In the lagoon this is a very precise moment of change. The market shifts almost without noticing. The fish become more subtle, more delicate. Then asparagus arrives, the ones from the lagoon of Cavallino, with that very recognizable way of sitting on the plate. They grow in sandy soil, crossed by brackish water, and you can taste it. They carry a clear green note, slightly bitter, that does not soften easily.

I always begin from this spring tension.

The dish starts with an asparagus cream, almost like a mousse, accompanied by the whole tips, because I want to preserve that verticality, that living gesture of the vegetable. Then come the baby squid. The small ones in April are extraordinary. They have an extremely delicate texture and a flavor that sits between sweetness and the sea, never overwhelming. If you overcook them they close up, if you respect them they remain tender, just slightly elastic, with that clarity that belongs only to very fresh fish. They are a quiet presence, but essential in the dish. I add a fresh salad and a good extra virgin olive oil, and the dish is complete, fragrant, delicate, but with its own verticality of flavors.

The wine, in fact, comes first. My pairings always start there, and the dish is built around it, to accompany and enhance its expression.

Malvasia di Candia Aromatica is one of the most interesting varieties within the wider Malvasia family, a constellation of grapes that crosses the Mediterranean and that Venice helped spread over the centuries. This one finds one of its most recognizable expressions in the hills of Piacenza, between Val Trebbia and Val Nure, where soil and air shape wines of strong identity. In the glass it has something immediately readable, a clear and elegant aromatic profile with notes of citrus, citron, lime, delicate white fruit and a subtle floral trace, together with a slightly balsamic nuance that lingers in the finish. It is not an exuberant aromatic expression, but a refined one, typical of the grape.

La Malvagia.

Is a wine that expresses itself with great clarity and elegance. It does not cover the bitterness of the asparagus, but accompanies it, extending it and making it cleaner through its aromatic precision. With the baby squid, it finds an immediate balance between sweetness, softness of texture and a light salinity.

This 2024 Malvasia comes from the Colli Piacentini, in a soft and ventilated landscape of hills that look toward the plain and breathe the currents of the Apennines. It is a territory that preserves a concrete agricultural vocation, where viticulture still has a measured dimension, never forced. The soils, rich in clay and limestone, give wines that are precise, with a freshness that is never aggressive, always composed. The winery Il Poggiarello works in this direction with a very clear sensitivity, with great attention and respect in the vineyard. Here Malvasia is never excessive or pushed on aromatic intensity, but remains subtle, readable, elegant. There is a search for balance that you perceive immediately, without the need to declare it.

It is a pairing that works without forcing anything and, in the end, leaves a very clear sensation. The asparagus cream is soft, enveloping, with that slightly bitter note that lingers in the background. The baby squid are tender, delicate, bringing a freshness of the sea that cleans the palate. The wine holds everything together without ever dominating, leaving a subtle aromatic trace.

It is a simple dish, but wonderfully precise in its balance.

Try this pairing with an aromatic Malvasia and let the palate respond.

In tasting:
La Malvagia — Malvasia di Candia Aromatica, 2024
Il Poggiarello (Piacenza)
Emilia IGT, 13.5% vol.

Laura Riolfatto

Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up™
📖 Table Stories

📍 Venice / Innichen

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It is the season of castraure, the first buds of the violet artichoke from Sant’Erasmo Island — a unique and unmistakable product, now recognized as a Slow Food Presidio. A precious fruit of the lagoon’s soil, preserved thanks to the dedication of a few farmers who continue to safeguard an ancient and fragile knowledge.

The violet artichoke has a deep, almost intense color and a compact, elegant structure. Yet it is in the castraure that its most delicate expression emerges.

They are the first buds to be harvested.
Crisp, tender, with a surprising sweetness, they hold a tension between freshness and essentiality that belongs only to what is born at the very beginning.

They last only a few days.
And for this reason, they are remembered.
In Venice, they appear on greengrocers’ stalls, their color bringing a quiet sense of joy and marking, discreetly, the beginning of the beautiful season.

At the table, castraure do not need to be transformed, only accompanied.

The way I love them most is raw: thinly sliced, dressed with extra virgin olive oil and a few drops of lemon. A simple preparation that allows their herbaceous, luminous character to remain intact.

In early spring, I also imagine them like this: resting on a bed of mazzancolle.

