NEWSLETTER OF THE Culinary Historians of Chicago

WINTER 2003

PRESIDENT'S LETTER Dear Fellow CHCers, "Come to Italy in November," my cousin Alberto e-mailed, "there are few tourists and it is the olive harvest season here in Umbria." I knew that this would be the rainy season and the weather was growing colder, but the promise of freshly pressed olive oil and Italian cuisine was irresistible. So I went. I have Italian cousins, a whole set of them. Before two-and-a half years ago, I had no idea that they existed, but thanks to the internet we have found each other. As my cousin Alberto says, how many Krachmalnikovs are there in the world, much less Italy? We met for the first time two years ago on the Côte d'Azur in what turned out to be a memorable feeding frenzy in Cap D'Antibes and Nice. Since then we have reminisced via email about mussels steamed in wine, the liquid sopped up with fresh bread from a local bakery, the grilled Langouste and shrimp, the salt-encrusted whole fish, delicately fried shredded pommes frites, and the river of local Provençal wine that went down our gullets. That all of us are seriously interested in good food is surely evidence of the genetic determinism argument for human nature. When Alberto and another cousin, Patrizia, learned that I was going to Birmingham, England at the end of October to deliver an oration on Mexican food history, both urged me to take the short flight to Italy for another family reunion in the Lake Bolsano northern area of Lazio. First, though, it was Umbria. Alberto, his wife Paola and his two children live in Passignano, a small village in the center of Umbria. It is not far from Perugia, known world-wide for Perugina chocolates, and Assisi, even better known for the admirably abstemious monk, St. Francis. Alberto collected me at Rome's Fiumicino airport, and from there we drove north, first along the Autostrada, then via smaller roads winding through the foothills of the Apennines Mountain chain. Along the way Alberto pointed out historically important peaks in the distance, some dating to ancient Roman times, and increasingly as we drove north, to the Etruscan era. To Italians there is hardly a square meter of the landscape that does not have historical significance, but interspersed along the secondary roads the modern world appears -- small-scale factories and warehouses, electrical lines, telephone wires, and the current ultimate symbol of our modern age, satellite dishes. It is the same everywhere: modern cities stand atop their two or three thousand year old predecessors and automobiles zip along roads once tramped by Roman legions. In our case it was the Via Flaminia, built around 220 B.C.E. What has not changed much is the environment and its produce. The wheat for bread and olives for oil grow in the same places. The strains may have changed as has some of the technology for processing them but it is all rooted in the land and traditions. Passignano is one of some nine hundred villages scattered over Umbria's hills and mountains. This one is set on the low hills surrounding Lake Trasemeno. Most of the small towns grew up around Medieval and Renaissance era castles, some of which have been restored, others only ruins. Like so many others, Passignano is a quaint, well-kept town, its narrow cobbled main street winding up the hillside to a fifteenth-century castle and church. During Christmas celebrations it is lined with booths manned by artisans and food sellers just as it has been for the past five or four hundred years. From the castle top, not far from Alberto's house I could look down on the glimmering lake the next sunny morning after my arrival. For a historian familiar with ancient history it is a thrilling vision, because here, in 217 B.C. E. Roman armies fought one of their most famous, and losing, battles. Hannibal (not the "Cannibal" but the Carthaginian general) had crossed the Alps with an army, cavalry, and elephants. His victory on the lake shore -- no one is certain of the exact location -- has been studied by military historians ever since. Unfortunately for him, all his famous victories were in vain because Carthage eventually lost the war. As one of my relatives put it, people might defeat and occupy Italy for a time, but Italian culture and food conquer all. My cousins live in a two-level converted farmhouse surrounded by about an acre of land. A small grove of olive trees stands on one side of the house, and on the other a large garden still green with varieties of fresh herbs and wild fennel. This plant's delicately flavored leaves and flowers are used in many more dishes than I had imagined from dining in Italian-style restaurants in the United States. But in this season olives are the focus of people's culinary imaginations. Early in the morning three members of a local farm family arrived with nets, ladders, buckets and a simple screening device. The nets were spread under the trees and then the ripe olives pulled and shaken from the tree branches starting at the top and working downward. Some leaves also fall to the ground and so the fruits are set out on the screen and shaken to sort them out. Eventually all the harvested olives are put into larger bins or crates and hauled to a local mill. For this small farm of perhaps 20 trees, harvesting took two days. No one works at breakneck