See You in the Piazza

by Frances Mayes

  * * *

  LIKE MOST ITALIAN towns, Ruvo has a well-stocked tourist office with a helpful staff. We ask a raven-haired young woman, whose ancestors must have been settlers of Magna Grecia, about the black-robed effigies hanging around town. “Quarantane! Vedove [widows]. They hang for forty days. Inside their robes they hold an orange stuck with six black feathers and one white, one for each week of Lent and then the white for Easter. For the end of Lent, they explode on Easter morning.”

  This sounds so deeply pagan that it makes me dizzy. “Why old women?” I ask.

  “Widows—they are mourners, yes? As widows of carnival, they symbolize Lent.”

  “Why the orange and the fish and the spindle—what do those mean?”

  “The orange signifies the end of winter. The herring is about the lack of meat during the deprivation of Lent. The spindle is the woman’s work.” She tells us about numerous celebrations around Easter. When we go out into the streets again, I notice signs on churches announcing schedules of processions. One church, San Francesco, has a portal surrounded with skeletons. Photos show all the old wooden figures that will be carried through the streets. I start imagining the Easter pranzo that will take place in every house. These narrow streets of stone houses will throw the windows open, all the scents of roasting lamb and potatoes, steaming chicory and fennel drifting through the air. Which leads us to lunch.

  * * *

  WE STOP IN at the very casual Sesto Senso, the first place that looks good. We meet Giacomo, the owner, who brings over wine even though we say we want only water. Then two platters of grilled vegetables arrive. His wife and two boys, nine and fifteen, come in with their Jack Russell, who immediately tries to jump in my lap. The younger boy chases him about while the older boy stares hypnotically at his phone. Giacomo is bringing out various courses for them and seems disconsolate when we tell him the vegetables and great bread are all we can manage. We’re the only guests. Americans, they marvel. As Ed savors an espresso, I look up the Quarantane tradition. Towns that honor this ritual hang up seven widows. Some disapprove because, as I guessed, the deep tradition is pagan, going back to agricultural and Dionysian fertility rites. In Ruvo, one quarantana was stolen this year. The writer speculated that the thief might have been a priest.

  * * *

  PUGLIAN ROMANESQUE! ALL through this region we’ll be visiting these great cathedrals of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. I want to see each rose window of carved stone, not stained glass, as in French cathedrals. Romanesque, my favorite church architecture, with a Puglian twist—the local mix of Arab, Byzantine, French, Spanish, Venetian, Norman architectural influences. Ruvo di Puglia’s church may have less grandeur than Trani’s but its proportions are pitch perfect for the intimate square where it’s situated, with radiating streets of low stone homes. The cattedrale, spare in ornament, focuses on its rose window with the roofline angled sharply down on either side. The carved-stone ornamentation looks like cut-out pastry designs pressed into a piecrust. Mythical animals always astound me on medieval churches. Some of Ruvo’s are eroded, like sand castles when a wave washes over. Beneath the church, as is so often the case, lie remains of an earlier religious site and below that, another. Puglia: layers on layers. Mosaics, tombs, paths—it always has been thus. One religion gives way to another, the truer one, until the next truer one comes along.

  Ruvo we like. Idyllic village. Eat from the clean street! Natives nod at strangers. The Jattas still haunt. Probably there’s more to be discovered in groves and byways. The grilled vegetables, perfect lunch. The hanging widows, I don’t know. Exploding on Easter. A bit creepy. “Fetishistic,” Ed says.

  “Are you sure that’s a word?”

  “Haunted. That orange with seven feathers piercing the rind.”

  A white, shimmering mirage. As we drive from Ruvo, approaching Ostuni, I see sugar cubes, stacked willy-nilly up and down hillsides. “This looks like Greece. Santorini. Or those pared-down towns in the Mani.”

  “Not even remotely the Italy we know. It’s not called ‘the white city’ for nothing.” Ed navigates through an industrial area and starts up into town.

