Boots in the Oven

Le Cinque Terre, Due

Yesterday, I got you as far as the formidable steps to Corniglia (After writing my post, I was enlightened - there are 365, one for every day of the year).

Today, I'm going to push you quickly through the rest of our lovely weekend.  So, let's start in the beautiful mountain town of Corniglia, shall we?

Umm... actually, we didn't make it very far into Corniglia before spying with our little eyes this adorable enoteca, or wine shop, on the six-foot-wide "main drag."  Note the oddly-shaped receptacle on the sign - it will be important later.

This enoteca had some pretty hysterically kitschy things on their street-front shelves, mixed in with the local products and mortars-and-pestles for making pesto.

First, the wall of Pope- and Revolution-wine.  Lots of Che Guevara, for some reason, with some Karl Marx thrown in.  And is that a Stalin I see, or am I perhaps mistaken?

Moving on to the beer, we have the People's Red.  Guess who?

And, if you'll allow me to go back to the wine for a minute, today we have the "don't mention the war" special:

So, after taking multiple pictures in front of the shop, how could we not go in?

The interior was cave-like, but in a good way.  The shelves were lined with local wines, liquors, sauces, and anchovies.

We ordered two glasses of a local white from the girl tending bar (who rushed in just after we arrived).  Upon sitting down, we noticed odd containers on the tables - were they for decoration, or for something else?

Apparently something else.  Enoteca Il Pirun's owner, Mario, saw us examining the object.  He dropped a bib onto Husbear, and saying "Guarda" (watch), he grabbed a cyclist friend and proceeded to demonstrate the use of the pirun.

Well, if that's all there is to it...

After being presented with a bib, I gave it a try, too, but I'm much too timid to do this the right way.

We bought one.  They were only 13 euros!  So, if you come visit us, you can drink wine out of a pirun.  How's that for enticement?  Eh?

I also had a glass of sciacchetra (pronounced shock-e-TRA) that Mario makes himself.

It was good. 

After paying, we checked our train schedule...

which is when we realized that we had 6 minutes to run down 365 stairs and then perhaps another 1/4 mile to catch the train to Vernazza, where we were hoping to take a dip in the Mediterranean before meeting up with the ladies back in Monterosso.

I still don't know how we made it.

Oh - wait, yes I do!  The train was 5 minutes late.  Lucky us!

On to Vernazza!

Sooz, this pic is for you:  (and for whitney's mom, and toska and her mom, and all of the unfortunate souls with gluten sensitivities and allergies)

I've been seeing a lot of low-gluten or entirely gluten-free products and menus here - I remember sooz telling me a while back that many Italians have gluten sensitivities.

Anyhoo, Vernazza is considered by some (especially Rick Steves) to be the jewel of the Cinque Terre.  It is beautiful, but this popularity meant that the town was the most crowded of all.

We walked through the main piazza towards the Mediterranean Sea.  It took us a while to find a rock large enough to hold our butts and bags, but we did eventually find one and strip to our bathing suits for a dip.

The water was cold, but felt great after our walks and runs.

We swam for a little while together, and then I got out to enjoy the view of the town (and the crazy topography!) while Husbear began searching for a jumping rock.

Well, he found one he liked, but that rock just confirmed my view of him as one of the luckiest people I know.

He eventually jumped from a point slightly below where he's sitting in this photo. 

Husbear got out, we toweled off, and we headed for the train station to catch a train back to Monterosso, where we were supposed to meet the ladies at 7.  (This was at 6:30.)

We got onto the train and were sitting, when Husbear spotted his mom and pegs outside the train window!  They were getting off the train to head into town, so we decided to get off and go back with them.

Since they wanted to take many many pictures (Mama Bear's up to 3100 pictures on this computer, and rumor has it she took an additional 400 or so yesterday in Siena!), we thought it might be fun to check out a small wine bar just off the square.

We ordered two glasses of a local wine (this one was called "Vernazza", and was made by the same people who made the Corniglia and Monterosso varieties we'd already tried) and picked up some snackies.  The bartender warned us that, though it was almost empty when we walked in, the bar was going to jam up in about two minutes.

He was right!  Two large platters of delicious fried anchovies were carried in to the room, followed by jabbering locals, all of whom were justifiably excited by the fried offerings.  We grabbed a couple and were eating them, when who should wander in but Mama Bear and Pegs!  We offered them our seats and Husbear hooked them up with some fried anchovy goodness.

After enjoying our aperitivi, we jumped the train back to Monterosso and waited in a very long line for a very cold shower.

Dinner Saturday night was at a Ligurian home-style place (at least that's how we classified it) in Monterosso called L'Altamarea.

We ordered three pasta dishes and one main, all of which we split.

First arrived the trofie con scampi.  Trofie are the same pasta we had the previous night with pesto, only these were served with great big crustaceans.

This was my favorite of the pasta dishes.  I think I just love small pasta dumplingy shapes.

We also ordered the chef's special ravioli, fish ravioli - oddly in meat sauce?

I thought this was good.  The meat sauce somehow didn't end up overpowering the more delicate fish filling.  It was like the Tuscan idea of fish ravioli - and since their bread didn't have salt, I was thinking that it was possible there was a Tuscan in the kitchen.

This pansotti, or cheese and greens-filled ravioli with walnut sauce, was very good.  The walnut sauce didn't have the overly-sweet over-processed taste you get when you leave the nuts in the food processor for too long, and the filling had a nice balance of ricotta and slightly bitter greens.

The real star of the show, however, was the Ligurian anchovy terrine, served piping and bubbling out of the oven.

Layered anchovy and potato, with a little bit of tomato thrown in, baked in a pool of olive oil with parsley thrown on top.  Delicious.  Very subtly flavored, but very hearty.

That night, Husbear was sweet enough to pick up that ooey gooey cream puff from Miky while the rest of us went back to the hotel and tried to get into the bathroom.  He was more successful than we were.

The next morning, after stuffing ourselves with breakfast and getting yelled at by the desk clerk (I was told I had no manners for trying to lock our bags together in their lobby, which apparently was also their luggage storage room) we took ourselves back to Corniglia.

This time, we managed to make it a little farther into town.  The ladies became captivated by a group of young folks bringing in the grape harvest, so we split up and walked up to the top of the town, where there's a scenic overlook.

After taking in the views from the scenic promontory, and poking around in the town's central piazza, we ran out of town and went back to Il Pirun.  Yes, I am fully aware that we are very, very predictable.

This time, they gave us snacks!  But we didn't drink out of the pirun.

This time, we tried two kinds of local wines - a 2005 Forlini Cappellini Cinqueterre and a 2004 Pregin.  I believe they're both made from the big three local grapes - bosco, albarola, and vermentino.  I liked the Forlini a lot more - the pregin had a very odd nose to me, very vegetable-heavy.

Leaving il Pirun, we were on the lookout for a local vini sfusi place (where you can by local tap wine by the jug) but had no luck.  Instead, we found ourselves in a very sweet little enoteca/shop just a few yards down the road to Corniglia, speaking with a very nice man who gave us a great restaurant recommendation.

Again, two different types of wine - a 2005 La Polenza Cinque Terre and a Lievantu (there's an accent over that a) from nearby Levanto.  I liked both of these very much.  The Cinque Terre just makes such wonderful white wines!

It didn't hurt that the kind owner served the wines with tasty little caperberries and little cracker twists, either!  We were the only people in the shop, and I certainly hope that was unusual, because his wine and product selection was great and he was really, really nice to us.

From here, back down the tiny winding road on a bus stuffed with people to the train station, and thence to Monterosso, where Husbear got this good picture of me.

We only had about an hour to wander Monterosso before we had to catch our train back to Florence, so we went a'hunting farinata.  Again.

I enjoyed this quite a bit more than our previous farinata experience, but still found it a bit dry and mealy.  My personal farinata jury is still in recess - I'll have to give this ligurian treat another try or two.

