See You in the Piazza

by Frances Mayes

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  SOME OF US want to go to Rudolph Valentino’s birthplace and museum. Others want Bitonto. Can’t we do Castellaneta later, en route somewhere else? It’s in the Taranto province, not on the way anywhere. We pick Bitonto and pile into the cars, Randall following Ed, whose GPS leads us through idyllic groves of ancient olives and past concrete factories and block apartments, finally into Bitonto, big town of 57,000, where parking is a headache.

  Finally, we’re standing in front of the Cattedrale di Bitonto, mesmerized by the intricate carved portal and weathered stone griffins standing guard. Over the portal stands that peculiar Christian symbol that always seems to me to belong on an Egyptian obelisk: the pelican. Far-fetched, but the derivation of the symbol comes from the gruesome idea that the bird pecks its own body to feed blood to its young, equaling Christ giving of himself for mankind.

  This church repays walking around it: The geometry of the design of the side’s arches and the strange little balcony that connects the church to another building can only be appreciated by circling the sturdy structure. Here’s the classic Puglian Romanesque with a dash of the Moors, partly from the arcades and perhaps because of the palm trees in front.

  It’s open courtyard day, a city festa. We can peer into usually gated private living space. Some have left their wash to hang, others use their cortile for cars. A few tend small gardens. By chance, we come upon the Chiesa del Purgatorio. Skeletons flank the door, so anatomically precise that they look articulated. One holds a scythe, the other an hourglass. The hourglass skeleton wears a halo carved with the twelve hours and the phrase NIL IN CERTIUS, nothing is certain. Their unfurling scrolls say QVA HORA NON PVTATIS, you do not know the hour, and VENIAM ET METAM, I come and I finish. Meaning finish you. Above the door, a line of crowned skulls, topped by a frieze of ten people licked by flames. Over the burning ones fly two succoring angels who can lift them to heaven. Nothing subtle about these messages.

  Purgatory churches appeared after the Protestants in northern Europe began pooh-poohing the concept of purgatory, and especially the scandal of indulgences, the practice of paying the church for some points toward a quicker ascension into heaven.

  Meanwhile, small churches were constructed by confraternities, lay organizations dedicated to prayer, for those trapped in purgatory. Twenty purgatory churches exist in Puglia, concentrated between Manfredonia and Brindisi. Memento mori.

  We squeeze into tables at a panini bar at the back of the cathedral. Big sandwiches, a wind with a hint of balm, and a view of this grand memory palace. Carpe diem!

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  WE SUGGEST A deviation because we loved Ruvo di Puglia in March. My friends must see the graceful Romanesque church built on top of Paleo-Christian ruins, and its Byzantine campanile converted from a watchtower. Everyone agrees and we happily meander around the livable, clean, clean village. As we’re determining the route home, a man backing out of his driveway bumps into Randall’s car. He doesn’t want to give us his insurance information. We note his tag number and dread dealing with the rental agency over this. Luckily, most of the damage wipes away. Then we’re on the highway. When we turn off, we are soon lost on bumpy one-track farm roads. Hard to imagine a better place to be lost: ancient twisted olive trees, grasses that make you want to graze, bountiful yellow and white wildflowers.

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  OVER A STRAIGHT-FROM-THE-SEA dinner in the piazza in Monopoli, we’re settled in with cold prosecco. The two drivers are proposing that we hire Giacomo for the rest of the day trips. Those who rode in the backseats immediately agree. Divided nine ways, the van seems quite reasonable. Ed calls. Yes, Giacomo is ready for our big food day tomorrow.

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  GIACOMO ARRIVES, CHEERFUL in his beret, with a crate of cherries from his garden. Once on back roads, we hardly make any progress because we constantly want to stop for a photo. We are in trulli country. “Stop the bus!” we call out, imitating Diane Lane in the Under the Tuscan Sun movie. The beehive-shaped houses are cunningly made of flat stones without mortar. They rise from the land like rounded pyramids. Seeing one, the mind turns on its ratchet, for the shape is out of archetypes, out of prehistory, out of space, out of fairy tales and desert tents. We can’t get enough of them, especially ones in olive groves, or ones that link to two or three others in a wheat field. Elves might march out the door.