Mazzancolle are caught off the Venetian coast precisely in this period, between March and April. Their flesh is sweet, full, almost velvety. A marine sweetness that meets the green, herbaceous notes of the artichoke, creating a subtle balance.

To complete the dish, just a touch of lemon — to bring light — and a leaf of mint, opening the palate. A composition that holds together land and water, vegetable and sea: a form of spring.

Within this balance, wine naturally finds its place.

A Malvasia Bianca from southern Italy, under the Terre degli Osci IGT denomination in Molise. An ancient land, whose name preserves the memory of the Osci, a pre-Roman people who once inhabited these hills, intertwining their history with that of the vine.

Here, between slopes facing the Adriatic Sea and the inland hills of the province of Campobasso, vineyards breathe light, wind, and sea air. It is an open, essential landscape, where Malvasia finds one of its most authentic expressions.

The wine moves through aromas of white flowers, freshly picked citrus, and yellow-fleshed fruit. Its freshness is vivid, precise, never intrusive. It accompanies without covering, supports without weighing down.

It is a wine that does not seek protagonism, but relationship.
And for this reason, it resonates naturally with the dish.

Castraure are not just an ingredient.
They are a moment.

They exist for only a few days, each year — always the same, always different. They cannot be held onto, nor replicated.

But it is in the glass that this moment finds its extension.

This Malvasia Bianca carries that same tension between freshness and light.
It is vibrant, expressive, and deeply alive — a wine that doesn’t ask for attention, yet captures it completely.

I love it for its energy, for its precision, for the way it holds both delicacy and presence.

Let yourself be guided by a quiet journey to Sant’Erasmo Island. Walk slowly among vineyards and rows of violet artichokes, where time seems to stretch and soften. Here, only a few residents remain, moving gently through the landscape in their small Ape cars—true custodians of an island that has long been known as the vegetable garden of Venice, offering its first fruits to the city for centuries.

Laura Riolfatto

Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up
📖 Table Stories

📍 Venice / Innichen

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It is octopus season.

In the colder months, between Chioggia, Pellestrina and the lagoon inlets, the finest specimens are found — firmer, more concentrated, shaped by the slow rhythm of winter tides. In Venice, octopus has never been spectacle. It belongs to the quiet rhythm of domestic cooking — to patience, to time that cannot be hurried.

From this memory comes my dish.

In Venice, octopus is often associated with summer, sliced thin and dressed as an insalata, with celery and small tomatoes, bright and saline, served at room temperature when the air is warm and the lagoon light is high.

But octopus also belongs to winter. In the colder months, it becomes deeper, more structured. Boiled simply — with a stalk of celery in the water — and cut while still warm, it reveals a different character, softer, almost silky, its sweetness more pronounced.

This time, I chose to prepare it slowly, the way winter asks.
I let it simmer gently, without haste, then sliced it while it was still warm, when its texture is at its most tender. I folded it carefully into a salad of Rosa di Gorizia, dressed only with extra virgin olive oil and thin slices of orange.

The result is quietly powerful.
The marine sweetness of the octopus meets the refined bitterness of the radicchio in a dialogue that feels both grounded and luminous. The citrus does not decorate — it lifts, it opens, it gives light.

The Rosa di Gorizia is not just a seasonal garnish. It is a rare winter radicchio grown in the territory of Gorizia, in northeastern Italy, and recognized as a Slow Food Presidium. After harvest, it is forced in darkness and then carefully finished by hand, a process that shapes its compact, layered form — almost like a winter flower unfolding.

Its leaves are crisp yet velvety, its bitterness elegant and restrained. It does not dominate the dish, it gives it structure.

On the plate, marine sweetness meets vegetal bitterness.
The firmness of the radicchio answers the softness of the octopus, while orange brings light — not as decoration, but as breath, as movement across the palate.

To accompany this balance, I chose a Malvasia Puntinata from the Lepini Mountains, produced by Pietrapinta — a wine shaped by limestone soils and inland light, far from the sea yet capable of holding tension and clarity.

Malvasia Puntinata is one of the nineteen distinct Malvasia varieties cultivated in Italy — part of a family that shares a name but not a single identity. In Lazio, it speaks quietly. Its aromas are never excessive, white flowers, a trace of citrus peel, a gentle herbal lift that recalls wild fennel and Mediterranean scrub.

On the palate it is supple yet defined, with a fresh line of acidity that keeps the texture precise. A subtle almond note lingers at the end — not sweet, but dry and clean — echoing the radicchio’s bitterness and giving structure to the octopus’ softness.

