Typically,
before any sort of athletic contest, it is customary to see
participants stretching and performing various calisthenics to loosen up. They know what’s ahead and limbering up this
way assures the flexibility and added agility needed for an uninjured winning performance. Getting into proper form, in advance of
heading to Italy, also has its requisite preparatory phase.
Recently,
we started to get ourselves into vacation shape
for a return visit to Italy at The Quill. Operated by the culinary school of the
University of Southern New Hampshire, The
Quill is a gourmet, fine-dining
restaurant where students manage every aspect of the operation - from meal
creation, to guest seating and serving.
Its very name evokes history, encompassing memories of the university
itself, first founded as a school of accounting. Throughout history, the quill has given life
to men’s thoughts. It has made it
possible to create and retain great pieces of literature, extending to
historical documents such as the Declaration of Independence, each
painstakingly hand-written using such a device.
The feathered pen was even used by colonial book keepers, their fingers
perpetually ink stained in testament to their digital toil. What other than this early form of the pen
could have served these early scribes as effectively? That day it would be a fork, not a quill,
that served us well in consuming the student creative masterpieces laid before
us. There at The Quill we enjoyed an exquisitely prepared Italian meal in
advance of our upcoming return to Italy, where equal jousts of fork and knife
across a porcelain field of play would unfold.
Something like stretching exercises indeed, although strictly limited in
our case to the jaw muscle and paunch!
Italy breathes history. It is
everywhere. It is evidenced by its
magnificent museums, historic churches big and small, themselves filled with
art treasures, and of course in the eroded remnants from the past - Pantheon and
Paestum to Pompeii. Its food, in
contrast, is an important element of present life. For me, Italy’s food and the places that
attend to it, serve as museum, shrine and historic edifice combined, testimony
to Italy’s lifeblood, past pumping through its veins to present. Our renewed initiation there at The Quill, was a real treat, thrilling
our palate in full dress rehearsal for whatever Italian gourmet
regionalism lay ahead.
For
starters, serving as a Primo
Piatto, we chose from a sort of antipasto station
buffet. The choices were both extensive,
and while not speaking for myself, filling.
Here we found Ribollita, a hearty Tuscan soup made with
bread and vegetables; Vitello Tonnato, a well-known Piedmontese dish
of cold, sliced veal covered with a creamy, mayonnaise-like sauce; warm Corn Frittata wedges; an Artichoke
& Rosemary Tart with a polenta crust; Arancini (a favorite of mine) baseball size rounds of rice filled with cheese, coated with breadcrumbs
and deep fried; Chick Peas & Couscous with Pesto; unforgettable Pickled Peach & Prosciutto Crustini; and an assortment of
salads including an Orange & Fennel Salad, a Faro Salad with tomatoes and almonds, and
a hard to forgot Panzanella, a Tuscan salad with chunks of soaked stale
bread and tomatoes, onions, basil, all dressed with olive oil and vinegar. Finally, for a cooling finish, there was Shaved Melon with Goat Cheese & Sherry
Vinaigrette. I’m sure I may have missed
something, but are you still
hungry? Training camp was in high gear
and clearly tough going. It was like
swinging those weighted bats before getting to the plate (no pun
intended)!
Once up at the plate, by then well
limbered, it was time for our Secundo.
It was a difficult decision, for once at
bat, looming over the plate, where you usually get three strikes at the ball as
it twists and curves by at high speed, we had but one swat at whatever plateful
we fancied in our strike zone, pitched at us by a student waitress backed by a
bull-pen of chefs. We could choose from
among the following entrees:
- Sautéed Chicken Scallopini with sage and prosciutto served with Marsala Sauce over Mushroom Risotto
- Angel Hair Pasta with an Umbrian basil, spinach, arugula and mixed nut Pesto
- Sautéed Monk Fish with White Wine and Buttered Polenta
- Gnocchi with a savory Tomato & Eggplant Ragu Sauce
- House-made Ricotta filled Ravioli sautéed with Rosemary Browned Butter
- Braised Wild Boar Ragu with Fresh hand-cut Papparadelle Pasta
- Crespelle Alla Fiorentina, a crepe with Crimini Mushrooms, smoked Chicken and sundried Tomatoes in a cream laced pan sauce
Tough though
the call was, I went for the Wild Boar and Maria Elena swung for the fences,
going for the Monk Fish. Delicious, simply
delicious! The dolce choices of
chocolate-amaretto ice cream sandwiched between chocolate almond cookies and a
traditional panna cotta served with a seasonal rhubarb compote and coffee, were
the walk-off home runs to this pre-season opener of ours. We’d won this game with margin and were now well
prepared to re-invigorate both girth and psyche in the Italian
big leagues. On a timeline
back to simplicity, always on the lookout for the authentic Italian experience,
we were soon packed and headed off once more to the village life we’ve
discovered in Calitri, our Italian address.