We went back to our hotel to grab our bags, and then on to the station, where we were confronted once again with the real world...

Yup, all of those people are standing on the track we needed to be on to get a train to Pisa and then Florence.  It was quite an elbowfest, getting on that train, but we did eventually find four seats together.

That's our adventure in the Cinque Terre... this weekend, we bid a sad adieu to the ladies as we travel to Rome to locate their plane.

girlie

Introducing le Cinque Terre

So - this will be a quick post, bang bang bang, because this house is covered in drying laundry and clean dishes, all of which need to be put away in their respective cubby-holes.

(I always start out thinking "this will be a quick post" - then stumble away from the computer five hours later.)

The ladies are in Siena today, hopefully enjoying the medieval architecture and lack of motorini, but last weekend we stuffed them into our luggage and dragged them to the Cinque Terre.  Husbear and I visited the area on our backpacking trip during the summer of '01, and were excited to be returning.

These five towns, along the Ligurian coast of Italy, have become very popular in the last few years, especially with American travelers.  (Blame Rick Steves and his little blue book.)  Their beauty is spectacular.

First, a train.

Though they're blocked by a couple of excited photographers, the Apuan Alps are visible for a good bit of the train ride.  The area we were passing through included Carrara, famous for its marble.

We arrived in Monterosso al Mare, the largest of the Cinque Terre's five towns, and dropped our bags at our hotel.  The hotel was cheap, but sharing a bathroom comprised of one toilet and one shower with 10 other people leaves a bit of a bad taste in one's mouth - and I had a supremely irritating moment upon checkout, when I was told off by the desk clerk for attempting to secure our luggage in an open luggage storage area.

But the location was wonderful, right off of the beach, in the new half of town.

Before dinner, we went on a brief walk.

WhiteMike and Megs, if you're reading this, you probably recognize that rock from, say, June of 2001?

We had dinner reservations at Restaurant Miky, which turned out to be right next door to our hotel.  (Our proprietor tried to steer us to another restaurant, possibly run by a friend? by saying that we would need to bring two credit cards to eat at Miky.  Turns out he was full of it.)

Even with reservations, we had to wait almost a half-hour for a table - they are very popular!

Smiling happy hungry ladies...

The interior was crowded but inviting, with some really cute clay buildings on the walls.  (I'm so bad with art.)

We started off with two full orders of the Capriccio di Mare, each of which were a tour-de-force of six cold seafood small plates and three warm.  Each order was 15 E, but it was well worth it to be able to try so many wonderful things!

Clockwise from the foreground, (all cold) we have an octopus, potato and olive salad, cooked tuna topped with marinated onion, marinated salmon, marinated swordfish with a balsamic cream sauce, and salted preserved anchovies.  Not pictured with his chilly brethren - marinated anchovies. (Anchovies are a Ligurian specialty - and they're really good here, especially if all prior anchovy experience revolves around gross pizzas or extra-salty US Greek salads.)

Onto the hot stuff!

Warm stewed octopus.  Not pictured - stuffed mussels.

I like eating octopus, but I'm a little squeamish because they're like the Einsteins of the sea and are totally fascinating animals.  Of course, pigs are pretty smart too and I eat them (probably something I shouldn't be admitting during the Days of Awe...).  Anyway, this was good, but tasted pretty heavy after the succession of citrussy and vinegary cold dishes.

Back to the anchovies!

These little tasties were stuffed with various herbs and meats and bread crumbs and then fried.  Very tasty - though to be honest, I could have done with a tad less filling?  That's just crazy me, though.

After our symphony of seafood, it was time to move on to our three pasta dishes.  First, we ordered the trenette alla pescatrice (meaning pasta in the style of the fisherwoman) - which comes in an ingenious service.  It's a pizza pot pie!

The pasta is cooked, and then laid into a large baking dish which is then closed off with pizza dough.  The whole thing is then placed in a wood-burning oven and cooked for a couple of minutes - just long enough to give the dough some color and impart delicious wood-cooked flavors to the pasta.

Along with the aforementioned trenette, which were long noodles served with a monkfish tomato sauce, we all split a dish of fish ravioli in a pink pine-nut sauce and trofie in pesto.  We were given beautiful glass plates for our pastas.

Far left - fish ravioli.  Middle - trenette, out of their delicious pizza home.  Right - trofie con pesto.

These were all amazingly tasty.  The fish ravioli, a dish I've never had before, had a very light fishy flavor - the pink pine-nut sauce was exquisite, yummy and creamy.  The trenette (known as linguini in other regions of Italy) were quite good, but we all had difficulty locating the monkfish!  The trofie were a fun new pasta shape, but the table split on the pesto.  Some felt the flavors were too strong.  (I was not in this camp, though I do agree that a full bowl of this could be a bit overwhelming.)

To finish?  Le zeppole, a giant warm cream puff oozing with lemon custard and strawberries.  (also lemon cream puffs, not pictured.)

This dessert was so sinfully goopily awesome that, the next night, Husbear was sent back on a mission to procure one of these to go.  Wow.

All of this food was washed down with a lovely bottle of a DOC local wine called Monterosso - made from the three grapes common to the region, Bosco, Albarola, and Vermentino.  This makes for a really nice light white, perfect with seafood.

And a glass of sciacchetra for me, please!  This dessert wine is sort of like vin santo, but lighter and less sweet.  Possibly my new favorite dessert wine, though we couldn't afford to buy a bottle.

We went back across the street to our hotel, where we spent the next hour trying to get into the bathroom.  Fun.

Saturday morning, we got up early and stuffed ourselves at the more than ample free breakfast.  Sweet rolls, hard-boiled eggs, salami, ham, cheese, Nutella, honey, yogurt, three kinds of cereal - out of all proportion to the room we were staying in.  Eh, we were very glad to have it, since it meant lunch could wait for days and days!

We left the hotel, going in the direction of the ferry launch.  (Auntie, I am so sorry to tell you that the small ferries stop running October 31... we'll figure something out!)

Monterosso is the largest and most resorty of the five towns, but it is still entirely lovely, with the winding streets of an old Greek island town and the beauty of the Italian coast.  I very much enjoyed it as our home base.

The boat took about a forty minutes to reach the first town, Riomaggiore, our starting point for the day.  On the way, we were able to get a few good pictures of the towns.

Traveling from Monterosso to Riomaggiore, the first town you pass is Vernazza.  This is Rick Steves' favorite town, and is thus the most crowded.  Very pretty, though.  But crowded.

Corniglia, the middle town, sits on a hill and doesn't have a harbor.  I think this may be my favorite of the five, with its 280 residents.  (The bustling metropolis of Vernazza boasts 500.)

Closest to Riomaggiore sits Manarola.

Riomaggiore is considered the first of the towns - most people start their walks here, with the Via dell'Amore (walk of love) to Manarola.

Since by this point we were already approaching 11:30, we didn't linger too long in Riomaggiore - just long enough to buy a 16 euro bottle of sunscreen and a bottle of water.  We set off, sans ladies (who were setting a more liesurely pace between towns), on the Via dell'Amore.

Obstacle!

Since the Via dell'Amore is the easiest of the between-town walks, wide enough to accommodate baby strollers and with a bar in the middle of the path, it's also by far the most crowded.  We waited in line and presented our Cinque Terre Cards (5.40 euros for one day, covers the trails and local bus and train services) and were finally on our way!

Notwithstanding the crowding, the views from the Via dell'Amore are spectacularly pretty.

Much of the trail is made up of covered walkways, marred by the pervasive Italian graffiti problem.

This picture's for you, Dad.

It took us about a half-hour to reach Manarola, where we visited a tiny museum devoted to sciacchetra and bought some tasty gelato.  Fior de latte (of course!) supplemented by nougat and a nummy banana cinnamon flavor.

