At the crowded pizza places, you sit at a table with other people and try to absorb the noise level. Pizza, which was “bread with a relish” in Roman times, is now so simple—I saw most Neapolitans ordering the basic Margherita over and over. The quality of the mozzarella, made from the milk of water buffalo—imported into Italy from India for some reason around A.D. 600—makes all the difference. They would croak to see how we pile twelve ingredients on pizza in America. Other than mozzarella, the main cheese of the South is pecorino, sheep’s milk cheese. Pecorino fresco is new and soft; semistagionato, somewhat aged, hardens and sharpens in taste; and stagionata, aged, is harder even than Parmesan. The canestrati, artisan pecorini, bear the mark of the basket (canestro) where they were formed. At home in Tuscany the cheeses often are coated with ashes or wrapped in oil-soaked grape or hazelnut leaves. Old baskets for forming ricotta are collectibles, long since replaced by plastic. Pecorino marries well to figs, to sliced pears and apples, and also to dense quince paste. The sacred spring rite requires you to eat pecorino with new fava beans. If you don’t like this combination, don’t tell anyone. Try also the adorable bulbous scamorza from the Abruzzi. This yellow cow’s milk cheese is usually roasted in the fireplace—just like marshmallows on a stick—and eaten with bread. The hardened outside gets toasty and the interior turns creamy. We met this on a mountain road in early June. Ten minutes earlier we’d been enjoying the red swaths of poppies across the meadows; then a freakish storm sent flying slush at the windshield. We couldn’t see the edge of the road. We pulled over at a trattoria where people were gathered around a bonfire feasting on great hunks of rough bread with melted scamorza.
Bread—oh, so good. In Pompeii on the day of the eruption, a bakery had turned out eighty-one round loaves of bread made from wheat and barley flours. There are so many touching details at Pompeii. It’s almost as though someone from that era lays a hand on your shoulder when you learn that the loaves were gashed in eight sections so that they could be broken apart easily.
Bread in Naples is cakier than the rough Tuscan bread we’re used to. They usually use semolina flour in the South, giving the bread a golden tint and a more briochelike consistency. In English, this is durum wheat flour. I know you don’t like the unsalted Tuscan bread, so you’ll be happy here. Before the oceans became polluted, bakers often used seawater in making bread. I guess you’d gag if someone did that now. When we’re driving, we start out the day at the best forno and buy a loaf to take in the car, along with whatever else looks good. I like the ring-shaped, small, herb-scented twists of bread with coarse salt called taralli. They’re the Pugliese equivalent to pretzels. If they’re not fresh, they can crack a tooth. The famous big old pugliese loaves are simply the bread of Puglia. They can weigh twenty pounds in some areas. Naturally, as with all bread, you can buy a quarter of a loaf or a half. And buy it, of course, every morning.
A day proceeds like this.
Breakfast: always pastry. Sfogliatella, a fan-shaped flaky pastry stuffed with some delectable creamy ricotta filling, with a cappuccino, fuels you for endless sightseeing days. Pastries in Tuscany tend toward dryness. I always know when I’m truly acclimated there because the pastries start to taste good to me. Then I come South and taste heavenly cannoli, that impossibly divine combination of tastes and textures—fried tubular pastry filled with sugared ricotta delicately scented with orange flower water. Often their ends are dipped in chopped nuts. Oh, Lord. I’m not a fool for desserts, but thank you for allowing me back into the pastry shops twice a day. Pastry in Sicily is an art form. I saw a whole Noah’s ark made from marzipan.
Lunch: pasta, fish. Maybe I am given to excesses. In Sardinia every day I ate lobster for lunch—then sometimes for dinner. All over that area you meet various types of lobster that don’t even look kin to the Maine lobster. Waverley Root says that in Sardinia they eat like Stone Age men. Staring into the eyes of one of these lobsters, you have to agree. It doesn’t look like something you’d put in your mouth. Once you do, you want to weep! So tender and sweet. Besides all the get-up-and-plow pastas of the South, one I took to immediately in Sardinia was new to me: fregola. It looks like breadcrumbs, slightly colored by saffron, and is served with salty ricotta. One difference from the usual pastas is that it’s cooked in stock. The whiff of lost Araby comes from the saffron and from the mysterious town of Alghero itself, where we stayed in a former villa, turned small hotel, with two friends. We wandered the medinalike streets for a few days, hardly getting in the car at all, pointing to brightly colored tiled cupolas, stopping for strawberry gelato, drinking in the warm May air. Isn’t the experience of food too intricately woven into your surroundings for you to know exactly what a taste is? The clear waters, with the sun spangling the floor of the sea, the young man bicycling with his baby on his shoulders, the slow slosh of the tide, the smell of fish scales, salt, iodine, and roses, the sun cutting down a narrow street—all these mix with the memory of the taste of lobster, the taste of a crisp cucumber salad, the taste of an icy amber beer. Maybe that’s why when we go home and try a recipe, following all the instructions, it never quite tastes the same as we remembered it from the high terrace over the sea when the water was striated from lavender to gray and a little piece of music hit you right in the breastbone. The food seemed, then, so alive, so perfect and clean there, when the waiter lifted out the whole spine of the fish in one swift movement.
