Boozehound - Jason Wilson [39]
Tuaca still has a long way to go to overtake Jägermeister, of course, but its growth trajectory is strikingly similar. U.S. sales of Tuaca more than doubled between 2001 and 2009, from 60,000 cases to more than 140,000 cases. As I write this, in 2010, Jägermeister has long been the best-selling brand in the cordial/liqueur category, but in 1985, it was only selling about 140,000 cases.
On a trip to Italy in late summer 2009, I decided to pay a visit to the Tuaca distillery in Livorno, on the coast of Tuscany. Tuscany! Could you dream up a more romantic spot for a liqueur to come from? Tuscany is, of course, the biggest fantasy destination for American Italophiles. Think rolling vineyards and olive groves, charming peasants, fiascoes of Chianti, hilltop villas, al fresco dinners of figs and prosciutto taken leisurely at long tables filled with beautiful people, Frances Mayes renovating her dream home in Under the Tuscan Sun, Liv Tyler’s sexual awakening in Stealing Beauty.
All of that adds up to a fairly saccharine vision of Tuscany. So I have to admit I was hopeful when everyone, including my guidebooks and the Tuaca people, called Livorno “the ugliest city in Tuscany,” with few recommended tourist sights. Most visitors simply pass through on the way to the ferryboats that leave from the port. Livorno to me immediately felt like a real, workaday Italian city, and I loved it. The evening before my visit to Tuaca, I sipped aperitivi at a few of the waterfront bars, and then as the sun set, I wandered along the quiet canals to a restaurant where I ate a striking, briny-sweet sea urchin spaghettini, and squash blossoms stuffed with bacalao. The restaurant itself was raucous, and the crowd that dined along with me that night included a local Harley-Davidson club with a dozen motorcyclists dressed in leather, a loud group of thirty-something women on girls’ night out, and a family who brought their tiny dog. The owner joined me at my table, and when I couldn’t get a taxi, the waitress offered me a ride to my hotel on the back of her scooter.
One thing I noted during my evening out in Livorno, however, was that none of the bars had a bottle of Tuaca. When I asked for Tuaca in the restaurant, they acted as if I’d requested something impossibly foreign or exotic. I’ve spent a great deal of time in Italy, and it made me realize, thinking back, how rarely I’ve seen of bottle of Tuaca anywhere in the country.
This was not unusual, I was told when I arrived at the Tuaca distillery in the morning. “Tuaca is much more well-known in the United States than in Italy,” said Stefano Amico, the operations manager. “Two years ago, they tried to distribute Tuaca in Italy, but it was not successful. In Italy, we are practically selling only to the old men who know Tuaca from long ago.”
Tuaca was actually purchased in 2002 by American liquor giant Brown-Forman (which owns Jack Daniels and Finlandia vodka, among dozens of other brands). Prior to that, Tuaca had been owned by the Tuonis and the Canepas, two Jewish families that found refuge in Livorno during World War II. The name, originally Tuoca, was derived by combining the two names. American GIs got a taste for the stuff while stationed in Livorno during the war, and an entrepreneur began importing it to the States in the 1950s. That’s when the spelling Tuoca was changed to Tuaca, because Americans had a hard time pronouncing it. “Tuaca looks a bit like a Mexican name to me,” Amico said.
Now, 98 percent of the bottles produced in Livorno are shipped to the United States. If that’s the case, I asked, then why doesn’t Brown-Forman move production to the States? Amico chuckled uncomfortably. “Well,” he said, “we certainly hope that doesn’t happen.”
Then, Amico thought for a moment, and added, “The reason Tuaca is made here is that all of their marketing is based on ‘Made in Italy.’ This is the important reason. The Italian style of life, Italian food and drink,