road food--Italia

We found the Trattoria Vicarello on the road to Bracciano. Yes, this is the same Bracciano where Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes were wed at the Castello di Odelscalchi only two years ago. Given that the previous owners of the castle (circa 1500) met tragic marital fates (think unknowing gigolos sent to gruesome deaths via a surprise trap door in the floor after they had been useful, and wives strangled in their sleep simply because a husband wanted to marry someone else....), I'm not sure TomCat chose well for their matrimonial good fortune. However, our friends Mari and Fa were the first to marry in the castle, and they are still both standing, and rather happy.

The Trattoria Vicarello appears in a bend in the road. It is in a partially renovated barn across the street from an abandoned villa. It is the visual ideal of a roadside "trattoria", created out of the pure philosophy of a countryside restaurant. We stop of an afternoon to look at the menu, to see when they are open. But all is quiet. A tractor sits idle in the farmyard, and someone has hung laundry out to dry from a broken window.We peer in through the glass doors and spy a table with two beautiful marmalade crostate. We imagine they have been set out to cool. There are signs that someone has been there: a coat flung over a chair, a newspaper tossed on a table, but the lights are dark.

A few days later, we drive the road from our adopted Sutri over the hill through thick hazelnut groves in the dying evening light. We admire the lights coming on across the still waters of the lake. We arrive at the trattoria rather late as most other tables are finishing their business and leaving. One table remains, eating dessert.

The interior is warm and comfortable. We order simply: the house-made ravioli stuffed with fresh ricotta and spinach served in melted butter and warmed sage. There are baby Roman artichokes, a radicchio salad with fresh orange, a plate of the dark green of the wild cicoria wilted in salt and oil. There are dishes of involtini--veal rolled and stuffed with artichoke served in a mushroom sauce, veal in lemon sauce, and Saltimboca alla Romana, veal with pancetta and sage. We finish with some local cheeses, and the plum marmelade tart.

The trattoria's visual promise does not disappoint. The kitchen lives up to its ambiance, and this is true cucina casareccia, or home cooking. The little restaurant is run by two sisters plus husband whose parents have another restaurant down on the lake. Their faces are tired, but they are ever-quick to smile and hold a conversation. Even though it is Wednesday, this is their "Friday" night, and they are ready for a day of repose. We are well fed, and we will leave them to it.

--Deirdre

all roads lead to Rome

Our apartment is perched over the Cassia, one of the seven ancient roads that leads to Rome. Today we take the Cassia all the way into the city, the sun high and dry, feeling more like summer than the spring-moody weather we have had of late. We walk through Trastevere, the warren of streets on the other side of the river Tiber towards Testaccio where there is the meat market just on the other side of the Aventine Hill and the orange garden, and the famous key-hole of the Knights of Malta with the miniature view of St. Peter’s dome.

Lunch is at a sleek eatery not far from the market, and the windows are frosted as the street scene is not the prettiest. But the interior is where all the action is. Da Felice feeds Romans the old way with a sophisticated and inspired hand. Traditional dishes like Ox Tail, Tripe, Bucatini all’Amatriciana, and Spaghetti alla Gricia, and Cacio e Pepe. The Cacio e Pepe, a dish made from Roman sheep’s milk cheese, olive oil, and lots of fresh ground black pepper tossed expertly at the table with fresh pasta is serious.

A walk by the Circo Massimo, the Foro Romano, the Coliseum, and Trajan’s obelisk to remind us that we are but a small moment in the continuum, but that we are still a part of all that has gone before and all that will go ahead. On our cell phones, and in our cars, our computers on our laps, how does one cope with the enormity of all that antiquity? We contemplate the answer and figure that one copes by meeting friends at a side-walk café for an aperitivo of prosecco or Campari soda and bite-sized canapés made of lemon-cured anchovies or fat, buttery green olives.

After a brief rain shower, the streets are fresh and clean, and even though the Pantheon has already closed, we go to watch the people watch the people. Lovers and friends meet after long separations; a quartet of school boys ham around the piazza and make sure they insinuate themselves in everyone’s photographs; a lone man wonders with his wheeled suitcase; the street cleaner dressed in his burgundy and orange surveys the scene; the women strut their fashion; the black-suited waiters elegantly and exhaustedly encourage would-be diners to stop at their terrace for awhile. It’s ancient Rome, all over again……

--Deirdre

lotus eaters

The guidebooks say Don't visit Civitavecchia....There's nothing to see there....so we go to Civitavecchia. After an early morning deluge, the skies clear on the coast, and we have sun for the day. Civitavecchia is a classic seaside city with a broad lido along the Mediterranean. Pink, yellow, and whitewashed buildings, shops and old-world hotels, framed by grand palms line the corso and we wonder up the pedestrian zone looking at shop windows. We take a flight of stairs in a broad alley, something about them has beckoned, and we land happily in the weekly market. We find local sheep's milk cheeses and spiced green olives along with a little salame and black pepper-cured pork loin for dinner. Dessert will be a small Sicilian melon the size of a bocce ball. In the kitchen at home there are already fresh eggs and a bagfull of fresh baby artichokes for an omelet.

