I am standing outside, chatting with Emilio as he flips lamb chops and pork ribs on his electric grill. Another sunny, warm Sunday afternoon in the small town of Rotondi. The smell of the meat slowly browning and charred rosemary starts a steady grow in my stomach. We chat some more as the sun warms the back of my neck. It feels good to be outside. Most of my time this summer I'm in the pizzeria. I try to enjoy the moment, but I'm getting really, really hungry. I don't know if I can stand to watch Emilio cook his meat so slowly and meticulously. But then, some yelling comes from next door, and Emilio leaves the grill. More yelling. Loud voices could mean anything. Around here everybody always sounds mad at each other.
Emilio comes back with a plate of fried zucchini flowers and dough fritters his sister has made. Of course the flowers are from her own garden. Hot, crispy, light, salty, tender. I cannot imagine a better fried food.
Francesca calls from inside the kitchen. The pasta is ready, which means we have to come right now. Emilio pours chilled red wine made by one his friends. Francesca has made linguini with zucchini, zucchini flowers, and smoked scammorza. Lemon zest and basil brighten the smoky, creamy, earthy sauce, and of course, the pasta has the perfect al-dente bite.
Everyone finishes their pasta. Emilio pours more wine. Then we eat the meat, salad from the garden, pecorino, and fruit from Emilio's trees. We sit back. My stomach is the happiest it has been all week. I decline coffee, we chat some more, and I eventually ride my bike to my apartment to take a nap.
I stayed with Emilio and Francesca for over two weeks when I first came down to Campania to work at the pizzeria. Even after I moved out, they extended an open invitation to always eat at their house, whenever I was available. Emilio even got mad when he heard that I ate a lunch or dinner by myself, “You should eat with us!” he would say.
Emilio and Francesca have to be the best invitation in town. They form an unstoppable culinary team. Francesca has all the recipes and techniques passed on from her mother and grandmother: homemade pasta, sweets, savory tarts, jam, sauces, preserves, you name it, and Emilio has spent a lifetime hunting down the best ingredients: he knows the best fruit and vegetable guy, meat guy, dairy guy. He has friends who make wine. He forages for mushrooms. He has planted fruit trees, herbs, and vegetables around the entire house. He even transplanted wild strawberries from the local hills and they flourish in his front yard and the sides of the house.
Highlights of my meals with them include pasta and soft-cooked potatoes baked in the oven with a crispy top layer of parmigiano and mozzarella, spaghetti with zucchini and shrimp, roasted towers of eggplant, tomato, pesto, and mozzarella, spaghetti with porcini and chanterelle mushrooms Emilio had foraged himself, and of course, homemade lasagne (Francesca woke up at seven that morning to make the pasta ).
The rare thing about eating with Francesca and Emilio, is how good you feel after the meal. Sunday lunch in Campania can be a suffer fest with all the courses and the culture of eating abundantly. But after eating with Francesca and Emilio, one feels nourished and refreshed, never stuffed and exhausted. They have a gift for serving exactly what the guest wants to eat and making their guests feel comfortable.
This hospitality extends beyond the table. From the first day I arrived, I felt like a relative of theirs, and within a week I felt like the third son (they already have two). The generosity and hospitality never wore out, even while it took longer than expected to get situated with an apartment.
These are good people. Very, very good people. The salt of the earth. It makes me wonder, to truly eat well, do you need to be a good person to begin with? Or, does eating so well naturally encourage warmth and generosity in people?
I think you can't separate one from the other. Good food must come from good people.
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