By now, elastic enough and seeking our delicious escape, we caught a hop to Germany. From there, by a now familiar bus ride
through the Brenner Pass, we arrived
in Vicenza, Italy. There we enjoyed two
nights seeing the sights in its historic downtown complete with flag throwing
performers (sbandieratore) dressed in medieval garb so reminiscent of festive Tuscany. Our visit complete, we went by train to Padova (Padua). The ticket lady was kind enough to ensure
we’d be on a train that wouldn’t go on strike the day of our trip! The word was intentionally out, for God
forbid it prove too disruptive to the system or overly inconvenient to
travelers like us. It was nice of her
when later, watching the massive train schedule board, “Cancelled” after
“Cancelled” replaced the track information as the system collapsed into some
sort of mild protest, commonplace in Italy.
I always wanted to ride one of Italy’s high speed trains. After only a short wait in Padova, we hopped aboard an Italo bullet train. We’ve messed up in the past, so this time we made sure we boarded the correct car and found our assigned seats, thus avoiding the need for a bag-drag through crowded aisles. The Italo whisked us first through Bologna, on to Florence then to Rome and our final destination, Naples, in a little over four hours. A mesmerizing speed of 250 km/hr made it possible. A bus ride from Naples and finally a jaunt by car through the countryside, thanks to friends, brought us to Calitri. Planes, trains, buses and car rides now behind us, we were finally home. Our long journey concluded, we turned in early that night gladly relinquishing the floor by flopping into a familiar bed. We needed a good night's sleep with rem cycles, some degree of rapid eye movement and a flock of sheep thrown in for good measure if we hoped to recover.
Calitri occupies a high plateau. Dimmed by distance, the dull-edged mountain ridges of the Apian Way, once ancient Rome’s superstrada, circle around us. On their slopes are still higher towns. One of these is Pescopagano. It is in Pesco where some friends of ours live. Joe, better known as “American Joe” to everybody in Pesco, is a retired ex-U.S. Navy Master Chief. His lovely wife, Anna Maria, is a native born daughter of Pescopagano and accounts for why Joe has retired there. Not long after our arrival, Joe called and asked us “up” for lunch. They have a beautiful multistory home, which they’ve worked hard to create, partially built into the stony side of an ancient castle mount. Along with our visiting friends, Jack and Dotty, we looked forward to our pranzo (lunch) together but had not expected the meal that awaited our arrival.
Our
luncheon began with tumbleweed looking coils of Barilla
pasta, this one a varietal we’d not tried before called Taglierini all’Uovo. Legend has it this narrow
pasta, even narrower than the flat ribbons of Tagliatelle from which it gets its name, was inspired by the hairstyle
of femme fatale Lucrezia Borgia and dedicated to her when a skilled court chef
first created it on the occasion of her marriage to Alfonso d'Este, Duke of Ferrara. Doubtful any other
pasta shape, delicate though rough and porous enough to absorb sauces and
enhance their flavors, can boast such a romantic origin.
Anna
Maria, with her kilowatt smile, who Joe lightheartedly
refers to as “the woman who must be obeyed”, had prepared what at first I
thought was a vegetarian topping for the Taglierini of
grated zucchini and carrot slivers in a creamy sauce. For meat lovers like
myself there were also tiny cubes of smoked pancetta to further inspire its
flavor. Sorry, I was so eager to try it that
I forgot to take a picture. Instead,
there high atop a mountain where once Roman legions trod, I settled in to thoroughly
enjoy the subtlety of its full measure. I
ate deliberately, savoring each forkful.
The hours soon slipped by in conversation interrupted only by the
arrival of further delights to include a platter edged with slices of
prosciutto surrounding specially selected cheeses. One was a burrata
cheese, something else we had never sampled before.
Burrata
is an Italian premium cheese
made from mozzarella and cream. When making burrata, the still-hot mozzarella cheese is formed into a pouch that
serves as an outer
shell. The inside is then filled with stretchy
strings of mozzarella and topped with fresh cream before being closed. It
had an unusual, soft buttery texture like no other cheese we’d ever tasted. Sitting there on the platter, with its top tied in a broche-like topknot, it had the
appearance of a drawstring purse. It
wasn’t long, however, before this purse’s prize had vanished. The burrata
was accompanied by an inverted basket mold of ricotta cheese (see photo
above). Here again this was not your run
of the mill ricotta, even by Italian standards.