Its natural roundness brings balance to the radicchio’s elegant bitterness, while its freshness cuts through the octopus’ gentle sweetness, keeping the pairing luminous and composed.

It does not seek attention. It seeks balance.

Sunday will be March 1st.
Winter is drawing to a close, yet on the table its slower rhythm still lingers.

A lagoon octopus, a border flower, a gentle Malvasia, and time, for a brief moment, slowing once again.

Laura Riolfatto

Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up
📖 Table Stories

📍 Venice / Innichen

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It is still, borderland water, holding memory and silence. In winter, this character becomes even more evident, colors fade, the wind dries out sounds, and the horizon grows thin.

Walking along the lagoon at this time of year means entering a slowed-down time. A time that closely resembles home cooking: measured, patient, shaped by repeated gestures. It is a rhythm made of small routines, quiet observations, and attention to what is essential.

This is where this story begins.

The Gò — a small goby fish typical of the Venetian lagoon — lives on the bottom, where water meets land. Among mud, shallow channels, and slow currents, its flavor is born from this fragile balance. For centuries, it has been an everyday presence in Venetian kitchens, especially in winter, when the lagoon empties and everything becomes simpler.

It was never a festive fish, but a domestic one. An everyday presence. It was caught nearby, cooked immediately, without unnecessary transformations. A cuisine of proximity, based on immediacy and respect for raw materials.

I chose to prepare it in guazzetto, as in the past: a warm vegetable broth of carrot and celery, small pieces of Gò, cherry tomatoes, salt, pepper, and extra virgin olive oil, served with toasted bread. A preparation built on memory rather than technique, where gestures are inherited rather than invented.

The flesh of the Gò is intensely savory and, on the plate, reveals unexpected depth. It tells the story of a restrained cuisine, based on listening rather than spectacle, where flavor is the result of balance rather than excess.

Alongside this dish, I chose a Malvasia Nera di Lecce produced by Duca Carlo Guarini, in Scorrano, in the heart of the Salento area (Lecce, Puglia). Here, in a landscape shaped by red, mineral-rich soils, strong light, and Mediterranean winds, the estate cultivates Malvasia Nera in organic farming and vinifies it in purity through labels such as Malìa and 900.

This territory, deep in southern Puglia, gives the wine both warmth and tension, ripeness and freshness, generosity and precision.

For a long time, Malvasia Nera di Lecce was considered an everyday wine grape, robust, alcoholic, deeply colored, often used in blends with Negroamaro to add softness, warmth, and structure. It was rarely the protagonist.

In recent years, however, something has changed. Careful, precise vinifications in purity now produce wines of remarkable finesse, characterized by clean red fruit, elegant texture, and balance. Malvasia Nera does not deny its identity; it interprets it in a contemporary way.

It remains a territorial wine, deeply connected to its place of origin. It remains a human wine, shaped by hands, choices, and experience. But it also becomes a wine capable of telling stories.

In the dialogue between Gò stew and Malvasia Nera di Lecce, there is no contrast. There is continuity. The sip is warm and enveloping, supported by freshness and gentle tannins. Alcohol and softness sustain the broth’s savory character, while aromatic notes amplify its nuances without overwhelming them.

This is a pairing that does not seek effect. It does not aim to impress. Instead, it speaks of simple tables, of silent winters, and of an idea of food and wine that finds meaning in everyday life. It is an approach based on coherence rather than performance, on attention rather than display.

It is a cuisine and a wine culture that resist speed and excess. They are made of small places, familiar hands, and inherited knowledge. Of vines rooted in red earth and boats resting on shallow waters. Between land and water, between past and present, this table becomes a threshold.

A place where taste is not consumption, but recognition. Where drinking and eating mean remembering, reconnecting, and quietly continuing.

It does not tell the story of the open sea.
It tells the story of the lagoon.
And of home.

Laura Riolfatto
Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up
📖 Table Stories

📍 Venice / Innichen

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Since the Middle Ages, the Serenissima has been one of Europe’s main crossroads for the trade in aromatic substances. Pepper, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, resins, and balms arrived from the Levant and the East on the same ships that carried silks, textiles, and wines. Precious materials, destined not only for exchange, but for a constant exercise in recognition, selection, and memory.

Within this system, Malvasia held a privileged place, a wine of quality and of travel, recognisable for its character and sensory profile, capable of crossing the sea without losing its identity.

