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Once Every Papal PassingA Wining and Dining Travel Log of Opportunities Not Missed in ItalyBy Lars LeichtThe Romans, for whom the Pope was once as much head of state as head of church, have a saying about things that don't come around too often -- "Ogni morto di Papa," or every time a Pope dies. Historically, there was usually a median of about a dozen or so years between morti di papa, but as we all know this most recent occasion was momentous both for the longevity of John Paul II's papacy and his personal popularity. And here I was, by cosmic coincidence, en route to Rome the day following his passing.
So on this morto di papa, I arrived in time to hear Italians saying how they were sorry for poor Wojtyla, but thought it was silly to have cancelled all sporting events on Sunday and were fed up with the incessant coverage that had begun a week earlier with the death watch. At the same time, in true Italian ironic fashion, they all stayed glued to their television sets to watch the developments. Part of my pilgrimage to Anagni is a visit to the countryside to see my uncle, Zio Angelino. His homestead was once a bustling agricultural center – he raised pigs, sheep, chickens, at one time even had some oxen, and owned several vineyards in the hills and valleys, property handed down from generation to generation. All the while holding down a factory job. He sold wine too, filling the demijohns of people who found him by word of mouth thanks to his reputation for what Italians call “discrete” quality and fair pricing. But the market for farmer’s wine fell out a few years ago, and since his wife, Zia Giovannina, passed away my uncle is without not only his companion but his working partner. Angelino’s children don’t want anything to do with the work involved in farming and winemaking, so now his great cellar is emptied, its walls no longer lined with large casks that would each hold several hundred gallons of wine – though he still hides the large skeleton key to its double door. His vineyards have been ripped up, the land either turned to another crop or laying fallow. A few years ago he made a small barrel of wine with grapes purchased from a trusted neighbor, but even that doesn’t go as fast as it used to and he’s got enough to hold him for another year or so. Reminiscing in his cellar this day, I wandered over to the corner that was the seed of the house, a grotto carved by the hand of my great-grandfather, Nonno Domenico well over a century ago. Tucked in the corner of the grotto I was thrilled to still see a few bottles of Angelino’s prized production, his sparkling version of the local wine, made like a Frascati but exclusively using the Malvasia di Candia grape and bottled on the first full moon in March, when atmospherics worked the sugars to make the wine dance like champagne. This was the last of it, as Angelino filled these bottles with Giovannina the year she was diagnosed with cancer, which she survived for a year or so before succumbing in 1994. By our calculations (since he doesn’t label or mark his bottles), that put the wine at vintage 1992, which is the year I helped him harvest and we picked the last yield from the vineyard that Nonno Domenico planted in 1885. So what else do you do every morto di papa? We took a bottle up to the kitchen and got out the glasses, prepared to toast to Zia Giovannina, Nonno Domenico, the Pope, the family, and to being together. We rinsed the cobwebs from the bottle, but before I could loosen the wire cage holding the plastic champagne cork onto the bottle, my uncle asked me, in the strictest dialect of our town, the essential question that he always asks before serving wine. Sei magnito? Have you eaten? Now, Zio Angelino loves his wine and has been known to indulge in some serious quantities of it (an act to which I often bear not only witness but complicity). His golden rule, however, the mantra of his winemaking life, is to never, ever, no matter what, drink wine on an empty stomach, away from food, away from the conviviality of the table. So it being 11 a.m., I had to confess that it had been a few hours since breakfast, and it would be a couple more until lunch. Zio hastily raided his meager widower’s cupboard and pulled from a worn paper bag a wedge of locally produced, dense, crusty bread that he sliced thickly, and layered with a few slices of prosciutto made by a neighbor the way Zia used to. Alongside that, he cracked a few pieces of an aged Pecorino Romano, the kind of cheese he used to make from his own dozen or so sheep. We ate, dutifully, and then loosened the wire on the bottle. The cork sprang from the bottle with the classic kind of pop that signals festivity, the wine as alive as if it were bottled yesterday. Through the flared tumblers that are traditional in the Lazio region and di rigore in Angelino’s house, we could see what the experts called “a persistent perlage.” The wine was soft, no longer bearing the sweetness of its youth yet the fruit was evident and the aroma haunting. Its flavor was almond-like, its acidity not calling out for either sweet or savory, but rather being the perfect foil to cleanse the palate of the simple mid-morning snack that Angelino had cobbled together. This is a sensory photograph that rounds out a special chapter of my life, and one that I will hold dear to my heart forever. After two days of catching up with the family and eating great meals at home with my aunts, uncles and cousins, two colleagues joined up with me for the trek to Verona, first to take a small tour of this historic town and then to have a fast bite before the six-hour drive north. My cousin who owns a fruit and vegetable store in town sent a “raccomandata” to the nearby restaurant “Il Banditore,” a customer of hers, not to treat us as tourists, but to feed us well and quickly. We settled in immediately with that mission in mind, as the sole customers for lunch that day. Since we couldn't decide between the locally produced house white and house red we ordered up a pitcher of both. The white was similar to Angelinos still production but not as fruity or delicious. It was more acerbic, but still the typical light amber in color, its flavor reminiscent of green almonds -- a better pairing with the food that followed than as a cocktail wine on its own. The red was zesty and generous, un-oaked though it did obviously spend a little time in casks of chestnut wood.
