Exhausted, nauseated, and suffering from a sudden case of cat shat fever our group of weary birthday revelers had made it to and from Lecce, eaten like queens, and now roamed the industrial back-streets of Monopoli in a scorching summer sun in order to return home to prepare for one of Puglia's, if not Italy's, greatest dinners (and values) at the gem of Triggianello: Bracceria da Matteo.Puglia is home to a great dining institution called Il Fornello, which is basically a butcher shop where you select your cuts of meat and they actually grill your selection for you while you wait or more commonly these days, you actually sit and enjoy the meat at some very spartan tables along with some simple sides and very pedestrian local wines. The Bracceria da Matteo in the bustling hamlet of Triggianello (population approx.200) takes the fornello concept to new heights and I will offer a detailed full review of the experience in a future blog as we will never make it to the disco breakdown if I start going on and on about one of my favorite dining experiences on the planet.
After some quality time in the shower while the office cat relaxed in the bidet, I was getting closer to ready for dinner. We all climbed in the trusty van and zoomed along the ridge-line towards Conversano from Monopoli which is a stunning drive featuring rolling elevation changes, ancient olive trees, nearly abandoned dwellings that appear to have simply emerged from the limestone, and sweeping vistas that indicate just how special the rustic beauty of this landscape can be if you simply go 10 minutes from the city centers. We arrived in Triggianello and as usual we were greeted by small groups of locals sitting in front of pale yellow and orange 19th century homes relaxing in lawn chairs and gossiping incessantly staring at our van and group of travelers like we were Cortes landing for the first time on the shores of the Yucatan. Within a few seconds we rounded one last blind corner and before our wandering eyes did appear, the bright lights of Da Matteo and their kegs of artisan beer. Triggianello basically has one square and old Matteo (an awesome Italian dude with an equally cool family) owns the Pizzeria and the Bracceria both bearing the da Matteo moniker. We parked the van (in front of someone's house I am sure) and walked slowly, being drawn by the glow of the outdoor facing jewelry case of meat as if it was the Eye of Sauron. We all knew this birthday party was about to get right in a hurry.
Dinner was simply gorgeous and although I ate much less than my normal intake at Da Matteo due to lingering Lecce fatigue, I still did my best to recharge for the coming disco experience with a couple of pints of great beer (Italy has really jumped on the craft brew bandwagon and you know when it comes to food or wine, the Italians never take it lightly and they are crafting some killer stuff) some unbelievable carpaccio, and the best grilled meats this side of Brazil.
Now, the disco in Puglia is not your father's club scene. This is Italy first and foremost, and we actually were living in a small villa at the epicenter of the summer disco onslaught; the beach town of Capitolo. Say this name to any Italian aged 19-31 and they immediately begin to groove in time with the music in their immediate memories, they will begin to drift in and out through the recollections of 3am make-out sessions on the beach, and will only snap back to reality with a vocal or physical jab! Most folks out there have heard of the decadence in Rimini further north on the Adriatic, but Capitolo is no slouch with clubs alternating with pay beaches along 7km of coastline and cranking up the local decibel and traffic levels on par with an evacuation from Beirut. Our offices are in Monopoli and we were living in a villa in Capitolo and knew if we did not want to face traffic for upwards of 1-2 hours to drive 7km we had to be home from town by 9pm on Thursday-Saturday nights this summer. Not only do the clubs get packed with revelers during this season, but as is often the case in Italy during times of celebration or youthful exuberance the kids head for the streets on scooters, cars, heavy machinery, bikes, little red wagons, and of course loud, fast, motorcycles. The motorcycle is the ultimate form of show in Italy as the opportunity to see and be seen at great speeds and with great pomp is unmatched. If you want to be king of the beach, roll into town in your box cut swimwear, shirtless with an unbelievable bronze tan (must be seen to be appreciated) on the back of your Ducati or Moto Guzzi with your helmet securely fastened to the back of the bike to show your appreciation for safety, and ride very slowly stopping to shout at a fellow bronze statue with sculpted abs that only Michelangelo could recreate or a muffin-topped ragazza with breast sizes admired and emulated by the world's best surgeons. You can then make a few short gestures before accelerating and narrowly, but deftly avoiding a family of 5 as you jet back to work at the Bar 20 minutes late from your oh too short 3 hour lunch in order to make coffee for the old people who have come in from the beach bejeweled, sweaty, and in need of caffeine. Once the Beach King finishes the next few hours of "dedicated" labor he rides home at breakneck pace in order to eat something very likely spectacular that Mamma has prepared and then it is off to the quiet solitude of the bathroom for the next hour to hour and a half to make the transformation from king of the beach to king of the club.