Dinner: a mussel soup with crostini, rounds of bread soaked in the broth. Next, a hare with pappardelle, rabbit with fennel, something hearty, or a simple grilled fish. They know to leave a fish alone. Elaborate preparations mask the elemental taste. No nut crusts, no breading, no thick sauces. Just a squeeze of lemon, a sprinkling of parsley and mint. Sardines are loved all over the Mediterranean. Quickly grilled or dipped in vinegar and fried—they convey the essence of the sea.
To extend a summer night down south, end your dinner with a tiny glass of strega, which translates as “witch” but seems instead closer to the angels with its airy floral perfume, or a bracing limoncello, the very tart breath of the citrus groves. By the way, limoncello is very easy to make at home. In a cool place, you steep peels from eight organic lemons in a covered quart of ninety percent proof alcohol for four days, shaking it now and then. On the fifth day, prepare a syrup of fourteen ounces of sugar and a quart of bottled still water. Don’t let it boil, just simmer five minutes or so. Strain the lemon mixture and mix it into the syrup. Throw away the peels. Pour into bottles, and cork.
A friend uses the same method to make a laurel elixir, which he serves icy cold. I’ve had basilicocello, too. Even in Tuscany we seek out Moscato Passito di Pantelleria, the dessert wine from the windy Italian island of Pantelleria, way down close to Tunisia. Will you go there? I haven’t been but would love to. The wine is lush and smooth and fragrant. You almost want it for a body spray. Stromboli, too, I’ve missed, maybe because of that dreary movie with Ingrid Bergman.
The southerners are fond of their amari, like all Italians. These bitters aid digestion. I don’t feel the need for such an aid and don’t respond to their cough-syrupy flavors. The South’s walnut liqueur makes my tongue raspy, and I fear it will cause my brain to curdle. Ed, however, likes them all, even the artichoke-flavored one, but especially Averna, made from thirty-something herbs. Maybe you and Ed have shared a few late-night nips of this.
The wonder of Italy—it’s hard to find a bad meal. Hard also to have a bad time. Buon viaggio, amico mio.
Con affetto,
Francesca
Dear Steven, soon to be Stefano,
Continuing my long love letter to food. I wanted to give you a brief intro to the wine of the South. We’re now in Gaeta, another coastal town, with an immense passeggiata on Sunday night. Here the bay at dusk looks like lapis lazuli. Everyone strolls. A fabulous tower, made out of stones from all eras, looks just randomly stuck together so that you see traces of Arabs, Greeks, Romans, and latter-day Italians. I wonder how many gelatos I�
��ve had in the past three days.
You heard that the South is the “new Tuscany” for wine. That’s right. Growers are changing from mass producers of indifferent-to-good everyday wine to more specialized and careful vintages. It’s time. The even climate of much of the South, the sun-facing slopes of mineral-rich rocky terrain, and a new awareness—all conspire to change the philosophy of wine making.
Finding good wine is easy. This afternoon before we left Sperlonga, we went into the wine store, and the owner helped us select a half dozen of the area’s best bottles to pack into our trunk. The surprise is the price. These wines are still affordable.
We reach constantly to the backseat of our book-mobile car for the yearly edition of the Gambero Rosso wine guide. Wines from every region are ranked, with tre bicchieri, three glasses, as the optimal wine. Even a one-glass rating is good; only select wines get in. Aside from all the sophisticated ranking, however, in many restaurants they’re pouring Uncle’s special up to the brim of the glass. Everyone makes wine, or has a cousin who does. Uncle might make the most delicious wine in town.
