a smiling picture.

Harpersfield Bridge, a two-span bridge and the longest covered bridge in Ohio, was built in 1868 and spans the appropriately-named Grand River. We walked along the bridge over the green water, then got back on the road and drove to the nearest winery, following by another bridge, like the Mechanicsville Road Bridge, the oldest bridge in the country, then headed to another winery.

With my love of Lake Erie, road trips, and wine, Geneva State Park Resort’s special wine tasting weekend was the inspiration for my husband’s birthday gift to me. We drove Interstate 90 to Route 7 in Conneaut and made our way west along the Lake in a rare fog to our first stop, Biscotti Family Winery and Pasta. Our guidebook said the Bicotti’s operated a restaurant, gift shop, pro shop, and winery, complimentary cottage industries, on the golf course.

The property consists of a century home adjacent to a golf course with evidence of a restaurant and outdoor patio behind. We entered a small gift shop that sells hand painted glasses, wine gadgets, and memorabilia. Nancy Biscotti came around the fifties-style breakfast bar to ask us if whether we like reds or whites.

While we relaxed into the place, we told her we like reds and chatted with her about the area wineries, the Biscotti property, and Conneaut while she brought out the bottles. The Biscotti’s buy the juice for their wines and their wine cellars are below the restaurant, and sadly, the golf course is up for sale. She pointed out their rental cottages across the street and talked about the sale of the golf course while we sipped the wine--Old Italian, Merlot, and Tony Soprano Red. The first two were vaguely sweet, blood-warming, hearty wines. The Merlot was dry but not bitter, with a peppery finish; we appreciated its complexity, so that was the bottle we bought. In a comradely way, Nancy gave us directions to Buccia, knowing full well that was where we were headed next.

Buccia Vineyards’ tasting room and bed and breakfast are announced by a blue sign near the road. The trellised patio would be charming when covered with vines in the summer. We were met at the door by Fred Buccia, a proclaimed escapee of the rat race, who invited us to get comfortable at one of the round tables of his wine-tasting room. He put two glasses and five bottles in front of us and told us to help ourselves. We sampled Baco, a berry red, while Fred sat with us and discreetly smoked Marlboros and waited for our reactions. He credits The Ohio State University Grape Research Center, located close by, with helping them experiment with unusual grapes—for example, Agawam grapes from the last Agawam grower in Madison. The Zweigelt wine, an interesting light red wine easily mistaken for an old vine Zinfandel, was exceptionally satisfying; we discovered later that the flavor deepens the longer it is open. Fred instructed us on viticultural climates and pockets of places where a vineyard would work in otherwise non-wine making places, but if the winds are not right, the vineyard will eventually falter.

When we mentioned our trips to the Finger Lakes, Fred began talking about their vacations to Turkey where old formerly-habitated caves have been developed into hotels. Then he brought out a photo album so he could share photographs of modern guest rooms within cavern walls. We sensed Fred could have entertained us with stories and wine all afternoon, but we were having an adventure that didn’t stop there.

When we asked to buy one of the last bottles of Zweigelt, Fred made sure to show us his three guest rooms, each with a hot tub and sliding glass doors to private patios by the vineyards.

Fred and his wife Joanna knew how to get us to Tarsitano. We drove down semi-paved roads ribboning through farmland to the property owned by the Finnish Ahos and Italian Tarsitanos, a large spread on a country road. Tarsitano Winery is in a highly perched new cedar-sided barn. Ken Tarsitano’s advertising experience is apparent in the beautiful brochures featuring his nature photography. The pleasant young woman who served samples of their artisan wines right inside the doors served us the unfortunately-named Lemberger wine, which is an exceptionally smooth red wine, deep and fruit infused, but wasn’t available for sale. We checked out their sample menu of basil focaccia, Spano’s grilled chicken salad, portabella mushroom sandwiches, and hand crafted pizza, but we were satisfied with the cheese and crackers we’d packed.

