Simple Italy

Celebrating Your Inner Italian

Brides of Amalfi

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Love was in the air during my visit to the Amalfi Coast.

I couldn’t go anywhere without running into a couple of married newbies.

Our first bride is pretty in parasol, descending the stairs in Ravello.

The Amalfi Coast does a big business in destination weddings although I sensed that at least one couple, possibly two, were locals.  Either way, to be married in Italy is a blessing forever.

Our second bride after exiting the bronze doors of Il Duomo di Ravello.

I realize “Brides of Amalfi” doesn’t do justice to the grooms involved (auguri, guys!) but I  couldn’t imagine entitling this post otherwise.

Our third bride is high-stepping it through Piazza Duomo in Amalfi.

Blame it on those gowns! Seeing a lovely woman frothed in a neck-to-toe meringue is a site you simply cannot ignore.

Our fourth bride on the red carpet at Chiesa Santa Maria Assunta in Positano.

Were you married in Italy or attended a wedding there? What was the experience like? Share your story here.

Pasticceria Sal de Riso

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Pastry Chef Salvatore de Riso is as big a celebrity in Italy as Emeril LaGasse is in the U.S. He is a regular on the popular RAI Uno cooking contest program Prova del Cuoco and has authored several cookbooks.

De Riso’s principal pasticceria is on the main square of Minori on the Amalfi Coast. Pleased to find myself in Minori recently, I visited the De Riso shop in hopes of meeting the great chef. Sadly, he wasn’t there—but his signature Ricotta e Pere (ricotta and pears) torta was. My sweet consolation was whipped sweetened local ricotta with cubes of Williams pears encased in a hazelnut crumb cake. Sublime!

I did meet Salvatore’s brother Alessandro who told me that he and Sal grew up in a family of gelato makers in Minori. As a young chef, Sal apprenticed in some fine hotel kitchens on the Coast before opening his first pastry shop in 2000. His success was rapid and phenomenal.

De Riso operates a production center in Tramonti, in the hills above the coast, and other retail shops in the Campania region, Rome and, improbably, St. Petersburg, Russia.

The 44-year-old de Riso has seemingly more awards and commendations than Italy has churches. Among them: He was the first pasticciere from southern Italy to be admitted to the Accademia Maestri Pasticceri Italinai and, just this month, the group named him Best Pastry Chef of the Year, during its XVII Symposium in Brescia.

Next time you find yourself in Minori, sample la dolce vita with de Riso.

Alessandro de Riso is an ambassador for the sweet life.

Pasticceria De Riso

Piazza Cantilena 1

Minori

(39) 089 853618

Mozzarella di Bufala

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An antipasto plate from Salerno province features fresh mozzarella di buffalo at 12 noon on the plate.

I think I know the reason that production of mozzarella di bufala increased by more than 11 percent in the first half of this year (according to the Mozzarella di Bufala Campana DOP consortium).

The bump in output coincided with my visit to Salerno Province—a major producer of mozzarella di bufala—where I savored the heavenly fresh cheese at every opportunity.

I learned that until you eat DOP (“protected designation of origin” zone) mozzarella on the day it is produced, you haven’t eaten true mozzarella. The milk of water buffalos is higher in fat (about 9 percent) than cow’s milk (about 4 percent) and fat = flavor + mouth feel. Tangy and supple mozzarella di bufala is simply divine.

Our group of travel professionals was invited to watch the artisans at the Fattoria del Casaro in Paestum making mozzarella. As we entered the spotless production room, we were cautioned to tread carefully. The tile floor was slick from dissolved milk fat splashing out of vats filled with steaming water and walnut-sized cheese curds.

Fresh curds of mozzarella form when water buffalo milk is mixed with naturally soured mozzarella whey and rennet.

The mozzarella men pulled the curds with a long stick to create skeins of cheese. Prior to the scalding stretch fest, the curds relaxed  in warm water for about four hours. The name mozzarella comes from the verb mozzare, meaning “to cut.” The stretched curds are pinched by hand  into varying sized balls or braids.

At Fattoria del Casaro in Paestum, artisans work the mozzarella curd.

