Everything is Illuminati.

Last Wednesday we were hosted by the Illuminati wine family. We stayed an extra couple of nights in the wintery Le Marche region, just to attend the work organised appointment. We met up with Stefano Illuminati around midday for a tour of their facilities, a tasting and what was described as a lunch that was to be “nothing special” in the organising pre-emails.

The winery and vines are actually in the Abruzzo region which borders Le Marche to the south. Stefano sheparded us into his Porsche for a tour of their expansive vineyards, pointing out the different vineyards (Montepulciano being the star, the white Pecorino an up and comer), trellising techniques (they use both espalier and canopy styles) and described with ardour how the business has grown since his great grandfather established it over one hundred years earlier.

Discussing his forefathers brought Stefano to a more surprising topic of discussion. His and his peers worry for their children. He told us that unemployment in Italy is an escalating problem and quite movingly expressed his concern for the future Italy and how it will be for his two boys. He told us how lucky we were to be born in Australia, we shrugged our shoulders and half heartedly agreed.

His family have been doing business in Australia since 1987, he told us. “My father loves your country.” On Dino Illuminati’s first visit back in the 80s, he was determined to find a long lost friend. He arrived in Adelaide (he knew that much) with only a surname and the name of the Italian town where they had grown up.  He found the man, much older, bed ridden and suffering from Parkinson’s.

Finding his long absent friend, who had not quite found the better life in Australia, had emblazoned Dino with a curious infatuation; “Viva Australia!!!” he said to us later when we met him. Indeed.

Our “nothing special” lunch with Stefano was an absolute joy. He took us to La Sosta, a local trattoria run by friends of the Illuminati’s. As we were seated, he disappeared, only to come back moments later, having ordered our lunch with nonna in the kitchen. The menu they had created for us featured fresh local produce.

For antipasti we had fried Mozzarella (OMG), Ascolano Olives, a cow and sheep’s milk pecorino (cheese this time), locally made Prosciutto crudo and bruschetta (toast) with peppery green extra virgin olive oil drizzled over the top. The olives were particularly interesting; large and green, they were filled with a mix of cooked meat and herbs, then crumbed and fried. Very moreish, they went superbly with Illuminati’s sparkling white brut, a mix of Trebbiano and Verdicchio.

For Primi Piatti (“first plate” in Italian, most usually a pasta dish) we had two pastas, both served from the cooking pot on a trolley beside the table (lovely touch). The first was tagliatelle with FRESH porcini; the flavour was almost too intense for my taste, “almost” because the chef had very cleverly added just enough finely chopped parsley to contrast the pungent mushroom tang. The second pasta was equally delicious and simple; spaghetti with a light tomato and sausage meat sauce.

By this time we were in serious trouble, make no mistake when you hear someone say that the Italians are a generous people. Each of the dishes so far would have been enough to be considered a full meal by our normal “at home” standard.

The Secondi Piatti was a mixed grill, veal, lamb chops, sausage, pork ribs and pork belly, well seasoned and cooked to perfection. They were served with a simple cabbage and broad bean side dish, almost like a mash and delicately flavoured with garlic.

Well into our food coma, dessert is but a blurry memory to me now. I think it was trifle-esque, with a gaudy rose pink layer. It was the specialty of the house, so it must have been good.

Our meal was accompanied by the bottles left over from our earlier tasting. My favourite was the Pieluni, 100% Montepulciano; C – vibrant, dark, light-catching crimson, N – sweet black pepper, cherry and a hint of treacle, P – rich and velvety, elegant oak.

I will endeavour to blog again soon, tomorrow perhaps.

Until then. xo

Tutti i Santi Ognissnati

Tonight we are holed up in an Agriturismo (farm-stay) in Campofilone, Le Marche. There is a thunderstorm raging outside, stretching its vast electric fingers of far out across the Adriatic. The rain has been heavy; sporadically we have to mop the tiles by the door to stop it from creeping into the bedroom.

We’ll head out in about an hour to hopefully find some dinner. The majority of our afternoon was spent driving along the coast road searching in vain for an open Supermarket. We couldn’t figure out why they were shut. We now know enough Italian to know the days of the week, times, open/closed etc and all signs (literally) suggested they should be open. Hungry and confused, we wondered whether they just have extreme lunch breaks locally. A “normal” lunch break for Italy is midday to four-ish, the stores close up shop- most inconvenient!