Within the South, I’d say Sicily is the hot spot for wine—especially reds. As the Tuscan and northern Italian wines soar toward the prices of California wines, suddenly the hearty wines of the South look more appealing. Just when I thought I had a handle on the types of grapes in Tuscany, I find that in the South it’s all different. Puglia’s primary grape variety is the negroamaro, meaning “black bitter.” Primitivo grows all around. The American version of that is zinfandel. Grenache, so appreciated by the French, is known as cannonau in Sardinia. Zibibbo (what a fine name for a cat) grapes are muscat, good for wine and also luscious to eat. The list goes on. Perhaps the most characteristic Sicilian grape is the native nero d’avola. We can see how history is always at work in this area. The name of the prized red aglianico probably derives from Italian for “Hellenic.”
As you drive around the island, order these when they appear on the wine list: Donnafugata—recognize the name from The Leopard?—whites and red, also the range of Planeta wines. Even their least expensive ones are good. We drink several Planeta wines in Tuscany. Feudo Principi di Butera makes a big cabernet. Ed is partial to Abbazia Santa Anastasia Litra and Morgante Don Antonio. Cantina Sociale di Trapani also brings out a cabernet you’ll enjoy.
But you will make your own discoveries. Just buy the wine guide, and tear out pages for the areas where you travel. If they’re out of the wine you ask for, whip out the page and ask for something just as good. I stress again, though, your waiter Massimo’s daddy may be an unknown master winemaker. Even if the local wine is rough and ready, you get a taste of the soil and sun of a particular farm. Some names to memorize for the rest of the South: Paternostra, for their aglianico wines from Basilicata; Agricola Eubea and Cantina Fiforma Fondiaria di Venosa, also Basilicata producers. Two from Lecce: Cantele Amativo and Agricole Vallone Graticciaia. That’s a start.
Villa Matilde epitomizes the zesty spirit of contemporary wines from the South. Odd that this should be so, since their vines come from stock older than the Romans. Our close friend Riccardo Bertocci (remember we had the Slow Food lardo dinner with him) represents several of the most distinctive wine producers in Italy. Villa Matilde is one of his favorites. He asked us to rendezvous for lunch at Villa Matilde to meet Maria Ida and Salvatore Avallone, the Neapolitan sister and brother who preside over the vineyards started by their father. We often stay at the Avallone family’s hotel in Naples, the Parker, for Old World ambiance, the dining terrace overlooking the Bay, and their scrumptious pastry table at breakfast.
Since we were in nearby Sperlonga, exploring the coast, we settled on Wednesday and drove down to Cellole. I hope you’ll go there on your trip. Despite the fireworks around wine produced in the South, there still are very few vineyards where you can visit and taste. You also can stay overnight; the old estate house now serves as a small inn. Maria Ida and Salvatore showed us around. Their father, Francesco Paolo Avallone, practices law in Naples, and the children have taken over the vineyard. They’re young and hip and devoted to the wines their father developed after World War II. During his law studies he read Virgil, Horace, Pliny the Elder, Catullus, and other classical authors—does this happen in American law schools?—where he came across references to falerno, one of the prime grapes of the Romans. The vines over time had succumbed to disease and neglect. Avallone studied the characteristics mentioned by the authors and set out to find lost stock of this grape in the original location where it had flourished, the Massico area. He and his associates found five falanghina vines and so secured a route back to the production of white falerno. They found five piedirosso (red feet), which with aglianico (the “Hellenic” remnant) could combine to make red falerno. Many graftings, propagations, and lullabies later, the Villa Matilde slopes again thrive with the ancient heritage grapes of the area. The Avallones still keep the precious vines their father found when he reached far back into history.
At pranzo in their restaurant, we were served pumpkin ravioli, veal roast, and a plum crostata. Salvatore would eat only a salad after the pasta. He was telling us about the remains of a Roman wine cellar just adjacent to their property, and the other hectares he and Maria Ida have acquired and planted with coda di volpe (fox tail), abbuoto, and primitivo grapes. We liked all the wines he poured, especially the Falerno del Massico Vigna Camarato and the delicate, golden Eleusi Passito, which arrived with the crostata. The passito’s grapes dry on the vines, concentrating the sweetness until late fall, then age in barriques. Catullus would write an ode.