In the U.S., fresh mozzarella di bufala is available in big city shops but is very expensive. A good alternative is cow’s milk mozzarella, called fior di latte “flower of milk.” Since freshness is its calling card, overcooking mozzarella is a big no-no. Melting it atop pizza is about as much cooking as it can take.

Fresh mozzarella shaped into una treccia, a braid.

In summer, a classic way to savor fresh mozzarella is in insalata caprese, named for the island of Capri. The dish is prepared by placing alternating slices of mozzarella and ripe tomatoes on a plate and drizzling with extra-virgin olive oil, fresh basil, salt and pepper.  New York-based cookbook author Arthur Schwartz, who teaches cooking classes in Paestum, writes in Naples at Table that vinegar is never used in a caprese. Also, he recommends cooks outside of Italy select ripe Big Boy tomatoes as a good stand in for the Caprese pomodori cuore di bue.

Here is a recipe from Naples at Table for a wonderful pasta dish made with fresh mozzarella.

Spaghetti con Melanzane e Mozzarella

(Spaghetti with Eggplant and Mozzarella)

1 pound eggplant, peeled or unpeeled, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

Salt

Oil for frying

2 large cloves garlic, lightly smashed

1/2 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes

1 pint (1 pound) cherry tomatoes, cut in halves or quarters

12 to 14 ounces spaghetti

2 tablespoons finely cut basil or parsley

8 ounces fresh or several-days-old mozzarella, cut into1/4-inch cubes

Grated Pecorino or ricotta salata

  1. Salt the eggplant and let it drain in a colander for 30 minutes or longer. Dry it well with paper towels, pressing the eggplant to remove moisture.
  2. In a skillet, heat about 1/2 inch of oil and fry the eggplant until it is soft and lightly browned. Remove the eggplant with a slotted spoon and drain on absorbent paper.
  3. Pour out (and discard) all but about 2 tablespoons of the frying oil. Add the garlic and the pepper flakes and place over low heat. Cook the garlic, pressing it into the oil a couple of times to release its flavor, until it barely begins to color on both sides. Remove the garlic.
  4. Add the tomatoes, immediately cover the pan, increase the heat to medium-high, and cook the tomatoes until they fall apart and become saucy, about 8 minutes.
  5. Meanwhile cook the spaghetti until al dente in plenty of salted boiling water.
  6. Just before the pasta id done, add the eggplant cubes to the tomato sauce, lower the heat, and cook gently, still covered, for another minute or so.
  7. Drain the spaghetti and turn it into a well-warmed serving bowl. Add the eggplant and tomato sauce, plus the finely cut herb. Toss well. Add the mozzarella and toss again.
  8. Serve immediately. Garnish with some grated Pecorino or ricotta salata if desired.

La Fattoria del Casaro packages mozzarella di bufala for airplane carry-on.  You can also purchase fresh mozzarella di bufala from Fattorie Garofalo which has a shop in Naples Capodichino Airport.

Salerno On My Mind

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Question: What’s wrong with this picture?

Answer: Absolutely nothing!

I snapped this beauty from the terrazza of the Hotel Il San Pietro di Positano, a Relais & Chateaux property named one of the best hotels in the world by the readers of Condé Nast Traveler.

I was with a group of travel professionals and writers touring the hotel during a recent certification program hosted by the province of Salerno, which occupies about half of the region of Campania. The Italian Government Tourist Board North America (ENIT) and Alitalia Airlines were also sponsors.

In three action packed days, our Salerno hosts treated us to some hidden gems. They’re working hard to expand awareness of Salerno’s offerings, the best known of which are the towns clinging to the Amalfi Coast.

The Villa Cimbrone Hotel in Ravello.

Salerno is the Amalfi but a lot more as well. It is the mountains north of the coast that divide costiera d’amalfi from Naples and also the large area south of the city of Salerno. This includes the incomparable Greek ruins at Paestum, plenty of beaches, and the wild beauty of the Cilento national park.

In my upcoming posts, I’ll share some tastes and sights of Salerno province where new doors were opened for me.

Twin portals in Positano.

Cruising the Cilento coast south of Salerno.

Castello Arechi standing guard above the city of Salerno.