No indeed, for this was a Pace Becce
ricotta, produced by two brothers in nearby Potenza, whose limited production
naturally rationed its distribution and thus its availability. Slathered on hunks of beard, fresh from the
local forno, it could be a meal in itself. Somehow still not enough, this platter of
special treats was accompanied by a trencher of assorted green and shriveled
black olives, hard cheeses, marinated artichoke hearts and checkers of cured soppressata salami. All this, along with a spell casting bottle of Casasole Orvieto Classico (DOC). You can appreciate why
we lingered at table for over four hours only to conclude with fruit no Adam
could refuse, "shots" of Italian coffee and soothing digestivi. Clearly not all refined
dining is confined to restaurants with multiply stars to categorize their
finery!
While
we have many pizzerias and an osteria or two in Calitri,
there are few true to form restaurants in the city proper. La Locanda dell’Arco is one such establishment located a short distance from
the borgo’s tunnel entrance, or from the opposite direction, only about one
hundred steps from our door. Classified
as a gourmet restaurant, it attracts customers from far and wide. With the saw-tooth profile of Mount
Vulture, a long extinct volcano filling the panoramic horizon as backdrop, the
Locanda offers another fine culinary experience. Its
kitchen quickly wins you over for here you'll discover the flavors of
traditional, no-nonsense, Calitrani
cooking ... homemade Cannazze (on the
order of ziti) and Cingul (like little ears) pasta, chops a la brace and sauce so delicate, you can only imagine the hours of
preparation involved. We had not been there for some time, so one Sunday
afternoon we decided to walk over for lunch.
La Locanda’s dining atmosphere is quiet
and romantic. There is nothing modernist
about it. It has all to do with its
dining room, once an ancient grotto hollowed into the tufa rock mountainside. Soft accent lighting and damask tablecloths add
an elegant flair. We were fortunate to
find a seat for it was close to being filled with many a table already taken by
large groups and extended families.
Thankfully, small tables were apparently in little demand that day for
we were quickly seated at a cozy and relaxing table for two by the maître d’,
whom we recognized from the local menswear shop. No fusion here, all is strictly, what else but,
Italian. We began conventionally with a
typical antipasto, this one a combination of local cold cuts and cheeses, along
with a half-liter of vino rosso. It wasn’t long and I was ready to try their
pasta offerings.
At first it was a toss-up between the local finger rolled
pasta known a Cingul, which I have
enjoyed many times before and the Ravioli,
filled with ewe’s milk ricotta. In the
end, however, I opted for something totally different. Its name alone, Sp’haett alla Pasciut, was intriguing. Relying solely on the message in its name, I
initially assumed it was simply spaghetti with some prosciutto added. I sometimes get into trouble guessing like
that! I soon learned the lineage of the
dish, taken as it was from the exclusive recipe of an old Calitrano restaurateur by the name of “Pasciut”. The sp’haett,
probably dialect, did turn out to be, as I’d guessed, spaghetti. That, however, was all that was familiar
about it. Old “Pasciut” had something
going here. Again it was the sauce, this
one with a hint of something that at first I couldn’t identify. It turned out, even as removed from the sea
as we were, to be anchovy. My guess had been
capers! Forget about those canned salty
anchovy cousins familiar and dreaded by most Americans. Here, if you could sense it at all, its
delicate flavor was just perfect. I
hated to see the last rolled up forkful disappear. Maria
Elena, to my dismay, her English-Irish pedigree likely the culprit, has never
been a big fan of pasta. Instead, she went
with a side dish of ualanegna
potatoes seasoned with chili and pepper.
Unlikely though it may be she'll order pasta, she doesn’t shy from the piccanti (spicy)!
Next, came the meat courses. Mare loves lamb. It was a no-brainer then that she chose the Agnello alla Aglianico, leg of lamb
roasted in extra virgin olive oil and local Aglianico red wine. She was presented with three, bone-in, chop-like
slabs of lamb in a dark gravy. You could
tell she thoroughly enjoyed it, all doubt removed when she announced it
actually tasted like lamb. At times she
has been served what I can only describe as a mystery meat claiming to be lamb
but altered or otherwise overly marinated, leaving scant proof from the
flavor. My choice for secundo was a variation of bresaola, here dubbed vraciola,
similar to what might commonly be referred to as meat roulades. Here they were particularly spirited due to the
excellent sauce that accompanied my serving in addition to the first-rate
quality of the meat itself. Following
this repast, we were more than pleased we’d had that table for two,
spur-of-the-moment thought to drop in at the
Locanda.
