True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 3)

Now comes part 3 of the story.  This is my little depiction of life in Puglia, Italy. I mean this is what life is about for me.

AWAY WE GO-----

The food at Alle due Corti is simply sublime.  Ciceri e Tria is basically one part hand-rolled  pasta made into a stretched and imperfectly alternating fat and short noodle that is boiled in salted water like any other pasta then tossed together with one part of the same type of pasta that has been pan-fried in olive oil. This amazing juxtaposition of textures is then combined with a very simple sauce of chickpeas and a bit of garlic.

This dish is rustic beyond reproach and at the same time there is very little pasta I would take in its stead. There is an obvious umami component in the balance of natural acidity in the oil, the salty gritty taste of al dente cooked chickpeas, and the simply perfect crunch, then squish, then crunch again of the unique pasta itself.

The lady that runs the joint has clearly spent way more time in the kitchen than on the decor, and if that stops you from being interested in dining here, please do us all a favor and don't travel south of Rome because the only Michelin stars in this part of the world are the tires of some Cretinocicleta (douche bag Ducati and creative license with the Italian)  that is parked in front of the ROMA 2000 bar in Monopoli while the owner preens about in "that" jacket and "that" haircut spending daddy's money and taking up sidewalk space otherwise used by working people and families.

Puglia is not for the Italy novice. People do not speak much English, and sometimes not much Italian either.  One of my colleagues who works for an authentic tour operator in Puglia recently had a client engage her in the following dialog at the end of the orientation chat she gives all her guests:

Client: so what language do they speak here in Puglia?

Colleague: You mean what is the local dialect?

Client: No, what is the day-to-day spoken language in this region?

Colleague: (sheepishly with surprise) Italian

Client: (without acknowledgement of the information)  How would I ask for still water at a restaurant here in Puglia?

Colleague: Acqua naturale...

Client: Oh, I thought I could simply just ask for Acqua con panna

Colleague: Well, that would actual mean, water with whipped cream

Client: Well, that is what it says on all the bottles of still water I drink here

 Colleague: (with growing indignation)I think that may be the brand of Italian water you are getting.

Client: I am reading a book right now about Campania (Italian region of Naples fame) and I heard they speak a Slavic language there.

Colleague: (trying hard not to be a bitch) Well, I am pretty sure they speak Italian there as well.

Client: In my book they speak a Slavic language in Campania.

Colleague: (no longer filtering ) Well, this is not Campania, this is Puglia.  They speak Italian here and if you ask for Acqua con Panna you will get really strange looks and likely a glass of water topped with whipped cream. If you have other questions please feel free to call me while you are on your bikes this week (not meaning a word of it).

So, if you did not know that Italian is the official language of Italy and that Acqua Panna is a brand of water; well, now you do.

So, completely stuffed and still sweating  from our pre-lunch sunshine hide and seek we left Alle due Corti with the usual pleasantries and promises of returning soon that always accompany an exit from any Italian building.  Basically if you do not say hello and goodbye when encountering Italian people in a shop, restaurant, jail cell, or drug deal gone bad, it is a crime worse than calling them a bum, calling their family useless, or spitting on a priest.  Do not, under any circumstances forget to say hi and bye to an Italian or you will get the stink-eye and be the butt of jokes and scandal for days, and possibly forever. I am not kidding, the difference between ciao and NO ciao could mean your longterm happiness in Italy.

I am almost always a bit annoyed with the first 15 minutes of any meal in Italy as it is clear the staff and owners usually believe I am just another nuisance to their already busy day and it is usually after several courses  and some decent wine are ordered that the restaurant folks are willing to let me into the outer circle of trust. This circle of trust can be a bit of a chess match to prove my worth, but by the time the meal is over, my appetite, curiosity, and deference to the genius of the cook has usually landed me at least a polite chat and a better than half-hearted smile on the way out the door.

We made our way through the empty streets of Lecce (this town is like Invasion of the Body Snatchers at lunchtime, I swear) for an Iced Almond Milk Coffee (Caffè in ghiaccio con latte di mandorla)  which is basically like a little espresso with a cold shot of sweetened almond milk that is stirred over ice.  This little sugary caffeine jolt is just what we needed to make the final rounds of Leccese architecture before we hit the train back to the office in Monopoli.

