I Pazz' Sono Fuori

Michele: Sabato's friend, co-worker, and my unofficial Neapolitan dialect tutor.

They have saying here, that in the mental hospital, one guy looks to the other, and says "The real crazies are outside", or in Napoletan', "I pazz' sono fuori." I'm starting to think it might be true.

I've been here almost three weeks, and although I haven't done any real work aside from washing dishes occasionally, these three weeks have left me exhausted.

Everyday, Sabato, the man who is hosting me here, picks me up from the hotel, but I have difficulty interpreting Naples time. Sometimes we say 9:30, and he calls me at 10:15, and asks me where I am. One morning, we had set 9 as the start time, and after consecutive mornings of 9 being 9:15, 9:30 being 9:45, he shows up at 8:45, and I feel bad because I have just gotten out of the shower, and he has to wait for me.

Everyday, Sabato shows up in a different car. Sometimes he is driving his own vehicle, a Fiat Multipla that has seen better days. Other days, he is riding shotgun in one of his friend's cars. Once I leave the hotel, I have no idea what will happen. I have learned to make myself ready for anything. I always pack layered clothing and wear comfortable shoes.

Some days are completely calm. We run a few errands and eat lunch with one of the two grandmas that live nearby. I nap on the couch, watch some Italian TV. We run more errands, and his wife comes home from her job as a Chemistry professor and makes dinner. These days are rare.

One day he picks me up with the master pizzaiolo who will teach me to make good pizza. We drive up a windy road to a mountain town called Agerola. Here they make the best Fior di Latte and Provola di Monaco cheeses. We visit a cheesemaker who takes us down to the cellar to see his rare aged cheeses. They all seem to be arguing about something, but that is just how they talk here. We have a coffee and listen to the pizzaiolo's "special CD" on the way back. He turns the volume up when "Forever Young" comes on.

One day we visit Faella, one of the oldest pasta factories in Gragnano. We greet the owner Mario Faella, age 96, dressed in a three-piece suit. He doesn't want Sabato to pay for the two boxes of pasta Sabato is trying to buy. Somehow, Sabato gets them to accept his cash, and we leave. Sabato often doesn't pay for goods and services around here, and when he does, he always pays cash.

Sabato gives me an impromptu lesson on tomato sauce.

Another day, he picks me up and we stop by at the house of one of his artichoke farmers. We see the farmer's wife cleaning some sort of scrawny red carcass over a bucket of water. The daughter has her mom's wide-set eyes and plays listlessly with dusty toys and sticks. The nonna is dressed in black and with her protruding chin and craggy face, looks like she could cast spells on all of us if she wanted two. We pick up two boxes of artichokes and leave.

The same day, we eat lunch at Sabato's mother-in-law, "Nonna Chiara's", house. She has a garden the size of two tennis courts out back, and her son, Giovanni, tends to it on the weekends. She makes hand cut Candelle pasta with tomato sauce from the garden. Then we eat a stewed hen from her chicken pen, salad from the garden, charcoal-roasted artichokes, salame and prosciutto Giovanni makes every year in January, and whole grain, twice cooked bread from her wood oven. Someone murmurs something about dessert, and Nonna Chiara scoots out to the chicken pen for eggs. In twenty minutes she has a warm lemon and raisin cake on the table.

In these three weeks, I've been through extremes of discomfort, isolation, and pure joy. Discomfort from sitting in on family arguments and being force-fed unnatural amounts of food. Isolation from not speaking dialect (I really can't understand them). A moment of pure joy: Sabato and I make my first pizzas together in his wood-fired oven. We take out my first effort, a gorgeous margherita, and he says, "Get your camera. Take a picture. This is your first pizza, and it's beautiful." He slices it in half, and we eat it folded in half "portofoglio" style, like a true Neapolitan. We make a quick toast, drain a small glass of beer, and run back to the oven to make pizzas for the rest of the family.

My first pizza.

It hasn't always been fun. I have to be honest about that. Nineteen days is a long time to have no independence, and to basically follow a person around, waiting for the next thing to happen. There have been times I've wanted this to be over, but every day I understand that it is important that I came. Before I start making pizza's full time, I'll at least know a little bit about the people and the place that invented my favorite food.