  There’s a continuum of stone structures in Puglia. Square and low dolmens are the simplest: standing stone slabs, and slab top. Some are thought to be funerary in purpose but no one really knows; they could be shelters. Menhirs, like ancestors of the trulli, are stacked stone structures, often narrowing at the top. The oldest are Neolithic and seem kin to the Nuraghi ruins in Sardinia. Trulli must be durable—we are seeing many.

  Obviously, they were made from the building material at hand. Stony fields must be cleared for planting. Make use of the stones. The form, indigenous and inevitable, goes far back into dim history, but the story goes that more recent sixteenth- and seventeenth-century trulli were built for the ease of destroying them. Tax man arriving from the feudal lord or the Kingdom of Naples or whoever lorded over the peasants. Pull the keystone from the top and the trullo collapses. Tax man gone: Rebuild.

  Ed has made an appointment for us at La Florida, producer of mozzarella di bufala outside Putignano. As we pull in, we see pens of brown, sweet-faced water buffalo. In an adjacent barn, brand-new piglets. Are they cute? Not to me. They’re basic and determined, snorting and rooting and pushing. The newest water buffalo are kept in individual stalls, each with the birth date on the door. They are cute! The open but roofed pen shelters the milk givers, clean and mildly curious. They come to be petted and look at us with goony brown eyes, their horns swept back as though by wind.

  Yes, we see the mozzarella process. Rich bufala milk swirled with rennet until it thickens. This is hands-on. The workers stir with a pole but when the cheese starts to form, their fingers are their tools. As the cheese comes together in the vats, handfuls are scooped out and put in a machine that forms snowballs. They plop back into the water they came from and two women scoop each one, along with some of the milky water, into plastic bags they tie off. I love how long strands are braided underwater to make treccie, plaited mozzarella.

  In the retail shop, we fill a cooler with bocconcini, little mouthfuls, burrata, and the softball-size creamy mozzarella we’ve just seen lifted from the vats. Giacomo looks amused that the Americani are enamored of the animals. “Let’s go,” he calls. “There’s too much to see today.” Back in the van, we compare too many photos, later to be deleted, of the faces of the water buffalo.

  Ed and I are fans of the Gambero Rosso wine listings and rankings. Each year they do the impossible and select the one best white, red, and sparkling wine. Puglian wines are late to world-class status; this year’s red choice, Chiaromonte’s Gioia del Colle Primitivo Muro Sant’Angelo Contrada Barbatto, 2013, is quite the coup for the region, and precisely for the vineyards of Acquaviva delle Fonti. Tenute Chiaromonte dates back to 1826 but when Nicola Chiaromonte took over the family business in 1998, the winery began to climb the difficult ladder of national reputation. Today, he tells us, they produce about 120,000 bottles a year.

  His vines are bush-trained and range from sixty to more than one hundred years old, at an elevation of more than three hundred meters, on very mineral-rich limestone subsoils with thin topsoils of terra rossa, red earth, and clay. Gambero Rosso says: “The Tre Bicchieri and Red Wine of the Year, remains a benchmark for anyone wishing to produce a primitivo that is not just close-woven and fruity, but also elegant and drinkable. Here the nose notes of black berry fruit with spicy nuances usher in a palate whose sturdy alcohol is balanced by fresh acidity and rich flavor.” We get to try their wine with our feet on the exact terroir.

  As is typical in Italy, there is no tasting room, per se, but we’re welcomed to a storage building by Nicola, who start
s opening bottles. “Deep nose,” he says. We load cases to take to the villa and to Bramasole into the van. As we drive away, I mull over Nicola’s statement on his website: “My parents taught me that the earth is different one inch from another, each one producing a different product. I like thinking that diversity is a sort of richness and a resource which increases the value of human work.” Hmm. Wisdom beyond the subject.