An upbeat and energetic Ken appeared from around the dining counter. Ken retired young to photograph China and hike the Appalachian Trail, then began his work as an organic farmer while working at the Grape Research Center. He asked us if we were going to Markko Winery and when we said yes, he asked us to say hello to Arnie. We didn’t buy wine at Tarsitano’s, even though it was excellent—the $35-45 prices were a tad higher than we were willing to pay.

Arnie Esterer of Markko Vineyard has been the area winemaking guru for 40 years. He learned winemaking from the esteemed Dr. Konstantin Frank, who introduced fine European-style winemaking on the hills of Keuka Lake in New York’s Finger Lake region. Searching for his winery, we crossed a covered bridge and drove dirt roads before being dumped at a T. I spotted a scripted “M” on the two stone gates sitting on either side of a driveway to our left and, turning, a small sign confirmed we were at Markko Winery. We drove up the long driveway through the woods and ended up at a rustic abode with various statuary and casual placing of lawn furniture. A sign instructed us to ring a bell because they were in the vineyards, but a white-haired and weathered older woman brusquely greeted us. She asked what we liked and her attitude changed to friendly as she said, “me too.”

Around the corner, our hostess set us up with a price list at the counter in the cozy tasting room opposite a fireplace. We tasted well-crafted Cabernets and Pinot Noirs, all excellent, so deep and rich and smooth they were amazing. With urging we were able to distinguish the different reserves and make choices about what we liked. Wine takes on the flavor of the container its fermented in--a few years back she and Arnie noticed a strange taste to the wine and discovered the wine was taking on the flavor of the fiberglass containers, so they switched back to oak and steel. A young couple who joined us were gushing over the Chardonnay, so we tried it and found the crisp, oak-infused, and buttery wine to be more amazing than the reds. On the way out we picked up brochures about the vineyards’ blessing of the vines ceremony, special occasions at the winery, and the wine tasting club. We bought two bottles of Chardonnay and two bottles of Cabernet. We spotted Arnie Esterer walking along the road as we were leaving. He looked like his picture--a white-bearded man in work boots, cuffed up work pants, a blue work shirt, and a beret over his white hair. He was jauntily walking back from the fields with his dog, and when Paul beeped the car horn, he waved to us in just the way a legend should be remembered.

By this time we felt we were collecting memories and were convinced we should buy some land out in Ashtabula County, grow some grapes, build a bed and breakfast with a barn for winemaking and tastings, and retire from our regular jobs. Driving through the quaint town of Geneva, we were tempted by the antique stores, but kept going towards the nostalgic lakeside resort area of Geneva-on-the-Lake.

We passed the state park entrance and continued to the Lodge, on the west side of the road before the curve that winds into the kitschy business district. The new three-story balconied building with a circular drive and immature shrubbery and landscaping were welcoming. Inside, the lobby’s fireplace glowed and the many windows and three-story atrium felt open and airy. A complementary bottle of Ferrari Reisling awaited us in our room, which we kept to drink cold on a hot summer’s day. After checking out the balcony overlooking the Lake, we walked the path overlooking the Lake, over a bridge, and then sat on a bench to enjoy the view and the sound of waves slapping against the shore.

That evening, we had a satisfying meal in the windowed dining room—Paul ordered a glass of Saint Joseph pinot with his meal, and I tried a Ferrari cabernet. The crusted walleye and Cajun steak were delicious. The sun set in the west and turned the sky pale orange. After dinner we drove through the deserted town, thinking about how sad it is off season, then drove back to the Lodge and walked back into town again and back. Before holing up in our room, we swam in the pool and relaxed in the hot tub in the hexagonal atrium. In the morning, we were hungry for the full brunch with made-to-order omelets, waffles, and crepe sundaes.

Driving along the Shoreway toward home, past the full-leaved trees of Bratenahl and looking out my window at the Lake, then toward the skyscrapers of the city where I work, I was grateful. My husband gave me exactly what I wanted most for my birthday. I was relaxed, content, and rejuvenated. I was also inspired.

From Cool Cleveland contributor Claudia J. Taller ctallerwritesATwowway.com
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