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.
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