It was still ass-hot  and I was saying quiet prayers for the AC to be functional on the train. As we hustled back to the Lecce station my buddy's very pale head was taking on a noticeably pink hue.  The Ferrovie dello Stato(Italian train system) gods were with us, and the train car, while smelling vaguely of shit (shout out to David Mamet), was at least a comfortable climate controlled cabin for enjoying the occasional whiff of dook (pronounced Duke) on our 1 hour and 45 minute ride back to Monopoli.

We arrived back in Monopoli, still full from lunch, coffee, and a few sweets. We desperately needed "before birthday dinner and disco" naps.  Sadly, I will be the first to admit I am not good at all with walking directions, and my ineptitude reared its ugly head (again) at the worst possible moment as we made a series of wrong turns on our way from the Monopoli train station back to the office.

Meanwhile, my buddy's pink head was moving step by step towards Lobsterville until he eventually threatened a small bar owner with a vitriolic American moment if he did not sell us his last three waters, including one that was completely frozen. Lobsterhead wore the frozen bottle like a necklace for the next 2000 meters.

After a few more poor choices by yours truly we at long last, found the office. Tired, full, and weary from a day of decadence and wrong roads, we walked into the office and were greeted  immediately by a cat-shit surprise waiting just inside the office door in the makeshift litter box. The office cat is a subject for many chapters and I will leave it here for now saying simply, that outside of a mass grave at close range, I am pretty sure warm cat shit is the worst smell on planet Earth, and when one is right on the border of heat exhaustion and the natural tendency for nausea that goes with that, a furry feline fecal deposit is not a warm welcome (pun completely intended) especially when the office team was waiting for us, smiled, and asked "Are you guys excited about dinner?"

(to be continued)

Top 25 Italy Moments – #12 The Wrong Train

My first experience in Florence was a solo Christmas shopping excursion in 1992. I took a train from Rome in the early morning on a Saturday in December while the rest of my classmates went to visit Tivoli Gardens near Rome (I have still never been to Tivoli).

I was wide-eyed and thrilled by the carnival atmosphere of the leather market in Florence. I knew nothing else about the city other than the David Statue (11 trips to Italy and I still have never seen it in person). So, my Florence was leather belts, wallets, silk ties, and a few other personal and family Christmas gifts. I do not think I even had my camera so I could carry all my bags of goodies home.

I think I ate a slice of pizza or something for lunch from a crappy vendor with pictures on the walls. Speaking no Italian was a big #fail on this initial journey to the boot. After lunch I took my treasures and headed back to the Santa Maria Novella train station.

An Italian train station like most in Europe is an open-air space connected by one covered building which houses all of the essentials of train service. The platform area is divided into tracks, binari in Italian. There is a good and usually accurate schedule of the departures and arrivals all over a large station like this one. (usually accurate)

According to the schedule the next train to Rome left from binario 8 and so I moved over to track 8. I was carrying a few bags of stuff as I did not have my backpack, like an idiot, as I tried to play it cool like the Italians. Nevertheless I got to track 8 and looked at the sign above with its rotating letters much like an old baseball scoreboard. The sign said 14:24 Roma Termini: my destination.

I had a Eurail pass which allowed me unlimited travel for the 2 months we took trains so I could pop on any train that did not require reservations. As per usual a regional train was sitting on track 8 when I arrived. Of course there is also a train number on that train and that number will correspond with the sign above. I did not notice the train number on this day, I simply boarded the train and found an empty seat in a room without a reservation tag on the outer glass. At this point, and after traveling all over Europe I really thought myself to be a train pro. I put my things on the rack above the seats and sat down with my journal to write about Florence.

3 more people joined me in the 6 person room on the train. 2 very chatty Italian grannies and a young military guy in a perfectly pressed blue overcoat and uniform. Of course I said nothing to them as I could not speak more than 10 words of Italian and within minutes we were on our way. I remember it being cool enough for a sweater but not at all cold. The Italian women were wearing what looked like Parkas and the military guy shed his overcoat as the room began to swelter.

After 20 minutes or so I did not recognize the landscape being the same as on the way into Florence. This was not surprising to me because I am terrible with recognizing landscapes. When the conductor came and checked our tickets I could see the young military guy's ticket read Firenze - Bologna. I just assumed that Bologna was a final destination because I did not know Bologna was the opposite direction of Rome. I was a real Italian geography moron.

