Maybe the ginestra had indeed kicked in again because once we had arrived back in town we silently decided—because we weren’t talking to each other at this point—that we would not be beaten by this island. We rented what we hoped would be a proper car, the inauspiciously named Fiat Panda. What was more plodding and unmotivated than a panda? The Fiat Sloth?
In our Panda, we clambered up those same mountain roads with relative ease. I suppose ‘plodding and unmotivated’ could be also framed as sure and steady. I was speaking to my husband again. I was also sticking my head out the car window, dog-like, and taking in giant gulps of the intoxicating Lefkadan air. I was even beginning to forgive Hearn for his inconvenient entry point into this world.
We were on our way to the day’s next and most important goal: a late lunch. The inn owners had given us a description of a small restaurant that was a page right out of my wish book: located in a remote mountain village, owned by a couple—she’s the chef and he’s the host and server—offering Greek dishes but with a twist because the owners are British, and the garden that they tended provided much of the restaurant’s vegetables and greens. Even its name, the Katoghi, made me think of the appellation for a small, elegant sailing ship.
But first, we needed to find the village of Vafkeri, which according to the fabulists was where we had driven past, circled round, and driven past yet again. We stopped the Panda, and my husband and I stared at the mountainside, willing Vafkeri to appear, like a magic door. It didn’t. Instead, we followed the road farther up the mountain, took a turn that was clearly not indicated on the map, and there it was: a small sign that promised Vafkeri. We were now operating on faith. The Panda and faith were all that we had to rely upon. We were on a mountain and hungry. It was an age-old story in these parts, except for the Panda.
The road to Vafkeri led us to a sign for the Katoghi, which indicated that the remaining 50 meters there would need to be traversed on foot. I looked at my watch and was filled with the dread of a tried and true pessimist: what if the restaurant were closed? What if we had traveled all this way—from New York City, for God’s sake!—only to be turned away? The longest 50 meters of my life ended on the terrace with the spectacular view.
We were greeted by Peter. We knew his name immediately because he offered it to us. He chatted with us like we were old friends who had dropped by his ridiculously scenic property for a bite to eat. He told us that Alison had made a delicious courgette tart that afternoon and that there were still a couple of pieces left, and dessert included a lemon mousse. I think I heard all the gods singing at that moment.
My husband and I spent many hours on the Katoghi’s terrace. We watched as Alison walked into the garden and snipped a bowlful of greens and herbs for our salads. We ate the fresh, simple fare that she sent out of her kitchen. We talked with Peter about why they had ventured from Suffolk to Lefkada, and why I had come there as well. I told him about Hearn and why this writer, who had traveled by necessity from Greece to Ireland to the United States, and then by euphoric free will to Japan, was to me a compelling example of personal and creative reinvention.
Before we reluctantly left, I made sure that we took photographs of the terrace, the view, and of ourselves. I wanted to document and to remember where following Lafcadio Hearn had taken us. Hearn’s island at that moment, lit by a late afternoon sun, did feel to me like a kiss but not on the lips or even on the cheeks. Lefkada’s kiss was on the forehead, a blessing for traveling without a map, guided by the impossible desire to trace the steps of some other soul, and finding your own way out of the metaphorical dark.
As for the jet lag, it’s two years later and I’m still writing my Hearn novel, which means that I’m still keeping time by his sun and moon.
JOE DUNTHORNE was born in 1982, brought up in Swansea, and now lives in London. His debut novel, Submarine, has been adapted for the big screen and was released to critical acclaim in 2011. His stories, poems and journalism have been published in the Guardian, The New York Times Magazine, Independent, Financial Times and Sunday Times in the U.K. His second novel, Wild Abandon, was published in 2011.
THEY EAT MAGGOTS, DON’T THEY?
Joe Dunthorne
Sebastiano brought out the cauldron. He did not speak English but was able to communicate that, even if he were fluent in our language, he would still not tell us what we were about to eat. It was a surprise. He was excited. My girlfriend and I were sharing a table with an Italian couple and their two young boys who came to Sebastiano’s farm in the mountains of Sardinia every year for their holidays. They knew what was in the cauldron. The little boys wriggled in their seats with anticipation.