As it turns out, when we returned from our fruitless hunt, today is a national public holiday. All Saints Day or Tutti i Santi Ognissnati in Italian. Why didn’t anybody tell us? Hang on, they probably did, we just didn’t know what they were rattlin’ on about. Today is also the first of the new season, making the storm very befitting.

On Saturday we left the West Coast and the region of Campania and drove north east to the East Coast and Le Marche. We started out early (painfully), to avoid the traffic and to cram in a four hour stopover in Pompeii before the five hour drive.

Pompeii was magical; it was like someone picked us up, shrunk us down and matrix-ed us into Age of Empires or Civilization. Not wanting to tackle the crowds we didn’t join a recommended tour group but chose to semi-wing it. Map and iphone in hand we had a wonderful morning adventuring through the roman ruins. Roman history, Pompeii included, falls into the category of things I don’t seem to know enough about. I am hungry for information!

The city is so well preserved by the volcanic ash that it isn’t at all difficult to imagine it in all of its glory. There are still many layers unexcavated, we even saw archaeologists on active digs at the site; one scrubbing down a clay vase in a city fountain. Fascinating.

A note to the squeamish: stop reading now.

Before leaving Atrani we ferried and walked our way to a few other destinations; Capri, Positano and Amalfi. In Positano we had a wonderful meal at a beachside seafood restaurant. One of us ordered the squid ink risotto, jet black, gloriously flavoured with Parmagiano and threaded with squid meat, it was devilishly good. Frighteningly though, it had a similar effect on ones digestive system, that eating too much beetroot at a summer BBQ might. 

Jelly legs.

Last night we set the smoke alarm off in our apartment. It was quite a surprise, as we think this is the first place we’ve stayed in that actually had one fitted. As the screeching beast drew our attention to the charred steak on the stovetop, we frantically waved tea towels (in the fashion of my dear mother) at it, opened the doors and windows and tried our darndest to placate it. Nothing seemed to be working.

As it continued bleating, panic set in. We are staying in Atrani, a minute (possibly Italy’s smallest) village perched on a cliff top in the Bay of Salerno (Amalfi Coast) and I’m sure the wailing monster could be heard as far away as Naples. We wondered whether it needed to be reset by the fire brigade or perhaps it was malfunctioning.

Almost defeated, I turned the aircon on while Mick prodded it with broom handle. Then as we turned to each other, looks of exasperation spread across our faces, me on the verge of tears (lie), it stopped. Just like that. If not for the buzz of the air conditioner, the hum of the range-hood and the gale force ocean winds battering our worldly possessions around the apartment, I’m sure a sense of calm serenity would have washed across us.

As I mentioned earlier, we are staying in Atrani on the Amalfi Coast. A spectacular coastline where mountains, ravines, lemon orchards, white washed towns and terraced vineyards all meet black pebbled beaches and the inkiest blue ocean I’ve ever seen.

Our research prior to arriving was minimal and although Mick has proven himself a very capable driver we were not at all prepared for the hair-raising drive along the coast road. It follows the curve of the coast and is two lanes wide. Not Australian lanes, small Italian lanes, which to my eye appear about 70% of what we are used to. Adding to this, people park their cars all along the road, in the curves, lengthways, sideways or anyway that fits; making a tight squeeze even tighter. If you are ever offered a free upgrade for a hire car in Europe- politely say “No thank you, that is unless it comes with a complimentary prescription of Valium”.

Our knuckle-whitening experience went like this. We turned a corner and saw a coach stopped in an upcoming bend. It seemed to be parked, as all of the cars on our side of the road were driving past it. As we got nearer, the space between it and the opposite cliff face shrunk before our very eyes. It seemed impossibly small for our luxuriously sized Citroën C5 Exclusive (Thank-you very much!). So much so, that I pointed out the obvious to Mick “Babe, we ain’t gonna fit through”.

By this time we were blocked in, the coach on our left (it was now painfully obvious that she wasn’t parked, she was stuck), a queue of cars behind us and a merciless looking stone wall out the passenger side. Even after folding in the side mirrors the space was still gut wrenchingly tight. I was envisaging a gaping tear down my side of the car, much like when the iceberg hit or when an alien, in an alien movie decides it’s high time he meets his prey.