In Venice, scent was never a frivolous gesture. It was care for the body and protection from unhealthy air, a medical practice and a sign of social distinction. Here, the art of distillation and the use of alcohol as an aromatic carrier developed early, giving rise to scented waters that anticipated modern perfumery.

A true culture of olfaction took shape over time, educated through trade, through encounters with distant materials, through the need to recognise what was authentic and worth preserving.

Along these same maritime routes, wines also travelled. To think of Malvasia as a simple product would be reductive, it was part of a broader sensory system, in which spices, resins, perfumes, and wine shared the same olfactory language. A language that Venice learned to listen to, transform, and pass on.

As Luigi Moio reminds us in his work on wine aroma, scent is not an immediate perception, but a complex construction made of memory, chemistry and experience. We recognise what we have learned to smell. And few cities, like Venice, have built such a deep and lasting education of the senses over the centuries.

Malvasias, in their many expressions—often aromatic, sometimes intensely evocative—still speak of this world today. White flowers, herbs, citrus fruits, sweet spices, resinous or honeyed notes: not simple descriptors, but living traces of a shared Mediterranean history. In the glass, like in an ancient perfume, the echo of a long and slow journey resurfaces, shaped by the sea, by exchange, by memory.

It is within this act of listening that my work with Malvasias takes place: tastings conceived not as sequences of samples, but as exercises in attention, where scent becomes a key for reading, and wine a tool for knowledge. A time to inhabit, like winter. A time to savour.

Today, in Italy, there are nineteen officially recognised Malvasia varieties. A complex, layered mosaic, largely aromatic, crossing territories, climates, and cultures. Not a single identity, but many voices speaking the same language of scent, each carrying with it the places it comes from.

It is within this heritage that my work finds its place: a practice of listening and storytelling that takes shape through tastings conceived as acts of attention. Not to classify, but to recognise. To understand how the aromatic expression of wine is not merely a technical feature, but a cultural and sensory construction, deeply bound to memory.

There are rare and fragile Malvasias, such as Malvasia Odorosissima, to which I feel particularly connected: a discreet yet extraordinary grape, capable of expressing subtle, floral, almost suspended aromas that ask for silence and measure. In the glass, it naturally dialogues with essential preparations, where delicacy becomes depth.

There are more intense and enveloping Malvasias, such as Malvasia Moscata, combining olfactory power with structure, filling the palate with energy and persistence. Wines able to meet richer textures, playing on contrast and balance.

Alongside these, there are Malvasias with white, black and pink skins, crossing Italy while carrying with them the scents of their landscapes: flowers, herbs, fruit, spices, resins, sweet or darker notes. Each Malvasia is a fragment of place, an aromatic memory that settles in the glass and reactivates the story of its territory.

To tell the story of Malvasias is, for me, to tell a geography of scent. A way of moving through wine not by accumulation, but by depth. An invitation to pause, to smell, to recognise.

As in Venice.
As in winter.

A time to inhabit.
A time to savour.

Laura Riolfatto
Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up
📖 Table Stories

📍 Venice / Innichen

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It is a demanding place, not easy to inhabit or to fully understand. A land that offers nothing lightly. And yet, precisely because of this, it gives back a great deal, the strength of its landscapes, the deep breath of its forests, the light as it shifts with the seasons, the possibility of being outdoors at any time of year. Here, beauty is never decorative. It is concrete, physical, at times even severe.

Walking in the mountains has become a necessary ritual for me.
A time of full, fertile solitude.

I walk alone, often in silence, following paths I know and others that slowly reveal themselves. My pace steadies, my thoughts slow down, my gaze widens. It is a time that asks for no performance or results — only presence. Here, walking is an act of listening: to the body, to the landscape, to what emerges when background noise fades.

I often return to this way of moving through winter and through space when reading Henry David Thoreau. Writer, philosopher, and naturalist of nineteenth-century America — an isolated, radical, profoundly unconventional figure — Thoreau has accompanied many phases of my life. In A Winter Walk, walking becomes a philosophical gesture, a practice of freedom, an intimate yet universal experience. Not simply a physical activity, but a way of being in the world.

It is within this context that my project Malvasia Pop Up has also arrived here.
Born in Venice, from the history of wine and the trade routes of the Serenissima, in the mountains it finds a new voice — quieter, more essential.

From San Candido begins a narrative path dedicated to a rare and surprising variety: Roter Malvasier, the Malvasia Nera of the Dolomites.

