True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 6)

Here is part 6 of the day the disco broke down

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.

True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 1)

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.

The day had been scripted by the gods of decadence as we awoke far too early from our previous night’s excessive consumption, in order to catch a train to Lecce.

Me, my wife, and two American companions embarked on the 20 minute walk to the train station, having only 15 minutes to make the train.  One of my friends was celebrating her birthday and I was feeling the pressure of being the tour guide and responsible for this painful, hung-over half jog as the temperature was already at 90F by 8:45am.  I assured the team that we needed to double time it in order to catch the train, but I could not promise them air conditioning once we got on board.  Much to our happy surprise we made the train and the AC was cranking.  We were, as is often the case in Italia, the main attraction for the locals on their way for another day at the office.  The ladies who were heading down to babysit the bambini were all too amused to sit ears cocked to the sides to hear the not so dulcet tones of our American English.  A nun had taken up residence in the seats behind us and I am certain Rosaries were being said for the protection of the young and the infirmed from the interlopers of Treno 12571.

Hunger was beginning to get the best of the birthday quartet when we landed on the platform in Lecce.  A quick duck into the disgusting filth hole of a restroom revealed some friendly immigrant males making their way into the womens room much to the chagrin of the classy Italian gents in wife beaters and suspenders.  While no fight ensued, we were already dangerously low on hand sanitizer by the time we began to negotiate the sun drenched streets of the Florence of the south.  That term really makes me laugh.  I still even use it sometimes in our marketing materials, but make no mistake, Lecce is not Florence and thank God I say!  Florence is easily my least favorite major city in Europe and I am sure it was 2006 since the last time there has been an Italian sighting there.  I am fond of many things Tuscan, but Firenze is not my bag.  Florence has more pictures of menu items on restaurant walls than the Houston Hong Kong Market.  I come to Italy to meet, work with, argue with, and sometimes even eat with Italians.  In Florence I am rarely given the opportunity to do any of the above and while I am certain I will get a list of GFY and die emails from Florentine acolytes, I simply needed to state my case and now I can move on to really cool towns, like Lecce.

...to be continued

True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 5)

Here is part 5 of the day the disco broke down :-)

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.

A typical Italian Disco Crew

True Italy Stories - Out of Gas in Puglia (Part 4)

Dear Readers I am posting from the plane over the Atlantic :-) Here is part 4 of the day the disco broke down

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: Braceria 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 very spartan tables along with some simple sides and very pedestrian local wines. The Braceria 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 Braceria 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.

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)