speed because most of the resulting oil will be used in the farmers' homes. Besides, lunch takes a long, long time to eat and digest. As we picked some olives ourselves, I noticed that some were black and others green. Nor were they as large as the olives we normally find on tables. There are about 50 varieties of olives, some for oil production alone, others for eating and some for both. Each olive-producing region of the world (and thanks to agronomists at the University of Perugia, this includes Australia) accommodates different varieties of trees. Here in Umbria black Nerella olives have always been the prized crop because the small amounts of sweet-flavored oil they produce is among the world's best. Alberto casually mentioned that his Nerella trees are a good three hundred years old. He also has newer varieties of green olives, Frantoio, Leccino, and Pistoiese. Later, the most celebrated oil maker in Umbria, Alfredo Mancianti of San Feliciano, told me that Frantoio and Leccino olives were developed to produce better oils that did not become rancid so quickly. The old farmers have been hesitant to plant the new varieties because they produce less oil, and they are loathe to cut down centuries old trees. New regulations say that in order for Extra-Virgin oils to receive the government's DOP ("Denominazione d'Origine protetta Olio extravergine di oliva Umbria") certification, they must contain sixty percent of the new variety. Nevertheless, some portion of Nerella olives are to be found in most locally produced oils. Down a winding dirt road from the cousins' farmette, at the bottom of the hill and in a low stone wall-defined space, stands "L'Antica Molinella," the local olive press. Two low buildings house the press and storage areas and from one of them a high chute was spewing out the dried remains of pressed olives into the bed of a large wagon. While we stood outside talking with the proprietor, Pepino Virgilio, small pickup trucks drove in loaded with cases of olives. Slips of paper were placed in the crates to identify the olives and the oil from them. Each batch of olives was then loaded through a slot in the olive press building. The press here was of the new kind, not the traditional stone wheel (that stood out front as a piece of decor) but hydraulic. The olives were slowly squeezed to minimize heat, and then spewed out into a long churning apparatus. A long winding ribbon of metal churned the mass over and over until the oil and pulp were well separated. Finally, the oil dropped down from the mass was sent into a cooled centrifuge and separated into oil and water. The fresh oil was then siphoned off into glass-lined stainless steel containers. Each farmer would then tap these drums for his own oil which was carried away in varieties of containers. Cousin Alberto uses large glass jugs which are stored in a pantry off the kitchen. Fragrances of the newly pressed oils filled the air and there is nothing like the flavors of good fresh bread dredged in this liquid gold. Later that evening over a splendid simple dinner of free range chicken and goose roasted with many herbs and tiny potatoes, we sampled the fresh oil from this mill, last year's oil, and oils from a more traditional mill which we visited late that day. We toured some of the scenic little towns around Lake Trasemeno. Driving along the hillsides we passed olive orchards interspersed with vineyards and occasionally sheep folds in which several breeds of sheep and goats grazed. The goats were Merino from whose undercoats comes the soft wool for making the cloth of the same name. Merino cloth is one of Umbria's major exports, the raw materials coming from domestic sheep and a good deal imported from Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran. Italians I spoke with had none of the martial fervor toward these countries that American leaders seem to have. Ideology is one thing, trade quite another. After all, many said while pointing out splendid monuments and great art, trade fueled the artistic output of the Renaissance. We followed a road down to the lake shore and the village of Monte del Lago sul Trasemeno. In yet another quaint and un-touristy town we came upon the courtyard of the Castel Di Zocco Estate. As we walked up to the large wooden door in the exterior wall, we were almost run over by a stream of buzzing bees -- small vehicles, motorcycles with housings on them with little flatbeds attached. These were filled with fresh olives. As in other places, the crates were tagged and brought inside for crushing. The manager invited us in to see the works and sample the products. No hairnets and clean white overalls here, just all the men and some women socializing, taking their time with the pressing. As in all the Frantoios (presses) we visited, everyone was cheerful. The men in worn blue overalls chatted, smoked cigarettes (this is Italy), told jokes, and tore into loaves of bread which they dipped into the fresh oil and gobbled happily with bits of local sheep milk cheese. This press remained traditional. Twin motorized granite wheels, about 4 feet in diameter, were set in a large metal basin. A hopper fed the wheels from above and as the olives were crushed the pulp slid into a trough. Workers scooped up the slurry and spread it on thin metal rimmed reed circles which were then piled