We also wandered into a shop to buy farinata (sooz, you can totally eat this - it's just chickpea flour!) and focaccia with lotsa onions.  Liguria is apparently crazy for chickpeas/garbanzos, and they use the flour to make farinata pancakes.

These were... pretty good?  REALLY greasy - if you pushed your thumb into the farinata, oil pooled up around it.  I was glad we were planning to do a lot of walking!  (Ahem... we also bought a bottle of frizzante Chardonnay, produced somewheres in Liguria.  It helped with grease-cutting.)

Healthfully fed, we started our merry way towards Corniglia.

Just outside of Manarola are some very, very inviting swimming rocks.  Most of the towns don't have beaches, per se (Monterosso being an exception) so it's all about finding a mostly flat rock.

We got a nice view of Manarola from the path out of town to Corniglia.

I was much more enamoured of the walk to Corniglia.  It started out a little intense, but very soon flattened out into a trail with spectacular views, negligible graffiti, and very few people.

This path takes less than an hour.  Just before you reach Corniglia, you have the option of turning towards the station to catch a bus up Corniglia's steep hill, or taking just under 400 stairs up to town.

Given that we had just eaten a 12,000 calorie piece of farinata, we went for the stairs.  With a couple of breaks.

OK - I know those stairs look really crowded, but it was a momentary thing - I think a train was leaving soon.

So, before we leave for Rome on Friday - the second half of our Cinque Terre weekend, including drinking wine out of a pitcher, eating anchovy casserole, and more farinata.  Better this time.

Til then - ciao!

girlie

Welcoming Family and Friends - In Milan

(warning - this one's really heavy on the pictures!)

So, let's all extend a cordial and happy and smily welcome to Mama Bear and Pegs (a friend from back home), newly-arrived travellers from over Arkansas/Louisiana/Florida way!

*clapclapclap woo!*

These intrepid and jet-lagged travelers landed mid-day last Friday at Milan's Malpensa airport, and as soon as my class let out Husbear and I got ourselves onto a train headed for Switzerland.  (With a stop in Milan.)  Many hugs were exchanged, and then we subjected them to this:

"Gee, thanks, guys," they said.  "After three separate planes and dragging our bags all over hell and gone to arrive here, we can tell you what we surely wanted was cold sliced veal in cooked tuna sauce.  The fleshier-looking, the better."

It's vitello tonnato, and it's a traditional Milanese dish.  Those little green buddies are capers.  Mama Bear liked it, and we were all glad to taste, though I don't think I'll be hunting this particular offering down in Florentine Milanese restaurants anytime soon.

Is it awful that I don't remember the name of this restaurant?  It was kinda snooty and expensive and their risotto milanese was dry, so that's the only picture you get, thank you.  And it was on Corso Venezia, surrounded by Prada and Dolce & Gabbana.

After our cold veal and big turkey meatloaf and risotto and orrechiette, we walked back to our hotel to get the ladies to sleep - but not without a stop at Tre Gazzelle, on Corso Vittorio Emmanuele.

Very nice.  The Milanese seem to be more into sticking sculpted and carved fruit on top of their gelato than the Florentines. 

Then, back to the hotel (Hotel Nuovo - good rates, but...) for some beauty rest.  I kept waking up, though, what seemed like every fifteen minutes or so, with a high-pitched buzzing coming from somewhere just above my face.

When I walked into the bathroom on Saturday morning to brush my teeth, I thought I had somehow caught the mumps.

You can't see the ones on my forehead from this angle, but Husbear counted a total of FIFTEEN mosquito bites on my face and neck (a further fifteen could be found on my upper back and feet, where my pyjamas fear to tread) - almost all of them on my left side.  Apparently I sleep right-side down.

A quick four-person huddle took place in the hallway between our two rooms - mama bear probably had more bites than I did, though Husbear and Pegs seemed to have escaped relatively intact - and the decision was made to pick up mosquito repellent and stick it out at the hotel.

After a liberal application of concealer, a trip across the street to I Fratellini Freni (The Franelli Brothers) helped the general mood.

I had a delicious croissant stuffed with a pureed pistachio/sugar paste.  Husbear and his mama got croissants jammed with pastry cream, and Pegs picked up a sfogliatella, that Neapolitan specialty we had last week in Naples.  And four cappuccini, named after the Cappuchin monks, don'cha know.

I Fratellini Freni didn't just have great coffee and tasty baked goods - they had hand-made marzipan.  Everything from artichokes to Pikachu to teeth. (!)

It's sold by weight, and is very dense.  We bought a small porcini mushroom for 3 euro.  It tasted like marzipan.  (Very dense and almond-pasty.)  Like fondant, I'm thinking this is not really for actual eating, but for appreciating.

Awake?  Check.  Fed?  Check.  Caffeinated?  And Check.  Time to get ourselves to the Duomo.

A little different from the one here in Florence, n'est ce pas?  (Like my butchery, there?)

This is the side of the building.  The front, which I hear is even more spectacular, is currently sheathed in scaffolding.  Hauling out the Rough Guide, let me tell you that this is the world's largest Gothic cathedral (having gone to middle school at the neo-gothic University of Chicago, even I could recognize this) and the third largest church in Europe.

It's an extremely impressive building.

Inside, the light filtering through the stained glass windows gives everything a sickly greenish hue.  There are small chapels and altars around the sides of the church, some of which still appear to be in use.

One of the more gruesome statues I've seen in a church is right by the exit - in what I think is called the north transept?  It's a flayed St. Bartholomew, with this skin thrown over his shoulders.  You can actually see his face - it's upside-down behind his arm.

(You know, if I knew more about traditional Christian theology, including the martyrdom of the saints, I'd probably glean more from Renaissance art.)

So, for a small fee, you can take an elevator or walk up to the Duomo's roof.  I love climbing churches, because you really get a chance to see the little things you can't see from the ground.  Plus, there's often a great view because the Duomos (Duomi?) are usually situated right in the middle of town.

Getting really close to these flying buttresses and seeing the detail on them was fascinating.  Looking at it, I was surprised they were able to finish it in only 500 years.

Actually, it was to me strongly reminiscent of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.  I mean, Gaudi took it way farther, but the spires and flowers and strange little additions of Milan's Duomo definitely brought his masterpiece to mind.

The view was nice, but not spectacular - Milan has too much pollution for anyone to be able to see very far, but the views of the piazza in front were... more Austrian or French than Italian.  Considering that Milan was French and Austrian for nearly 400 years, ending only with the unification of Italy, this isn't all that shocking.

Climbing Milan's duomo is a little different, because instead of wandering around the top of a dome, you're walking on the actual roof!

All this walking and snapping of pictures made us more than a little hungry.  I had seen mention of Luini Panzerotti in several of our books, and the thought of a deep-fried 3 euro Italian savory stuffed pie sounded directly up our alley!

Since it's unfortunately not located on top of the Duomo, we had to take the stairs back down and find the place.

Once you get close, it's easy to find - just walk along the street lined with people stuffing their faces with panzerotti.

And join your fellow humans in line.

It's pretty orderly.  The counters are just inside, so you have enough time to figure out what you want to order before you get to the counter.

They're the perfect size for lunch - I think they would do well at home, though people might bemoan the lack of a side order of french fries.

They made us happy!

Gooey and warm and fried - their turnover has to be really high, with the number of people eating there, so the panzerotti tasted really fresh.  We tried several versions - a spicy sausage and mozzarella, a spinach, a ham and mozzarella, and a tomato/onion/olive (my favorite).

Our hunger satisfied, we thought our stomachs might be settled by spinning around on the testicles of a bull.  Therefore, we walked over to the very posh (and very touristed) Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele II.

There's a mosaic in the middle of this galleria, with representations of the four major Italian cities early in the Reunification.  There's a fleur-de-lis for Florence, a shield and cross for Milan, and a she-wolf suckling two young boys for Rome.

