The New Gastronomes

Being one of the only two Italians in our group is not easy: you are a reference point, a translator/interpreter, an assistant, the key to understanding this country and its people with their peculiar, weird, sometimes frustrating culture, traditions, habits, and bureaucracy (eg. “Stop mixing carbohydrates!” “No pizza for lunch!” “Shops? Open? On Sunday? You’re kidding!” etc.)

Most of all, though, being a UNISG student, I feel as if I am an ambassador to Italian food. The most important question is then: who’s the best purveyor of Italian food? Easy: your mom, or more specifically in this case MY mom, the lady with the flowery apron you see in the picture above.

So there you have it: my mum, who speaks only a couple of words of French (useless in this case) teaching us how to make caponata (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caponata): my fellow classmates Caro, from Ecuador (with the yellow top), Pan, from Thailand (with the white top), and Jesse (manning the saucepan) from the U.S…. Oh, and me behind the camera helping with communication and absolutely enjoying the scene: priceless!

Only at UNISG.…

Like most of my UNISG peers, I’ve had the great fortune to travel over as long a break as I will ever have until retirement. At this point I suspect I have stepped foot in approximately 153 overpriced and unmemorable ristorantes (Italy), restaurantes (Spain), res-trahnts (Boston), restauraces (Czech Republic), restorans (Croatia), and pubs (Ireland), as well as several good ones and a handful of gems. Aside from the prominence of bread products, I’ve discovered no common thread between restaurants in all six countries, save for dreaded, unforgiveable restaurant names.

I am both pleased and horrified at the realization that inappropriate, uninspired, or perhaps just misguided restaurant names are not a wholly American entity. The first of many that stand out is the O.K. Chinese Restaurant in Fayetteville, West Virginia, a town that my friends and I white-water rafted near for six years running. Was it just okay? we wondered. Sort of good? Sadly we would never find out, despite its shopping-center appeal, though the name has provided years of amusement. When arriving in Bra, however, a long way from West Virginia and Chinese-American delicacies, I was disheartened to come across the Smile Caffè on my first venture into town, complete with a giant yellow smiley face just in case something was lost in translation. And thus began the string of stride-slowing names I’ve witnessed in Europe. There was Bar Fod [sic] and the Obama Take Away on our first study trip to Puglia; Casa del Bimbo, a nondescript and unfortunately closed restaurant at Lago Maggiore; the contemplative Gus O’Connor’s Pub, an apparently famous, 178-year-old institution in Doolin, Ireland; an anomalous Green Tomato Pizzeria in Prague; and many more that I could not commit to memory after my initial dismissal.       

As a rule, I have up until now refused to patronize any establishment without the decency to choose a respectable name (though it appears I capture many of these storefronts on camera). I consider it almost offensive to afford as much thought to the name attached to one’s business as to choosing one’s outfit in the morning. How can a place so devoid of cleverness in its moniker possibly serve up impressive food? As chance would have it, I am ending my summer vacation in Prague, and there seems to be an abundance of ridiculous appellations. Out of sheer necessity, I was forced into the restaurant Wigwam last night for dinner, as everywhere nearby was closed. Even worse, I ordered tom yum kung (Thai food in a Native American restaurant in the Czech Republic?). The soup, however, proved to be yum indeed, appropriately spicy, hearty, and colorful, the server was pleasant, and the price very reasonable. Even more recently, I ordered takeout from a restaurant simply called Halal Fast Food (the samosa is still lodged in my small intestine), which came recommended and happened to be directly across from the apartment that is home for the next four days. The chicken tikka masala, mango lassi, and aforementioned samosa were fantastic, also spicy and very rich. In retrospect, I realize that the name of the standout restaurant from San Sebastian, Spain—perhaps my best summer food experience—remains a complete mystery. We tried to find it again the next day but neither my classmate nor I remembered what it was called; I’m not sure I ever even looked.   

So, it appears, the quality of food in a restaurant is not necessarily in direct correlation with the quality of its name. Perhaps the owners simply want the food to stand for itself, with no gimmicks, or only want to attract a local clientele. Perhaps the name was inherited, if new management took over. Or perhaps some made promises to their five-year-old children that they could name the restaurant. Whatever the reason, I intend to be a bit less judgmental in my future restaurant selections. Thanks be, because I have ten more meals left to eat in Prague.