stop one another. When a stack of about twenty were assembled, it was taken to a large press that looked something like an old printing press. A screw assembly then slowly pressed the plates, squeezing out the oil into a receptacle below. The oil was then taken into another room filled with huge earthenware storage jars. Many of these were old, some dating to the Seventeenth and Eighteenth centuries. Yet they remained clean and usable year after year. Seeing these was a remarkable sight, and for those with archaeological interests, was like the wine and oil storage areas of the Minoan palaces some four thousand years ago. How did this oil compare with the oil from the more modern machinery? It was perhaps less sweet, probably because it had fewer Nerella olives, but with less bitter bite at the end common to fresh oils. It was also cloudy, as were all the others, after a time with some sediment at the bottom. We were assured that this is the mark of unfiltered oils and thus more fragrant than the more processed kinds we see in stores. One could hardly argue after more than sampling this marvelous substance. We had to buy some: how much? Well, the manager said, rubbing his chin speculatively, how about 5 Euros for a liter? That is five dollars a quart for what might be the best olive oil I have ever had, one of the world's best. We bought three and I managed to pack only a little to take home. Next time, I am bringing an empty suitcase. Discussion of our travels through Perugia, Assisi, and the lovely old town of Spello, with all of their artistic treasures will have to wait. It is enough to say that these places were better because they were devoid of tourists, such as I. The weather had turned cool and damp, though nothing like Chicago in the same season, and so not unreasonable for walking through these wonderful places. It is easier to imagine the ancient peoples who lived there, from Etruscans on down ("Perusia" was an Etruscan capital) in the largely empty streets. It is certainly easier to get into the many fine little restaurants for quick snacks such as Torta di Testa, a flat bread from the region, cut in wedges, filled with spinach and cheese, or maybe local prosciutto or sausage and then heated. And then on to a café for Espresso or Cappuccino to sip along with a delectable chocolate pastry creation. Heaven. The last night in Umbria before heading off to Lazio for our family reunion, we went to a restaurant in San Feliciano on the lake shore. Rosso di Serra is a small, homey place located at a boat dock in another scenic village. Homey in Italy does not mean "Homestyle" U.S. style. Here everything was made on the spot by a splendid cook, regional fare, all of it. After the usual fill up with delectable fresh bread and herbed olive oil, to go with our brisk white wine, we began with Spelt Soup flavored with Rosemary. Spelt is a wheat whose heyday was the Iron Age. It is hardly eaten here at all, though becoming more popular with natural foods adepts, but it deserves to be. The soup was hearty, though deliciously scented with the herb. A Terrine of Potato and Rapini was covered in a thin sauce made from pureed potato, with peccorino cheese grated on top and then baked briefly in the oven. This and other dishes made with Rapini gave me a new appreciation of this vegetable. Then came a platter of cold meats, all locally prepared sausages, a marvelous head cheese with truffles, cheeses and lots more warm bread. There must be pasta, in this case, a fresh Tagliatelle with porcine mushrooms and truffles in a delicate, light natural sauce. Paradiso. While looking over the menu, we got into a discussion about the provenance of Baccala, whether it was always cod or could be a fresh water fish. Despite living on a lake no one in the family, and many others I spoke with, expressed love for freshwater fish. So the restaurateurs said we must try the salted cod. This version was made with tiny Sultanas and was served in a light tomato puree, finished with a little cream. By that time we had room only for lots of unbelievable pastries and flan. Anise leaves were used in a number of dishes, as was rosemary. Asking about this, I was told that since both are natural to the region, they must be used in lots of dishes. If you can imagine a flavor profile that includes these herbs, more than basil really, and olive oil, then you have some idea of what the regional cuisine is for that season and the whole ambience of Umbria in November. Wheat (Spelt) Soup 1 large ham or beef bone 1/2 lb bulgur wheat or spelt 1/2 lb whole ripe tomatoes 1 carrot 2 stalks celery 1 onion water to cover ham bone salt and pepper, to taste grated peccorino cheese Wash bone, cover with water and allow to stand at room temperature water for several hours. Drain, place bone in deep pan and cover with cold water about 2-inches deep. Add tomatoes, carrot, celery, and onion. Bring to boil, reduce heat and allow to simmer, partly covered, for 2 hours. Strain the broth, return it to the pan and bring it to a boil. Sprinkle the wheat or spelt into the broth. Reduce heat to simmer and allow to cook for about 30 minutes, or until the grain is tender. Add salt and pepper to taste. Dish into bowls and sprinkle each generously with grated peccorino cheese. Serve hot. Serves 4-6. Bruce Kraig, February 2003, Carbondale, Illinois