To represent Turin, there's a bull.  The bull has a large circular dent in the crotchular region, because it's apparently good luck to spin around on the bull's testicles.

Well, who are we to scoff at local tradition?

Eh?

The role of our afternoon museum was played by the Castello Sforzesco, a big castle that encompasses about 10 separate museums, though a combined ticket gets you into all of them.  We went to the Museum of Ancient Art, which very awesomely houses a room painted by Leonardo da Vinci as well as an unfinished pieta by Michelangelo.

The museum was interesting, but I really thought the best thing in it was the room decorated by Leonardo.  Though there was (of course) a huge scaffold set up in the middle, we still sat along the edges for a good fifteen minutes just looking.  We had the room pretty much to ourselves.

After all the testicle-spinning and admiring of art, it was time for a drink.  And a snack.  We walked to the Bar Brera, where for 6 euros you can get a drink of your choice and partake of an enormous antipasti buffet. 

People - this antipasti buffet included walnut risotto!  Alongside grilled vegetables, fritatta, cheese, bread, little sandwiches, salads... it was really impressive.  And they had a great drinks list!  Husbear ordered a black velvet - Guinness and champagne, this one with bitters (I actually really liked it!),  mama bear ordered a Sex on the Beach (and got an interesting slanted look from the waiter), pegs got a Bellini - this one real - and I ordered a Spritz, with campari, gin, and soda water.  They were all really well made and delicious.

On the way back to the hotel, while we ladies poked around the Duomo, Husbear saved us all by going in search of that scourge of mosquitos, Vape.  The mosquito sound on that website is making my skin crawl.

We have some of these at the house, and had we known the mosquito problem in the hotel would be so bad, we would have brought them!  ... or perhaps stayed at a different hotel.

After our slightly dissappointing dinner on Friday night, we were apprehensive about Saturday's evening meal.  We decided to go to Trattoria Milanese, which was in two of our guidebooks.  This normally sets alarm bells off in my head, but apparently this is because I'm a pessimistic fatalist.

When we got there just before ten, there were only two or three other tables eating - but the place filled up at about ten-thirty with Italians.

Their food, traditional Milanese-style, was wonderful and hearty and delicious.  We stuffed ourselves.

First, the four of us split two pasta dishes.

We got the Gnocchi Casalinga (casalinga = housewife), which was served in a tomato sauce that had a hint of smokiness to it.  Oh, man.

These were the potato-based ones, with a thumb-dimple in the middle.  Yes, please!

Our other pasta was the ravioli di zucca, stuffed with pumpkin and served in a sage-butter sauce.

It had a bit of cinnamon in it, and was thus savory and sweet - really delicious.

We went on to split two secondi, both traditional... but I only remember the name of one of them.  (commence self-flagellation.)

First, a braised beef and polenta dish.  This was really good, but... BUT... they served it with instant polenta!  This was a little disappointing, because polenta's just not that hard to make, and slow-cooked makes SUCH a difference.

Boy, did they make up for that minor slip-up with this osso buco.

Now, for a long time I didn't eat veal.  But, in the spirit of not-imposing-my-morality-on-people-who-have-been-eating-this-for-hundreds-of-years, I dug in.  It's slow-cooked veal, served with risotto milanese (flavored with marrow and saffron).  We totally cleaned this plate, even to the point of digging the amazingly delicious bits of marrow out of the shank bones.  You know, marrow kind of tastes like scallop?  Wow, was this GOOD.

They topped it off with one of the most delicious and simple tiramisus I've ever had.  ( I learned this etymology in my Italian class - tira = pull, mi = me, su = up.  Pull me up, since it's so hard to stand after a full plate of tiramisu.)

All in all, Milan was definitely worth visiting - but I don't think I'd put it at or near the top of my "Places I MUST see in Italy" list.  The sprawling city seems really more geared to business travelers, people on expense accounts, and serious shoppers with money to burn.  The Duomo is spectacular, however.

Tomorrow, the husband and the ladies travel to Arezzo, while I go to class and possibly write another post.  (Promises, promises.)  This weekend?  the Cinque Terre.

girlie

Pizzafest '06

A brief school update before pizzapizzapizza:

Our intrepid and vastly talented teacher Andrea has left the school for a few weeks to tour America. He’ll be giving lectures at various universities and cooking for the insanely prestigious James Beard Foundation.

Not a problem exactly, it just means that a few classes for the next several weeks will be taught by alternate chefs with different levels of specialization. This was illustrated today when I showed up for Creative Italian Cuisine. We were supposedly supposed to learn about butter sculpting. Nothing wrong with that; it actually sounded fairly interesting. The only problem was that our substitute chef didn’t do butter sculpting. Nope, not even a little. Halfway through an odd and confusing “lesson” one of the guys in the class asked “Um, since this is so educational do you mind if we drink some beer?”

Finding no disapproval from the professoressa he left briefly and returned with a few large bottles. Several of the students were sipping away and shaping butter, sipping and shaping, shaping and sipping, when in walked Il Barba (The Beard), the head of the Advanced program. He surveyed the situation:

“Well, you are so bored I see you have turned to drinking.” The beer buyer attempted to sputter an excuse. Il Barba raised an eyebrow. Then he grabbed a glass, snatched the bottle from the prevaricator’s hand, poured himself a tall one and downed it in one swift motion. He inhaled deeply. “Now” he said, “it is not only your problem. Get to work.” And with that he was gone.

You have to love school in Italy.

But I digress. Let’s talk pizza:

So Naples is fun. Naples is always fun. It’s like Italy’s own little Calcutta, except it’s built on the side of a volcano. Naples is dirty, frenetic, loud, and infinitely picturesque. Motorcycles speed down sidewalks, women sell cigarettes from third story pulley systems, the illegal seafood trade is booming, and everywhere there is pizza.

Pizza in Italy seems cliché. In any major town you can find more than a few hawkers of this flatbread specialty along pretty much any street. But in Naples it’s different. These people live pizza. They invented it. They’ve enacted laws to protect it. They erect plaques and statues in its honor. It sparks discussions, debates, arguments and brawls. Most importantly though, it’s damn delicious. Pizza was why we came to Naples.

More accurately, Pizzafest ’06; the eleventh incarnation of a gala devoted to all things dough, sauce and cheese. You may wonder how many pizzas three people can actually eat in two days. Well if you’re us, the answer is ten. It would have been a significantly higher number except for some odd business hours and a few miscalculations on our part, but that’s neither here nor there.

What is there (yes! totally nailed that segue) are some pretty spectacular incarnations of our friendly and beloved pie. In Naples, there are really only two real types of pizza- Marinara and Margherita. Marinara is just topped with tomato sauce, garlic, olive oil, oregano, and sea salt. Margherita with tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella (buffalo is the best), and a few basil leaves. They only come in one size and they’re never cut before arriving at your table.

We arrived latish on Friday night. We dropped off our bags and made a bee-line over to Da Michele. Da Michele is a super old school place that is touted in many guide books of various languages as having pretty much the best pizza in town. Girliepants and I had eaten here once before five or so years ago and remembered it quite fondly.

As always, there was a huge line out front. They don’t do reservations. You show up, take a number and then stand around until a brisk little man pokes his head out the door and mumbles your number quietly. We were number 40. After several hours of loitering around and drinking some pretty bad local wine we heard him call 46. What the hell? We went in waving our sad little scrap of paper and got everything worked out.

We were seated at one of their communal marble-topped tables and ordered pretty much right away as there are only two things on the menu. Oddly, since they are so militant about every other tradition, Da Michele is one of the only places in Naples that offers different diameters of pie. We got two margheritas and a marinara, all in the classic size.

