Resin, Water, and Wine in Ancient Rome

Marcus Valerius

You smell that? Before you even see the mules coming up the street from Ostia, you smell it. That sharp, woodsy, unmistakable tang hanging in the cool morning air. It is resin. Pine pitch, *pix*, baked right into the clay. The sun is barely catching the top of Trajan's Column, but my shop doors near the Forum are already pinned open, and the first cart of the day is rumbling over the basalt paving stones. Ah, mind your toes, there! They are unloading a fresh batch of Gaulois four amphorae straight from Narbonese Gaul.

Marcus Valerius

Now, these are not those massive, heavy Spanish oil jars that break your back just looking at them. These Gaulois four pots are, er, pear shaped, thin walled, and hold about thirty liters of good wine. Beautiful craft. But terracotta, you see, terracotta is porous. It breathes. If you put fresh wine straight into raw clay, half your profits leak out into the dirt before noon, and the rest turns to vinegary slop. So, back at the estate kilns in Gaul, while the pot is still warm, the potters pour molten pine resin or conifer pitch right down the neck. They swirl it around, coating every square inch of the inside to make a watertight seal.

Marcus Valerius

I take my bronze scraper here and scrape back the pitch seal around the stopper. It is a plug of solid oak capped with dried cork. And right on the neck, painted in crisp black ink, are the *tituli picti*. I read them off to my boy taking inventory. The varietal? Aminean grape. Beautiful. The net weight, the estate mark... and right there, stamped into the clay handle before firing, the initials MAF. That is the mark of the villa owner back in Gaul. You see those same three letters stamped on jars down at the docks in Ostia, too. A real mark of quality.

Marcus Valerius

Now, about that resin taste. Some folk, especially tourists from up north or fresh green recruits in the legions, they take one sip of *vinum picatum* and they make a face like they just chewed a pine cone. But for a true Roman? Ah! That woodsy, resinous edge is the very taste of sophistication. The alcohol in the wine actually leaches flavor right out of that pitch lining. It preserves the drink on a two month sea voyage across the Mediterranean, sure, but it also gives it a sharp, resinous kick. The patricians pay top coin for a well resinated vintage, while the poor dock workers down in the Subura... well, they drink whatever hasn't turned completely sour, resin or no resin!

Marcus Valerius

Speak of the devil, here comes my first headache of the morning. Publius. He is a legal clerk from the Basilica Ulpia down the way. Walks in every single morning with his bronze jug, looking at me like I am trying to cut his throat. He stands right at my counter, digs a fingernail under his collar, and says, Marcus, this stuff you sold me yesterday tasted like swill! You topped off my jug with sour *lora*, didn't you? You smoothed it out with chalk and gypsum powder!

Marcus Valerius

I look him straight in the eye and say, Publius, my friend, *lora* is slave wine. It is made from re steeping squeezed grape skins in water a second time. Do you see any slaves at the mill wheel behind my counter? No! You bought pure vintage, but you drank it like a barbarian! And that is his real mistake. Publius took the raw wine, *merum*, and drank it straight out of the jar without mixing it!

Marcus Valerius

Drinking *merum* unmixed... gods above, only wild Celts or hopeless drunkards do that. It ruins the palate and burns the belly. So right there in front of him, I pull out my heavy bronze mixing bowl, the *crater*. I draw three ladles of cold, clear water from the public fountain down the street, and I pour in one ladle of the Gaulish wine. Three parts water to one part wine. That is the golden ratio of Rome. The water brings out the rich fruit of the grape and tempers the harsh resin bite, making it fit for a civilized citizen to drink while discussing law or politics.

Marcus Valerius

Publius takes a sip from the cup, his eyebrows go up, and he goes quiet. See? Proper ritual makes the wine. But I will admit to you, I learned my lesson about wine quality the hard way years ago when I was young and greedy. I bought a cheap shipment from an unregistered trader down at the river ports. The wine was turned, but he had cooked down grape must in lead kettles and dumped it in to sweeten the batch. Lead acetate, they call it. Sugar of lead.

Marcus Valerius

It tasted sweet as honey at first, but within a week, my customers were doubled over with belly cramps, screaming bloody murder outside my door. A bad jar of wine in a crowded neighborhood like the Subura can start a full blown riot faster than a fire in a tenement house! An honest *vinarius* guards his reputation with his life. You check the cork, you inspect the pitch, you read the *tituli picti*, and you treat your wine with respect. Now, if you will excuse me, the morning rush is starting, and there are a hundred thirsty Romans waiting outside my door.