We got through, like Destiny’s Child we survived. We didn’t give up. At one point, my side of the car was so close to the cliff my hand could not have squeezed through the gap. Fo’ realsies. A saintly ambulance driver (one of the growing audience) helped guide us through, millimetre by millimetre. We only started breathing again once we were well past the growing line of traffic on the other side. I wonder what became of the coach.

There are a lot of stairs here. That’s why this blog is called jelly legs.

Peace out.

Tainted love.

I am sure that we are sleeping on the hardest bed in Tuscany. It feels like stone bedrock covered with a sheet. For the last six nights we have woken up, time and time again throughout the night with achey limbs and clickey joints. This bed is essentially an old age virtual reality synthesiser.

Now I don’t want to whinge too much, but the bed has tainted our week in Tuscany. When I asked Michael what he thought I should blog about, he yawned. I yawned back. We just aren’t getting enough kip.

We thought we’d found a solution to my travel sickness on Wednesday. I would take the wheel. I was naively convinced that it couldn’t be all that difficult.

I only hit one thing.

Just a car; side mirror to side mirror, no damage done (to our car, I was too traumatised to stop) but I still hear Mick’s voice sometimes... “you’re too close, too close! TOO CLOSE!!!” *THUNK*

At least it wasn’t a puppy, right?

So, yes we are in Tuscany, staying in an otherwise lovely villa just outside of Chianti. The region is home to dirt roads, terracotta sunsets, Florence, loud Americans on vaca and a vast and mouth-watering selection of local food and wine specialities.

One of these I experienced last night. Out to dinner in Siena, I ordered Papardelle con Tartufo (it’s white truffle season FYI). As the dish was served Mick and I locked eyes and exchanged a “wow that’s a whole lot of truffle” look. Then the waiter returned to the table, at first we thought he had a parmesan grater but he proceeded to micro-plane sliver after sliver of whole fresh truffle over the already monumental pile. We had to stifle our smuggles (smug giggles) as we guestimated what the dish would cost to prepare and purchase in Melbourne.

I believe I acquired a taste for them way back when I first visited Tuscany with Ma & Pa. Excerpt from E-vine 1993.


Tuscan cheese on toast
A villa in Greve in Chianti. Our hosts, the Anichinis, invited us to dinner and offered an entrée of what looked like grilled cheese on toast. Absolutely delicious, and my ravenous eight year old daughter scoffed three or four pieces in a couple of minutes. I asked Signora Anichini for the recipe. 'First you lightly grill the bread, then drizzle a little olive oil on it, then you add generous shavings of fresh white truffles..." 

We drank:

Castel Giocondo, Brunello di Montalcino 2005. C- brick edge, heart of ruby red, N- anise and red capsicum, P- dry and velvety with just ripe strawberries and a herbal finish

Like a whirlpool that never ends.

So, dear friends, the inevitable has happened. Within a week of one another, my betrothed and I have both fallen ill. Not seriously so, just enough to ruin sketchy plans and annoy us.


Mick just has a cold.


Pfft.


My childhood motion sickness has reared it's ugly head and joined leagues with a bout of gastro. Unpleasant. Combine the two with a rather insensible ride on the Grand Canal water bus in Venice and the result has been three days of constant dizziness and "whirlpool" gut.


Not ever having suffered from motion sickness before, Mick asked what it feels like. I replied "You know when you've had FAR too much to drink, you lie on your bed and close your eyes and the world starts moving around you." "yeah, that's the feeling". Maybe I'll look into psychiatric treatment or hypnosis therapy when we get back. In my (medically educated*) mind, motion sickness indicates a weakness of character. Why can't my stomach, brain and the horizon just sort it out?


Onto more pleasant things. Lake Como was stunning, much larger than I imagined and we found ourselves once again in the good graces of Zeus. On Tuesday we took to the Greenway del Lago di Como, walking about 8 kilometres along the curving coast roads of the west bank. The paths take you down steep cobbled alleys, past crumbling stone piers and extravagant villas (George Clooney has a place on the lake).


On Thursday we drove east, through Lombardia to the region of Veneto. Veneto covers most the northeast corner of Italy, including Verona (where they laid their scene), Padova and most famously Venice. Somewhere in the middle of all that is the hillside village of Arqua Petrarca, a spot that has been inhabited since the Bronze Age. It is currently (the locals have their fingers crossed, or the Italian equivalent) on it's way to becoming world heritage listed.