After another 10 minutes the military guy spoke to me in English: good English. He asked me if I was American. I affirmed his question, and then he asked me the zinger. What was I planning to do in his hometown of Bologna? I laughed and told him I was going to Rome.

[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="259"] The Typical Italian Train[/caption]

He told me, that the train did not go to Rome and that Rome was in the other direction from Florence. In that moment all of my confidence, my joy of Christmas, my impressions of Florence, and my hope went mercilessly out of the partially cracked window of the train car. I could not believe what had happened! The sign, the schedule, and even the big sign at the end of the platform had told me this was the train to Rome. We had left binario 8 on time so what the hell happened?

It turns out that the train to Bologna was late by 20+ minutes and that it was still on the track even though the automatic signs had switched to the next train: the train to Rome. The Rome train was sitting out somewhere on the track and it is very likely we passed it on our way out of the station. In effect, I was hosed and near panic. Why? Because I did not have the money to miss dinner back on Campus. I had spent pretty much my final lira on gifts and so not getting back to Rome by 7pm dinner would be bad.

The young military guy must have noticed the horror on my face and he told me that there would be a train to Rome every hour from Bologna. He then made a gesture to me that I would never forget.

The young man told me he was in the air force serving his military conscription. It was only then that I learned all Italian men had to serve a mandatory 2 years in the armed forces. He had been stationed in Sicily and was on his way home to see his mother for the first time in several months (I did not realize how big a deal that was at the time). He explained that his Mom had been cooking a feast since the day before preparing for his arrival. He suggested to me that I come home with him as his guest and dine with his family and return to Rome the next morning.

Like an absolute fool I politely declined, citing some lame reason I cannot begin to recall. Can you believe that The Blissful Adventurer turned down a s welcome-home meal from a Mom in Bologna, the fucking food capital of Italy? This is clearly and I am not kidding, one of the biggest and only regrets of my life. What a dim tool I was for turning down such an amazing cultural opportunity.

Of course the air force guy, likely no older than me, helped me hustle off the train, find the track, and get back on the correct train to Rome. He must have been so happy to be home, yet he still took time for me for no other reason other than culture and his desire to speak English. I made it home to campus as dinner had begun. I stuffed in my usual pasta and moon-rock but I could not help but think what they were eating in Bologna.

This was long before email and cell phones. I cannot remember my buddy's name nor did I write down his information. I am sure he is out in the professional world with a family and a wonderful life. I have spent most of my adult life returning to Italy and have experienced so much similar hospitality, and I promise I have never again said no when offered a home-cooked meal in Italy.

Yet, I have indeed gotten on the wrong train numerous times.

Disco Birthday Breakdown (Part 3)

As I sit inundated by the affected twang of the bluegrass artist of the month at the otherwise excellent Catalina Coffee House here in gray, dank, and generally unexciting Houston; at long last, I begin to recount the final 2 chapters of the day that the disco birthday broke down in Puglia this summer (2010). Finally, you all get a chance to know why Juliet and I were pushing the Southern Visions Audi A4 wagon along the SS16 at 4am.

AWAY WE GO-----

The food at Alle due Corti is simply sublime.  Ciceri e Tria is basically one part hand rolled  pasta made into a stretched and imperfectly alternating fat and short noodle that is boiled in salted water like any other pasta tossed together with one part of the same type of pasta that has been pan-fried in olive oil. This amazing juxtaposition of textures is then combined with a very simple sauce of chickpeas and a bit of garlic.  This dish is rustic beyond reproach and at the same time there is very little pasta I would take in its stead. There is an obvious umami component in the balance of natural acidity in the oil, the salty gritty taste of al dente cooked chickpeas, and the simply perfect crunch, then squish, then crunch of the unique pasta itself. The lady that runs the joint has clearly spent way more time in the kitchen than on the decor, and if that stops you from being interested in dining here, please do us all a favor and don't travel south of Rome because the only Michelin stars in this part of the world are the tires of some Cretinocicleta (douche bag Ducati)  that is parked in front of the ROMA 2000 bar in Monopoli while the owner preens about in "that" jacket and "that" haircut spending daddy's money and taking up sidewalk space otherwise used by working people and families.

Puglia is not for the Italy novice. People do not speak much English, and sometimes not much Italian either.  One of my colleagues who works for an authentic tour operator in Puglia recently had a client engage her in the following dialog at the end of the orientation chat she gives all her guests:

Client: so what language do they speak here in Puglia?