Good Thing's I've Eaten: 'Na Bella Tazuella 'E Caffe

The coffee really is better here, always short, intense, and full of robust flavor. Most Neapolitans drink it with sugar and take it down in two or three sips. They always serve a glass of mineral water, which I've been instructed to drink before the coffee, that way the nice flavor of the espresso lingers in the mouth.

To me, the coffee epitomizes the conflicting nature of Naples. Here, life is uncertain, chaotic, and often dirty, but this life is laced with elements of high elegance and beauty. And while the ritual of stopping for a highly-refined, full-flavored espresso ensures a brief window of serenity and perhaps a moment of reflection in a busy day, once that little cup hits its saucer, you suck the coffee down , pay the eighty-cents, and you're right back in the chaos of the streets before the caffeine even registers in your brain.

It sure tastes good, though.

Good Things I've Eaten: Campania Catch Up

I've eaten so many good things here in Campania, I'm having a hard time keeping up. Here's a quick look at some of the highlights:

Lemon Sorbet: Eaten from a street vendor who sets up shop just outside my host family's house. Sweet but not too street, smooth, tangy, perfect.

Whole Grain Pizza "Integrale" : Super rare, traditional recipe for a whole grain pizza. Only a few pizzaiolos still make it. The crust is slightly thicker (about 1.5 CM at the edges), and is crispy on the outside, and soft and moist on the inside. The pizza is baked in deep pans and takes 3-4 minutes in a hot wood burning oven.

The master prepares a "Marinara": tomato, olives, oregano, fresh garlic, and plenty of olive oil.

Biscotti del Pescatore: These “fisherman's biscuits” are day old bread, toasted in the oven, left to dry out, and then brought back to life by dunking in tepid water. After just a few seconds in the water, the bread gets soft enough to eat, but the crust stays crunchy. These are really good dipped in the broth of a soup or the juices that run off cooked, leafy vegetables or a grilled piece of meat.

Mozzarella (Fior di Latte): Warm, Straight from the Hands of the Cheesemaker: In this area they don't make mozzarella, which must come from Buffalo's milk. Here, they make Fior di Latte, the same thing as mozzarella, but from cow's milk. We visited a cheese-maker, and as he was pulling the cheeses into balls, he stopped and gave me a small one to try. Still warm and soft, the cheese set off an explosion of sweet, concentrated milk flavor balanced by a nice saltiness.

Panini with Broccolini and Pancetta: We made bread with leftover pizza dough, sliced the bread while it was still slightly warm, and then packed our panini with hot, sauteed broccolini, and thin slices of raw pancetta. Juicy, salty, slightly spicy, and with a perfect bread-to-filling ratio, this was a very, very good sandwich.

Raw Artichoke Salad: Here in Castellemmare, they grow special variety of violet artichoke that they cover with a terra cotta cap to keep the flowers tender enough to be eaten raw. After removing the outer leaves, one can slice these artichokes thinly, dress them with olive oil, lemon, and salt, and go to town. They have a delicate, nutty flavor, totally different from a cooked artichoke.

Good Things I've Eaten: Pasta all'omerolo

Pasta with tomato sauce ranks up there in a elite class of foods that seem impossible to live without (others on the list include peanut butter and jelly, rice and beans, cheese and bread and all its variations, and a few more) These foods were destined to find each other, and once they did, they were never same.

Here, just outside Naples, I am living in the epicenter of the pasta/tomato collision. “Pasta all'omerolo”, as the dish is called in Neapolitan dialect is a true staple. Almost half of my meals have been pasta with tomato sauce.

Before coming, I can't even fathom how many times I've eaten pasta and tomato sauce. But here, it just tastes better. As I write this, I can hear wind rushing up through the valley that cuts through Gragnano. This wind made it possible to make consistently good dried pasta. A few kilometers to the north, in the valley that stretches toward Mount Vesuvius, they grown San Marzano tomatoes, the best for pasta sauce.

In our last class at UNISG, Corby Kummer, a well-known food writer, told us to avoid at all cost the words “delicious”, “amazing”, and “perfect”. He also informed us that a serious writer only has five exclamation points in his or her lifetime.

Well, this pasta all'umerolo is perfect. The rich, earthy, deep flavor of the tomato sauce marries so well with the chewy, slightly salty, very al dente pasta. Every bite is delicious. The dish is so simple, yet truly amazing. I ate it and thought: "This is what I've been missing my whole life!"