The pizzas were fantastic, but not quite as good as I remember. It seemed like the oven was a bit hot, imparting the prized charred bits before the rest of the dough reached the delicious golden brown stage. It made for a pizza that was a bit on the squishy side and perhaps a little too soft. The tomato sauce was amazing though. It wasn’t too runny and had a nice dispersion of olive oil. The smell of the garlic and oregano on the marinara actually makes your mouth water before the dish reaches the table.

My favorite thing though was the cheese distribution on the margheritas. Cheese is always applied judiciously in Naples, but it takes real skill to cover a pizza in a sparse and seemingly haphazard fashion while still managing to insure gooey dairy deliciousness in every bite. For this feat alone props are owed to Da Michele’s pizzaiuolo (pizza maker fer you ‘mericans). All in all fabulous, but with some room for improvement.

The next day we killed time (in many awesome ways) until we could start our trek over to Pizzafest proper. Round about eight we headed out on the metro to a large convention centerish complex on the outskirts of town. When we got to the front it was a loud, boisterous mish-mosh of hundreds of people milling about, various snack venders (who needs snacks at Pizzafest?) and what appeared to be several people trying to get in line while riding their scooters.

As I have probably mentioned, Italians seem to have some kind of mental block on the concept of a line. Signs were posted all around urging ticket buyers to rispettare la fila, or respect the line. And I have to say surprisingly, it seemed to kind of work. Of course, there were event endorsed scalpers patrolling the edges of the crowd willing to sell tickets for a euro extra if you just couldn’t wrap your mind around the dizzying and dystopic proposal of forming an orderly queue. The scalpers were doing a bustling business.

When we finally got our passes, they included tickets for a pizza, a beer or coke, a coffee, and a limoncello. You just have to love a place were they feel that it’s only right to include an after dinner drink with the price of admission.

Inside the gates, booths were arranged in a large open-air horseshoe. For the festival, they had brought in two dozen huge, multi-ton wood burning ovens (these people are serious about pizza). Twenty-four pizza venders occupied tents and next to the tents each had a seating area for about fifty people. To get a pizza from a certain place you simply had to sit in their area and give them your ticket. It seemed very straightforward.

Right off the bat we decided that we’d try three pizzas from three different places. We did a reconnaissance lap to suss out the prospects. We picked the three best looking stands and headed over to the first, Il Fratellini di Bufalo. The place was busy, but several seats were open so we made our way to the tables. In mid sit, an insane eyed and disheveled waiter started running toward us screaming unintelligibly and flapping several large plates animatedly. Right, apparently there was a waiting list.

We got up apologetically and attempted to add our names. No luck. We asked again only to have waiter guy wave his huge red baboon ass at us some more. After several more attempts and more displays of simian posterior we came to a mutual agreement that we would not be eating at this particular booth. Fine.

On to Vesi. Vesi was next on our roster and they were turning out some seriously good looking food. This time we started with the list and we were seated fairly promptly. We shared our table with two really interesting Neapolitan couples: an architect, a lawyer, an engineer, and a mathematician. We talked to them for a long time which was fun, but then we realized that no one had come to take our order. Drinks appeared. We looked at each other. Were we missing something? The locals sent them away explaining to the staff that they weren’t ours. Still we hadn’t ordered. Pizzas appeared. These too were moved off to another table.

Finally, a guy with a pad popped up beside our table in full order taking mode. We ordered a marinara and a margherita. “Two margheritas,” the guy repeated. No, a marinara and a margherita. “Yes, two margheritas.” No, ONE MARINARA and a margherita. “Two margheritas.” Obviously, we were being punished.

Apparently it wasn’t our poor language skills as our Italian friends were also shaking their heads in dismay. One of them helpfully stepped in and explained, for quite some time, what we actually ordered. “Ooooh,” it dawned on the waiter, “one marinara and one margherita.” Victory. Shortly thereafter some pizzas arrived and were placed before us. Unfortunately, these too were not our pizzas. “Only in Naples,” the engineer proclaimed.

The correct food finally made its way out and it was certainly worth the wait. The crust was perfectly cooked and of just the right thickness. It possessed the trinity of soft, chewy, and crispy. The tomato sauce was wet but not watery and seasoned so well that you probably could have just eaten it with a spoon.

If I had to criticize one thing (and apparently I do) I will say that the cheese could have used a little work. It all kind of melted together in a central pool and got a bit too browned, not able to maintain the allure of individual pockets of snow white yumminess. Regardless, these were the best pizzas that I could remember having in a long while.

Continuing in our vein of bizarre events, I feel it’s worth mentioning that halfway through eating we were approached by a Chinese film crew doing a documentary about Pizzafest for Chinese TV. It was very strange. They came up and talked to the Italians first. I couldn’t really understand what they were saying but they talked for quite a while and then the interviewer grabbed one of their pizzas and ripped off a hunk with his hands and started shoving it into his mouth. He kept talking while he was chewing and then one of the Neapolitans started to interview him using a plastic knife as a microphone. Hey, whatever works.

Next he interviewed us, but I don’t think his English was that great as he seemed very reserved when talking. He asked us where we were from and then asked me for three simple words to describe pizza. He talked to the two girls about how many times they had been to Naples. That was pretty much it. Then they packed up and left.

The next booth we visited was Villa Martusciello. It was a disaster. The crust was intensely salty and had the wrong texture. The sauce was not only salty but also really runny. It slid right off half the pizza and formed a sad little puddle on the opposite side. They did have a really great staff and it was definitely interesting to see so clearly how two very different outcomes can be reached using the exact same ingredients and equipment. However, I don’t think I’d go back for their pizza.

We wrapped up Pizzafest around one with our limoncellos and headed back to our place via cab since we had outlasted all of the public transportation. If I ever get to come back, I definitely think I would spread it out over several days and show up earlier. There were just too many pizzas and not nearly enough time.

On our way out of town we managed to squeeze in one more restaurant, Pizzeria Brandi. Brandi is renowned because it is supposedly the place were the pizza margherita was invented. It’s a little touristy, but they still turn out some pretty amazing food. Mme. Pants and I first ate here on our honeymoon and couldn’t resist an encore visit.

We started with a nice little antipasti plate where everything was tasty, but not as tasty as the little fried zucchini slices that were freaking delicious.

We followed this up with three pizzas which were possessed of all of the key pizza qualities but were a bit on the thick side. They were perfectly prepared and were certainly the prettiest pies we had on this trip. If they had been a bit thinner I might have liked them more than Vesi’s, but as it stands I think Vesi holds the edge for the best all around pizza that we had.

I look forward to pitting them against future competitors.

-L. Pants

A Napoli (senza pizza)

Well, have we had a weekend!  A weekend dripping with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella, along with doppio 00 flour and sea salt.

A weekend, in short, full of pizza and Naples.

(In fact, this weekend of pizza excited me so that this morning, rather than explaining to the secretary of my Italian language school that I was in class last week (passato), I told him that my week was tomato sauce (passata).)

Since my husband is the true lover of pizza in this particular partnership, I will leave the pizza-blogging to him - including the many and varied wonders of PizzaFest '06 - and concentrate on the not-entirely-pizza-related aspects of our weekend.

Friday, we ran across town to the train station to catch a Naples-bound Eurostar train, which got us there in a relatively blistering three and a half hours.  Not bad!  In Naples, we met up with Anna, a girl in Husbear's cookin' school from Maryland.

We stayed in a bed and breakfast near the train station, run by a very nice lady with a very large dog named Pigi - as in, "No, Pigi, no!  Veni qui (come here)!"  The place was adorable, though, with ony two rooms furnished in a way that makes it very clear you are in someone's house.  I'd stay there again.

It was on a tiny street, vico sant'elmo, which we found archetypically Neapolitan.

The place was arrayed around a central courtyard which always seemed to contain a complement of Neapolitan women and children.

