Two Dirt Roads, One Vineyard, and Gravy I Drank Straight From the Boat
- Kate Mayeski
- 6 days ago
- 8 min read
Updated: 4 days ago
“Watch out for Bambi!” - my, rightfully, concerned co-pilot.
Not a phrase I expected to hear that day. But, given I’d spent the day living in a fairytale, in the middle of nowhere, nature and wildlife all around, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.
To spoil the ending, NO! No “bambi’s”, fairytale or other living creatures were harmed in the making of this story. With the exception I suppose of the one (sorry, two) sacrificial chickens.
More on that later…
Oh, to be young. Or, in Young, rather. Young, Arizona. Where there’s two dirt roads in and out, one spectacular vineyard, and a population of basically zero. Where you can’t help but get a boost of serotonin from a full open nostril inhale and the exhilarating feeling of standing (I’m pretty sure illegally, sorry Sheriff!) in the middle of an open road.
I fell in love with Bruzzi Vineyard a year before I stepped foot on the property. There’s a tasting room in Superior, Arizona - one of my favorite places on the planet. Where the world slows down, and I firmly believe (and refuse to ruin my definition by googling it) the term “salt of the earth people” originated. A place where a millennial woman can freely hike & walk about town, post up at a bar to work on her laptop, and feel right at home. My “Stars Hollow”, truly. And the tasting room? Home base on Main Street.
Turns out I’m not the only one who fell for a place before setting foot on it. James Bruzzi found Young in an Arizona Highways scenic drive article. “It was love at first sight,” he said (Arcadia News).
Same, James. Same.
Call me crazy, or perhaps it’s simply a sign of the times, but I'm always curious to know where what I put in my body comes from. And in this case, that meant a 2.5 hour drive to Bruzzi Vineyard’s home base in Young. We stretched ours to 3.5. Blame the side quest: Tonto Natural Bridge State Park was RIGHT THERE, and the $20 entrance fee bought us waterfalls, javelinas, and coatimundis showing off their ringed tails like they knew we had front row seats.
Worth. Every. Penny.
“Commute” doesn’t do the rest of the drive justice either. The drive was chock full of views most people only see in an Arizona Highways coffee table book, or more likely their Instagram feed.
A reminder that Arizonans would do well to be better tourists of our own state.
Out of Mesa, the drive is a slow-motion costume change. Saguaros bow out, junipers audition, and by Payson the ponderosa pines take the stage. Then you cut down toward Young, and the pavement eventually (respectfully) gives up entirely. One souvenir of a fun fact: the town wanted to be called Pleasant Valley, but the post office said “taken.” So they named it after Ola Young, the schoolteacher who ran the town’s mail out of her family’s house for nearly fifty years (Arizona Women’s Hall of Fame).
Young is unincorporated, by the way. No mayor, no council, no stoplight. And while I'm sure the development creeping across the rest of Arizona will eventually come knocking, my prayer is that this little valley answers the door slowly. Every town says it wants to grow. I hope Young keeps the nerve to stay on the dirt road.
Unsurprisingly, I missed the turn into Bruzzi. Not because it’s ill-marked. The signs? Huge. But with the windows down on the open road, I was taken aback by the peace. As I think many of us are, I’m constantly seeking silence. And I was stunned when I found it. And there was green. So. MUCH. GREEN! It made my heart ache for the woods I grew up in back in Maryland, frolicking through streams and climbing trees I had no business being in.
So, yeah. I missed the turn.
Once back on track, we drove up the dirt driveway. Only briefly distracted by the stunning views of the iconic windmill, dozens of rows of grapevines, and rescue llamas in the backyard (seriously?!) - we eagerly headed inside. Giddy with anticipation not just of wine literally straight from the vine, but of the meal that thoroughly shifted my expectation of what food in a “rural town” could look like.
Everything in the main building is built with intent. When you walk in, the wooden furniture, the checkered tablecloths, the warm light pouring in from every direction: it immediately feels like the weight of the world is lifted off your shoulders. Nobody designed this room to impress you. They designed it so you’d stay awhile. There’s a difference, and you can feel it.
Outside, the seating asks even less of you. Tables with front row views of the vines, the windmill keeping watch, mountains on every horizon. The kind of setup where you check your phone once, out of habit, and then forget it exists.
Enter stage left - the two sacrificial chickens. Yes, two ENTIRE whole a** chickens. Seasoned and roasted to perfection. And when I say perfection, I mean crispy skin that would put any online ASMR foodie to shame, and tender juicy meat that tasted, ACTUALLY tasted like chicken. What a concept.
Not to be upstaged by poultry peacocking, the corn on the cob was a) the biggest I’d ever encountered (insert your desired innuendo here) and b) was so sweet, it could’ve been dessert. The mashed potatoes hidden underneath that majestic cob were delightfully sinful (see previous parentheses…), the taste of real butter a welcome distraction from the fact that my stomach was quickly running out of room. And a pan gravy that I, between you and me, sipped the last drippings of right out of the gravy boat. As for the mini Yorkshire puddings that kept magically appearing as if from the Great Hall of Hogwarts, you just have to experience them for yourself. And to finish it all off, a perfect nod to the classic apple pie, deconstructed crumble with the damn sinful butter reappearing topped with vanilla ice cream so perfect it needed nothing else.