I think I'll be fine living the rest of my life with four exclamation points.

Good Things I've Eaten: Before I Forget

Things can get crazy over here, but always in a good way. I've left Bra after what has been a mild, crisp, and invigorating winter in Piemonte. Now I am in Campania, stationed just outside Naples in the epicenter of mind blowing food. It is going to be really hard to keep up with these Good Things I've Eaten entries. Before it's too late: here's a look back at some of the highlights of the last month or so.

1. Luca's Mom's "Poire Belle Helene"

After a casual weekend lunch, when we were trying to run our food inventory down before leaving, Luca and I looked at each other and kind of new that neither one of us was quite satisfied by the hodge-podge salad, leftover pasta, and nuggets of cured meat and cheese we had eaten. Then Luca goes to the cupboard and pulls out a miracle save on what could have been the only unsatisfactory meal we have eaten in our apartment all year.

He pulls out this stuff:

As the label says, it's called "Poire Belle Helene", and it's a French recipe for a gooey, spreadable jar of goodness made from chocolate and pears. This stuff is seriously good. The chocolate flavor is strong and well balanced by the slightly acidic pears. It has the texture of chocolate heated just enough to melt and pour elegantly out of its vessel. The chunks of pear add a nice crunch, and the stuff isn't too sweet. You can eat it straight out of the jar, with a spoon, which we did. We also spread in on biscotti, bread crusts, and sliced fruit. Then we washed it down with nips of Sicilian passito. Unsatisfying lunch avoided. Thanks Marcella.

2. Churros and Chocolate: Caceres, Spain

I wanted my first experience of Churros and Chocolate to be organic. I didn't want to get duped by a snack-shack with a paper sign taped to its window that slings a low quality, watered-down product to tourists. I wanted the real thing, and I found it when I was least expecting, but when I needed it the most.

After staying out past six in the morning and thereby breaking my late-night, European dance party record, my classmate and I desperately needed something to eat. Thankfully, we passed up a crappy, fast-food sandwich shop, hoping for something better but not sure if we could find it. After some dejected walking and basically giving up, we came upon a greasy, poorly lit shop. The sign said "Churreria". My spirits immediately lifted.

Behind the counter, a woman worked a coffee machine and a man tended to two different sizes of curled, sizzling tubes of dough floating in a cauldron of hot oil. We ordered hot chocolate from the woman and four of each type of churro from the man.

The bigger churros were fluffy, slightly chewy, and had a hint of saltiness. The smaller churros were crunchy on the outside and light and airy on the inside. Both doughs had the same sweetness level of good Brioche, nothing like the sugar-crusted, previously frozen stuff one finds at carnivals and sporting events. These churros had the substance of a real breakfast food and served as a perfect vehicle for soaking up the bitter, dense hot chocolate.

I ate my pile in a blissed-out daze. I had found exactly what I wanted. This was a meal worth staying up for.

3. Breaded and Fried Risotto Ball, Stuffed with a Breaded and Deep Fried Lamb's Testicle*, Beer Battered and Deep Fried

That's right. At our end of the year deep fry party, I took a deep fried testicle, smooshed it inside a deep fried risotto ball, then beer-battered the whole thing and refried it while all the components were still hot. And actually, it came out delicious. Good enough to make again and actually serve to people on purpose, not just the next time I happen to have a deep fried testicle, a deep fried risotto ball, and beer batter sitting on my kitchen table. Some spicy tomato sauce really helped to cut through the richness.

*We're not quite sure if we had purchased lamb's testicles or veal testicles. Either way, breaded and deep fried, they were a hit.

Honorable Mention: Farinheira

On our trip to Portugal, Farinheira, a smoked sausage made of pork fat, wheat flour, and lots of paprika stood out as one of the most unique and delicious ingredients: full of good smoky, porky flavor, balanced by the sweet spiciness of the paprika. The flour gives the sausage a strange but pleasant dryness in the mouth, which makes the product truly unique.

I have to downgrade to honorable mention status, though, because after a morning of serious cured-meat tasting, including lots of Farinheira, I got really sick and was nauseous and crampy the whole next day, which leads me to believe that Portuguese cured meats are a little too rough around the edges and gnarly to truly be considered a "Good Thing I've Eaten".