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  GIACOMO SPEEDS TOWARD Altamura. This is a town worthy of investigation, especially the cathedral. Never mind, today we’re on another quest. Bread. Of all the Puglian bread, none is more revered than Altamura’s, especially Forno Antico Santa Chiara, in operation since 1423, even older than the great Pane e Salute in Orsara, which we visited in March. We dash there, as we’ve lingered long with the water buffalo and the lucky tasting of Chiaromonte. In an arched, cave-like room with a rustic table loaded with flat breads and pizza, two women are shoving the last loaves of the morning into the deep black oven. May we order a few? Yes, come back in an hour. What luck. We take a turn around town, stopping in at Panificio del Duomo, Giacomo’s favorite forno. It’s plain and without romance, but the loaves are righteous and we buy a couple, breaking off chunks of cake-like golden bread with dark brown crust and eating them as we walk.

  We have a moment to pause in Piazza Duomo to see Santa Maria Assunta (1423), with its fifteen-rib rose window, a lamb nestled in the center circle. Built by Frederick II, the church’s stunning portal shows a last supper with Jesus seated on the far left rather than in the center of the table laden with beakers, fish, and, of course, bread. Who is that kissing Jesus? A woman? John, his favorite disciple, or is this the kiss of Judas transferred from where it is supposed to have happened, in a garden? How many have paused in this intricate doorway before entering the church to admire the flanking lions, the carved vines growing from urns on the heads of two women?

  Ed finds a bright and contemporary restaurant, Tre Archi, where we meet Mina and Peppino, the owners. Most everything served comes from their farm and from local producers and farmers. Sacks of grains, lentils, and beans are available for takeaway and a gleaming case of cheeses tempts us as well. Clusters of tomatoes hang from a rack with dried herbs, and fresh herbs grow in jars on the tables. At a wooden board, a young woman shapes small orecchiette from a mound of pasta. She smiles but doesn’t speak, as she concentrates on the rhythmic beat that turns out the little ears so quickly.

  We’re served boards of grilled vegetables and grissini, bread sticks, that raise the bar with their toasty taste of wheat. Some carafes of red and white wine make their way around the table. Of course we order orecchiette, some of us choosing a sauce of fava, some chicory. Ed opts for the pebble-shaped legume cicerchie served with tagliolini. Little known outside the region, cicerchia is a Puglian classic that comes with a caution. Too much of it can cause paralysis, muscle atrophy, or aneurysm. But by discarding the soaking water and eating these delicious peas in moderation, not twice a day for months, cicerchie have nourished the Pugliese for many generations. Since we’re into full lunch mode, we end with silky panna cotta with berries.

  We buy cicerchie to take home, along with chickpeas, my favorite, and hustle back to the forno for our giant loaves of bread. Giacomo meets us nearby with the van, which is good because each loaf weighs five or six pounds.

  We’re not on the way back to Monopoli. Giacomo takes us on an excursion because it is truly a pity that we are here for only a week when there is so much to see. He insists that we must go to Matera, not far away and unforgettable, even if we just pop in briefly. Once in Puglia, Matera is now located over the border into Basilicata.

  He’s right. He stops at a view point outside town. In the distance, we see a strange hive: stacks of cave openings that served as homes, shops, and churches for centuries, then were largely abandoned, and now are being restored as residences, boutique hotels, restaurants, and shops. The strangeness reminds me of Mesa Verde, the ancient Native American ruin. Above, we see the modern town. Giacomo drives into the centro, a leafy and pleasant piazza from which you can clamber down into the cave paths.

  Ed and I were here more than twenty years ago, when Matera was dismal and depressing. How it has awakened! The population looks young and vibrant. Girls stroll arm-in-arm and clumps of young men saunter around laughing and carousing. My memory is of old women in black, empty caves that gave me the creeps. Actually, they still kind of give me the creeps. Of all the structures to live in, a cave is bottom of my list.

  * * *

  BACK AT THE villa: downtime. The puzzle is two-thirds done. Francesca tells us about her fascist relatives and their lost estate. I’m reading about purgatory! Michael takes over the kitchen. He presents a gigantic platter of our fresh mozzarella, rolls of bresaola and rucola, and beauteous bursting-with-taste cherry tomatoes. Robin makes bruschette from thick slices of Altamura bread drizzled with the olive oil Bitonto is famous for. With this, naturally, the Chiaromonte wine of the year. Bowls of Giacomo’s cherries. Feast for the gods.