The Italian male is indeed king of the disco and in many ways I love this. In America, dancing is widely considered to be a feminine act and only in the presence of females are males perceived to have permission to dance. In essence, if you are a guy in America and hit the floor with other guys or without the required number of females present you could very likely be considered gay or perhaps a tool. Many closet dancers in America know the great secret that gay clubs are a safe haven to be free to express oneself on the dance floor without the scorn of friends or vacuous women. The Italian disco kings do not possess our American hangups and dancing is widely considered to be celebratory and one of the principal reasons to attend a disco in the first place. Italian men are constantly seen dancing alone, with groups of friends, and also of course with women. However, you rarely see an Italian wallflower just standing in the corner making no effort to be cool while actually making every effort to be cool with only clothing, small gestures, and furtive glances. The American disco king is a total punk, while the Italian disco king is very likely a dancing fool and this was precisely the reason we all wanted to celebrate this important birthday on a beach in Italy with the kings of groove without any fear that our desire to shake it would be misunderstood.
After Da Matteo our Italian friends, Puglia Boy and Chef Girl, called it a night and even though we urged them to join our American beach-bound birthday bash the Italiani simply were not having it and I believe they just wanted a quiet evening alone. As we sat on our porch enjoying a bottle of wine (or several) we could hear the discos in the background revving up into the foreground and we were getting noticeably excited . Puglia Boy explained that we need simply drive down the road and choose which club looked interesting. We all jumped in the Audi with the orange glow of the low fuel light glaring in my face. I took the driver's seat and as always questioned why Puglia Boy made a habit out of keeping the car so near to empty. On many occasions I have jumped in the car on my way to a time sensitive meeting or errand and the distance to empty meter on the trip computer indicated I had less than Zero km till empty. Now, I have also seen my buddy drive the car across town and back on 0km more than a few times so I knew this indicator to be more Russian roulette-like than a forgone conclusion the car would cease to operate prior to making a fuel stop. I also been in the car numerous times and in fact just a few weeks later again when Puglia Boy pulls into a fuel stop with the car on "E" and I see him simply add 5, 10, or 20 Euro of fuel to the tank. This is baffling to me. 10 euro of fuel is about 1.5-2 gallons which means that the whole 0km till empty dance will begin again in just a day or two. Now, as I am apt to do, I begin to adopt the same habits of those I am around and as I glanced at the glowing orange 0km till empty I knew somehow that if I went for fuel now rather than proceeding directly to the disco I would be killing our very adventurous buzz. In truth, I was actually pretty damned tired at this point (now well after midnight) and I knew if I stopped for fuel I might simply call it a night and I had 3 very excited passengers ready to get their disco birthday groove on, and I could not let them down. In fact, I wanted to just chill on the porch with PB and CG this night and relax to myself, but duty called and I could not let this birthday party come to an end without making every effort to lead our intrepid revelers once more unto the breech. So, on vapors both physically and mentally I drove us forward along the beach road, windows down, wine buzzes at their peaks, and everyone looking gorgeous.
Of course, the discos are all hidden by the treeline and only small nondescript signs indicate whether a club or a pay beach lay on the other side of the trees. As we made one pass along the beach road almost to the next town of Savelletri we knew we had seen all the choices and had to turn the car around and head back this time preparing to select. Keep in mind the orange indicator light was now glowing brighter in my mind's eye and I was actually concerned the next chamber held the big "E" bullet. As we were making our way back we saw the dimly lit parking lot on the left and folks making their way into the grove of trees across the road on our right. We knew we had found a place. I pulled into the parking lot and was waved along by a buff flag-man who was somehow smoking a cigarette, waving a flag, and talking on his cell phone all while wearing a little orange vest and no shirt. We pulled into a spot that was about 15% smaller than a space in Texas that would be labeled Compact Car Only and we proceeded across the street to the club.