A musician in the town of Minori.

A seafood feast at the King's Residence Hotel in Palinuro.

Two gentlemen on the steps of the Duomo in the town of Amalfi.

I stayed for a few days in "Lemon Heaven" overlooking the town of Amalfi.

Portside in Amalfi.

Gladiator girl gearing for conquest.

Taking a little rest in Ravello.

Have you visited Salerno?

What destination spoke to you?

On Italy and Friendship

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In our previous post, marriage expert Alisa Bowman expressed what Italy taught her about happiness. Sharing the adventures with her girlfriend Deb only made it sweeter. Alisa says “Not only was Deb instrumental in saving my marriage, she is also a fellow writer (check out her medical writing blog), a great friend, and a wonderful travel companion. We have a lot in common: we both adore food, naps, wine, espresso, experiences, purses and shoes. There could not be a more perfect friend for me to take to Italy than Deb.

Debra Gordon in Tuscany.

Following is Deb’s account of traveling with Alisa.

It was when we were lost somewhere in southern Tuscany—no map, no working GPS, no freakin’ clue as to where we were—that the difference between traveling with a good friend and traveling with my husband hit home. Were I in the car with Keith, my husband of nearly 20 years, I knew I would have been tense and angry by now. Not because it was Keith’s fault that we were lost; not because we had to be anywhere in particular. But because  my normally sanguine husband gets very tense when we get lost, which makes me tense, and then asks me questions about where we are that I am, of course, incapable of answering, which makes me angry. Pretty soon, I snap at him, he gets angry, and voila!

That didn’t happen with Alisa. Instead, as it became apparent that we were, as Alisa put it, totally f*%$!!ed, and as the needle on the gas tank sank lower and lower, the whole adventure became funnier and funnier.

The old man Alisa accosted off his tractor who didn’t speak a word of English?

“What did he say?” I said when she got back in the car after a five-minute conversation.

“I want to have a threesome with you two.”

The condescending counter girl who babbled at us in Italian when I asked how to pump the gas?

“What did she say?”

“You are incredibly stupid Americans who should be shot.”

The hunky gas station attendant who kindly tried to show us how to feed money into the machine before pumping gas?

“What did he say?”

“I want to have a threesome with you two.”

You get the picture.

When we went up and down the same road three times looking for the A1 (the expressway) we found it hilarious. When we tried to read the map and realized we were an hour of north of where we should be, we laughed until we cried. The next day, when we realized that Abruzzo, the town in which we’d landed, was actually the capital of the region and a destination in itself and we’d been right there and hadn’t even stopped for an espresso, well, not quite so funny but there you go.

The fact is, I laughed more in the nine days Alisa and I spent together than I think I’ve laughed in years. And talked. And talked. And talked. About everything. The dreamy Italian waiter who was morose (I said it was because he knew that if he looked us in the eye and engaged us in conversation he would fall madly in love with us and since we were Americans on holiday he knew it was hopeless).

About the tourists who came to our villa for only a night or two on their way to “do” some other part of Italy (we found them all pathetic). About why there were no fat Italians (no Ho-Hos). About the challenges of freelancing, our doubts as to whether we’d be able to stick with it another 10 or 20 years. We talked about our mothers; our kids; our husbands and our dogs (and no, according to Alisa, it did not make me a bad mother because I missed my dogs more than my teenaged sons).

I could nod at something with my eyes, she’d look, and without a word an entire conversation was exchanged. Or she could simply roll her eyes and moan after eating a bite of lasagna and I’d know exactly what she was saying: “I’ll never eat lasagna in the States again.”

This is not to say that Keith and I don’t talk and laugh. We do. He is a fantastic husband, one I would never trade in. We’ve traveled together numerous times in the US and Europe, including two trips to Italy, and always had an incredible time.

But this trip was different. It was different because I was traveling with another woman. This is something that, with the exception of the occasional spa weekend with a friend, I’ve never done. I married young (first marriage at 22), had my first child at barely 24, and have been married, with a one-year break in between marriages, ever since.