Our first morning there, we awoke for cafe, plums, and bread with jam from the proprietress, and then walked to Attanasio for sfogliatelle, a Neapolitan pastry which we'd heard inspires poetry.  It's stuffed with a ricotta and candita (candied citrus rind) filling.

There are two types, and we found we preferred the frolla.  Though apparently not as traditional, I liked this softer, more biscuit-like version to the harder, many layered ricca.

Besides the two kinds of sfogliatelle, we also tried a conrnetto crema (croissant stuffed with cream), and baba, a light spongy bread soaked in rum.  And I mean, SOAKED.

(baba on right, due sfogliatelle frolle on the left.)

Attanasio's pastries were amazing.  They had a stuffed bakery case, full of many more treats we wanted to get our hands on, but we only had so many stomachs between the three of us.

Post-breakfast, we half-drunkenly staggered to the location Rough Guide picked out as the departure point for Mount Vesuvius-bound buses.  Of course, this being southern Italy, we found that the guide's information was out of date and we had missed the last direct bus.  So, around to the circumvesuviana train we went.  Taking this to the stop for Pompeii, we got out and walked down a small hill past souvenir vendors to a waiting bus.

Husbear got on the bus to ask if it was the one we needed to take up Vesuvius, and the driver said, "Yes!  Yes!  You get on now!"  Husbear asked if we needed to buy tickets, and was told "You buy at the top!"

This is a different protocol than most buses in Italy, where you buy your tickets at tabaccherie before boarding and then validate them on the bus, but we shrugged and boarded.  Italy.

We rode with our fellow passengers for about 20 minutes or so up the volcano, occasionally catching glimpses of Naples and, closer in, a sculpture exhibit lining the approach.  Then, we pulled into this large (for Italy) parking lot, anchored by a small green souvenir stand.

A man in his late 70s boarded the bus and let loose a string of Italian.  Seeing that he had achieved an approximate 50 percent comprehension rate, he switched to English and said "You will stop here for thirty minutes, and your bus will then take you up to the place from where you can walk to the crater.  Now you get off the bus, you buy your tickets, you hear a story."

Well, with instructions like that...

We poked around the small souvenir stand for a few minutes, which reminded me of nothing so strongly as it did the private caves in Kentucky and Tennessee - the ones with the "gift shops" full of confederate flags and snowglobes.

Only this one came with a very old dog and a bar piled with crap.

And shelves bursting with glittery volcano-rock horses, and dogs, and cats, and angels, and globes...

And postcards that I can't imagine they had any interest in selling, given that they looked like they had been put into the display rack sometime in 1996 and left out in the elements to age.

It was at about this point that I heard yelling erupting from near the door.  A Chinese woman, traveling with her husband and young son, had picked up a tourist book off of a rack and begun leafing through it.  Our erstwhile owner just lost it on her, yelling "you open it, now you owe me ten euro!"  When the woman protested that the book's plastic cover had in fact already been taken off of the book, the owner reared back and yelled:

"BULLSHIT!"

Somehow, the woman managed to get the book back into satisfactory condition, and put it back on the rack without having to buy it, but I think it was a close thing!

It was at this point that the owner gathered us around at the door of the stand, announcing that it was time for his story.

Apparently, there was a funicular that used to run tourists up to the lip of the crater.  This souvenir stand owner had been the one to run the machinery and sell tickets.  He did this for many years, until the funicular was struck by lightning and had to be rebuilt.  The government of Italy told him, "Antonio, you wait two years, you will work again with the funicular."

But then:  "The greenpeace, the environmentalists, they say, 'no funicular!'.  So, every day, I am punished, and I must tell this same story again to many tourists.  So, you buy information book, I will include news story about me, and I will put my blue finger on it (at this point, he held up an ink-stained index finger), only 10 euro."

He led us inside and charged 8.60 euros (face value) each for our round-trip bus tickets.  Upon closer examination under the outside light, we realized that the tickets we bought had been validated three times each - but at that point, what were we going to do?  File onto the bus and revalidate the tickets, of course.

The bus took us up to a new parking lot, this one lined with multiple souvenir stands and bars, with a ticket stand at the far end.  Relieved to have arrived at the correct location, we got off the bus, bought our tickets, and began the ascent to Mt. Vesuvius' crater lip.

The weather was GREAT - probably 20 degrees cooler at the top than down in the heart of Naples.

(Husbear and Anna begin the climb)

Just past the entrance, a (husband and wife?) team handed us our very own walking sticks.  It was free, though they had a tip box and we gave them a couple of euro.

The ascent was fairly steep, though not too intense.  There were great views of Naples and the surrounding suburbs on one side, and on the other - a lightly smoking crater.

Unfortunately, the volcano falls squarely in that category of sights that are extremely difficult to photograph, in that it's very large and the views in each direction are remarkably varied.

In this picture, you can sort of see Herculaneum - it's to the right, under a patch of green.  Helpful, I know.

The crater lip we were walking on is the product of the last major eruption of the volcano in 1944. 

Husbear kept trying to get that perfect picture - I do think he shot some good ones!

The trail was maintained really well - I didn't fall through a single fissure.  Though there were quite a few people there, the trail was long enough and wide enough that it didn't feel oppresive.  Plus, we just kept enjoying the weather, and that lovely breeze that was so hard to come by in Naples.

After what seemed to me to be a good bit of light hiking (but would probably be more accurately described as a "stroll") we finally made it to the top, where a - guess - souvenir stand sold items made of sparkly rock, as well as shots of espresso and glasses of Lachryma Christi, a wine cultivated on the slopes of Vesuvius.

Man, sometimes I really love Italy.

After conquering (via a well-signed trail and busses) Mount Vesuvius, it was time to head back into Naples to see if we could conquer PizzaFest.

But first, an enormous bag of fried food.  It had been a while since our cheese- and cream-stuffed pastries, and we were getting a little peckish.

Friggitorie can be found all over Naples, selling such fried lovelies as krocche (fried potato croquettes), arancini (fried sausage-stuffed rice balls), fiorilli (cheese-stuffed squash blossoms), et cetera et cetera.

We got a big bag of everything plus et cetera (minus those pizzas you see in the bottom left - we were on our way to PizzaFest and had to draw the line somewhere!)

Yup... all of the above, plus fried polenta triangles, fried eggplant, and fried bread (!).

I don't think I can adequately describe the tastiness in this bag.

An Italian oddity - no napkins, just folded computer paper.  We've noticed this everywhere - in fact, today for lunch I bought a calzone wrapped in computer paper.  Just worth a mention.

PizzaFest was an all-inclusive extravaganza INCLUDING disco spettacolo, which Husbear will tell you about later.

Suffice it to say that we were out of bed a bit late on Sunday, though we still managed to fit in a sfogliatelle or two.  About 10:30, we found ourselves in a funicular heading up the hill towards Castel Sant'Elmo, a 14th-century political prison with great views of Naples.

I had the same reaction to this building that I did to the Forte Belvedere in Florence - I wouldn't want to storm it by myself!

Castel Sant'Elmo had stunning views across Naples.  Mt. Vesuvius was so high up that most everything was covered by haze, but at the castel it was much easier to see the lay of the land.

Compared to Vesuvius, even the height of the Castel Sant'Elmo didn't shield us from the September heat.  There wasn't much shade on top of the building, so we beat a restreat back down and through the streets, heading in the direction of the port.

I had never been in this area of Naples before, the hilly area known as the Vomero, and I was really taken by its beauty.  We didn't run into many people (perhaps the heat of the day kept people inside?) but the folks we did run into were local and very nice.  A teenager helped us with the last little stretch to the funicular station when we came close to getting lost, walking us almost to the entrance of the station.

Back down in the area of town close to the port, it was quite hot again.  And we were hungry.  Pizzatime!

But first, a little something to cool off.

That's real Italian ice, in the form of frozen lemoade complete with bits of rind.  It was really refreshing and tasted of actual lemon, not that fake lemon pledgy cleaning product yuck.