You’ll be singing praises, too, when you arrive in Naples for your month of roaming. Let me know exactly when you’re coming. I know a place in Gallipoli where the squid caught last night hang on a clothesline outside the kitchen, waiting to be pounded and dressed in tomatoes and good oil. We could meet in Matera, strangest of cities, and eat vegetable lasagne made with big slabs of pasta, and slow-roasted lamb shanks.
Think of me as you pour a splash of Greco di Tufa in your glass, or think back to the Greeks who brought the vine, or just think of your friend across the table and the night ahead.
Get The Blue Guide to Southern Italy. Don’t miss Siracusa and the cathedrals in Bitonto and Trani. You’ll see many of Italy’s one million vineyards, most the size of your backyard. With the olive and wheat, vines make the ancient trinity. You may see remnants of the old style of planting, with the wheat among the olive trees, and the field bordered by vines. If so, take a picture. The trinity is disappearing fast. The bread, the wine, the oil. Life is possible from those. Mark on your map all of Frederick II’s castles. You’ll be lost a hundred times. Endless, Italy is endless.
Ci vediamo subito,
Frances
Inside the
Color Spectrum
Fez
The art of departure I may never master. A smooth departure includes time to pack and think and anticipate. The suitcase, all shoes on the bottom, holds clothes in two basic colors with several tops in lively patterns. Everything fits neatly, and I have room to bring home a couple of souvenirs. The houseplants are watered, newspaper stopped, and two lights set on timers. Dinner will be simple, a salad and soufflé. We will sleep without nightmares, wake with the excitement of the voyage pulsing in our veins, and leave the house with plenty of time. We do not confuse flight times or leave passports behind or forget to turn off the espresso machine.
But usually I would like to be taken to the airport on a stretcher and rolled into the back of the plane where attendants will draw curtains around me, because any departure inevitably brings out the mischief in the gods. The day before you start a long-desired trip, they want you to pass certain tests.
This morning I searched the house for the tickets to Morocco, then finally Ed noticed and said he still had to pick up the tickets. Bramasole’s elaborate watering system, which involves two cisterns and the old well, developed an air vacuum hitch. We spent two hours crawling aroun
d tanks and shouting “Is it coming?” and finally the water arrived in spurts and jerks. A tube detached, spraying us both. A strange rumbling noise as we took our plates outside for lunch gathered to an unmistakable crash. What a disaster—the important lateral stone wall under the linden trees tumbled down the hill. We dashed to see the last of a rock avalanche landing on the road below. Lucky we were that no one passing by on a morning stroll or bike ride met their dismal fate in our driveway. And so we hauled stone off the road, and Ed went in search of a muratore who will repair the damage before another section falls. I canceled my much-needed haircut appointment. I did not pick up the dry cleaning.
Early today in town I said to a friend, “We’re leaving tomorrow for Fez.” The words seemed miraculous. Fez. I’ve never put my foot on the continent of Africa before. As I pull my bag from under the bed, I hear a scuffling noise—unmistakable. Un topo, a mouse. Fortunately Giusi is downstairs. She’s my cooking friend who also looks after Bramasole when we are gone.
“I had a mouse in my armadio last year,” she says, sprinting up the stairs and shutting the door of the bedroom, closing us in with the mouse. She’s armed with rubber gloves and a broom. We pull out the bed. Nothing. Open the armadio, where I have hung my summer clothes. Nothing. But in the top drawer of my chest, we find droppings. The mouse has eaten a bead from an African necklace. Resolutely, Giusi opens the drawer at the bottom of the armadio and lifts up a folded yellow sweater. Three almost-new mice fall out. I swallow a shriek. Giusi dons the gloves, picks them up, and drops them in a plastic bag. They are unformed and not cute. Their pawing motions and pin-prick eyes make my stomach flip. God’s creatures. Under a poncho she finds three more. I hold the bag at arm’s length. She pulls out the drawer all the way, and we see the mama, not so small, not a Beatrix Potter–style mouse at all, hiding behind the foot of the armadio. The chase is on. Giusi corners her, and she runs between Giusi’s legs, under the bed, then back to the armadio. I’m afraid she will bite Giusi’s ankle. Giusi wields the broom, and I cower in the corner feeling inept. The mouse leaps into the fireplace and disappears up the chimney. We leave a poison dinner for her return. Giusi insists that all my folded clothes must be washed now, since mouse feet have run over them. Visions of black plague victims reel through my head.
A Year in the World Page 18