Let me start this post off by giving you a piece of bad news. You’ve never actually had Balsamic Vinegar. You don’t even know what Balsamic Vinegar is, actually. Neither did I, until yesterday. Willfully ignorant of what real Balsamic Vinegar actually tastes like. Luckily for me, Anselmo from Antica Acetaia in Mandrio disabused me of my ignorance.

Antica Aceitana Mandrio is a tiny Balsamic Vinegar house, located a short distance away from Modena, in northern Italy. Originally opened in 1897, Antica Aceitana has been creating some of the most sublime and excellent balsamic vinegar for over a century. Anselmo took over the operation from his father in 2003, leaving a career in the local fire department to inherit the family business. He counts among his regular clients some of the best chefs in Italy and one Robert De Niro, if that gives you any indication as to the quality of his vinegar.

We visited Anselmo at his family house one misty morning in early winter, 2019. After being barked at by his three dogs at the front gate, Anselmo and his mother welcomed us into their home. The place is unassuming  just a simple three storey place in the middle of the countryside outside of Modena. After leading us up three flights of stairs, Anselmo took us to the barreling room. Located on the top floor of the house, their entire supply on Vinegar for next few years is located in a single room, comprising of 20 or so barrels.

‘Yeah, so,’ he says, loving placing his hand over a barrel. ‘We only produce about 80 litres a year.’

Small-scale, hand-made are the operational words here. The work at Mandrio Antica Acetaia is done only by the family – Anselmo makes the balsamic with his mother, and his father helps out with building the individually made boxes that accompany each bottle.

He proceeds to walk us through each step of the production of the vinegar. From the cutting of the original grapes, to storing them in glass jugs for a year for acetic fermentation, and the later barreling for alcoholic fermentation. He speaks with a resigned patience in his voice, as if he knows just how delicate the balance is in getting the right vinegar.

‘Some years we have too much acid,’ he says, bidding us to smell from a barrel. It smells wonderful. ‘We have to add just the right amount of must, we won’t know whether it works for another few years or so.’

The timescales at play here are phenomenal. Their cheapest bottle of vinegar is 12 years old. That’s the standard for real Balsamic Vinegar. Nothing less than 12 years old will do. The best bottles he sells are a 40 year vintage, although he only produces 10 bottles of this a year, and most are bought up by celebrities. Anselmo speaks to us about how each step of the process is still done by hand. From the cutting of the grapes to the transfer between oak barrels as the vinegar ages. He points to a small dial in the room.

‘That is the only piece of technology we are allowed,’ he says, fiddling with a small button. ‘It tells us the tidal movements, so we know when to change barrels.’

It becomes clear that this is more than just a labour of love for Anselmo. He doesn’t sell online, he doesn’t sell via phone, he doesn’t even have a website. He prefers to meet each and every customer individually, whether at a local market, at a three star Michelin restaurant, or through private tours of his home, like we are doing. You can tell he enjoys explaining the process to you. Enjoys watching your face light up as you smell each barrel, enjoys explaining the mind-numbingly fastidious process to you. Even he knows it’s excessive;

‘It’s too much,’ he says, after showing us his ‘workshop,’ an area where he hand makes each cork that stoppers the vinegar. Or when he shows us the twine he lovingly wraps the bottle in;

‘It’s probably too much.’

We finished the visit to his house by returning downstairs to complete a short degustation of several of his vinegars. He opens a small case that would be fitting of an alchemist and un-stoppers several bottles. With a care known only to large scale cocaine manufacturers and, as it turns out, balsamic vinegar producers, Anselmo provides us two spoons with a single drop of balsamic vinegar.

‘The 12 year,’ he says as we take them.

The taste was indescribable. An explosion of sensation in my mouth. Similar to the burst of flavour from a particularly tannic wine, the taste lingered. Carlie and I were both smiling.

‘Now, the 20 year,’ he says, giving us another droplet each. This time the flavour was somehow more concentrated, like a well-aimed punch to my tongue. It exploded into my mouth. I felt like crying form how good it was. He smiled at my expression.

‘Ah, the 40 year now,’ he said, giving us a final droplet.

As far as religious experiences go, this may be the closest I get. The vinegar was a meal, a symphony, an experience unto itself. I’ve never tasted anything like it, and I doubt I’ll have anything like it again (I couldn’t afford a bottle).

We left Anselmo’s with a bottle of his 12 year old Balsamic Vinegar. He shook our hands as we left his property and wished us well. We cradled the bottle of vinegar like it was a newborn. Before we left we asked him what he would do next;

‘I need to drive to Florence now,’ he said. ‘The Cartier store there has asked for a degustation.’ He shrugged his shoulders and turned back inside to his workshop.

You too can visit Anselmo at Antica Acetaia Mandrio via booking an appointment through his facebook. He’s located at Via Angiolino Morselli, 9, 42015 Mandrio Di Correggio, Italy. He can be contacted by phone on +39 348 305 2655.