I grew up in a big and warm family in which people from three different generations lived together. Like most Asian families, women in my family work outside the home, take care of house chores, and look after their kids. This helped me have a very close relationship with my mom, my grandmom, and my aunts. All of them love cooking, and this passion was passed on to me. My mom always told me, “Fo

od is the most important thing to me. Even if I’m not wealthy, I will always provide healthy and good food for my children.” She practiced this not only with our family but also by sharing food with our neighbors. As well, when we had dinner together, she would say, “Learn to be a giver not a receiver. The more you give, the more you receive. Happiness will be returned to fulfill your mind.” At the time I didn’t realize how important family time was; only now that I am living away from home, I realize that I miss it a lot. However, this summer I discovered a similar meaning of home and family in a very distant place, with a totally different culture, but fulfilling in the same way.

This summer I traveled to Tuscany with my friends and stayed with our classmate’s family for a week. We had a very warm welcome and a very great time. Luca’s parents looked after us like we were their own children. This was the first time in Italy that I could feel and experience a real home. During the week we stayed there, we woke up with breakfast on the table and we had delicious dinners with them every night after coming back from our daily trips.

Luca’s mother showed us that she loves food and cooking. I could see that her responsibilities at home are the same as

those of the women in my family. I know only a few Italian words but I could understand her perfectly. This proved to me that relationships between mothers and kids have similar boundaries; a mother’s love is universal. This is why I could feel her love, care, and concern through her food. She showed this with all the time and patience that she used to prepare the different dishes that she cooked for us. Besides, she chose all the best quality ingredients from their original regions in Italy. She told us, “We are what we eat, so we need good food for our good health.”

One example is when they invited us for Sunday lunch with their family. During lunch we were chatting, laughing, and enjoying delicious food. This family time between the youngest and the oldest generations fulfilled me a lot. I sat there and listened to the conversations, which I didn’t understand, but I could feel love, happiness and warmness surrounding me in the fresh Sunday air.

After a countryside lunch in a Tuscan forest, with pecorino cheese to please my usual caprices and a high-quality prosciutto sold by an arrogant butcher–its flavor of course completely justified his pride–we walked up the hill to the Camaldoli Monastery. Even though the local pharmacy elegantly displayed a collection of homemade products, the only thought that invaded my mind was the next local dish we would try and what new combinations awaited us for our nightly Tuscan dinner. I was distracted by a book: not surprisingly the cover had a picture of rich, melted chocolate, and three words that succeeded in creating guilt in its target: gluttony, worse, sin. I have to admit I was the ideal victim at that moment, so I turned away, laughing about the irony.

I thought about those words again after an Italian dinner at our friend’s home, when his father mentioned a common saying in Italy: “Ne uccide più la gola della spada” (Gluttony kills more than the sword). He meant it as a joke after looking at our satisfied, impatient faces, waiting to see what else would surprise us from the kitchen, and yes, we had already eaten dessert. I wondered how food could ever become a sin, although the answer was simpler than I expected. Without wanting to criticize religion, especially since I was raised as a Catholic, I recognize that some sins come from natural human behaviors—especially those that provide pleasure. So it is obvious how food could turn into a sin, but what religion might ignore, and what I vividly experienced that night, is that for Italian culture, offering more food is a symbol of warmth, welcome, showing passion, extending family time around the table, sharing new topics of conversation, teaching us something else about traditions, remembering a funny story about their past, praising a recipe from another Italian region, showing pride in one’s identity and finally, asking questions about our cultures and seeking to include each other in a sacred moment. Isn’t this one of the real kinds of pleasure that is involved in food? The one we all try to rescue? So even though earlier in the day I was confronted by my own personal jury, ironically being judged by a cover of a book, I thought: If this kind of pleasure is a sin, deep inside, can’t we proudly admit that we are all sinners?

First day in Corsica. Very early in the morning, after spending the night on a ferry, the  four of us arrived in Corsica’s capital, Ajaccio. I was about to spend my summer holidays with a lovely French family on the Island of beauty, la Corse. I couldn’t be more excited to discover a land that has kept its natural resources almost untouched, remaining no more than beautiful beaches, mountains, and rivers. Apart from that, Corsica has a really fascinating history to tell. Since 259 BC until today, Corsicans have been in an ongoing battle to gain their independence. The island’s strategic position attracted the attention of the Mediterranean and European powers: Spain, Pisa, Genoa, Britain, the Moors, and France.

To start our holidays, the first thing we did as we landed was to visit the local market in the main square of Ajaccio. I was amazed how the local food was being sold, more as a souvenir than as just food, to the thousands of tourists coming from all over the world. (I have to mention that the stream of tourists was sometimes disturbing.) We bought all the groceries that we needed: brousse (fresh cheese), Tomme Corse (hard cheese), saucisson, canistrelli (biscuits), rouges (fish) and gateau de chataigne (chestnut cake). After a nice moment at the market we drove to Porticcio, the town where we would stay for the whole month in a beautiful granite house, owned by the Miniconi family.