Lunch happens in Santa Marinella, one seaside town down the coast toward Rome. We find a small seafood restaurant with a wood-fired oven on a shaded residential street on the water called Il Bambu. The air is full of salt and blooming jasmine. We order the seafood antipasti with crostini covered with inch-long baby octopus marinated in a hint of tomato and their own juices, raw octopus salad cured in lemon, a squid salad with yellow peppers, carrot, and celery, and fresh marinated anchovy filets. After, we eat plates of thick spaghetti with baby clams, olive oil, garlic, and peperoncino, grilled squid (we call it "bacon of the sea" it is so salty and tender), and small fried red mullet and cod. A pitcher of cold white wine washes it all down, and to finish there are glasses of house-made limoncello and black espresso.

We walk out onto the small beach and out onto the rocks into the salt spray. We walk down tree-lined residential streets peering into shaded gardens. We lay down on benches in a small public garden on the sea. We are under a bower of jasmine, the air heady in the hot sun. A dog barks. Workmen sweep freshly layed stones at a renovation project next door. The waves on the shore crash and fall. The sun is hot on our faces, eyes closed.

--Deirdre
(photos by lindsey putnam)

wish you were here....

In Sutri. This is the small town where we’ve settled for the month of April. About an hour north from Rome, it is near almost everything: seaside, mountains, lakes, Umbria, Tuscany, and of course, the Eternal City. Our little house is tucked into the town wall with two arched windows that take in a pastoral view of green meadow, country gardens, Roman and Gothic ruins, and two black and white cows.

Our first lunch in house is created from the rewards of our village provisioning. There are pacchetti, sweet little red tomatoes, and fresh cheeses, liver salames made down the street studded with orange, and still warm porchetta seasoned with rosemary and sage, and sliced thinly on our white china plates. The wine is white, a sparkling Garganega from the Veneto that is both dry and slightly sweet. Strawberries from south of Rome burst with juice and flavor.

--Deirdre

la domenica

A week ago today, we were driving up into the mountains of the Alto Adige above the city of Trento, the city of Trent’s dukes and barons from Shakespeare’s days. We drive through the Adige valley, a fairly wide river floor with dramatic alps to either side. Vineyards full of Marzemino vines line the way, the local grape varietal, and I whisper to the window, “Wow, Marzemino.” Much of the three days spent at VinItaly were defined by “Wow,…..” Our fearless importers, Rob from Dalla Terra, Amy from Michael Skurnik, Iacopo and Dino of Dino’s Vignaioli Selections, and George from Vias, ferried us around the sights introducing us to producers whose wines already grace the pages of our wine list at the restaurant, and facilitating introductions to those we’d never tasted or met before. We are still somewhat agog from the experience.

A friend e-mails. “And what about the wine?” he asks. None of us are sure how to answer. We tasted upwards of 80 wines a day, (tasted mind you) and how to decipher the tastes and experiences? The pleasure and good fortune to be able to taste verticals of all kinds of wine, perhaps one of the most memorable with Cesare Borgogno. A very traditional Barolo producer since the 1700’s, we began with Borgogno’s ’06 Dolcetto, then moved onto ’03 Barolos with brilliant noses and medicinal cherry elements, then feel extremely lucky to try a bottle from 1982 which smells of wet dog, orange peel, and quinine. We are surprised to see an open bottle of 1967 Barolo on the table; it arrived like magic and tasted of light, elegance, and finesse.

A week ago today, we were driving up into the mountains. Alois Lageder, a wine producer in the Alto Adige, hosts an alternative event to VinItaly always on the last two days of the fair. He arranges for visitors to be shuttled back and forth between the vineyard and cantina and provides a day of tastings, seminars, tours, and lunch. About 25-30 other producers join him, and tables are set for the degustazione in the old castle and granary. Lunch for 1000 is beautifully prepared by a Michelin starred chef, a plate of flawless braised veal cheeks, and pork tenderloin rolled in herbs served with roasted root vegetables. We partook of the cheese table bar featuring local cheeses, then a creamy panna cotta and coffee for dessert. Lageder’s event is not only about the wine. There are rooms set aside for local artisanal food—cured meats, cheeses, breads, chocolates--as well as furniture and table top beauties—tables, chairs, plates, glasses, silverware. A feast for the eyes, and the mouth, and all the senses. We finish the day in the Vinoteca, a sleek yet rustic space, drinking fresh beer.

--Deirdre

the art of dinner

One night after The Show, we find our way with our friend and guide Rob Forman of Dalla Terra into the center of Verona, to a little gallery with big art. We are at the Galleria dello Scudo to see a show of the Italian artist Pietro Consagra, paintings and sculpture, in honor of the gates he designed and built at the Badia a Coltibuona vineyard in Tuscany. We wander around, our eyes drawn by the colors and shapes, and we learn that this is the gallery that represents di Chirico, Modigliani, Morandi. Many of the greats of 20^th century Italian art. Once, a long time ago, we spent a handful of days on Lago di Lugano in the spring. After a walk in the sunny gardens full of tulips along the water, we went to a Modigliani show of portraits, the long, thin faces evocative of hunger, sadness, and spent beauty.