A Malvasia of the borderlands, like this territory.
A grape that has endured at altitude, preserved by the care of a single producer, capable of expressing a singular character, far removed from familiar aromatic stereotypes.

From here, the story begins: from the mountains, from winter, from a slow walk that brings together landscape, thought, and wine.

Roter Malvasier is a rarity.
One of the nineteen Malvasia varieties officially registered in Italy, it survives today in a marginal, high-altitude context, far from the aromatic stereotypes often associated with the Malvasia name.

It is a red Malvasia of the Dolomites, shaped by altitude, cold nights, and long winters.
A wine of borders — geographic and climatic — that carries the imprint of mountain land rather than the softness of the plains. Dry, fresh, with marked acidity, Roter Malvasier is a wine of tension. Its texture is slightly rough, tactile, never polished. Aromas recall red flowers, roots, forest floor, cold earth. On the palate it remains vertical, firm, sustained by a freshness carved by altitude rather than technique.

Today, its custodian is Urban Plattner, a young grower working in Ritten (BZ), on the Renon plateau. At In Der Eben, his Maso, viticulture is a gesture of care and continuity, a small, demanding place where landscape and wine are inseparable, and where each decision responds to the conditions of the mountain rather than to market expectations.

With this wine, I chose a beetroot tartare, seasoned simply with mustard and extra virgin olive oil.

Beetroot is a root and has long been part of mountain cuisines. It grows slowly underground, absorbing cold, minerals, and darkness. In winter, it offers nourishment without excess: earthy, dense, quietly sweet.

Cut raw and dressed with restraint, beetroot retains its structure. It resists.
Its natural sweetness meets the wine’s acidity; its earthy depth echoes the aromatic notes of roots and forest floor in the Roter Malvasier. Mustard introduces a subtle tension, while olive oil binds without softening.

This is not an abbinamento of contrast, but of recognition.
A mountain dialogue between soil and altitude, between what grows above and below ground.

Walking in the mountains, cooking in winter, choosing a rare wine — these gestures belong to the same rhythm.

A slow pace.
Few elements.
Attention.

Here, nothing seeks immediacy or comfort.
Everything asks for presence.

In this dialogue between a mountain root and a high-altitude Malvasia, Malvasia Pop Up finds another voice — quieter, more essential — shaped by winter, by walking, and by a landscape that teaches restraint as a form of depth.

Laura Riolfatto
Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up
📖 Table Stories

📍 Venice / Innichen

If you’d like to receive my letters and updates from Malvasia Pop Up, you can subscribe to the newsletter here:
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This is where this story begins.
In a Venice that is cold and luminous, and in a Malvasia that comes from afar, yet has always shared a dialogue with this city.

I chose two expressions of Malvasia di Candia, produced in the hills of the Marche, between Offida and the Conero, lands that embrace the city of Ancona. An ancient port, like Venice, shaped by centuries of commercial and cultural exchange — also through wine. Along these maritime routes, Malvasia travelled, carrying aromas, gestures, and shared histories. It is within this quiet dialogue between the two shores of the Adriatic that this story finds its meaning.

Among the nineteen Italian Malvasia varieties, Malvasia di Candia is the most widespread in central Italy.
A white grape, non-aromatic by nature, capable of producing wines that are fresh and savoury, with a measured, luminous structure — never excessive. Vinified on its own or blended, it crosses different regions while maintaining a recognisable identity. It can be found in Lazio, Abruzzo, Marche, Umbria and Emilia-Romagna, tracing a discreet geography of central Italy.
Its restrained character, never loud or imposing, makes it deeply aligned with the Venetian winter: a presence that accompanies rather than intrudes, that stays rather than astonishes.

Cuttlefish are among the most profound symbols of Venetian cuisine. Humble and precious at once, they tell the story of the lagoon better than many words. From the deep black of their ink to the delicacy of fried baby cuttlefish, each preparation speaks of seasons, waiting, and hands that know the sea.

In January, fishing becomes more difficult.
The cold slows movement, the cuttlefish retreat to deeper waters. They do not disappear, but they ask for patience, knowledge, and respect for natural rhythms. When they finally reach the table, they carry a special value — they speak of winter, restraint, and essentiality.

For this reason, I chose a simple and delicate pairing, lagoon cuttlefish with cuttlefish-ink crisps and a black cabbage, accompanied by a Malvasia di Candia from Conero – Emera, by Moroder Vinery.

