5 - Gennaio - 2009

Decembre, no, 5 Gennaio 2009

What a long strange trip it’s been. To quote the late, great, Jerry Garcia, I’ve found myself close to 3 weeks out on my update. To try to do this logically would be irreconcilable in common sense, therefore, this go-‘round will be a little loose in its structure. Bologna, Parma, Christmas Eve, Christmas without the family, New Years, UmbriaJazz, Americans, Italians, and Romanians. I’ve got some work to do here, and not so much time. This is going to be a compilation of installments, so if it seems scattered, that is more than likely the reason why. As it stands, I’m starting this and have to leave to go to the restaurant in 10 minutes, so there is not a gasping breath of opportunity for me to write even a fraction of what needs to be said.
To start, my experiences here have led me to believe one thing. I am coming back, for as long as I can, both by permission of the government and by the patience of my conscience. The food and structure of agricultural sustainability is exactly what I want to incorporate into my professional career.

Bologna. Another of the ancient cities adorned with a history in itself could fill an entire text book, and intertwined with some of the most sought after food in the entire country. Home to the famous mortadella salumi, tortelli in brodo, and a slew of assorted cured meats, salumi, and fine foods that have been a part of a food revolution for years, Bologna yielded a fantastic meal, after a small treasure hunt to find it, and very well incorporated modern metropolis among the well maintained historic buildings. After we ate lunch, we were supposed to meet with Leo, a concierge of sorts, for wealthy clientele renting Italian Villas. Unfortunately he didn’t make it, so we, Kevin, Erica and I, thought we could use the opportunity to venture to Modena and Parma.

Modena, the famed home of the world’s finest balsamic vinegar, and a manufacturing plant for Maserati, was, without question, the most uninteresting and frustrating waste of time in years. We saw nothing, mostly because there was nothing to see. They have, in the town of Modena, the Italian answer to Wal-Mart, called Iber-Coop. In a mall, is this exact replica of a Super Wal-Mart, except with a much better selection of produce and other food-stuffs…but not by a whole lot. It was a tragic American influence, a gross abundance of nonsense items in a shopping center that was mobbed by Christmas shoppers. Materialism has stretched it’s poisonous veins into the heart of the ancient world, using the guise of religion once again.

But I digress. As the fog sets in over North-Central Italy, we continue onto Parma. A 45 minute drive turns into 4 hours and by the time we arrive, our stomachs are screaming to be satiated by rich, delicious, Parma cuisine. Locals leading us in all different directions, most that look to be tourist traps, so much so that we nearly missed the hidden gem of the city. Gallo D’Oro, a flat out stunning meal, the most amazing prosciutto I’ve ever had, a phenomenal bottle of Lambrusco that was sweet and tangy, yet slightly astringent, it’s an effervescent red wine that opened up the flavors of everything we ate. And we did eat. A giant plate of prosciutto, a good amount of formaggio di Parma, a bowl of fried bread, 3 courses, 2 plated courses, dessert, and an additional bottle of wine. Absolute bliss, although utterly gluttonous in nature, I think that our sincere appreciation for ever mouth full of food we eat helps to ease the stress of indulging in such a guilty pleasure. So, the 4 hour drive home resulted in me, a complete corpse in the backseat, food-comatose, and by no means comfortable. The first time I can say that I needed to walk off the food I had just eaten, but we were, as I said, 4 hours from home, and it was nearly midnight.

There will never be a true, passionate fan of salumi, prosciutto, cheese, pigs or food until these two cities are traveled to. I encourage all of my friends, colleagues, contemporaries, inspirations, muses and all other misguided readers of my ranting diatribes to push you to move out of the world we think we know and understand. To trek through the boundaries, the red tape and ropes that have unwittingly kept our thoughts and experiences trapped and to flourish in eviscerating the poisons forced upon us by our reliance on third party knowledge. No one can give these places, these experiences any more value than I give them myself. No picture, no words, no stammering stuttering shuddering or flustered wordlessness could elicit the true potential of having set food in ancient city streets and buildings, eating centuries old traditions through the cuisine and simply being dumbfounded by the atrocious miscommunication of those who have tried to justify this place with anything other than the words;

“You must see this for yourself and experience its value first hand.”

Go Slow. Stay Local.
Va Piano. Rimane Locale.