Doormen must have a particular genetic code that makes them doormen, because at any club worldwide the doorman, bouncer, ID guy, or fashion assessor has the same look, same stare, and same response. If you are a guy, solo, and without proper cash or cache you are likely denied, but with 2 beautiful girls, the chains are lifted and the entrance fees are forgotten (at least so we thought). Now, I had heard for years about the price gouging for drinks at clubs in Italy and most of Europe and the myths proved to be reality. In my experience with Italy, the Italian is not often a big drinker of alcohol as inebriation can lead to making an ass of oneself which is a high crime in the appearance is everything world of southern Italy, so it is not uncommon to see Italians have Coke, Fanta, OJ, or some other sugar-laden concoction deep into the night. The beach disco has taken all of this into careful consideration and charges no less than 8 euro for a non-alcoholic drink and 10 euro for any sort of call drink. Now, call me crazy, but if I can get a drink with a premium liquor like real Cuban Havana Club rum for 10 euro or a Coke for 8, I am drinking the booze on principle alone. Of course, this was a birthday bash and we needed bubbles so Lobster-Head (still pink but numb from wine) ordered a bottle of prosecco from the barman. This bottle would have been about 9 euro in the store, but was a cool 50 spot at the disco.
This particular club was a series of ground level decking laid out like sidewalks through the sand with little seating areas covered in white sheer fabrics along the sides and nestled into the small dunes. Basically, it was impossible to avoid getting sand on you and in your shoes so we just accepted it and rocked on in our flip-flaps as the Italiani call them. There were little thatched seating areas all about with semi-damp cushions and sheer fabrics blowing in the breeze and waving in time to the thump thump of the euro-dance in the foreground. I was well into my troppo caro prosecco when the next idiosyncrasy of the Italian disco dawned on me. I looked up at the stage and noticed the DJ was surrounded by preening dudes. I did a double-take and noticed that unlike a club in America where the stage and the DJ would be surrounded by scantily-clad and very attractive women, the Italian beach disco was laden with guys each vying for their turn to dance at the front of the stage. I carefully looked about to make certain we were not at a gay club and in a moments' notice I was sure this was a well mixed crowd and it became apparent that the stage rush was just another classic Italian mating ritual. There were more gel-haired peacocks on that stage than grains of sand in my shoes, clothes, and ass (I made the mistake of sitting for a minute). Then I noticed that there was a guy with a microphone and he was "assisting" the DJ by riling up the crowd with pleas and dance maneuvers designed to keep the crowd in time, but he was really just being a total tool and listening to himself ramble. It was at this moment that for some reason (couldn't have been alcohol, exhaustion, or too much responsibility) I decided I wanted to leave and got into a bit of a tiff with my wife. Birthday girl and lobster-boy were in their own planet and I took a walk to the front and sat again on a muggy seat-cushion and ogled a few sparsely clothed girls who were a color of bronze not seen since the discovery of Pompeii. Holy shit where was I? Of course, within minutes I was lonely, vexed, and in need of a Mojito so I found my crew ordered the next round of 10 euro drinks and realized at this point I had dropped about 80 euro on booze, which more than curbed any joy I received in the free entry.
This was the point that I learned that entry to the club was free, but the exit was not. When I spent my 80th euro I was given a small token that satisfied the drink minimum for myself and my wife. This was an all important token because basically if you do not present it at the door on your way out, you either pay 40 euro per person or are summarily pummeled into the ground by the doormen, the parking attendants, the bartenders, and the passing barboni. Needless to say I kept my token close to my heart while attempting to upstage the peacocks with some vintage '89 dance moves that were all the rage for the Bizarre Love Triangle crowd. You better believe my 1.97 meter 105 kilo frame was stirring up some fucking sand on this night. The space around our dancing crew looked like the entrance of the classic Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil and I liked it this way. The 4 birthday revelers were owning the beach disco (at least in our heads) and no one was going to stop us; except the music was getting bad, the air was getting cool, and the day had just been too long. We collected ourselves, our tokens, a couple of yards of sand and headed for the exit.