Fourth day in Corsica. Eight o’clock in the morning, and I woke up because I heard a lot of talking in the kitchen. Mary France was with a woman I hadn’t seen before. Her name was Antoinette, and she takes care of the family house. She is a real Corsican woman who lives up in the mountains at Grosetto Prugna, and comes from a family that used to speak only Corse among themselves. (After being on the island all this time, I could see how proud Corsicans are of their origins, considering themselves first Corsican, and second French.) As I entered the kitchen, Mary France introduced me and told Antoinette about my master of Food Culture and Communications at UNISG. After hearing this, Antoinette proposed that we go and see her cousin Michel Oppo, who produces Corsican cheese and charcuterie in her village. It would be an excellent opportunity for me to get to know a local producer and his products.

Eighth day in Corsica. After lunch, we got into the car and headed to Grosseto Prugna. Our visit sounded so interesting that even Pierre and Antoine joined us. It took us just 40 minutes to get there. The little village was so beautiful that it seemed to come out from a fairy tale. Everything seemed so calm and quiet. There were no tourists around. There were just locals, sitting on the bancs near the fountain and watching people pass by.

After a couple of minutes walking around town we found the producer’s house. He was already waiting for us. He introduced himself and walked us to his small and humid cellar with the unmistakable smell of charcuterie. Michel told us that we came at a very bad time, because he didn’t have much left. This year he had been selling more product than the past years, because small producers are disappearing. “The demand of artisanal and real charcuterie is bigger than the supply,” he said. He is one of the small producers who raises his pigs for at least 14 months and actually feeds them with chestnuts. Sadly, now the majority of Corsican charcuterie is produced on a semi-industrial basis, in which the meat is imported either from the European continent or from Argentina to the island, and is then labeled as Corsican.

Twentieth day in Corsica. Pierre, Antoine, and I decided to extend our biking day a little bit further. This holiday has been the first time in my life that I have biked so LONG. In the mornings we biked to beautiful places in the mountains. As a sports lover, I enjoyed the effort to bike uphill until my legs hurt and then feel pain the whole day long. But the best thing was the incredible landscapes we got to see either on our way to the top or at the end in a picturesque village.

This day we started our trip at Lake Tola and finished it at Bastelica. It was a great route because on the way we had the chance to see a big farm where the pigs were kept around a chestnut tree. There was no question that we would stop to take a closer glance. There they were, these big gorgeous animals looking at us with their calm eyes. They appeared to be really healthy and joyful. They didn’t have a clue, but in a few months they were going to be transformed into delightful prisuttu, coppa, or lonzu by dedicated and passionate Corsican producers.

Twenty-ninth day in Corsica. As I am packing to leave, I really wish one thing. I wish that everybody in the world can have the opportunity, at least once, to see and connect themselves to the food they eat, just as I did this summer. I definitely know that I want to have this connection my whole life because I enjoy it. It is now a part of me and I want to share this passion with the people I love and with anyone else interested in it.

[Mary France: a dedicated housewife and excellent cook (63 years old); Pierre: a well known othorhinolaryngologist (65 years old); Antoine: afrocuban musician (28 years old), Mary France´s and Pierre´s son]

TWO CAFFÈ E TE STORIES–

or Just a Confused Australian!

An aside…

I love the fact one can buy a pastry in any style of café/bar in Italy and it is always fresh, soft, and absolutely melt-in-the-mouth, as it has been made barely hours before.

The cafe/bar at the Bra train station is no exception. A rather colourful place at the best of times, with much loitering by locals, drinking and chatting outside.

I was served by a no-frills lady with bright rouge, spikey short hair, and spotted balloon shorts. Unsual look for this town, which is fairly conservative.

I ordered my coffee and marmelada croissant in Italian—yes as soon as the first vowel is uttered they know you are not Italian, and so they try a pidgin English—meanwhile I continue to persevere with my Italian, as lento as it is. It is the only way to learn.

I then realised I had not asked for the coffee to be take-away, so I re-placed my order, to lots of scowling and hand gestures from said server. I got my order and the man at the counter showed me the bill—il conto—that read €6.20,  but he said to give him just €5.00. Okay? Not sure what I missed, not really knowing the language or the nuances, and this seemed very bizzare. Maybe take-away coffees are cheaper?