In the rented Alfa 166, a sweet machine, we flew at the “speed of Leicht,” as my friends like to call it, in excess of 100 mph most of the time, for the first three hours until traffic outside of Florence slowed us to a grueling crawl. Things loosened up again after Reggio Emilia, but there were reports of traffic between Mantova and Verona. Reluctant to sit idle on the road again, having had our fill of rest stops (one), and knowing that it was in fact near dinner time, we got off the highway and began a wild goose chase through the side roads around Mantova to a place that my colleague remembered from the year before. Alla Pergola is on the outskirts of Verona and not far from Mantova, in a little suburb called Fagnano di Trevenzuolo flush on the dividing line between the regions of Veneto and Emilia Romagna – politically and regionally affiliated with the former, but closer in gastronomical habits to the latter. We skipped antipasti, instead working through a tasting selection of house made ravioli and agnolotti, in butter of course, alternatively stuffed with artichokes, mixed greens, and pumpkin, the most classic and traditional filling for this regional cuisine. Then a taste of tagliarini with a ragú di asino (yes, donkey), devoid of tomato as far as I could tell, but rich and flavorful, crumbs of meat probably cooked in oil, herbs and broth. Once you get past the idea that it is donkey, the meat is actually quite flavorful. Whenever I have it, I am reminded of my favorite college English professor, Dr. Goodman, who explained the great ironies of the world by the example of donkey meat making the best salami. Go figure. On a subsequent night at Alla Pergola (we couldn’t help but return), we also tried a hearty risotto with the same donkey sauce, each kernel of rice perfectly al dente, certainly not al onda as the Venetians would have it, but not “boppy” by any stretch of the imagination. The specialty and only secondo here is the "carello," a cart divided in two sections, one dedicated to the traditional boiled meats (beef tongue or lingua, beef cheeks or testina, various other cuts of veal and beef, cotecchino sausage, chicken, capon, etc), the other side with roasts - veal, beef, pork, etc., all sliced to order by proprietor Roberto. Four dressings were placed on the table to be tried with the meats – cren, which is a mildly pungent type of horseradish; salsa verde which is like a pesto but made with parsley, garlic and anchovies; peará, a sauce made with bread crumbs boiled in broth with butter, beef marrow, black pepper and cinnamon, which looks a bit like a soft applesauce but tastes much more like… bread crumbs with beef broth and marrow; and mostarda, a sort of spicy fruit chutney made with mustard seed – in this case, it was homemade and the fruit was exclusively apricot, though often it will include a mix of cherries, peaches, apples, pears and other fruits. From a smaller side cart , Roberto’s wife offered sides of boiled vegetables or salad, and the tastiest boiled potatoes I ever had, probably because they were cooked in the meat broth, enhanced by a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt but certainly not deficient without that touch. Dry, acidic young Lambruscos were the perfect foil for the food and to cleanse the palate. What a find.
This was one of the best meals I have had at this favorite spot of mine since my first visit, when locals played cards in the front room bar and the setting was just a tad more rustic. Alas, Bersagliere has been discovered and gotten more polished, but its proprietor, my friend Leopoldo Ramponi who works the tables with son Alessandro while his wife Marina runs the kitchen, has not let down standards. Being a member in good standing of the Arte in Tavola fine dining association, and an upstanding citizen whose culture and refinement harks back to the time when Verona was part of the orderly Austro-Hungarian Empire (hence the heel-clicking bow upon our departure), he never will. Not even ogni morto di papa. Recommendations: FAGNANO VERONA RecipeCiambelline Ruzze On a flat, dry surface or pastry board, mound the flour and dig out a well in the center. Add the sugar, wine, oil and anise seeds into the well, and mix, gradually incorporating the flour until it forms a dense loaf. Pull small pieces off the loaf and roll them into cylindrical rings about 2 inches in diameter. Place them on a floured cookie sheet, brush with a bit of the vermouth, sprinkle some sugar lightly on top, and bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 30 minutes. |
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Though
I was in the first ripple of what would become a tidal wave of clergy and
faithful making their way to the Eternal city, and honored to be in country as
this historic event unfolded, my own pilgrimage was of a different sort, and
twofold at that. First and foremost, I was headed for Italy’s Mecca of winedom,
the convergence of all forces, great and small, involved any way with Italian
wines – the VinItaly wine fair in Verona. Normally that would have brought me to
a more northerly transit such as Milan, Venice or Munich, but I also had some
personal business to attend to further south. I had been remiss in visiting and
staying in contact with my maternal cousins in the small town of Anagni, about
40 miles south of Rome, and was taking two days to catch up with them and also
prepare for my visit there later this year with the wife and kids. 
Anagni,
as it happens, is also called “The City of Popes,” having given four of its
medieval sons (all related) to the throne of Peter, the last being the infamous
Boniface VIII who started the practice of Holy Years, or Jubilees, in 1300.