  We’ve reserved at La Sommità Relais, and as we come closer we understand why the hotel asked us to call when we arrive. We meet their driver below the ramparts and pull into a parking lot that looks rather dicey. Ed says what I’m thinking: “Is our car going to be stripped to the wheels if we leave it?” The driver’s spotless Mercedes turns into the gate and the hip (shaved-head, all black clothes) driver assures us that our darling Alfa will be fine. We wind up, up, yes, to the summit. A Relais & Châteaux, always a good sign. The staff is cool, too, like the driver, and we’re given a tour of this multilevel hotel seemingly carved out of rock. Small spa, Michelin-starred restaurant, two living rooms with uber-chic furniture, and finally to our huge minimalist room overlooking, at some distance, the sea.

  Ed installs himself on the white sofa, his devices and cords arrayed about him. I prop up on pillows to read Old Puglia. It’s late in the day; we lingered long in Ruvo. Too late to venture out. Too early to contemplate dinner. Perfect time for a long shower with luxurious bath products. A shift into a dream state, then the chance to dress in whichever silk blouse is not too wrinkled at the bottom of my suitcase, and gold slippers with straps instead of sturdy walking shoes. Gold slippers are one of my packing secrets. Signaling glamour, they magically transform casual into dressy.

  Ed shakes out the folds from his gray sport coat and off we go to the anteroom of the restaurant, where we sink into a cushy sofa by the fire. We would put our feet on the coffee table if we weren’t in a superbly curated and sophisticated hotel. The waiter brings out a still life on a board: tiny mozzarella balls, crunchy taralli, olives, and an array of local salume. Though we’ve ordered only a glass of Pastini, he leaves the whole bottle. (We do make a dent in it.) The golden prosecco is light and peppery.

  On the way into the dining room, we pass Cielo’s kitchen. Spotlessly clean, the open plan whets the appetite, though I have eaten too many taralli, those boiled then baked little twists of dough seasoned with fennel or peppers. All seems serene in Chef Andrea Cannalire’s work space. He comes out and greets us warmly. He’s intense and friendly, a young chef who has made a special place in his home territory. Many talented young Italians go off and study in the kitchens of those we kneel before, then come back to their roots because they want to be home.

  The rest of the prosecco has followed us to the table. We are looking forward to a long evening.

  In Cielo’s poetic dining room, all pale stone and glass overlooking a grove of orange trees, we peruse the menu and, after a dazzling array of amuses-bouches, I select lobster with slivers of radishes and Ed chooses a crusted fish. The waiter helps us find a Puglian wine—Masseria Li Veli, 2010—made of negroamaro (black bitter) and cabernet sauvignon grapes. Doesn’t take much to make us happy. The wine is gorgeous. The night is gorgeous. Andrea is having fun in the kitchen and we are, too.

  * * *

  WE FLOAT BACK up to our room, where the bed rests on a raised platform and I hope I don’t stumble off in the middle of the night and break an ankle. It’s too far away to hear the sea, but Ed opens the window to feel the bracing air. We fall into profound sleeps. I, to dream of my daughter riding her horse across the Andalusian countryside. Ed dreams of trying to revive his dead brother.

  * * *

  ALL DAY WE wander the up-and-down streets—so windy in March. Ostuni, a fortified town, still rests on the steep ramparts that must have been tough to scale. Narrow lanes are lined with whitewashed houses. White was used to prevent plague. Many doors are painted bright aqua or blue. I photograph distinctive knockers, imagining proprietors of these look-alike houses giving directions: Mine is the one with the oak leaf knocker. The maze of tiny streets that end abruptly or zigzag up lure us to turn and turn, glimpsing balconies hung with wash, and inviting angles
with brief glimpses of the sea. Over some streets, buttresses arch from one house to the neighbor’s across the way because some facing façades have collapsed in a heap, leaving rooms as exposed as open dollhouses. Like dice stacked every which way, the homes present a surreal aspect: Many of these plain structures have elaborate Baroque door surrounds. You think you’re seeing a palazzo but then you recognize a plain little house behind the flourishes.

  At lunchtime, we discover the place we’d frequent every week if we lived here: Osteria Piazzetta Cattedrale. This is the prototype for my favorite kind of restaurant. Intimate, elegant but also homey, mirrors, tureens, hanging plates, and round tables full of local people. Oh, the tortelli di agnello con carciofi (pasta with lamb and artichokes), divine focaccia baked in a muffin tin with sun-dried tomatoes, little baskets formed of Parmigiano with crispy bacon and pesto tucked inside. So good, the fried balls of cod, potato, and lemon, then orecchiette with broccoli rabe, anchovies, and toasted bread crumbs. Madonna! All celebrated with a house primitivo. You might say we go overboard. We usually don’t but today we fall into it. Walking all afternoon helps.