Colleague: You mean what is the local dialect?

Client: No, what is the day-to-day spoken language in this region?

Colleague: (sheepishly with surprise) Italian

Client: (without acknowledgement of the information)  How would I ask for still water at a restaurant here in Puglia?

Colleague: Acqua naturale...

Client: Oh, I thought I could simply just ask for Acqua con panna

Colleague: Well, that would actual mean, water with whipped cream

Client: Well, that is what it says on all the bottles of still water I drink here

 Colleague: (with growing indignation)I think that may be the brand of Italian water you are getting.

Client: I am reading a book right now about Campania (Italian region of Naples fame) and I heard they speak a Slavic language there.

Colleague: (trying hard not to be a bitch) Well, I am pretty sure they speak Italian there as well.

Client: In my book they speak a Slavic language in Campania.

Colleague: (no longer filtering ) Well, this is not Campania, this is Puglia.  They speak Italian here and if you ask for Acqua con Panna you will get really strange looks and likely a glass of water topped with whipped cream. If you have other questions please feel free to call me while you are on your bikes this week (not meaning a word of it). 

So, if you did not know that Italian is the official language of Italy and that Acqua Panna is a brand of water; well, now you do.

So, completely stuffed and still sweating  from our pre-lunch sunshine hide and seek we left Alle due Corti with the usual pleasantries and promises of returning soon that always accompany an exit from any Italian building.  Basically if you do not say hello and goodbye when encountering Italian people in a shop, restaurant, jail cell, or drug deal gone bad, it is a crime worse than calling them a bum, calling their family useless, or spitting on a priest.  Do not, under any circumstances forget to say hi and bye to an Italian or you will get the stink-eye and be the butt of jokes and scandal for days, and possibly forever. I am not kidding, the difference between ciao and NO ciao could mean your longterm happiness in Italy.

I am almost always a bit annoyed with the first 15 minutes of any meal in Italy as it is clear the staff and owners usually believe I am just another nuisance to their already busy day and it is usually after several courses  and some decent wine are ordered that the restaurant folks are willing to let me into the outer circle of trust. This circle of trust can be a bit of a chess match to prove my worth, but by the time the meal is over, my appetite, curiosity, and deference to the genius of the cook has usually landed me at least a polite chat and a better than half-hearted smile on the way out the door.

We made our way through the empty streets of Lecce (this town is like Invasion of the Body Snatchers at lunchtime, I swear) for an Iced Almond Coffee (Caffè in ghiaccio con latte di mandorla)  which is basically like a little espresso with a cold shot of sweetened almond milk that is stirred over ice.  This little sugary caffeine jolt is just what we needed to make the final rounds of Leccese architecture before we hit the train back to the office in Monopoli. It was still ass-hot  and I was saying quiet prayers for the AC to be functional on the train. As we hustled back to the Lecce station my buddy's very pale head was taking on a noticeably pink hue.  The Ferrovie (Italian train system) gods were with us, and the train car, while smelling vaguely of shit (shout out to David Mamet), was at least a comfortable climate controlled cabin for enjoying the occasional whiff of dook on our 105 minute ride back to Monopoli.

We arrived back in Monopoli, still full from lunch, coffee, and a few sweets and we desperately needed before birthday dinner and disco naps.  Sadly, I will be the first to admit I am not good at all with walking directions, and my ineptitude reared its ugly head (again) at the worst possible moment as we made a series of wrong turns on our way from the Monopoli train station back to the office while my buddy's pink head was moving step by step towards Lobsterville until he eventually threatened a small barman with a vitriolic American moment if he did not sell us his last three waters including one that was completely frozen that my Lobsterhead friend wore like a necklace for the next 2000 meters.  Now, that the group was really sick of me leading (or not leading) the way we, at long last, found the office. Tired, full, and weary from a day of decadence and wrong roads, we walked into the office and were greeted  immediately by a cat shit surprise waiting just inside the door in the makeshift litter box.  Now, the office cat is a subject for many chapters and I will leave it here for now saying simply, that outside of a mass grave at close range, I am pretty sure warm cat shit is the worst smell on planet Earth, and when you are right on the border of heat exhaustion and the natural tendency for nausea that goes with that, a furry feline fecal deposit is not a warm welcome (pun completely intended) especially when the office team was waiting for us and asked "Are you guys excited about dinner?

(to be continued)