  * * *

  GIACOMO WANTS AN early start. We think he has plans we don’t know about. We’re ready, and soon we are outside Alberobello. As in Matera, Giacomo knows a viewing spot outside town that gives us an orientation to this surreal town of trulli.

  He lets us off with a meeting time and point. On one side the district called Aja Piccola, the other, Monti, both with dense concentrations of trulli. Does anyone really live here? When we came to Puglia with writer Ann Cornelisen years ago, she warned, “We are not going to Alberobello. Too touristy. It gives me a headache.” But this trulli town remains above what tourism can discount. The curlicue, cheery lanes lined with the secretive white cones have to enchant anyone with an ounce of imagination.

  First fact: the skill of the masons. The dry stone so artfully constructed connects with the world’s first architecture. Trullo comes from Greek tholos, dome, and/or from Latin turris or trullum, which means tower. Oh yes, it’s touristy—but this is a unique place in the world. We see a two-story trullo, and joined pairs called trulli siamesi, Siamese, which have no windows. Ed gets claustrophobia just looking at them. The shops are geared toward kitschy fridge-magnet replicas of the trulli—though we do find quality linen shops and a place with well-made olive wood kitchen spoons. I always marvel at how shop workers manage to stay friendly in heavily tourist areas. At the linen shop, the man who sold attractive dish towels, place mats, and shawls to Ann, Susan, and me was so genuine and personable that we almost were invited home to meet his mother, who makes many of the items for sale. He gave us gifts—ceramic replicas of the tops of trulli. “Put it on your table,” he said. “It’s a symbol of hospitality.” The trulli are topped with finials, usually simple balls, or a crowning shape that looks like Monopoly pieces. I read that status is reflected in the quality of the spire. A cross or star or pyramid showed that the mason had skills. Some cones have white-painted symbols that look like mysterious and portentous fertility symbols and religious signs, but the book I buy in town says symbols were never seen in Alberobello before 1934. They were painted in anticipation of a visit from Mussolini. Old Puglia doesn’t mention Mussolini’s visit but about the symbols in general, says they were crosses, swastika suns (the ancient design had nothing to do with Nazis), hearts, and magic charms for averting evil. In summer, this place must be totally overrun, but in May few people are here.

  Between the two trulli areas lies a swath of modern shops and cafés, including one bar with two glass-front fridges lined with fabulous cakes whose whorls of frosting would self-destruct before we could get one back to the villa. I let my eyes eat. So many vivid window boxes of purple and red petunias against the whitewashed walls. How many suggestive doorways can I photograph? There are no ancient women making lace. Doors are shut.

  We all gather at Giacomo’s van. We are heading to Ostuni for lunch at La Sommità, where Ed and I stayed in March.

 
This time, we’re seated at a long table in the walled garden of orange trees and a small pool. What a fantasy! When I travel, I often think, oh, I wish X could be here, X would love this. Now here we are with friends all ready to celebrate.

  The food is just as spectacular as it was in March. The great breads and tall, twisted grissini served in a glass vase. You feel healthy just looking at the tender salads of crisp vegetables and tendrils of pea shoots. Someone isn’t happy with her sea urchin pasta but the rest of us are swooning. Guanciale with crackly skin. One dessert looks like an egg. When Andrea cracks it, the sugar crust opens to panna cotta and exclamations of “Oh, how clever.” Another, called “caprese,” resembles that salad but is a ball of panna cotta, and one of chocolate disguised as a tomato. Another chocolate dessert is served on a garden trowel. Like the chef at Bros’ in Lecce, the chef plays amusing tricks. (I do wonder if chefs will tire of this. Isn’t cooking challenging enough without having to dream up fantastic presentations?) After all, it’s a renaissance tradition—spun sugar cages, swans roasted then redressed with their feathers, and birds flying out of cakes.

  After lunch, everyone walks around Ostuni before Giacomo urges us on. He has other places he insists we must see. Such a good ambassador for Puglia! But it is already after four. We stop to photograph swaths of wild ginestra, yellow broom, in bloom. Ed and I don’t mention that it’s an invasive intruder at Bramasole. We only get to see the gleaming white hill town of Locorotondo from a distance, and take a brief drive-through at Martina Franca. Yet another reason to come back.