A wine born on the hills overlooking the Adriatic, in a land that has long been in dialogue with Venice. In the glass, delicate notes of white peach and sage emerge, with a subtle freshness and natural salinity that gently support the softness of the cuttlefish.

It is an encounter based on balance, not contrast.
A dish that speaks of winter, of stillness, of calm waters.
And of a cuisine that does not seek to impress, but simply to be true.

Sometimes, there is no need to change the wine in order to change the story.
One only needs to listen as it transforms through the dialogue with food.

To close this winter narrative, I chose a Malvasia di Candia in its sweet sparkling expression.
A wine that avoids shortcuts, that never flatters, yet captivates with restraint. Its sweetness is gentle, supported by a lively freshness that surprises sip after sip.

In the glass emerge notes of ripe fruit, hints of Mediterranean herbs, and a velvety texture that envelops without tiring. It is a Malvasia that speaks softly and elegantly, finding its natural balance on the hills of Offida, in the Marche, where rural tradition still follows the slow rhythm of the land. This expression, crafted by Ciù Ciù Tenimenti Vinery, is elegant and measured.

I paired it with a simple, seasonal dessert, a persimmon cream, enriched with whipped cream, salted caramel, and toasted hazelnuts. A soft, enveloping combination, where the delicate fruit’s sweetness meets the wine’s freshness, creating a harmony that invites slowness.

The persimmon is a precious winter fruit — generous and radiant — also grown on the islands of the Venetian lagoon, in Sant’Erasmo and Le Vignole. It carries with it an agricultural memory shaped by patience and respect for the seasons. Like this wine, it speaks of a sweetness that is never loud, but deeply rooted.

To accompany this moment, I chose a Murano glass by Venini. A simple gesture, rich in meaning — an encounter between material, light, and Venetian tradition.

The glass captures and reflects the light of the Venetian lagoon, transforming it into a quiet presence. The champagne coupe becomes a prestigious vessel, where elegance, craftsmanship, and beauty converge. Venice style.

In conclusion, for this cold January, I chose to tell the story of Malvasia di Candia through two expressions, paired with two dishes that reflect its character and its season.

A quiet journey, shaped by winter and by the rhythm of the table.

Laura Riolfatto
Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up
📍 Venice / Innichen

If you’d like to receive my letters and updates from Malvasia Pop Up, you can subscribe to the newsletter here:
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It is a moment that calls for attention, warmth, and careful choices.
At Winter Table, I have imagined two Malvasias and two gastronomic pairings to accompany this passage. Wines and foods that speak of depth, waiting, and true winter.

Malvasia is a complex and expansive name.
A name that carries a centuries-old history and finds its symbolic center in Venice.

It was Venice that gave Malvasia its name, transforming wines from Eastern Europe into myth, cult, and status symbol. Malvasia was not simply a wine, but a very precise idea of wine, synonymous with preciousness, desire, and the Orient. A wine that spoke of journeys, different cultures, trade routes, luxury, and distant visions.

Venice shaped this cult: Malvasia as a constellation of different wines, united not by geography but by aromatic and cultural power, by a natural sweetness, and by an extraordinary character that is both Mediterranean and Eastern.

Today, Malvasias in Italy are numerous and profoundly diverse, spread across the entire peninsula. My journey begins here and continues through Italy, telling their stories one by one through images, colors, landscapes, wine narratives, and gastronomic memories.

In this early winter, during the darkest and shortest days of the year, around the suspended time of the Solstice, I invite you to discover two Malvasias and two gastronomic suggestions—wines and pairings conceived for a table that is intimate, conscious, and essential.

Oven-baked scallops and Malvasia Istriana: a December must. A pairing that speaks of winter sea, simplicity, and cold light in the glass.

The scallop is one of the most precious flavours of the Upper Adriatic.
In Venice it arrives mainly in winter, when the cold sea makes it sweeter, firmer, more essential. For centuries it has appeared on the city’s tables during the quieter months, when light is low and choices are measured.

I prepare it baked, with lightly herb-scented bread, a barely perceptible touch of anchovy, and lemon zest. Few elements, carefully calibrated. The sea, salinity, a citrus vibration that brightens the bite without overwhelming it. A dish that tells the story of the Venetian winter with discretion, without excess.

In the glass, I choose a wine capable of the same restraint.