As I walked out of the bar, I heard the loud voice of the woman yelling,  “presto, presto!” At first I felt a chill go down my spine and my instincts asking me, “What have I done, not given enough money?” I stopped dithering and raced back to find I had not taken my zucchero or spoons. Now I had an audience of many of the colourful characters smiling at me. Embarrassed, I just looked bewildered, as she threw them at me and scowled once again. Okay, thanks. Grazie mille!!!

STORY 2

The trattoria near my college has a lovely signora who continually helps me with my Italian grammar. I ask for a large bottle of water: una grande bottiglia di acqua …frizzante… and then un macchiato, senza zucchero, grazie a lei. It’s a lot of fun. The other day I asked for a tea. Un te caldo con latte. Okay, okay, the hot tea part is okay, the younger girl who was serving seemed fine with my order.The signora was watching the whole thing with arms folded, and a glint of amusement in her eye. I could see this simple order was going to take on a complexity that need not have been there.

Poor signorina. She got the plastic cup out slowly, and stood at the coffee machine, pouring the boiling water into the cup, taking as long as she could with this simple task. I could then tell she had no idea what to do next and hoped that by going about this part of the order and taking her time, it would bring about one of two things: either I would leave or the order would change.

The signora watched, summing up the situation quickly. She looked at me and smiled and said something in too-fast–to-catch Italian. I figured from the hand gestures and looks directed at the girl that she knew what I wanted and that the signorina did not. So she let the poor girl place the water in my cup and bring it to me with a tea bag and a blank look. At this stage the signora started to tell her what to do and pointed to me. I kept saying “con latte, no limone…” The signora kept telling her “no limone,” and I held up the small jug of milk on the counte.rThe signora took the cup and the tea bag, opened the packaging, and placed the bag in the boiling water. Qua… allora. Yes, the girl got it. I then poured the latte into my te and smiled, as did the signora. The girl just stared at us and smiled as she realised how to do it. The signora, looked very pleased with herself and nodded at us both. An interesting moment passed through us all.

There’s a unique joy when you suddenly realize you’ve communicated with ease, not just a concept, but something of yourself in another language. That hasn’t happened for me in Italian yet.

In the meantime, I have the best teachers in the shops and markets of Bra. Rosana at the Piazza Giolitti farmer’s market sells the most vibrant vegetables, and I’m addicted to her peppery arugula. She happily greets me with “canadese,” the word a term of endearment on her lips. Her expressive hands flutter as she describes how to slice the black celery just so, toss it with parsley, good Umbrian olive oil, and shaved fresh parmigiano from her friend Ivan’s stall down the way. With every mezzo kilo of produce she places carefully in my bags, we repeat the vocabulary in Italian until I can say it properly. I find myself rolling the rich syllables over my tongue as I prepare the vegetables, just to hear the musical cadence of the language.

But it is the “benissimo” from the woman at the pastry shop that feels like a benediction.  Every time I push aside the beaded screen that marks her doorway, I am greeted with a vivacious smile and a new topic of conversation. One day it’s about my job at home; the next visit we discuss our families. Regardless, not a word of English is allowed. Each time, she gently guides my fumbling efforts at sentence structure into a semi-coherent phrase. And passes my strudel di mele over the counter with gracious approval.

If asked by a traditional lambic brewer whether you are familiar with what constitutes a lambic beer do not nod and follow up by mumbling fruit beer. While this answer is not 100% incorrect, why not attempt a response that does not provoke eye-rolling and head-shaking, which I experienced during my visit to Cantillon Brewery in Brussels, Belgium? As a self-proclaimed beer lover, this was utter humiliation.

What is so special about Cantillon Brewery?

Cantillon Brewery is the last traditional lambic brewery is Brussels. Technically, the natural yeasts necessary to produce traditional lambics only exists in Belgium, which means Cantillon is possibly the last traditional lambic brewery in the world.

What makes a beer a lambic?

While one hour of touring plus two hours of drinking does not make me an expert, I do know that traditional lambic brewing relies on the allowance of spontaneous fermentation and use of wooden barrels. This means no yeast is added to induce alcoholic fermentation. Instead, fermentation occurs due to the reaction between the natural yeasts in the air and the sugar in the liquid (wort) that comes from steeping grains in hot water (mashing). This fermentation takes place in oak or chestnut barrels and can continue for three years.

"time does not respect what is done without him"

What do lambics taste like?

Lambic beers have a very distinct taste that reminds me of cider or a sour beer, while they are also rather flat compared to most other beers. This because true lambics rely only on natural carbonation that comes from fermentation.