Traveling with a girlfriend, though, is like traveling with another version of yourself. In many ways, it is easier, because you don’t have to explain as much (like why I worried that the walking shoes I bought in Montepulciano looked silly with the pants and white socks I was wearing and why I found it astounding that neither of us had worn makeup the entire trip). You can browse slowly past shops, wander in and out of them and know that she will be right behind you. You can examine the needlework on dozens of purses without ever hearing that deep, “can-we-please-go-now-why-the-hell-do-you-need-another-purse” sigh, and you can bet that when you feel the need to pee in the middle of nowhere, she does, too.

Traveling with a girlfriend also forces you to take on more responsibility. I realized midway through the trip that I was growing on this trip (emotionally, not just in the waist and thighs) because I didn’t have Keith to fall back on, to handle things as he does so well. Instead, Alisa and I had to struggle with the language barriers, the money issues, figuring out how to do everything from finding the car rental place and reserving the GPS to turning on the light and flushing the toilet in trattoria bathrooms (not as easy as it sounds) to pumping gas into our car. In other words, I had to step up to the plate, whereas if Keith were there I would have remained in the stands.

So when people ask me about my trip, what comes to mind first isn’t the food or the scenery or the wine. It’s Alisa, the friend who made it all possible, who understood my need for a nap every afternoon, who didn’t judge the vast quantities of wine I imbibed, who didn’t mind the one day I said I really didn’t feel like leaving the villa, and who turned a trip into a life-changing experience.

Have you traveled with a friend? Was it heaven . . . or hell? Tell us about it.

What Italy Taught Alisa About Happiness

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Alisa Bowman is usually busy sharing marriage-saving advice on her award-winning blog Project Happily Ever After. But in a recent post, the author of the forthcoming book Project: Happily Ever After: Saving Your Marriage When the Fairytale Falters
shared the story of how she got in touch with her Inner Italian on a stay in Tuscany with her girlfriend Deb Gordon. We loved it so much we asked her to share with SimpleItaly readers.

Alisa Bowman

What Italy Taught Me About Happiness

While in Montepluciano in Southern Tuscany, I stayed at a wonderful, old villa. It was there where I met Daniel (Dan-yel-luh, and not Dan-yuhl), who served me breakfast and dinner most of the days of my stay.

Each morning he greeted me with an exuberant smile, as if he’d been waiting all night just to see me. He reminded me of a Labrador Retriever puppy, wagging his happy tail at every turn.

One day I couldn’t help but ask, “Daniel, are you always this happy?”

He put a finger to his lips, shifted his body weight to one side, and thought deeply for a moment. Then he said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You always seem so joyful. You seem happy and content all the time. You joyfully pour wine into a glass. You joyfully bring dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Is joy your nature?”

He said that it was, but he said it with an incredulous look on his face, as if he assumed that joy was the nature of all beings and that it was odd for me to think that his personal joy was anything beyond ordinary.

And maybe, in Italy—in the land of 1,000 sensual delights—it’s not out of the ordinary. Perhaps, in Italy, people like Daniel are a dime a dozen.

Here in America, though, people like Daniel are downright rare. The Daniels in this country are bordering on extinction.

So naturally I was taken with Daniel, so taken that I fantasized about winning the lottery so I could transplant Daniel to Pennsylvania where he would become my butler. (You so thought I was going to write secret Italian lover instead of butler didn’t you?)

That way Daniel could greet me every morning when his joy filled buongiorno.

But then, Deb, my travel companion, asked, “Do you really think Daniel would ever want to live in Pennsylvania when he could live here in Tuscany instead?”

Florence at Sunset

Indeed, Daniel lives in a world where he is surrounded by beauty. In Italy, creating and admiring beauty is a national pastime. The wine is beautiful. The people are beautiful. The handbags are beautiful. The countryside is beautiful. So is the architecture.

Italians are known for their olive oil, wine, Pecorino cheese (among many other varieties), and handmade pasta.

Americans are known for Ho Hos, Doritos, and spray cheese.

Italians live in homes and cities that date that back thousands of years and are works of art in and of themselves.

Americans live in sub divisions.

If I transplanted Daniel to Pennsylvania, I would suck all of the joy right out of the man.