And the wine. Oh my, the wine. When you go to visit, may I suggest the flight. Do not deny yourself the experience. Start with the Vidal Blanc, because it’s the whole reason this place exists. Pear, green apple, a little jasmine, and the kind of crisp that makes you sit up straighter. Then the Mischievous, a rosé that leads with grapefruit and finishes flirty. The Devious is the red blend (Grenache, Syrah, Mourvèdre) and it tastes like plum and baking spices had a very good weekend. The Zinfandel comes in swinging: blackberry, black pepper, actual smoke. And then there’s the Glamorous, their ice-wine style dessert wine. Honey. Apricot. Sweet.
Glamorous? Indeed.
But if you, or your beloved copilot, don’t love wine - don’t write this storybook setting off. The team offers a perfect mix of beer, cocktails, and non-alcoholic beverages for every palate.
By this point, I was full. Not food-coma-wheel-barrow-me-out-and-put-me-out-to-pasture-full. But certainly needed to walk off the puddin’s. Lucky for us…LLAMAS! Llamas, and piggies, and goats - oh my! And here’s the thing about the animals: they’re not decoration. The property doubles as a home for rescues, all part of a farm that runs on solar-powered drip irrigation and skips chemical pesticides entirely (Arizona Farm & Ranch Hall of Fame). A petting zoo where the residents are technically part of the operation.
I’ve worked with worse teams.
On our tour of the animals, Andrew, James’s brother, gave us the run down and shared a bit of the agricultural innovation. Or what I can only describe as agricultural heresy. Vidal Blanc is a cold climate grape. Canada grows it. For ICE WINE. And here it is thriving at 5,100 feet in Arizona, where the temperature swings hard between afternoon and midnight and this grape apparently loves the drama. Bruzzi is the only grower in Arizona dedicated to Vidal Blanc (Arizona Farm & Ranch Hall of Fame), harvesting in late October and November, about three months behind the rest of the state (Arcadia News). Every vine tended and harvested by hand. And in case you’re wondering whether the madness works: their 2018 Vidal Blanc took Double Gold at the 2019 Arizona Wine Competition. Unanimous panel. (Chateau Tumbleweed’s recap of the 2019 winners). And you’d never know it by his down-to-earth demeanor, but just this year, James was inducted into the Arizona Farm and Ranch Hall of Fame (Copper Area News).
It turns out, unsurprisingly, that the Bruzzi team and I share a love of the hospitality industry. And you can feel James’s training at every turn. He studied International Hotel and Tourism Management at Johnson & Wales before any of this (Bruzzi Vineyard), and it shows in every detail nobody had to bother with, but did. The meal paced so you never feel rushed. The puddings that appear before you know to ask. A room that remembers hospitality is a craft, not a transaction.
Talking with Andrew, I asked if he and his brother had always known so much about, and loved, wine. He smiled, and without an ounce of ego: “When James and I put our minds to something, we learn everything we can and make it the very best we can. That’s what happened here.”
And then there’s a father’s love. Aldo Bruzzi spent his career moving earth in Connecticut. He built a commercial landscaping company, worked on the state’s soil erosion guidelines, and by all accounts baked Italian bread that deserved its own zip code. When he retired, he didn’t slow down. He came to Young, cleared the rocky high-desert ground himself, and planted the first vines with his son. The man knew soil the way most of us know our commute (Aldo Bruzzi’s obituary, Messinger Mortuary).
Hours later, thoroughly stuffed, satiated, and ready for a nap - it was time to say goodbye. But, in true Arizona fashion, she wasn’t done with us yet. We hung a left out of the vineyard and back through the forest we went. Dirt roads with wild turkeys, deer, and young calves. All dancing across the road. What initially felt like a mild inconvenience (and a heart rate spike) turned into a welcome reprieve from the concern of “reality” creeping back in. Encouraging me to, literally, slow down and smell the roses. Or in our case, pine trees and cow pies.
As the sun dropped low over the mountains, its rays dancing across Roosevelt Lake, and my copilot unconscious in a food and beer coma next to me, I was too stunned to do anything but pull over. And send out a prayer of gratitude - to Aldo, who passed away last December. A true legend, and master of his craft. I didn’t have the honor of meeting him, but you can feel his thumbprint all over the Bruzzi property: every path, each row of vines, every sun kissed piece of wood furniture in the dining area. And in his two sons, stewards of this special place. Thank you to James, Andrew, and the entire Bruzzi team. For having a dream, and creating a real life fairytale world just a few hours into Arizona’s backyard.
Still 45min from home, we rolled into Superior on fumes (literal, and okay, a little emotional) and stopped for gas a few blocks from the tasting room where this whole love affair started. Full circle, at a gas pump on Main Street. If you need me, I’ll be planning a second date.
Know before you go: Bruzzi Vineyard, 47209 N. Highway 288, Young, AZ. Dinners are reservation-only (and worth planning around): email BruzziVineyard@aol.com or call (928) 462-3314. Our Sunday Roast, all of it, ran $39.99 a person before tax and tip. Can’t make the drive yet? Start where I did: the tasting room in Superior, an hour from the Valley. Just know - it’s a gateway wine.