As a quick summary of last month’s story (Part I, “The Arrival”), we arrived in Calitri and visited the town of Taurasi days later. The outing featured
Trattoria Popolare di Nonna Ionna, Taurasi |
Salute Nonna |
restaurant’s namesake, Nonna Ionna, thinking she was some historic family figurehead, they took me to the kitchen and, to my surprise, produced Nonna. She was a diminutive lady with the bib of her apron up to her neck. She was on the order of Cinderella’s fairy godmother, who’d traded her wand for a just as magical spoon, eager to pamper you.
We had dinner
plans, but I was curious and asked to see a menu. That triggered a huddle as the three
conversed in animated Italian fashion.
For those my age, it was as though I’d struck upon the ‘secret word’ that
released the duck on the comedic Groucho Marx quiz show of yesteryear: “You Bet Your Life.” Coincidentally, we
were intentionally delaying our return long enough to arrive at our friend, Zio
Rocco’s Osteria, at a reasonable hour for dinner. We stopped at Nonna
Ionna for aperitifs, but it wasn’t long before we were tempted to stay
for cena (dinner). Only our plans for dinner with our friend in
Andretta stopped us, but it was tempting nonetheless. Besides, it was early afternoon, much too
early to linger while their menu firmed up.
Our stop at Nonna Ionna’s Trattoria fit nicely with that
Zio's Entry Sign |
Historic Photo of a Woman Sewing |
From what we know of the history of our
Calitri home, it once served as an osteria where you could expect a warm,
cheap meal that varied daily. If you can
find one today in the Italian countryside, a waiter might roll up to your table
and say, “Today we are serving pasta with clams.” With such a small ‘menu’ it could be verbally transmitted.
Besides, back then there was little paper,
and few could read or write. In years
past, our “osteria home” was a spirited place on a main artery to the castle streets
above. No more, for that passage is
closed today due to a 1980 earthquake. Yet
the past remains alive here, and I
suspect the spirits of many Calitrani still mill about, waiting for our door to
open. In Taurasi that afternoon, it was
nice to meet a family, especially someone who cooks with love and puts their
heart into it in addition to their face prominently hosted on the sign out
front.
Refreshed and underway once more, unbeknownst to us, we were off on another hunt. Our new hunt had nothing to do with the
The Spirits of the Borgo on a |
I Have Heard of Balancing a Broom Handle |
Days later, we returned to continue her ancestral hunt that relied on paper records of old as opposed to today’s technologies to include DNA. Although we crisscrossed the town thoroughly, we could never find the telltale church again. An observant bystander, seeing this, may have suspected we were, as they say, “casing the joint,” intent on some nefarious activity. Absent the yellow church, we did locate the Municipo (Town Hall). That wasn’t the hard part. In the dense-packed old town, parking was. Inside the town hall, we learned that records were kept somewhere else. Luckily, we didn’t need little Bianca (our Fiat) to get there. The office was across the street. They tend to keep the lights off to save electricity, and it looked closed as we approached. Thankfully, a tug on the door confirmed it wasn‘t, and we entered the Office of Vital
Eureka! In a Rare Photo of the Author, I Point |
Records. A city clerk, claiming to be very busy, asked that we return later. Heaven-sent, an English-speaking person who happened to be there, hearing us mull this over among ourselves, came to our rescue with words that, like magic, triggered the clerk to help us. Wow, if only I was as fluent, the Italian I speak not cheapened by my use of incorrect verb tenses. Our excitement at being served was short-lived, for when JoAnn mentioned the date we were interested in,1890, the clerk said their records went only as far back as 1896. For anything earlier, we needed to go to the regional capital, Avellino.
Instead of making
that trip, we gave it one more try and drove to nearby Sant’Angela all’Esca. This was where JoAnn believed her great-grandparents
had married in 1884. It was raining when
we arrived. That it was mid-afternoon,
during the hours of the traditional reposo, didn’t help either. This is the Italian afternoon break time, still
prevalent in many parts of Italy, when shops close, streets empty, and Italians
retreat indoors to escape the midday heat, have lunch, and why not, take a nap. We’d be lucky to find anyone out and about. A stop at a bar (they always seem open)
pointed us toward the Town Hall; The EU
and Italian flags were also strong hints.
It was dark inside. I was sure
the bureaucrats had long scattered, but JoAnn wanted to try the door. She didn’t get too wet, for surprisingly, the
door opened.
We explained our
search for ancestral information to the young clerk inside, who, like an
overwhelmed librarian, was flanked by desks festooned with folios, books, and
stacked ledgers as eager for his attention as we were. As opposed to our previous experience in Mirabella
Eclano, he never inferred how busy he may have been, but then, although I could
not read his thoughts, neither did he ever smile. Regrettably, as in our previous experience, we
learned that the information we were interested in was again somewhere else. At least it was in the same town. He did have a computer and upon entering a
few names of JoAnn’s relatives, confirmed that JoAnn’s great-grandmother,
Raffaela Iovanna, had been born there.
