Tutt’Apost (Part II – The Hunt)

 Tutt’Appost (Part II – The Hunt)

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

a visit to the fabulous Cantina of Antonio Caggiano, and all was well (tutt’appost).  It was past lunchtime when we departed from Calitri.  The four of us, Mare, Leonardo, Giovanna (our house guests), and I, were fortunate for we managed to find a rather attractive restaurant named Trattoria Popolare di Nonna Ionna on Via Aldo Moro, not far from the cantina.  To our surprise, it was open in the early afternoon, which in small-town Italy, is not the norm.  Tired and thirsty, its red and white checkered tablecloths, that universal culinary Italian flag, were all the convincing it took for me to pull over. 

       We chose a booth on the outdoor terrace.  At the moment, we appeared to be their only customers.  This allowed the brothers who owned the restaurant time to chat with us.  When I asked about the

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

plan.  We wanted to ensure we passed beneath Zio’s restaurant sign bearing Da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man.” (inspired by Vitruvius, a Roman architect and engineer) at a respectable hour, at least 8:30 PM, when local Italians would arrive.  In a similar fashion, when we first met Zio Rocco years earlier, I’d asked for the menu, and without hesitation, he replied, “I am the menu” (see July 2017 Blog).  It was the case here as well.  Per the season, their local raw materials were adjusted daily.  We were already aware of this variability when Leonardo, our house guest, asked for Prosciutto e Melone (cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto) at various eateries.  No matter how often he asked, the reply was “out of season.”  Out of their huddle, the Nonna Ionna team, now agreed on what would be offered, verbally outlined their lineup for the evening, ideas all as fresh as their ingredients.  While this was a trattoria, to me, the

Historic Photo of a Woman Sewing
Before Our Door Many Decades Ago

absence of a printed menu is reminiscent of an osteria. 

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
Wall by Our Mailbox

cinghiale (wild boar) we’d nearly had a run-in with on our way to Taurasi (read Part I, ‘The Arrival’).  The route of this hunt took us north along a winding secondary road toward the A16 Autostrada.  Just short of this highway, we happened to pass through the town of Mirabella Eclano.  With a population of 7500, it was far more developed than Calitri.  Mirabella Eclano is primarily known for its renowned, though tricky, cultural and religious ritual where a gigantic obelisk, stabilized by ropes to keep the towering structure balanced, is pulled through town.  It being the season of the “pull,” we came upon the towering structure and cautiously drove by.  About then, as we passed through the center of town, Giovanna (JoAnn), riding in the back seat with Maria Elena, noticed a yellow-painted church.  The church triggered a memory of her grandmother, Carmela, who she related came from this town.  We were moving in traffic when she revealed this fact about her grandmother, who, she then said, lived across the street from this yellow church.  I never noticed this benchmark church nor caught a glimpse of what was across the street.  We continued to Andretta,

I Have Heard of Balancing a Broom Handle 
on Your Hand, But This?

agreed that we would come back on a later date to explore her ancestry in more detail.

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
Out the Mirabella Eclano Town Hall 

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

had morphed and wasn’t important.  However, in Calitri, this proved challenging any day of the week.  For starters, we could not find limes, which, like celery, are apparently not popular in our neck of the Italian woods.  Triple Sec, another common ingredient, was another rarity.  To our rescue, we reverted to simple syrup, but our version of the sweetener fell short of what we sought.  We grew to really appreciate the Margaritas we could easily brew in the States.  And to my point, what we could never replicate back home was how delicious everything we ate tasted in Italy.  It could be as simple as a morning fried egg whose yoke glowed like the rising sun.  It could also be a pizza with porchetta (pork), something not found on the array of pages in American fast-food pizzerias.  It’s worth repeating, a pork pizza, not a sausage pizza, but one generously sprinkled with chunks of pork when pulled from the oven, then topped with the crisp coolness of lattuga, similar to Boston lettuce.  Here was something I’d drive a ways for, which explains our rendezvous that evening with Zio Rocco Miele.

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).

A local and down-to-earth place, his son, Gianluca, serves as a cameriere (waiter, a word I’ve definitely learned) while Gianmaria, Rocco’s wife, rules the kitchen of their combination pizzeria and

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 
is the Side Door to a Rumored
Once-Upon-a-Time Enoteca 

atmosphere I imagine existed only a few feet from where I am presently sitting.  In addition to the uniqueness of the food, we wanted our guests, JoAnn and Lenny, to experience what I’d describe as its refreshing difference, where patrons, total strangers in fact, whether entering or leaving, greet you as though they were familiar friends.  As it has with these people, it can become habit-forming, and I like that.

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.

 

From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo