San Paolo di Civitate #2

Pepe's Vineyard

I certainly don't want to get bogged down in the semantics of the vintner for that would be an oddly dissonant treatment of Pepe's vineyard. You see, when about 90% of a vineyard's produce is consumed by the family and family friends, money becomes an essentially redundant motivation. This naturally creates better wine. 
    I do however feel it necessary to give a brief overview of how I earned my keep whilst living in San Paolo. Indeed, I should point out that I was paid largely in the wine I helped make. This in turn transposes it into the ichor that coursed through my veins throughout my stay. Bacchus was my boss, and a fair and jolly boss he was.

    San Paolo is located in the Apulia region, an area so known for it's viticulture that the Greeks called it 'Oenotria', that is 'the land of wine.' During the last twenty years or so,  modernisation has swept through Southern Italian Vineyards and improved farming methods and output. Gladly, Pepe's Vineyard has thus far remained out of the reach of modernisation's cold hand. Farming methods were traditional, tiresome and absolutely brilliant.

Now Pepe (above) is my great uncle. He retired about twenty years ago and works everyday on his vineyard only to make sure his family have wine with dinner every night. Such a motivation ensures his whole life is centered around wine, food and family. And whilst I was there I started to subscribe to values of this simple but ultimately rewarding lifestyle. To drink the wine that you have helped create is an incredibly edifying experience. I really couldn't care less if some deem it anachronistic. Certainly it was hard work, but I'm glad it was. I don't want to get too Jamie Oliver on you, but actually putting the effort in to make something as opposed to just buying it really is incredibly rewarding.
    In the picture above, you'll see Pepe rotivating the soil with an ingenious little invention made from an old bicycle. I would spend all day with this bicycle (it never really got a name) churning the soil up and down the vineyard. My hands were blistered. My neck was sunburnt. My back developed an ephemeral hunch from stooping under the vines (clearly designed for smaller Italian men). But when we arrived home with a few bottles of red and met Antonietta, (who had been slaving in the kitchen all day her self) we felt we had earned the food. Now I know I'll be accused of androcentrism by speaking so fondly of an overtly patriarchal system. That is not my intention. I'm simply propounding the idea that work and effort and love are the key ingredients to any truly successful meal. And in an age where convenience is encouraged and laziness birthed, I will endeavour never to forget that. I will ensure that work, however it is allocated, will be put in to keeping family dinners at the very center of my day.

D.

San Paolo di Civitate #1

An Education

I am one of those annoying people who looks down on virtually all superficially 'Italian' restaurants in the UK. I proudly decry chains like Zizzi and Bella Italia as a complete bastardisation of my absolute favourite food. And with a pedantry that gets on my own tits, I condescend to lecture anyone who'll listen (and many that won't) on the endemic nature of 'true' Italian cuisine. So I bloody should.
     This sense of superiority is born from the fact my mother is Italian. I'm filled with a blood that's inherently unforgiving when it comes to inconsiderate and unloved food. From as early as I can remember I've treated English cries of 'mamma mia' and the making of carrot filled lasagna with a disdain that should, by rights, be held for the scum of the earth. I can't help it. There is nothing more frustrating than seeing your identity plagiarised poorly. 
    I remember a scene in The Sopranos, (surprise, surprise, I bloody love The Sopranos) when Pauli suddenly gets infuriated by an American coffee shop selling an Italian product. He says 'It's a pride thing. All our food: pizza, calzone, buffalo moozarell', olive oil. These fucks had nothin. They ate pootsie before we gave them the gift of our cuisine. But this, this is the worst. This espresso shit.' I am with you Pauli! That is exactly how I've always felt whenever I see 'Italian' food filtered through an English gauze, though I perhaps don't express it quite as forcibly.
    This is getting a little too dilatory. I should get to the point. You see, although my mother is Italian, my dad, and consequently my name, is English. I tell you this for it explains the huge Pizza shaped chip on my shoulder. It discredits the sincerity of my grievance. And so, in a youthful attempt at self-validation, I moved to Italy to spend a few months working on my uncle Pepe's vineyard. And it was during these few months that I earned the stripes of my superiority. It gave me a whole host of anecdotes that I could swiftly use to give the finger to any English 'pootsie' (I'm not entirely sure what this means) who told me my lasagna was lacking beschamel sauce.
    And with this I take you to the South of Italy, (for the South really is a lot better than the North) to a little town called San Paolo di Civitate in the Puglia region. I spent a summer and gained an education.

I will use this first post primarily to set the scene before concentrating on the specifics (food, wine, women) in later posts. But certainly, it needs to be said that the stereotype of a southern Italian town is unashamedly true. Just imagine walking down the dusty sun soaked streets and smelling these incredible aromas drifting out of every kitchen. On every corner there are families talking wildly as they pass plates of simple yet just amazing food across red and white checked linen tables. At the helm stand these furiously passionate women who are fiercely proud that there sauce is the best in the village. And every girl, that is absolutely every girl under the age of thirty is just arrestingly beautiful. These all sound like clichés but they are so true. Imagine this, and you'll get just some idea of the few months I spent in my Arcadia.

D.

Hungry Young Men & Tapas Etiquette

 Barcelona

Ten o'clock am. I walk into the Mercat de la Boqueria and am hit by a kaleidoscope of sensual experience. My eyes are burnt by fiery reds and sunburnt oranges. Passionate Catalonian war cries knock me sideways. And my tongue prickles with expectation as though Monica Belluci had just kicked down my bedroom door in negligee and stilettos. But above all this is the smell, the scent of market food which teases me like a mischievous Seraph of the senses. And to the think, the others are still in bed. Idiots.

I feel I sometimes walk the tightrope between Romanticism and cliché. Buying an orange may definitely have been one of the times where my balance gave way. Oh well, it was spectacular, if entirely besides the point of this post. You see, as I look back through my photographs, one particular image seemed oddly prophetic. Dead pig heads. With this I leave the market place and go and meet the others for some Tapas!

I had two directions in which I could potentially take this post. The first addresses the etymology of the word Tapas. Indeed, the waiter of our Tapas bar informed us (quite succinctly) that Tapas comes from the Spanish verb 'Tapar' which means 'a lid or to cover.' According to Fernando's story, (his name was actually Fernando...I haven't just thought of the song...or if you fancy less gay reference, Torres) King Alonso XII was once offered a glass of Sherry in Cadiz, and the waiter covered the glass with Chorizo to keep out the wind-borne sand. Tapas was born. Makes sense. But my issue with pushing that angle is it requires a great deal of regal etiquette on our behalf for the metaphor to work. I simply cannot lie. Instead, with the subtlety of a brick, I have transposed the pig heads I had seen earlier onto our own avaricious, Tapas munching selves.

See where this is going? Let's get there.  

'Fernando, here's the craic' (I paraphrase) 'We've got about 100 euros between the four of us, and we want a bottle of a Txakoli (a light white wine which is an excellent accompaniment to Tapas) and of course we would like to leave you a tip, but if we keep an allowance for that, can you just surprise us? Take the money and Tapas it up with anything and everything.'

    This is by far and a way the best thing you could ever say. There's no arguing with the others, or embarrassing yourself with pidgin Spanish, or pointing ambiguously through the glass counter. You simply have a glass of Txakoli, sit in the corner, and leave Fernando to work his magic.

    Ten minutes later and Fernando brings out the dishes; carne mechada, pimientos de padrón, albóndigas, chopitos and so on.... but what we ate is not really the point of this post. Instead, I'll compare that split second when the dishes remain untouched on the table to a four way gunfight. There was the tension as we waited to see who would draw first. It was Big Hands. Oh he took a pretty hefty spoonful of the Gambas did he? That looked like more than a quarter to me! You should never have more than a quarter, of anything, unless you're willing to offer a trade. Me and Ginger go in next and both take fair amounts. It looks like Quiff is to be the runt unless he acts quickly. That was literally half of the chopitos in one go. Mental!

    Big Hands takes a handful of of Olives, but by definition is handful is more than his fair share. I retaliate by taking a frankly audacious amount of squid. No one needs that amount of squid. Quiff goes back for more chopitos. He has literally had all of the choptios. That is not how Tapas works! We stop talking. The Txakoli goes untouched.What happened to cleansing our palettes? 

    Oh dear god, we all simultaneously notice that Fernando only brought us three pincho moruno. What a cruel game to play. He's like one of the Programme Leaders in Battle Royale. It's a social experiment. Big Hands gets in there first. Safety. A pause. You can't be too obvious. Ginger swoops in. This leaves one pincho moruno between me and Quiff. I could suggest going halfsies? No that's just not right. Our eyes make contact for just a split second. Quiff pulls it out the bag.

    'Do you mind if I have the last one?' he asks, without referring to what 'one' he speaks of. He doesn't need to. I mind, I mind so much. 'You can have my share of olives. I don't like them.'

    You literally cannot equate a few olives with the last pincho moruno. What would happen if I said no? What would happen if I stabbed him in the eye with a skewer and then ate the blood stained pincho moruno in front of him as he looked on half-blinded? No, social conventions keep me in check. He played a good game.

   As I look at the picture of the pig heads, I can't help but imagine Quiff as the one in the middle. He's smiling at me. He's taunting me.

    We took any of the fun out of sharing. In future, we'll get all the food and divvy it up beforehand. Or even better, I'll just eat alone. Is this what it has come to? Eating Tapas alone.

D.

Spicing things up



Indonesian Restaurant X, Amsterdam.

We're wandering aimlessly through the cobbled streets and chasing lights that shimmer in the dark waters.  I left the others in Njimegan and travelled up/down/across? to Amsterdam where I was met by Freckles. As she slips her ever cold hands (bad circulation she tells me) into the pocket of my mac, our unknowing feet guide us to the Red Light District. She implores me with wide eyes to go and watch a show with her. I know that she doesn't really want to. She just likes the idea of it. How about we go for an Indonesian? We're both more turned on by this.

    With nowhere in particular that I want to try, we both agree to head away from the ostensibly iridescent glow of the artificial lights. Not away from the hookers you understand me, but from the overtly touristy 'Argentinian Steak Houses' and 'Indonesian by Numbers.' Eventually we find an intimate place bathed in blue light off Leidseplein. As we enter the maître d’ addresses us in Dutch. This immediately pleases me for it suggests it not to be a tourist hot-spot and also means we can superficially pass as natives. I say 'Hello, table for two please' and the illusion is broken.

    I am genuinely intrigued by the role of Indonesian cuisine within Dutch culture. From the beginning of the 16th century Europeans have sought to dominate the Spice trade at it's helm, with the Portuguese, British and the Dutch all vying for the colonisation of the Maluku or 'Spice Islands.' Now I certainly don't mean to trivialise any of this history, but that spices such as Nutmeg and Mace had such a magnetic power certainly endears me towards the idea of Indonesian Cuisine.

    We order the classic  'rijsttafel' or rice table, which is an adaptation of the Nasi Padang and is essentially a collection of side dishes which in theory skims the surface of the spectrum of Indonesian food. I always feel sorry for Freckles in such situations for she is tiny and really doesn't eat anywhere near what I do. Oh well.

    As we wait for the food to arrive and crassly play footsie under the table like foolish teenagers, I'm filled with optimism by the fact our young love is sound tracked by Indian music one minute and Chinese the next. I become genuinely excited (by the music and the footsie) for it suggests that the restaurant are prepared to embrace Indonesia's promiscuous culinary affair with its neighbours.

   The food is brought out and set on the table by the waiter(s). And some more...and a little more...that everything?

Sometimes, by complete chance, you hit the jackpot. This was one of those times. At every crossroads we made the right turn until eventually we were brought here. It was incredible. A properly prepared rijsttafel should hit you like a Monet. Each ingredient, each subtlety is to be enjoyed in relation to every other spiced brush stroke on the canvas. Every mouthful is like a step away from the gilded frame until eventually it just makes perfect sense.

    Amongst the star performers was the codfish cobek, which was coated in a sauce that managed to fuse countries effortlessly in an enduring love affair. The galangal and lemon grass hit me first, but was then immediately followed by just a hint of dill. In one mouthful you can trace the history of an incredible culinary mistress who has opened her legs to many lovers. It was the kind of dish that would inspire Said to fuck it all and write a sonnet.  

    You see, what made it work so well was the relative sparseness of the meat and fish dishes in comparison to the rice. They are used more as condiments designed to flavour the staple. When combined in such a way it gives you that feeling of waking up in the morning and not knowing what day it is. It's that split second when the unknown lurks over you. You know that you are warm and comfortable, but what's to follow? In one instance the mango-infused crackly crab from the salada asinan segar crept through and I realised that it was still the weekend and I was soon to be watching Super Sunday. It's a delicate balancing game, but it worked sublimely.

    The only slight criticism was the unnecessary inclusion of a hard boiled egg that just seemed to be floating in oil. What were we supposed to do with that? We're not going halfsies on an egg, that's not very Lady and the Tramp is it? To be fair though, that didn't detract anything from the meal, but it certainly didn't add anything either. On the whole (and Freckles agreed) we struck gold in the lottery that is 'walk and hope you find somewhere.'

D.

Everything is bigger in Texas

The Boiling Pot, Austin, Texas.


It's the SXSW Music Festival 2010. Our manager informs us that our show tonight at Latitude 30 is to be attended by a whole host of important record labels, trend setting magazines and general music industry douche bags (I of course only facetiously adopt the idiom).
    We should be nervous, yet nerves seem to be back over in the UK. Do not however, put this down to supreme confidence. No, as we skip down 7th St. like the embarrassing pasty-skinned Englishmen we are, it becomes apparent that the complimentary (and multiple) Pepperitas were probably not the best idea. (For the record Margarita + Superficial taste of Pepper = Pepperita. It tastes like a liquid Pizza Hut and it goes down easily).
    Our ever sensible Tour Manager (TM) spots the danger and quickly guides us towards food. TM has the incredible ability of knowing the exact location of every kind of food establishment in pretty much every major city. He's a real asset (even if his subjective use of 'decent' may sometimes be questioned.)
    We arrive at the Boiling Pot and I'm both encouraged and frustrated by the queue.

'What kind of place is this? I ask.
'Well basically, they give you a bib and they bring this big pot out full of all sorts...crawfish, crab legs, blue crab, shrimp, corn on the cob, sausages, potatoes...and they just pour it on the table.'
'Excuse me?'
'Oh and you don't have cutlery...just a wooden mallet.'
'Brilliant.'
See what I mean about TM's use of 'decent?'  The idea of adults wearing plastic bibs does not exactly scream 'decency' to me.
Never mind. I'm starving.
    We're greeted by a girl who is just too perky for anyone's good. She had an ungodly amount of perk.
'How many of you?' she asks, perkily.
'Four.' It's TM, Quiff, Ginger and myself. God knows where Big Hands has gone...TM must know.
In a stroke of inspiration we order 'The Boiling Pot' *Penny Drops* and four shiner bocks..
'Oh and do you have any Pepperitas?'
    TM did not sell it short. There are four wooden mallets on the table which sit next to a set of instructions, the kind you get in a kinder egg, on how to de-shell the crabs. We down the Pepperitas, start on the Shiner Bocks, and comment on the fact that it's hunger and not nerves that is twisting our insides.
    Sharing food can be a dangerous game for four 'Hungry Young Men,' but any fears are instantly appeased as soon as Perky comes and dumps the boiling pot on the table.
    Dear god, everything is bigger in Texas.

Needless to say, the food was not great. The potatoes were cold, and despite it having been 30°+ all day, they managed to evoke the feeling I used to get as I walked through the drizzle towards school on a Monday morning.  The sweetcorn and sausage were both chewy in texture and like plasticine in taste.  And for the crabs, well the shell to meat ratio was frankly ridiculous. I followed the instructions intently and came out with a bit of crab the size of a fingernail. Or was that my fingernail? Where did I go wrong?
    But before you think I'm going to tread the much worn path of draconian criticism for shock's sake, I must protest and strongly propound that I'm a believer of giving credit where credit is due. The Boiling Pot had two redeeming features which offset the damage inflicted by the awful food. Firstly, there was an incredibly energetic atmosphere which (combined with the Pepperitas) allowed for an enjoyable meal in spite of the food. Secondly, using the wooden mallet made me feel oddly masculine...like a hunter or a woodsman. I suppose this is a plus.


Ratings: Food 1/5 (and only because I was stupidly hungry)
             Atmosphere 4/5
             Pepperitas 5/5!


NB: My rating system is fickle, and I'll change it how I see fit.

D.


ps. Big Hands turned up, and the gig was a resounding success.