The mother of the family asked Sebastiano something and pointed at the cauldron. We listened to his mellifluous Italian and enjoyed his long arms covered in wiry black hair, his fine, almost lupine nose and alert eyes. He fulfilled a certain stereotype by being expressive with his hands: stirring the air, making a crumbling action with his fingertips, then drawing his hand down his own chest as though unzipping a jacket. The family cooed. Although we understood next to nothing of what he was saying, there was one word that stuck out: ‘coaguli’.
We thought of ourselves as brave eaters. Back at home in London, we were glad there was finally something in British cooking to be proud of—nose-to-tail eating—and we had been indulging ourselves in the zeitgeist: baking veal bone marrow, frying brains, roasting tongues. Although we told ourselves that the motivation for such cooking was ethical—a desire to let nothing go to waste—there was no denying that part of the appeal was macho. Who could work a bone saw? Who could boil a pig’s head? Who could endure the intestinal stench of andouillette? And if you google any list of weird or frightening foods, you are sure to find one of Sardinia’s famous delicacies, casu marzu aka maggot cheese. It’s a kind of pecorino into which fly larvae have been introduced. The cheese moves beyond fermentation into decomposition. The digestive action of the larvae breaks down the fats, leaving a very soft texture, liquid in parts. Wikipedia notes that the worms can jump up to fifteen centimetres in the air and advises eye protection.
When we arrived in Sardinia, we couldn’t see it on any menus. We wondered if it was one of those things—like jellied eels in London—that gets name-dropped a lot but few people actually eat. It wasn’t until we met Sebastiano that we felt sure we had a man who would know. Although his farm, Testone, is located in an isolated cork forest on a tabletop mountain, people travel there for his cooking. Even the local cinghiale—wild boars—came snuffling to his back door to be fed. Pretty much everything he served while we stayed was homemade: pasta, salami, pecorino, grappa, pistachios, yoghurt, honey. On our first night, he made us unforgettable homemade ravioli and lung ragu. On our second night, he brought out the cauldron.
If it was full of maggot cheese then perhaps we had overstated our culinary fearlessness. He dunked his ladle and poured us each a bowl of dark lumpy soup the colour and texture of raspberry jam. No visible larvae. It smelled rich and we were told to spread a little on the flat bread they eat everywhere in Sardinia. It’s sometimes called carta da musica: music paper. We were also advised to go slow, a recommendation that the two small boys—who both took a glass of grappa with their meals—cheerfully ignored. They soon had ruby-coloured stains around their mouths like badly applied lipstick. Then they resembled young vampires, gore dripping down their chins. Finally, their napkins looked as though they’d been used to staunch a wound. We saw Sebastiano watching our reactions—smiling—his teeth stained red. Could we guess the secret ingredient?
Well, it looked like blood, smelled like blood—was it blood?
Sebastiano would neither confirm nor deny. But since we had loved everything he had cooked up to that point, and since we had little or no choice in the matter, we got started, trying not to think of the lumps as clots. I took a bite, waited for fangs to replace my incisors but instead, there was the richness of, yes, blood but also onion (the lumps) and all shot through w
ith mint. It was silky and heartening and it raised the pulse.
As we ate, Sebastiano explained—with the help of the Italian family for extra sign language—that it was called sanguinaccio. As well as the ingredients we’d detected, he’d crumbled in his homemade pecorino and thickened it with bread. Animal noises established that he had slaughtered a lamb that morning. This was the meal he always made when he had fresh lamb’s blood.
It’s not legal to buy blood over the counter in Britain because it needs to be eaten within twenty-four hours, and carefully prepared. Even in Italy, a 1992 law banned the sale of blood in some regions, which is why many people have to get it from their own animals.
