When my father Pietro starts stacking wood in the fireplace and announces that his friends will be over for dinner, I know what’s coming. As his guests arrive, he’ll welcome them with glasses of deep and tannic Nero di Troia.

He’ll chat with them about one thing or another as he checks on the fire. And then, as the thin outer layer transforms into gray ash, he’ll know it’s time to put the tagliata di manzo—boneless rib steaks—on a grate suspended just inches above the embers.