As we strolled happily towards the car with our tokens wagging and our hearts beating at 140bpm we knew we had conquered the day and that this was indeed a birthday to remember. Birthday girl gazed up at the sky on our walk back to the car and uttered eloquently and slurring as only a drunk pretty girl can "look at the moon." I knew we had accomplished this mission in Puglia and it was time to roll home. As soon as the Audi cranked I felt the glow of the low fuel light and the range was now on ZERO KM. Once again, I had seen Puglia Boy on many occasions milk that ZERO for 10-15km so I assumed I was good to go as it was only 7-10km back to the Bday and Lobster's hotel. I would drop off no-longer Bday girl and still very lobster-head boy then cruise into the self-service station a few blocks away for 10 euro worth of diesel and leave the car for Puglia boy at empty in the AM. The drive back was so quiet with the sunroof open and windows down (we had very likely 30% temporary hearing loss from the disco). Everyone noticed the gas light, but my completely iced demeanor kept the team's worries at bay and their eyes began to roll back in their heads as bday girl mumbled about wanting more bubbles and lobster was willing to oblige her. I just wanted to GTFO and hit the pillow running.
We made it easily back to Monopoli on "E" and I dropped 1/2 the crew at their hotel. I noticed the corner bar was closed and knew there would be no more bubbles for them as I watched them mope off to their hotel when I turned the car for the station. For some reason at this point, Puglia and my desire for sleep completely clouded my ability to reason and as the station approached I pushed on the accelerator and up-shifted as my wife's face sank with fear and disdain. "What the hell are you doing Michael," she said, "It's all good, I am leaving Puglia boy with this bitch empty tank and that's what he gets for leaving it on "E" all the time and putting me in charge of bday fun. Serves him right." I was now at 120kmph and headed down the SS16 for Capitolo when...glug..glug..uuuummmm..glug..downshift...push accelerator...bogging down, bogging down...think fast asshole..think..shift to neutral..road flat..fuck fuck fuck...cars passing..flashers you stupid idiot Michael..flashers! glug..glug...glow of all instruments and warning lights..engine gone...silence say for the air moving in the windows..windows up now..no power...fuck fuck fuck..wife oh no..wife real pissed..real scared...moron, fuck, moron! DAMN YOU PUGLIA BOY!!!
It was 03:45 am and my wife Juliet and I were pushing a 2005 Audi A4 wagon on the very busy SS16 from Monopoli back to our villa in Capitolo. Cars filled with mostly drunken disco douche bags were streaming by at 150 kilometers per hour and we were making at best 10kmph into a headwind. This was clearly a dangerous situation and we were in fact, out of gas and ¼ mile from safety. This is how it began and how it shall end. Thank God we had made it to one of Europe's best inventions, the roadside emergency pull-out. This amazing concept every 2km or so on the highways allows for a safe exit from the road directly out of harm's way and with an emergency phone. Since I was well beyond the legal alcohol limit of Italy I did not think a call to emergency assistance was prudent and up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light, my head grew heavy and my "mind" was dim so I told Juliet to steer while I pushed. The AGIP station was 300 meters ahead on the right and with each passing death machine on the highway I knew I was soon to be clipped by a SMART car and my legs cut off at the knee. I was now running at the best pace I could muster in my disco clothes, beaten down body, and I knew if this damned car was not a diesel I could have breathed some ethanol into the tank and it would have fired right up. As it was, I was huffing hard-core when a random Samaritan came from the station (a customer) and met me as Juliet was guiding the car towards the wrong side of the pump for our fuel tank. The guy starts helping me push as I am cussing out Puglia Boy in my best attempt to get all cazzato and use the words I love so much. We reached the attendant after much screaming, steering, and pleading. The "company" logo on the car hood was aglow under the big shiny station awning and the attendant looked at me and said "this is Puglia boy's car", I tell him it is actually our company car and that it was indeed Puglia Boy that ran it out of fuel. The attendant is laughing his ass off and says to me "no way, not Puglia boy, he would never do that" (facetiously of course). It seems everyone knows him, knows his habits, and understands completely: everyone but me of course. I tell the attendant pieno (fill'er up), shake the car a bit to get the diesel back in the lines and the air out. We fire the Audi and drive on relieved and exhausted to Capitolo at 4am. Of course Puglia boy awoke the next day to find the car full of fuel and being well rested he went about his day as if that is just how things work when you are confident, sure of the world around you, and have a super conscientious guy on your side everyday. Things would never be the same after this night, and as I dumped the sand from my flip-flaps I knew I was likely done with this dance once and for all.