Medieval popes used Anagni the way modern ones use Castel Gandolfo – an escape
from Rome’s summer heat (and at the time political heat as well) a short ride
away in a well protected vantage point. Pope Alexander III excommunicated the
Germanic Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa and the Anti-Pope Octavian (Victor
IV) from Anagni’s Cathedral of Santa Maria. 
So
comfortable was Boniface VIII in his native Anagni that he too used it as a base
for many of his habitual excommunications, not the least of which was declared
against French King Philip the Fair in their mutual struggle for temporal power.
For Boniface’s troubles, the French came to town, snuck in a side gate, and held
the pope captive for three days, during which legend has it that the head of the
garrison either slapped the pope or was stopped in mid-air as he attempted the
slap, thus giving rise to the legend of “lo schiaffo di Anagni,” the slap
of Anagni. The townsfolk eventually rose from their slumber and liberated the
pope, who was then taken to Rome and died months later under the strain of
pursuit by his many enemies. Anagni then got its own slap in the form of
retribution from Boniface’s successor who cursed its soil and its people for
letting the French sneak in, but he had one of those suspiciously short
papacies. The next Pope took the papacy to Avignon, France for a century or so,
which eventually led to the Great Schism. All this from the humble little town
of my ancestors.
We
completely ignored the menu placed in front of us, instead chatting up our
waitress, who was also the daughter of the owners (Mamma in the kitchen, Papa’
at the door, typical of so many of Italy’s best eateries). If you have the gift
of some Italian language, even rudimentary, it’s always best to find out
directly what is freshest, what is recommended, and what the specialties of the
house are – it’s hard to go wrong that way anywhere in Italy unless the place is
a real tourist trap. We started with Banditore's classic "pizza di farina
gialla," a small, delicate disk of polenta mixed with ricotta cheese to make
it pillowy soft inside yet fried to a crispy gold on the outside, brushed with a
dense red tomato sauce and flavorful chopped anchovies. It was surrounded by a
garland of bitter green cicoria salad that perfectly counterbalanced the
richness of the dish. Then on to perfectly al dente home made
tagliatelle in a sauce of chick peas and baccala that were roughly mashed
together, anointed with some fragrant yet delicate local olive oil, an
incredibly ethereal yet intensely flavorful dish. Finally, abacchio
scottaditto, lean strips of lamb chops with little meat but zero fat,
perfectly cooked and very flavorful, not in the least bit gamy tasting. A bit of
salty pecorino Romano to finish the wine… a few ciambelline ruzze, wine
cookies studded with anise seeds, to go along with our digestive Amaro
Anagnino, an espresso, and we were on our way, an hour or so later
than our originally scheduled departure time but well sated and incredibly
content.
Here
I have to confess an exercise in gluttony. I had mentioned a return visit to
Alla Pergola; even though I knew that a rich dinner awaited us, I thought some
sustenance was in order for the 20-minute ride from Verona. I met my guests down
town at “Al Carro Armato,” a small medieval wine bar looking more like a
rathskeller, with long wooden tables, high whitewashed walls and dark oak beams.
It takes its name from the armored tank designed by Leonardo Da Vinci, which is
appropriate because when the restaurant is closed and its windows and doors
shuttered by day, you would never be able to find it let alone
penetrate
it. We ordered a bottle of Quintarelli Primo Fiore, a young Veronese red with
cherry-like fruit flavors. But as we learned from Zio Angelino, in Italy you
don’t order wine without food, so we accompanied it with a platter of finely
sliced of salami, mortadella and prosciutto, chunks of Grana Padano, and two
preparations of horse meat, a local habit and specialty -- meatballs fried
crispy and flavorful, and shreds of dried meat dressed judiciously with olive
oil and lemon. Oh yes, and maybe another good Valpolicella. Necessary? No. But
warranted and worthwhile? Yes. After all, you can only do certain things when
you have the opportunity. And how often do you have the opportunity to taste
pony meatballs and shredded horse jerky
Tucked
into our corner and toasting to (but not gloating in) our success, my colleagues
and I started with an antipasto of grilled polenta, crisp pickled vegetables
gardiniere and one of the most unique and interesting salumi I have
ever seen -- a Sorpressata that had tenderloin of veal stuffed into the
middle of it. Then we couldn’t decide between the pasta e fagioli and the
risotto all'amarone so in another truly Italianate political decision, we
had "half" portions of both and they were incredible. 
The
pasta fagioli was made with borlotti beans and 3/8 inch-long
tagliarini, delicate and sumptuous. The risotto, now that we were
well into the Veneto, was perfectly all'onda, which implies that it is
just wet enough to make a wake when the plate is served, but never soupy (it
absorbs the moisture while you are eating). It tasted evidently yet delicately
of Amarone, and far from wine-soaked. Then a tender saddle of rabbit that was
justly seasoned with oregano, one of my favorite herbs and one that I think is
underutilized properly outside of pizzerias. Service was sharp, smart, and
bright, any faster and it would have not been appropriate, any slower and it
might have been understandable given the full house, but still tedious.