Thankfully, by law, baby Raffaela
had been presented to the mayor within days of her birth to be officially
recorded and recognized. Thanks to those
bits of cyber data surging about in his computer, the clerk also confirmed that
her great grandparents, Vincenzo Genzale and Raffaella Iovanna, had married in
Mirabella Eclano on 2 March 1884. Could that
have taken place in a yellow church? Promising
he’d check the other documents and email JoAnn what he found, we departed. Our hunt hadn’t bagged a trophy prize, but we
had something to show for it. Tutt’appost,
we’d made progress. Thankfully, JoAnn wasn’t
deterred by the downpour. Of course, days
earlier, as we sped away from the
rush and hurry of Mirabella Eclano, we knew none of this. Without dodging any additional brawny cinghiali
along the way, we looked forward to reaching Andretta, our next stop. There, we were keen on eating some pork, not
dodging it.
Since our arrival, we’d done our best to continue our customary Friday night Margarita ritual, though over the years, to be honest, the particular day of the week
Zio's Pork Pizza |
The last time Maria Elena and I visited Zio Rocco e
Gianmaria Ristortante and seen Zio Rocco
had been over ten months earlier. We
hadn’t chanced tipping him off by calling for a reservation and caught him
unaware, totally by surprise, seated by the door, looking down, petting his
dog. When he looked up, recognition
scrambled into eyes that had seen the world as he shouted, “Paolo!” With a reception like that, who needs a reservation? Rocco appeared reinvigorated. He’d forsaken his catalog of painful
complaints we’d heard last fall. But then, like a salmon, he always preferred
to go against the stream (read “I Am the Menu,” 31 Jul ’17 Blog).
Zio Rocco at the Helm |
rosticceria, a place specializing in roasted meat. Overall care and supervision are in Zio Rocco’s hands, who some may describe as cranky and gruff, the image of Walter Matthau in the movie Grumpy Old Men. Instead, I see him as a Vitruvian Man, a real person like few others in life who, while lacking ideal perfection, strives for it.
He
is not only the menu but also the atmosphere of the place.
It is definitely unique, though not for the hoity-toity expecting
five-star pampering. Other eateries, where
people sit in silence, poking at cellphones while avoiding eye contact, are
nowhere as intriguing. The mood, both stimulating
and fun, is guaranteed when Rocco is around to share stories from his lifetime
of adventures ranging from the American West (he loves the American Indian) to
the Middle East. Zio is definitely for
the people, comfortable with the underdog in situation after situation, some of
which, as he relates, include himself.
As I’ve written in
the past about this place, tucked away in Andretta, half the fun of eating
out is finding that special place where the food, the atmosphere, and the
company come together to form an exceptional memory. Zio
Rocco’s place, where you can enjoy local cuisine in a rustic setting inhabited
by friendly and welcoming local Italians whose lives are so different from
ours, earns high marks in all these categories.
There is no need to attempt to franchise this business model; it can’t
be duplicated. Instead, you feel as though you are at the house
of a friend or family member. The best
description might be ‘homey,’ where you feel comfortable in cozy surroundings. It may get loud at times as Rocco shouts an
instruction for service, joshes with someone, or plays his harmonica. For when you arrive, you are family, and with
a big family, things can get loud, especially as each strives for attention.
I imagine it as a remnant of the past, one I described earlier: a true enoteca, far removed from today’s avenues of human interaction, one that retains the boisterous, joyous noise of the family
Absent the Woman Sewing, Today This |
That September day
had been adventuresome—a visit to the Caggiano winery, a refreshing stop at Trattoria
Nonna Ionna, an initial inkling of a harried search for dusty ancestral archives to follow,
culminating in the homey comfort at Zio Rocco’s place, ostensibly surrounded by
brand-new friends—indeed not your typical day. But
Italy is full of surprises, as surprising as a beast darting across your path. You can’t imagine how this sort of uniqueness
beckons. Whether in a restaurant or passing
in the street, it is also a place of constant embracing and where mutual greetings of
buongiorno (good morning) and buonasera (good evening) are customarily
shared, something that I love as I do its people, its beauty, its food, its
history, and yes, even its faults.
You may have gathered that
Italy is more an emotion than a country to me.
I’m not hoarding Italy, but to the contrary, don’t put it off much
longer. In the years I have been to
Italy, years that have stolen the reality of what I once was, my hands on the
wheel have developed liver spots, yet I have not seen it all. Tutt’appost at
the moment, I can only imagine what’s next, just around the next corner.