Our journey in search of Italian Malvasias begins in the North-East, in a fascinating borderland where different cultures have coexisted for centuries. A crossroads of peoples, languages and traditions that has left deep traces in the wine as well.

Across the plains and gentle hills of Friuli we find Malvasia Istriana, one of the most renowned and appreciated neutral white grape varieties, capable of a quiet, understated elegance. Its grapes, seemingly low in aroma, give rise to wines of great quality and complexity, where harmony and roundness meet freshness, salinity and a subtle marine tension.

In the glass, Malvasia Istriana Caneva Canaregio: fresh, saline, citrus-driven, elegant. A wine born between Caorle and Lison Pramaggiore, along the same Upper Adriatic waters that shelter these scallops.

A natural, almost inevitable pairing, where wine and food share a common origin.
No forcing, only recognition: the territory returning in both the plate and the glass, in balance.

From the Upper Adriatic, our journey moves south, crossing the sea toward Sardinia, to one of the most intimate and rare expressions of Italian Malvasia.

Malvasia di Bosa is a wine shaped by time, air, and patience.

An ancient Mediterranean variety that today survives in a very small area along the western coast of the island, around the town of Bosa. Here, vineyards face the sea, and the wine evolves slowly in quiet cellars, often in partially filled barrels, under a delicate veil of flor.

This is not a wine of immediacy.
It is a wine of waiting.

Dry, oxidative, and profound, Malvasia di Bosa develops notes of almond, dried herbs, citrus peel, iodine, and a subtle bitter edge. Its structure is austere yet expansive, capable of holding tension and depth without ever becoming heavy. A wine that asks for silence, attention, and time.

In the glass, Malvasia di Bosa Riserva 2017, Cantina Columbu.

For this wine, I chose a pairing built on contrast rather than harmony.
A baked blue sheep’s milk cheese (Roquefort), intense and saline, softened by whipped cream. Dark chocolate at 90%, bitter and resonant, amplifies the wine’s oxidative and savory notes, while a touch of red currant introduces acidity—cutting through richness and restoring verticality to the pairing.

Sweetness is never dominant here. Everything is measured: bitterness, salt, fat, acidity.

A pairing conceived to accompany the wine rather than tame it, allowing Malvasia di Bosa to remain at the center—complex, introspective, and persistent. A winter wine for a table that embraces depth and contradiction, capable of holding darkness while waiting for light to return.

Winter tables do not need abundance.

They need presence, patience, and a gaze that dares to go beyond the horizon—where darkness softens, and light, silently, begins again.

In Venice, winter light rests low on the lagoon. It moves slowly, like a tide, teaching us to wait— and to set the table only for what truly matters.

Laura Riolfatto
Wine storyteller & sommelier

🔗 laurariolfatto.com
🍷 Malvasia Pop Up
📍 Venice / Innichen

Tutto questo a San Pietro di Castello - in uno dei luoghi storici di Venezia, rimasto ancora incontaminato dal turismo di massa - negli spazi e nel molo dei _docks_ cantieri cucchini. Un hub creativo nato in un ex cantiere nautico per ospitare mostre internazionali d’arte, eventi e wine tasting.

Venezia storicamente è stata profondamente ed intimamente legata al prezioso vino d'Oriente che la città rese nobile nel Mediterraneo: la Malvasia. Un nome complesso ed ampio, che identifica più varietà di vitigni, ma che culturalmente ha contribuito a diffondere la cultura enologica e gastronomica del nostro territorio.

Venezia diede vita al primo brand del gusto: la Malvasia - un’operazione strategica straordinaria, che fece diventare questi preziosi vini d’oriente uno status symbol, vini desiderati, amati, ambiti e ricercati da tutti i nobili e da tutte le più importanti corti europee dell’epoca.

Oggi in Italia, iscritti al Registro Nazionale Varietà di Vite ci sono 19 vitigni appartenenti al gruppo delle Malvasie, alcuni con caratteristiche e fragranze in comune, mentre altri originati da cloni e biotipi diversi.

Conoscere le Malvasie significa attraversare l’Italia e la cultura del nostro straordinario Mediterraneo, vi faremo conoscere e degustare rarissime Malvasie italiane, vini autentici, intensi e intrisi di significati - in abbinamento a finger food della tradizione veneziana, realizzati con prodotti freschi della laguna.

Per maggiori informazioni consultate i link qui sotto e scrivetemi

Malvasia wine tasting ITA

Malvasia wine tasting ENG