Still, during my 9 days in Italy, I searched for a way to take a little Daniel back home with me. I made a study of the cultural differences between Italians and Americans, trying to figure out if there was something other than the landscape and setting that made Daniel so happy.

This is what I concluded.

Eating can and should be a sensual experience. I took a cooking class while in Italy. The chef encouraged me to dip my entire index finger into a bottle of olive oil and then suck the oil off my finger. He watched me as I did so, and he clapped and said “ah-ha-ah!” when a post-orgasmic smile and blush took over my face.

Then he proceeded to show me how to make red sauce. The sauce started with an entire head of minced garlic and about a cup and a half or so of olive oil.

With that much olive oil in any dish, your lips and tongue get lubed in such a way that you can’t help but have sex with your food.

But Italian eating is sensual for reasons that go beyond the olive oil. In Italy, food and beverages are works of art. The ingredients are local and they are fresh and they are grown, raised and handled with love. You eat a bite of Italian cheese drizzled with Italian honey and you close your eyes, you put your hand to your heart, and you make all sorts of grunting sounds that you once thought you would only ever make while inside a bedroom.

You eat some American Velveeta and the only grunting sounds you’ll ever make will be a result of the stomachache you experience later in the day.

One experience brings joy. The other brings pain and sadness.

Which would you rather have? I already know my answer.

Italians don’t go on diets. I’m fairly certain that things like Diet Coke, low-fat and low-carb packaged foods, and margarine are confiscated at the border.

I don’t know precisely how most Italians stay relatively thin. Maybe the happiness somehow increases their metabolisms. Maybe they eat smaller portions. I’m not sure. I didn’t see a single Italian out running or power walking, so I don’t believe they are consciously exercising off the calories, either. (The roads where I was staying had no shoulder, were narrow and were populated by speeding, aggressive motorists to such a degree that my friend and I joked, “What do Italians do when they want to commit suicide? They go for a walk.”)

Whatever the Italians do to prevent obesity, I apparently wasn’t doing it. I gained 6.5 pounds while I was there. But I’m not unhappy about that.

The hills of Tuscany.

There is only one moment, and that moment is now. While in Italy, our GPS broke and, as a result, we spent a lot of time driving aimlessly around the Italian countryside and stopping at various gas stations and asking for directions. (More about that experience tomorrow). There are many peculiarities about Italian filling stations. One of them is that every single filling station has an espresso bar. The other is that you cannot get the espresso “to go” as they don’t have to-go cups. Rather, you sit inside and you drink your espresso out of a real espresso cup. Then you get back in your car and you go.

This is even true at the airport.

From what I could tell, the “to go” container does not exist in Italy.

And this is probably because, in Italy, people do not walk while they drink espresso. They do not drive while they drink it, and I’m somewhat sure they don’t talk while they drink it, either. They do not multitask it. They single task it.

They single task eating, too. I did not see a single Italian reading or talking on their cell phones while eating. When my friend Deb pulled out her iPad at a restaurant so she could jot down a few notes about the experience, the waiter (who’d already become quite friendly with us) gave the iPad a dirty look and then put his fingers to his throat and then flicked them away.

So this morning, I single tasked eating a hardboiled egg. Let me tell you: it was the best tasting egg I’ve ever had. I did not cook it any differently than usual. I just ate it differently than I usually do.

Sex is not just for the bedroom. Everything about Italy is sensual, including the language. To speak in Italian, you must do things with your tongue that, honestly, get me hot and bothered just writing about. When I returned home, I found myself speaking English differently. My English words sound the same, but I’m speaking more slowly and I’m using my lips and my tongue differently. I’m savoring the sound and the sensation of the words.

And I’m doing the same with other experiences. It’s supposed to rain 6 inches today. When I walked out into the rain, though, I didn’t think, “Darn, I’m getting wet.” No, I savored the experience.

It may be true that Pennsylvania is no Tuscany, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still allow every experience—every taste, smell, sound and sight—to make love to my being.

And if I continue to allow these delights to have their way with me, I might continue to feel happy and joyful no matter where I find myself.

Next, Alisa’s traveling companion Deb Gordon writes on Italy and Friendship.