By the end of the meal, all our napkins were props for B movies. Sebastiano was delighted. There was a sense that the bond you make while sharing blood soup is a bond that lasts. The youngest son of the family drew a smiley face in gore on his plate. As the evening went on, we gathered from the Italian family that we had seen nothing compared to the food Sebastiano served for parties in his huge feasting hall. Judging by their facial expressions and hand gestures, these meals were a mix between a medieval victory banquet and that scene where the blood pours out of the elevator in The Shining.
This all made a lasting impression. I was writing my second novel, Wild Abandon, at the time. It is set on a communal farm (albeit in Wales, not Sardinia) and I ended up using blood soup (disguised as tomato) as a vital motor for the plot. My girlfriend, meanwhile, was now determined that we should track down the maggot cheese.
On the last few days of our holiday, we asked around but no luck. The locals all knew about it but restaurants didn’t serve it. We flew back to London and I might have given up had it not been for my girlfriend’s single-mindedness. She rang one of the few Sardinian restaurants in London, Mediterranea, a low-key but well-loved spot in Crystal Palace, and spoke to the owner.
‘I was wondering, do you by any chance have casu marzu?’
A pause on the line. ‘Do you mean maggot cheese?’
‘Yes.’
Another pause. ‘Well, it’s not on the menu but if you want I could bring some from my fridge at home?’
We arrived at the restaurant and my girlfriend confirmed her identity. They had been waiting for us. They gave us a special table. By special I mean it avoided the sight-lines of the rest of the customers. The food was tremendous but it could not distract us from giggly anticipation of our secret, final course. The owner emerged from the kitchen, looking furtive, carrying a shoebox-sized Tupperware close to his chest. He put it down on the table between us. He asked us to try to be subtle.
When he took the lid off, I suppose I was expecting more horror. It was not like peering into the industrial bins behind our flat. In fact, it looked fairly normal. It was a pale, crumbly cheese, almost cottaged, with a strong smell. The owner picked up my fork and dug into one of the larger cheese clouds, which disintegrated at his prodding. His eyebrows spoke of revelation.
‘You’re very lucky,’ he said. ‘They’re active.’
We peered in closer and saw the maggots were not the fat squirmers you see in films. They were, in essence, made entirely of cheese. No wonder they were so well camouflaged in their surroundings. They looked like tiny pale strings and they leapt, for freedom or for joy, who could say.
He gave us each a portion to spread on flat bread and we were advised, again: go slow. He told us that his children loved this cheese, particularly the pleasure of chasing the maggots across the table before sending them to their doom. There was no question, by the way, of not eating the maggots. They were the cheese and the cheese was them, plus they were too small to really pick around. Occasionally we had to herd one or two back to our plates, if they made a rush for the border. The cheese tasted like an extremely strong, very fine blue but its greatest attribute was its texture: a mix of melting and crumbling and gooey. The owner seemed pleased with our response as he carefully resealed the Tupperware and took the maggots home.
There’s a popular parenting book at the moment called French Children Don’t Throw Food. If my girlfriend and I ever have kids, we will have higher expectations than that. Perhaps one day there will be another parenting manual: Italian Children Taunt Maggots and Drink Blood.
ANDRÉ ACIMAN was born in Alexandria, Egypt, and is an American memoirist, essayist, novelist, and distinguished professor of Comparative Literature at the CUNY Graduate Center. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, The New York Times, and The New Republic. His most recent novel is Harvard Square.
LAST SUPPER IN TUSCANY
André Aciman
Our farmhouse in Italy was a disaster that summer. We arrived, as we’d done the years before, expecting the usual fare of miracles: the rolling hills of Tuscany, the scented groves of Umbria, the lush overripe figs of Romagna aching to drop into your palm if you so much as stared at them with lust in your eyes. The pine tree alleys leading to palaces that haven’t lost a stone in centuries; sunflowers watching your every step as you thread your way between them ever so warily, patting each one on the head so it wouldn’t bite or think you’ve trespassed. And who could forget the wines: of Montalcino, of Montepulciano, of Montecarlo, Montecucco, Monteregio, and Montescudaio—the sheer names of these hilltop towns, with their central little piazzas and their maze of lanes that keep spinning and, when you’ve given up hoping to find your car again, lead right into the piazza you thought you’d lost forever. Magic!