And then - one more pizza, and back to the station for our trains to Florence.

I am SO HAPPY we made it to Naples for pizzafest!  Though we've been to the city twice before, both times were just for one night and we didn't have a chance to explore.  This trip, I was even getting used to the "step off the curb in front of moving traffic" method of crossing the street.

Husbear has about 150 pictures of pizza to go through before he can even imagine crafting a post - hopefully, there will be an illustrated ode to pizza here before too long.

arrivederci and ci vediamo!

girlie

The Times They Are a Changin'

Wow.  So things are not what we were expecting.  They are totally much more kick ass.  Firstly, I showed up to class on Monday morning and I wasn't on the roster.  Whoops.  I chalked it up to Italian efficiency.  However, when I got out of my first class I saw a crowd of people buzzing around our newly posted test results.  I went over and discovered that not only had I made it into the intermediate level, I had in fact been promoted into the advance professional level.  What?!

Cecilia, the head of the school office, saw me furrowing my brow in consternation, attempting to decipher what this meant.  She took pity on me and came over to explain that I had a whole new schedule.  This is a very good thing.  My new classes only have six people (as opposed to 15 or so) and are all taught by amazingly talented chefs.  We're going to be studying a lot of haute cuisine and molecular gastronomy and whatnot, so I'd better put on my big boy pants.

(My cool learnin' stuff kitchen.)

In more confusing and distressing news, I also placed into intermediate Italian language classes.  I can't stress this enough people, I DON'T speak Italian. Whatthehell?

So in my first awesome cooking class, Creative Italian Cuisine, we made some pretty cool stuff. First we made a frozen scampi mousse in the shape of strawberries.  The adorable little things are served with poppy seeds for verisimilitude and chopped  peanuts for garnish.

We also made an amazing garlic bread foam with anchovies and red pepper coulis. (Insert giddy laughter and slapping me here.)  All in all things look extremely promising. 

As expected, in her two days of language class Mme. Pants now speaks amazing Italian.  She's naming everything in our house and flirting with old men in cafes.  I think she may be some kind of linguistics robot.  I'll let you know if my theory pans out.

-L. Pants

Follow the Winding Meat Road

Dario Cecchini- the Dante quoting, cleaver wielding, madman of Panzano. The old school, didactic, proselytizing merchant of meat. The iconoclastic, larger than life, maestro of all things flesh.

Dario Cecchini- the most famous butcher in the world.

If you are a vegetarian on hiatus (or anyone else for that matter) and you want to learn about meat, this is the man that you go to see. Mario Batali and his salumi-vending father both seek Cecchini’s advice. Talented chefs vie to study under him. Basically, if you need to know anything about the various parts of a domesticated hoofed mammal, you should speak with Dario. We needed to know.

Two months ago, Dario opened a small restaurant called Solociccia (“only meat”) across the street from his macelleria, or butcher shop. The place does five meals a week; two on Friday, two on Saturday, and one for Sunday lunch. We called ahead and booked seats for Sunday- rumored to be the prime performance.

We began our pilgrimage to the Chianti hill town of Panzano early on Sunday morning. The bus left just after eight. Mme. Pants, new-guy-from-cooking-school-Mike, and I made our way on windy roads through the land of Sangiovese, terracotta, and suicidal bicyclists for just over an hour. We arrived to a lovely little village just gearing up for its big monthly street fair.

The bus deposited us almost right in front of the Antica Macelleria Cecchini, Signore Dario’s den of operation. It was early yet though, and we hadn’t steeled ourselves for the full experience. We chose instead to peruse the town and sample some of the many local products on display.

We wandered for several hours buying some delicious olive oils, wines, and jams. We also tried some local figs, prickly pears, and wild fennel pollen while taking in the shut-your-stupid-face-those-aren’t-real vistas.

We came across an hilarious cat ramp made out of wood and plaster feet that led out of a second story window. We talked to local artists and confused Irishmen. Life was good. We were starting to get hungry.

But here’s the thing about Solociccia: it’s not exactly a restaurant. In fact, the manifesto on the door proudly states “This is not a restaurant.” “It is the home of a butcher.” This being the case, things are done a little differently. The doors do not open until 1 o’ clock. When they do, everyone is seated communally and they just start bringing out food. There are no menus.

(Dario's Shrine to the death of the Bistecca Fiorentina after the EU outlawed meat served on the bone because of mad cow concerns.)

Since it was not yet one, we returned to the macelleria to do some recon and bide our time. This, my friends, was no ordinary butcher shop. It was like a tiny corporeal Disneyworld. We walked through the beaded entryway into a tiled room swelling with classical music. A small man started pouring us glasses of wine out of a huge bottle covered in straw.

A long beef and pork hors d'oeuvre buffet stretched across one end of the room. Cow carcasses swung gently behind a wood and glass door, while an aproned assistant threaded the crowd balancing a dozen head-sized meat balls on long plank of wood. Things looked promising.

We squeezed our way around the crowd and made for the food. The first thing we got our little paws on was one of Dario’s signature creations, Burro del Chianti. This fluffy white stuff is actually pig fat creamed with olive oil, a touch of vinegar, rosemary, garlic, salt and pepper. People all around us were eagerly stuffing their mouths with it and we quickly followed suit. Sweet Jeebus it’s good. Rich, herby, and slightly salty, you know you shouldn’t eat much of it but that doesn’t really stop you from smearing a little more on your crusty bread.

Next was the Sushi del Chianti, a mild beef tartare with a hint of lemon. This was followed by some small slices of polpettone, a ridiculously well prepared meatloaf served with a bright red and insanely delicious sweet, hot, and tangy mostarda. We finished up our grazing with a slice of tantalizingly tender finnochiona that’s flavor of fennel and black pepper really popped while still managing to blend nicely with the rest of the ground up business. This was a man who loved his meats.

Having managed to hold out until one, we made our way across the street to partake of the feasting. We arrived eagerly to a large glass door that was quite clean and quite locked. Oh right. Italy. I forgot. At one fifteen the doors opened and we were seated along with the rest of the gathered patrons.

The first things to arrive were quartini of the house wine. This was followed shortly by water and then a small wave of antipasti. The crostini di sugo were slices of bread covered with a beef ragu that was deceptively spicy.

The insalata medicea was a lovely mix of chick peas cooked with sopressata and then dressed with raw red onion, minced orange zest and olive oil. The chick peas were quite plump and held their texture nicely. The sopressata added depth while the piquancy of the onion and the aromatics of the zest made for a fun combination that made me shovel it into my face.

These were followed with a playful presentation of small meat balls wrapped around sprigs of rosemary. The meat was of extremely high quality, so in an effort not to screw it up they were served quite rare, cooked only on one side.

After the antipasti, platters of fiocco di manzo al forno appeared. These were juicy cuts of a prime rib that had been slow roasted in the oven. No real secrets to this dish, but the delectable crust that developed around the fatty outside bits brought at least one of our table mates to tears.

Accompanying the manzo al forno were several large tureens of caponata di verdure. This was blend of stewed vegetables including zucchini, eggplant, red peppers, potatoes and onions. For a meat man, this was a damn fine vegetarian dish.

Following this came some boiled beef with more vegetables in a green onion sauce or tenerumi in salsa verde. The cuts of meat were very cartilaginous. The whitish pieces were soft but they coated your mouth with a gluey sensation. The onion sauce was very onion saucy and while I’m sure it was all quite traditional I felt that this dish could have used some heat to pop it up a bit.

With the tenerumi they also brought us huge bowls of fagioli all’olio- white beans with oil. They were cooked to the right texture, but like many places we’ve tried them in Tuscany they were almost entirely devoid of salt. Again, maybe it’s traditional but come on people, break out the sodium! (I hear it’s not even expensive these days.)