  Cars scurry around the lower Piazza della Libertà but do not venture up into the older town. The town hub, this lopsided piazza stays busy with local shoppers and lingerers out for visiting. We’re all presided over by a looming statue of Sant’Oranzo. Just a few yards up, we’re in secretive alleyways, finding an architecture that valued privacy. It’s hard to imagine that ordinary life—homework, laundry, TV—takes place behind the closed, blank-faced houses. Inside, it seems, the woman of the house lounges like an odalisque on a daybed covered in Matisse-colored cloth, the man strums a guitar and smokes a bitter cigarette. All the furnishings are pillows and low tables, and in the kitchen only bowls of lemons and pomegranates.

  No tray of cat litter, no stopped drains. But reality intrudes. There’s a brown dog staring us down from a balcony, there’s a hand on the lace curtain, an ancient man turning an ancient key into his home.

  * * *

  ON THE SECOND day in a place, more details come into focus. I begin to notice all the lettering carved over windows and around doors. Ed’s high school Latin isn’t up to translating but in a souvenir shop I find a city guidebook that helps. Incised on Palazzo Petrarolo: The just will prosper like a lily—unmoving stones among waves. Bit of metaphor mixing there. On Palazzo Siccoda: The spending has not to exceed the owned wealth. And: It is necessary to get wealth with work. What a sanctimonious little directive. On the house I would like to live in, at number 26 near the cathedral, the message is also a bit dreary. Everything in due time is carved over one window, and over the other: The moderate things continue. On via Bixio Continelli, one of my favorite streets, a portal remains at number 2, all that’s left of what once was a house where the arts were celebrated. Here we read: Amuse ne Ingreditor, which my guidebook translates as He must not come in, the one who does not know music. Down the street across from number 10, Who says bad words will listen to bad words. On vico Pasquale Villari, this inscription was carved over the window of number 11: Who has fear of God never will meet the devil.

  “These homilies make me wonder,” Ed says, “what kind of people they were. A kind of uptight motif runs through these, even the artist’s. Not a welcome to those who love the arts but a warning to keep out if you don’t.”

  “I’ve never mentioned it but I would like a Latin phrase at our house. I’ve had it picked out for a long time.”

  “I hope it’s not like these. And not like the fortune cookie that said ‘Work hard’.”

  “Not at all. It’s from Virgil, The Aeneid.” I look at my notes to get it right. “Flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo. If I cannot move heaven, I will raise hell.”

  “It’s not what I associate with you—Miss carpe diem. Pretty macho for a southern belle.”

  * * *

  TONIGHT WE CHOOSE the less formal bistro room at our hotel. The menu is casual. Is Ostuni all about eating? Small focaccia squares, rough grainy slices, and warm puffy rolls—we try them all. “What was the best thing you saw today?” I ask Ed.

  “That would have to be the twenty-five-hundred-year-old woman.” This local find, a major display in the museum, is a reclining skeleton with the barely discernable little ribs of an unborn child tucked inside her. “But,” he continues, “there was that shop where the guy and his son—I have his card, Giancarlo and Piero Maglionico—make taralli—all good. Those from various grains are stupendous.” We bought several packets to take home, along with some local honey.

  “Imagine. Twenty-five hundred years she’s lain there with her unborn child.”

  “Sometimes even the dim past is overwhelming. Taralli, never.” Ed selects a Kebir Torrevento, 2007, which causes us to put aside the aperitivi. Then come freselle, round crunchy rusks with a hole in the middle. These are a popular snack or antipasto all over Puglia and they couldn’t be simpler—just rub the fresella with a cut side of tomato, top with a few chopped tomatoes, add salt. After this rush of breads, we’re content with grilled fish and buona notte.

  * * *

  WE ARE GOING south today, all the way down to Lecce. But before we leave, we take a last look at the cathedral. Its beauty is compromised by a building that juts out into the piazza, partially blocking a full view. Nevertheless, this one is right up there with the other beauties along this coast. A large central rose window is flanked by two smaller ones, each centered over a portal. Christ is at the center, holding up the world. A comfort to imagine. Slender columns and circles radiate out from Him.