Some Cantillon lambic beers include:

Gueuze, which is a blend of a one-, two-, and three-year-old lambics
Faro, a lambic with caramelized brown sugar added
Kriek, two-year-old lambic in which Schaerbeek cherries soak for five to six months
Rose de Gambrinus, two-year-old lambic in which raspberries soak for five to six months

Cantillon Kriek

With any luck this brief lambic beer tutorial will allow you to avoid mockery and embarassment in front of traditional lambic brewers. Even if you are not planning a trip to Cantillon there are many opportunities to show off your lambic knowledge, as many Italian brewers are practicing lambic brewing methods. Our class witnessed (and tasted) one such lambic at Pausa Cafe, the brewery inside the Saluzzo jail, giving one plenty of opportunities to redeem a fellow UNISG student.

Salute!

As a gastronome, I am thrilled by the opportunity to consume the buffet of courses offered in the UNISG curriculum in the homeland of Slow Food. A less discussed but wonderful side benefit of the master program is the chance to travel the European continent for nearly seven weeks during the summer holidays. Some of my classmates used their holiday to WWOOF, and others ate their way through France; I chose to explore the Balkans, with the hope of becoming intimately familiar with the histories, cultures, political and social relationships, and, of course, the foods of the region. After several weeks of exploring and spending time with locals (with a bit of competitive tanning thrown in), I began to appreciate their sense of place that is crucial for understanding food and culture in the region.

The ties between food, culture, and history in the Balkans are rich and relevant to their homelands, and the nuances are what give such ties their unique flavor. For example, pork products are not available in Sarajevo, because about one-third of the population is Muslim; however, beer and hard liquor are readily available just about everywhere. How did this interpretation of the Muslim dietary laws develop? No one I spoke to knew, but the Muslims were as pleased as the Christians that it has indeed worked out that way.

In the Bay of Kotor, Montenegro, one person from every household arose at sunrise and walked to the piers as the fishing boats arrived, in order to purchase the catch for that day’s meals. I was told that this has been done for 800 years. No Montenegrin in his or her right mind would think to buy fish from the market, because it isn’t local and therefore it is clearly not fresh enough. Most of the fish that I saw in the market were still twitching, and I was told they were imported from Herzeg Novi, a town about 30 kilometers away.

Croatian olive oil producers – just about anyone who owned even a small olive orchard – sold their product in large plastic beer bottles on the side of the road or from their front porches. They did this without pretense, but with the acknowledgment that theirs is simply the best olive oil in the world. (I agree, and have been lugging a bottle around with me all summer to enjoy when I am back in Bra.)

While food culture may be more understated in the Balkans than in Italy, it showcases a crucial part of Balkan histories and day to day lifestyles. As gastronomes, I believe it is important for us to experience such cultural ties, not just in the obvious hot spots such as Italy and France, but in lesser known locales as well. That said, I fell in love with Sarajevo and plan to do my internship there; clearly, I will have to import my own pig for my stay.

Coming from a small village in the middle of nowhere (aka the Venetian countryside), I am used to making it short and clear when asked about my geographical origins, answering, “I live close to Venice.” This is even more efficient if I have to explain it to a non-Italian audience, but it can be tricky…. In time, the words “close to” fade away and they start to assume you live, at the farthest, just inland of Venice. The step after that is becoming host to my international UNISG classmates, keen to see the most romantic city in the world during summer break.

Joking aside, I had the pleasure to escort three groups of food mates in three different moments through the tiny and labyrinthine streets of Venice this August, and I didn’t even imagine how much I would discover about a city I thought I knew pretty well. I surprised myself at how many different ways lead you to the same main points, yet nonetheless offer you, every time, a new angle, a new perspective, unforeseen and peaceful corners. At the same time, gastronomically speaking, I consistently experienced an astonishing, low-cost Venice through the local traditions of spritz (a typical cocktail) or ombra (a glass of wine) with cichèti (local finger food) for a couple euro. We did the tour of bàcari and osterie and compared the different traditional recipes (above all, bigoi in salsa—thick, fresh spaghetti with an anchovy-onion sauce—and baccalà—cod fish). I was surprised by the more-than-reasonable price they ask for a satisfying and good meal in a city considered “terribly expensive.” Finally, I enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere of  small spaces that tourists don’t or don’t want to see, precisely the places where locals meet to drink and eat together. In brief, I saw the other side of Venice, and I lived the city in a way I never did,  because for the first time I didn’t follow, but conduct, and I could decide to avoid the mainstream, accepting to get lost, to miss some attractions, but learning every time more and savouring the pleasure of not feeling like a tourist anymore.

Call it happenstance, but in saying that I come from Venice, I eventually became more Venetian for real.

photos: ©http://mylifelovefood.blogspot.com