Venice was one of those places that fell on my "Should probably visit, but can be sacrificed if necessary" list. I'm super pleased we didn't sacrifice it. Despite the tourist throng and the nasty tourist targeted shops, the city itself was lovely. Slightly worn looking, in a pre-loved way, the buildings lining the canals looked warm and sun drenched in spite of their cool blue roadways.


Taking a hand drawn map our host made for us, we headed off the beaten track and wandered through the Jewish Ghetto, visited Madonna dell'Orto (church with divine frescoes) and hunted down an antique jewelery store in the Dorsoduro. We sipped Spritz; prosecco, Aperol and soda (I think) while munching tiny tiny single ingredient panini's in a Campo for lunch.


Gaja Sperss 2000 (nebbiolo, half bottle)- C- deep purple, with a garnet edge, N- surprising rose petals and smokey oak, P- amazing length, liquorice and herbs


*high school biology

Salute!

We have a half bottle of Gaja Sperss 2000 breathing downstairs, I’m wrapped in a brand new cashmere (the real stuff) shawl, we’ve just been sipping Prosecco on the banks of Lake Como and I'm about to tell you how we are having a difficult time splurging. After scrimping and saving for so long, we are finding it extremely difficult to spend our money. Truly.

I guess that means our parents (and our Dolomite Accounts) trained us well.

Today’s wine and shawl aside, our trip has been riddled with moments of indecision. Pros and cons weighed and in most instances the object of desire being left behind (and quickly forgotten) for the next cashed up tourist. I think we are trying to find a balance.

We left Burgundy on Sunday morning and drove through Lyon towards The French Alps. We spent the night at a chalet style apartment with divine views of Mont Blanc.

The mountain seemed to make a mockery of Australia’s cherished peaks. Epic is overused in current vocabulary but I’ll use it here with no hesitation. Straining our necks skywards we could just capture the sheer immensity of the Mountain. For me, it made the scale of Everest and K2 inconceivable. Everywhere we turned cried out to be photographed and framed. It’s like we had view-finder goggles on. The valleys were scattered with timber framed alpine villages, some rising steeply up the neighbouring mountain sides. Milky green glacial rivers and streams ran along the motorways, often fed from waterfalls cascading towards the valley floor.

It’s a shame the weather gods did not favour us. Thick cloud cover continually rolled through the Alps, hiding the mountains and villages. Call me paranoid but this seemed to happen every time I got the camera ready.

After watching the sun rise from behind the mountain we gathered up our belongings and drove into Italy.

We are starting our Italian sojourn in Mezzegra, a small hillside town in Lombardia, on the west bank of Lake Como. Our townhouse is on a very steep property with its own olive orchard. Built in 1690, we are told it was where Mussolini stayed the night before he was shot.

Continuing a theme, we asked our gracious hosts Natalie and Mario where we should have dinner. As it was Monday and most restaurants were closed she suggested a local Trattoria. She called on our behalf and made us a booking. Trattoria Nana is the kind of local eatery you wish was just around your block. Fresh, cheap and authentic. As soon as we’d scoured the menu, picking up on the dishes Natalie recommended we try, we were already deciding to book for another evening.

We shared an entree to start, Pizzoccheri; a highlight of our trip thus far. As the smell of butter wafted towards us, we knew we were in for treat. Homemade buckwheat pasta, chard stalks cut fine, plenty of sage and potato cooked until soft all combined with an oozy, buttery and cheesy sauce. Wasn’t much to look at, but it tasted seriously good. Wash that down with a glass of vino di casa (Bonarda @ €4 for a half litre) and we were well on our way to foodie nirvana.

For mains we shared Coniglio (rabbit) and Cotechino (slow cooked pork sausage) and for dessert Tiramisu and Fromaggi Misti. Molto molto benne! The cheeses are made by the family who run the restaurant, some of the best I’ve tasted. Of the three served our pick was a three day old sheep’s cheese that you eat dressed with a little extra virgin olive oil. It was zesty, had a fine crumb and really made the local oil sing.

It’s dawned on me that those of you who receive the blog via email, might not be enjoying our photo stream. Click the link to the blog home page to have a look.

Over and out.