I couldn’t wait to be back. We had visited Tuscany the year before with a couple, and before that with another couple, and rented a different house for a week each time. We knew the drill. Every child selects a bed—first come, first served—mom and dad get the big bed, no sitting on the couch with your sandals on, don’t drink from the faucet, and easy with showers: hot water is rationed here. Above all, each son has his color-coded suitcase. Close it once you’ve removed what you needed. There are lizards, snails, scorpions, whatever. And don’t complain about the A.C. There isn’t any. If there is, it’s guasto—broken.
This year we arrived with two other couples and from the moment we stepped out of our rented cars we knew the whole thing was a mistake. The dirt road that led from the main drive to the villa was far too long and perilously bumpy. By the time we reached the villa after hobbling in the worst way for almost a mile, the picturesque landscape, with its olive trees, vineyards, and a large pig farm we had spotted along the way, had lost their charm. All we wanted was to get to our rooms, take off our clothes, and hop into the pool. But when we arrived early that Saturday afternoon, the help was still busy cleaning the house after the previous guests had left the day before.
Though gracious, the woman mopping the floor was visibly peeved, while her husband, wrench in hand after sweating over the plumbing in the kitchen in his yellowed wife-beater, was no less irked by our presence. Quietly, we left all our stuff in the car and walked around to inspect the grounds. Our villa, as we discovered, was not isolated but abutted another villa a few yards away, and another on the other side of that one, forming a sort of U-shaped atrium in the middle of which sat a raised swimming pool. My heart sank. Might as well have an inflatable pool for toddlers, I thought. What I’d longed for was one of those long, sunken-in-the-ground infinity pools where you float serenely on quiet afternoons and with one breaststroke think you’re about to reach for the soul of Italy, the genius of the Renaissance, and the very essence of antiquity. Just float and heed the turtledoves cooing above ground on this clearest sky man ever saw on planet Earth and you got your glimpse of eternity.
The house was typically agroturismo—a tastefully converted ancient peasant stone house that rents for around $10,000 a week during peak summer months. The realtor’s catalogue, like all catalogues, did not misrepresent nor distort; it simply fanned your fantasies and airbrushed the rest. The big picture spelled Chianti of your dreams; the devil was in the details.
We had arrived after a week in Rome as we’d do
ne every year. Sweaty, exhausted, lugging lots of dirty laundry, we expected to do what we’d done every other year: throw everything in the washing machine then hop into the pool. Instead the matronly owner of the property who lived in one of the adjacent houses informed us that her live-in Polynesian maid would gladly do our laundry on Monday at a reasonable rate. When we asked, her reasonable rate plus the added charge for folding boggled the mind. Thank you very much, but we’d do our laundry in town. Inconvenient, but doable, since we’d spotted a lavanderia on our way to the house. ‘As you wish,’ she said.
When my wife knocked at her door later that evening and asked for the WiFi code she was told that there was no internet. Besides, said the old lady, we were here to relax not to send emails back and forth. If we wanted DVDs, however, she’d be happy to let us borrow them at a reasonable rate. When my wife protested and said that the brochure had advertised free WiFi, the landlady explained that this was a mistake. ‘Besides, you are here to relax,’ she insisted.
We began to feel trapped in one of those horror movies where tourists are subjected to all manner of insidious agonies and tricks, driven out of their minds, and finally picked off one by one. We had already paid for the house and given a deposit. Our hands were tied. My wife’s advice, when she came back, was simply to enjoy an evening swim, have drinks on the veranda, and then have a pasta dinner with all manner of veggies and salad and gelato under the trees.
A Fork In The Road: Tales of Food, Pleasure and Discovery On The Road (Lonely Planet Travel Literature) Page 8