www.tsipouro.gr

Whoever has not gathered, has not carried muscat grape out in the scorching sun,
whoever did not listen the patience and the lassitude invigoration of viniculturist,
he does not have opinion for the Tsipouro.




The tsipouro does not begin with the fire, with the alembic and tra, la, la.
It wants grape, it wants vine, it wants blessed earth, vivifying sunbeams, it wants rains at convenient hours, playful etesian winds, patience, knowledge, wisdom, it wants caress and diffuse collective loves.
The tsipouro begins in the cold nights of winter.
It begins with the vine, with the morning breeze.
The vine must be prepared, the vine must be fornicated with the elements of nature, with the grin of Dionysus.
The viticulturist must speak to it, the viticulturist must smell the sky, the earth and the airs.
Viticulturist and vine must work for many hours. They must be coordinated, they must face the nervous storms and the hungry invaders.
And when all go well and the mustmeters come out, the sweet-voiceds sing, the grape-pickers collect the ''votries'' and viticulturist worries for the mothers.
Good yield means good tsipouro.
We'll tread the grapes, we'll remove the wooden, and we'll wait for the good hungry invaters to undertake the fermentation.
That's why the lassitube and the vigil are feast in front of alembic. It is ritual.
In alembic we'll put the grapes, our love and our secrets.
We'll close and stamp the navel, the lid. We'll stabilize this wild and, at the same time, hot element of nature, the fire. In a little the distillation, the ''apostaxi'', begins.
The streams begin a dance, others wild violent, others hand-in-hand, softly, like mysteries veils. They whistle unknown notes. They carry knowledge, energy, life. They go up slowly, slowly, up to the navel, up to the highest point of destiny. They enter in steamer, in coil in another cosmos.
The wild and calm steams become one. The good tsipouro must have all.
The aerial is transmuted into liquid. One of the marvels. The liquid rolls to the collector, rolls in higher notes, perhaps sweeter. Colours that the human eye does not see.
The viticulturist opens and closes his eyes. He leaves the glass of wine on the table.
He gets up. The table companions stop the conversation. He approaches the collector.
He trys three drops marvel. He grins. The table companions continue the conversation.
The distillation will be separated in head - heart - tail.
The head, the ''protostalagma'' that we say will be kept for liniment, for massage in winter.
The heart for drinking.
The tail will go there that deserves her.
The distillation received at the end. The viticulturist searches to find his glowing shadow, his beautiful woman from Tirnavos. The natural perfume from her hairs sweetens his nose.
He touches softly her hand and they go to nest.-
Libation to Dionysus...