  We make a last taralli stop. The father-and-son duo gives us tastes of several flavors and we choose bags of potato, rosemary, tomato, mixed grains, and grano arso. The latter, the father tells us, “comes straight out of cucina povera. After wheat harvest, when the remaining stubble was burned by the landowners, the farmers gathered the charred grains. That’s back-breaking labor, picking up tiny grains from a scorched field.” And probably carcinogenic, I think. Now selected grains are toasted and prized. In Puglia, the flour from these grains is often mixed with regular hard wheat flour in the making of the region’s breads and the favorite pasta: orecchiette, the little ears.

  * * *

  WE WIND SLOWLY down from the hills of Ostuni, turning south toward Otranto and Lecce. I turn on the radio and rip open a bag of taralli. Adele is belting out “Set Fire to the Rain.” On we go.

  NOTE:

  Old Puglia: A Cultural Companion to South-Eastern Italy by Desmond Seward and Susan Mountgarret.

  Spaghettino Freddo con Ostriche Crude

  COLD THIN SPAGHETTI WITH RAW OYSTERS, SERVES 4

  Similar to medieval garum, colatura di alici, an Italian fermented anchovy sauce, salty and full of umami flavor, adds an ancient-as-the-sea flavor. Colatura means “leakage,” referring to the method of allowing the juice of fermented anchovies to leak through holes in the bottom of the barrel. It’s easily available online. A couple of anchovy fillets can be substituted but the flavor will not be as pronounced. Chef Andrea Cannalire serves this as an elegant and unusual primo, first course. For the pasta, he recommends the Puglian maker Benedetto Cavalieri.

  ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil

  ⅓ cup hazelnut oil or roasted walnut oil

  1 tablespoon lemon juice

  4 teaspoons colatura

  2 tablespoons chopped chives

  1 shallot, minced

  1 pound thin spaghetti

  Salt and pepper, QB

  12 oysters, freshly shucked

  In a food processor, emulsify the olive oil, hazelnut oil, lemon juice, colatura, 1 tablespoon of the chives, and all of the shallots.

  In a pasta pot of boiling, salted water, cook the spaghetti for about 10 minutes, until al dente; drain. Cool the spaghetti in ice water and again
drain well. Mix the pasta in a large bowl with the emulsified blend. Divide among four plates. Top with the oysters and the remaining chives.

  Ristorante Cielo at La Sommità Relais, Ostuni, Puglia

  Spur and heel of the boot, Puglia forms a long peninsula into the Adriatic and Ionian Seas. Therefore, there are beaches. Dreamy Adriatic beaches with cliffs and coves and caves, and then those along the southern Salento area on the Ionian Sea with grainy golden sand like polenta. Italians, sun-worshippers, flock to them, and now with cheap flights into Brindisi, English and Europeans also have discovered this captivating region. Since it’s March, we’re not here for fun in the sun, though the mild, full spring of the south is perfect for walking on empty beaches.

  Leaving Ostuni, we’re moving down into the heel. Today we will reach Lecce! Wildly Baroque fantasy land. Treasure of the south.

  * * *

  WE DETOUR ONLY once. In Puglia, we want to take every turnoff! Near the Brindisi airport we stop at a special church, Santa Maria del Casale, which I read about in an Italian travel magazine years ago. I’m translating slips from the article I tore out: Built around 1300 by Philip of Anjou. Knights Templar held court here. Frescoes from Byzantine era. Little prepares me for the beauty of this church, stuck incongruously near military grounds and airport parking. Pale apricot marble in geometric patterns cover the small Romanesque-into-Gothic façade. Inside the single-nave church, frescoes, faded sepia, blood, ocher, and blues, are also framed by bold geometric designs. Above the altar, the paintings stack into four rows, with separations between scenes, like panels in a comic book. Such quiet. Not even the roar of a plane taking off for London. There’s Santa Caterina holding the torture wheel of her martyrdom. Christ crucified against a tree of life. Faces, all with haunting Byzantine eyes. In the cloister, a single fruit tree has burst into blossom, along each black branch an explosion of white flowers. This was a lucky stop we almost didn’t bother to take. My Blue Guide to Southern Italy doesn’t mention it. What else are we missing?