The final dish was stracotto chiantigiano, a rump cut of beef braised long and low with Chianti, onions, and plenty of rosemary. The beef was tender and tasty, but I think the onions were the best part. They soaked up all of that yummy red wine and beef stock flavor and went all mushy-like. I didn’t do it at the time, but if you just spread some over a hunk of grilled bread you’d be dealing with some seriously formidable gastronomic pickins.

The meal was finished off with coffees all around and some delightful little olive oil cakes filled with raisins, pine nuts, and large strands of lemon zest. The cakes made a nice accompaniment as they weren’t too sweet and the citrus gave them an unmistakable bitter twang.

Now, properly stuffed for roasting ourselves, we rolled our way back onto the streets of Panzano. We did a little more walking in a paltry attempt to work off a bit of our gorging and then hopped the next bus back to Florence. The ride back was uneventful and truthfully it passed in a haze. Tiny pigs and cows frolicked around our heads as we replayed the day’s events.

All in all it was a fantastic experience which definitely shed new light on the traditional Italian love and respect for meat. Dario Cecchini is an impressive yard stick against which to measure all things butchered. And as an added bonus, we now don’t even have to eat for the rest of the week.

Salve.

L. Pants

Solociccia: Directly across the street from Antica Macelleria Cecchini, at Via XX Luglio 11, Panzano in Chianti, Italy

Reservations strongly recommended for the restaurant - butcher shop, reservations... not needed.  055 85 2727

Orientating the Italian Way

Thursday kicked off the start of the year long culinary arts program here in Florence, Italy. The day began in the administrative branch of the two buildings that comprise Apicius. The orientation started promptly at 10am- Italian time. Tenish. Tenishish.

The group of about sixty of us was greeted by Barbara, an eager brunette who sports that deep Italian tan and a big smile. She welcomed us all and went over some of the rules and regulations. Various packets and pamphlets were distributed by name. We discussed the different programs- baking, wine, cooking and whatnot- and what was involved with each.

During this time a sheet was passed around so that everyone could write down their addresses, emails and countries of origin. Since I was one of the last folks to get this fun little paper, I was able to peruse everyone’s nationalities: Turkish, Mexican, Venezuelan, Thai, Israeli, Japanese, Croatian, Hungarian, Canadian, Taiwanese, even a few Italians; all in all a pretty impressive mix.

At this point, somewhat inexplicably, Barbara launched into a lecture about ATMs. “Here there are no ATM’s,” she explained. “We are calling them bancomats and not the ATMs. You will wonder all day looking for ATMs and asking all you want. ATM, ATM, you will say, but no. It will not be. In front of you though will be the bancomat, many bancomats, but you will not know if you are not knowing what to call them.”

While this may be true, it did seem a little odd. I mean they’re everywhere and they look like ATM’s. Also, most of the people are in their mid twenties. How big of a problem could this be? I pictured some horrible past episode: A student destitutely roaming the twisting streets of Florence, clutching fistfuls of hair. “Why God does this cursed city have no ATMs! Why have you plagued me with such close approximations that look like ATMs and dispense money to other people, but are not labeled with the acronym that I am used to!” It must have been a sad sight.

When I finally refocused on the events at hand, I was treated to a prime example of Italian efficiency. “We are running ahead of schedule,” Barbara proclaimed, apparently referencing some sort of internal personal timetable. “We shall take a ten minute break.”

About fifteen minutes later, when everyone had reassembled, we each signed a sheet listing the rules of conduct. These included, but are certainly not limited to:

1. You must wear a clean chef’s jacket.       
2. You must wear black pants.      
3. If you miss 21% (?!) of your class, you will not pass the class.      
4. You cannot photocopy your books.                                                                   And finally my personal favorite-                                     
5. You may not eat the food you prepare in class. Food may only be tasted to evaluate its quality under supervision of the chef/instructor.

Of course. You may not eat it, you may only taste it. Perfectly reasonable. Then the signed lists were whisked away from all of us, leaving no one with a copy. These are the important rules. You had your chance to see them, now follow them to the letter or be punished. Perfectly reasonable.

So after the break it took about ten minutes to sign the forms, and then…time for lunch. That, my friends, is some excellent time management.

After an hour or so we coalesced for a “Walking Tour of the City.” First we meandered the few blocks over the other section of the school, the actual kitchen branch. We descended en masse upon three elderly couples eating some sort of fruit crostada that they had no doubt paid a hefty sum to learn to make. They stared up at us with wide eyes, pastry crumbs and sweetened cheese clinging to the corners of their mouths. We stared back confused and shifty. After a few moments the old people went back to their wine and tart and we were hustled back out onto the street.

On the move again, we made our way to the train station. Yes, finally, the train station. How would I ever have known what this was or how to find it without our trusty guide? After sampling its glory, Barbara announced our next stop – on to the Post Office. I tingled with anticipation.

Trundling forward, we passed an interregional bus line office – something that was of interest to me as we are trying to find a cheap way to Naples for Pizzafest ’06. I ducked in for a second to see if I could glean any helpful information and in a deft maneuver, managed to lose a crowd of sixty slowly shuffling people all carrying bright red notebooks. Masterful I know.

Since I remembered that the next highlight attraction was a post office, I got a helpful lady cop to point me toward the nearest one. As it was on the other side of the train station, I took off through the building to see if I could make up some time. Now the train station is about a 100 yards across. In the three minutes or so that it took me to traverse the distance, I was told “You are for the drugs,” “You are against the drugs,” “You look like this particular Italian futbol player,” “Well, no you don’t really, but you do have a mustache.” These were all good to know.

Emerging on the other side I saw nothing. I was about to return to the school when around the corner came my ambling pack of cohorts. I rejoined the pod and we concluded the walking tour by going back through the train station and onto our place of origin. I was enlightened.

Back at the school, it was time to get everyone’s coat measurements and collect the last of the student fees. It was two o’ clock. Displaying more Italian efficiency, they announced that this was not scheduled until three- so we could either wait or leave and come back.

By about four thirty, I was finally able to say "extra-large" and hand them 350 euros. As a final added touch they told us all that they could not possibly give us receipts today as we would all be there until after nine if this were the case. Joyfully, we can pick up our receipts tomorrow when we return for Day Two of orientation.

Day Two Update:

Today we heard more about the ATM vs. Bancomat controversy. Finally, it seems to be becoming clear.

We briefly met all of the head teachers. They seem nice enough and very earnest. Andrea, the head of the culinary arts program, is super intense and seems to want to get down to business. It will be interesting to see if he loosens up as the semester goes on.

Following the introductions, we were treated to not one but two extensive lectures on drinking and how to do it properly. The second was even accompanied by a power point presentation that included slides of fluid and such. (I’ll spare you the pictures).

Barbara gave us the first one:

“Above all Do- Not- Get- Drunk! It is not a useful thing and nobody wants to see it. There is nothing more to say about we don’t like the drunkenness. Do not drink things that are awful. Appreciate good wine. Do not show up to class with a face showing that you had a very, very bad and awful night. If you are drunk do not think to call me. I will come but when I come I will beat you!”

Well said.

After our Don’t Be A Jackass lectures, it was on to placement testing. Since I’m enrolled in the intermediate program I had to prove I wasn’t a ham-fisted hack. The first trial was an insanely hard Italian language deal that I’m pretty sure I mangled. The next were written and practical culinary tests. The written one was fairly easy with questions like How do you make a risotto? and List as many Italian cheeses as you can and describe their culinary applications.

The practical part consisted of making a basic tomato sauce using ingredients from a preselected set. Andrea told us that some of them were included to throw us off – or maybe not. He seemed to really like mine. He said it was tasty and he liked my selection of ingredients, but I should have added the basil later. C'est la vie.

We won’t find out the results until Monday, so here’s to a slightly apprehensive weekend. Wish me luck peoples.

-L. Pants