Yet
another typical example of food hospitality, “Italian
style”, occurred when we briefly stopped by at the home of some local Calitrani friends, winemaker Peppe and his wife, Vicenzina,
herself a kitchen diva extraordinaire and keeper of traditionally inspired cuisine. I had taken a picture, on a previous visit, maybe
a year earlier of one of her sewing projects.
It was a beautiful Battenberg lace piece, maybe a curtain, maybe a
tablecloth, I’m not really sure since it was still tucked under the needled foot
of her classic Singer sewing machine
at the time. The picture came out just
great. I thought she might enjoy a
copy. I’d met Peppe downtown earlier
that week and asked if we could stop by to present our 'small gift' in a few
days after we'd dropped Jack and Dotty off in Lacedonia (Lach-ah-doe-knee-uh), a neat sounding little town with a
popular bus stop. There had been a
mess–up because apparently Vicenzina thought we were coming for lunch! I shied from the thought; had I somehow
invited myself to lunch? The
misunderstanding, maybe mine, maybe Peppe’s, was soon resolved with a playful
swat at Peppe’s head, thankfully not mine!
They were mid-meal so we insisted on quickly leaving. I should have known better and not stopped by
during lunchtime. This was as quickly
rejected as Vicenzina insisted we sit and join them. I was game and surprised when Mare, who is more
hesitant than I in these matters, agreed. With little hesitation then, we joined the
table.
As
part of the soon to appear antipasto, Peppe served some
homemade salami, sheathed in an imperceptibly thin casing. What was interesting was that in the same salami,
to one side of the elbow turn, for it was quite long, the sausage was piccanti, while on the other end, it was
mild. With my limited understanding of Italian,
especially when a little dialect is thrown in stirring things up as it were
with a big spoon, it wasn’t clear if they were all made this way or that this
particular salami was the last of a batch where he’d just switched from one type
filling to another. It didn’t matter,
from either end, without additives, fillers or preservatives, it was just great
stuff! When the next serving arrived, it
triggered a memory from an earlier visit when Vicenzina had just finish making giant
rectangular shaped pizzas in her cantina wood-fired oven. They were so large they could barely make it
through the mouth of this gaping forno. She did this ahead of the al fresco breakfast
she would serve in the vineyard, the next day being the vendemia or grape harvest. Nothing
wrong in my book with pizza for prima
colazione (breakfast) out in the fields, especially after picking for an
hour or so. Who’d dare complain? It was her pizza sauce that I recalled most. So when she served up a bowl heaping full of cannazze,
family style, dowsed in her special sauce, it could have been ambrosia from
Mount Olympus! Pasta, even a few grams a
day, is enough to keep any true Italian going and with the right sauce, they’d
march until they dropped or at least strip a hillside of its grapes. Chunks of tender beef, apparently slow-cooked
in the sauce, along with a jug of wine from their cantina brought our meal to a
more than pleasing conclusion. This simple
act of sharing at mealtime, the unadulterated kindness and open friendliness, call
it hospitality to say the least, in my eyes is simply extraordinary.
Tasting our way through Italy,
well prepared as we were, we’d fallen on the food. It is sinfully easy to do where food is such a
part of the culture and so firmly linked to Italian traditions. The
hard part, especially in the company of fellow pleasure-loving diners, is knowing
when to push away from the table, thus acknowledging you’re done! The grandchild of an immigrant, what
better way to unearth my roots then through its food from the hands of its
people, some whom I've profiled here, probably the friendliest and most
generous in the world. The sumptuous food-rich fabric of Calitri can be as
close as one hundred footfalls away in the formal setting of the Locanda. From our terrazzo
it can be within sight across the valley through a morning’s cotton fog on up
to the lofty heights of Pescopagano and the home of an expatriate. It can just as easily reveal itself, a
cantina stop away, in the spontaneous form of a brief visit to the home of
local, down-to-earth Calitrani like
Peppe and Vicenzina. In the thrall of this
regional cuisine, be it in little Calitri or elsewhere, you soon come to
appreciate not only the food but also Italian
everyday life, ladled out one long
relaxing meal at a time. It is often said,
we
don’t remember days, we remember moments, moments like these.
From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo
For related photos, click here on Eyes Over
Italy. Then look for and click on a photo album entitled "One Hundred Steps"