Dinner is at a trattoria down a street whose name changes twice. Traditional dishes like cured horse meat shaved thin and fine like shredded paper with arugula and Balsamic, polenta with a mushroom ragu, then the traditional risotto made with radicchio and sausage. The main course is a pork loin with a celery puree, and to finish a warm chocolate pudding cake. We drink new vintages of the Badia e Coltibuono estate wines which are all organic, Emanuela Stucchi Prinetti and the winemaker Maurizio Castelli talk of their experiements with Sangiovese (like fermentation for 10 months...) and their hopes for future vintages. We leave sated and warm into the cool, early spring night.

--Deirdre

sartorial spirits

We are motivated by The Sartorialist (thesartorialist.blogspot.com) who takes fashion portraits at the spring and fall fashion shows, or takes videos and interviews at busy corners of New York City. (He is always doing more….) We snap our cameras while walking out of the fair in Verona to document The Show. From the back. From the front. Shoes. Bags. Coats. Legs. Winner takes all…..

--Deirdre

into the mouth of the drunken lion

We have traveled long and far to arrive at the Disneyland of wine. The circus. The chaos. The Jurassic Park. The casino. These are the words used by veterans of the largest wine expo in the world. Twenty-two countries and over 4000 producers. We feel a little relieved that we are only here to taste the wines of Italy. We have been warned about the traffic, and the craziness, and the sheer numbers of people. We’ve tried to mentally gird ourselves as we drive from the tranquil countryside of our friend’s b&b about 30 minutes south of Verona and into the city to park somewhere not too far from the fair.

We’ve had a little luck on our side. We land in the ground-down old parking lot which turns out to be the golden egg of our treasure hunt, allowing us to be fairly close and out of the flow of the heavy traffic coming and going. We are guided by our fearless importers to various producers where we taste and smell things like pomegranite, salt, slate, violets, roses, orange peel, scotch broom. We taste earth, red clay and white chalk.

Not only are there wines to taste, but there are booths designed like separate little worlds, and fashion that is both grand and low. The eyes are always engaged, and the sounds of voices in various languages keep the ears at attention. Whispers release the news of current scandals (Is it true that Brunello di Montalcino has been corrupted? ) And others shout awards and compliments to the stylish little darlings.

We follow our guides like the followers of Charon across the River Styx. We wade in and out and take constant inspiration.

--Deirdre

flowers of wine

We have had our last night of the winter season at the restaurant. We have filed our paperwork, cleaned out the refrigerators, left an away message on the answering machine, and locked the doors. At home, we finish packing, clean the house, and generally try to organize our lives so that we can be away for a month and not feel our own absence too much.

Twenty-four hours before we fly out of Boston for Milan, I decide I should do a barrel tasting of our wine that is patiently waiting in demijohns in our pantry. The fine layer of scum that has accumulated on the top of both varietals has been giving me some good pause, and along with tasting the wine, I think perhaps I should look at one of our wine books and try to determine what is actually causing said scum, or if it is natural and I have nothing to worry about.

It turns out that I have done two bad things. I have left the wine on dead yeast for too long, and I have exposed the wine to air without racking, or transferring to another vessel and re-sealing until the next racking or the bottling. The combination of air and dead yeast has made something ugly with a very pretty name: flowers of wine. A bacteria that makes little white flowers or flecks on top of the juice. When they are just dots of white, it is possible to save the wine, but when it becomes a thick layer, it is too late. I think it is in fact too late for the Barbera, but I think there still may be hope for the Nebbiolo, and we decide to follow the directions for correcting the bacteria for both wines, and see what happens.

My wine books don’t tell you much of what not to do. They explain how to measure sugar, how to rack, how to sterilize your equipment, but they don’t talk about the mistakes of first-time wine makers. There is nothing about how best to facilitate a barrel tasting,and nothing about when to rack if you want to let your wine sit longer in the carboys before bottling. It is as if they take it for granted that these things will be obvious to you.

So we rack the two wines, straining as we go along, and add the requisite Camden tablets which are a natural purifier. The Nebbiolo goes into a bucket with an airlock spigot—for barrel tasting safety—and the Barbera into another carboy ( we only have the one bucket with spigot). We will hope that all goes well over the next month, and we’ll know if this solution has worked just by looking at the Barbera in its glass jar when we return. Fingers crossed.

While it will be disappointing if the wine isn’t drinkable this vintage, the lessons learned have already been great. I could have read those wine books backwards and forwards, and the necessities of how to handle the wines would never have made real sense without making the mistakes that explain the reasons behind the wine making. We must fall before we can rise.

--Deirdre