Domenica with Domenico
Part of the trip -
A Year in Italy
A lazy Sunday at Tenuta Pinto, with Ylenia and friends.
A lazy breakfast at Mamma Elvira. I had been there in an entirely different state not 6hours before, for Mamma Elvira is not only a good place for a coffee and a piece of cake, but for wine.
Of all the enoteca (wine bars) in Lecce, I think Mamma Elvira is my favourite. It’s unpretentious (or maybe we just dragged it down to our level), comfortable, fun and there’s always Janis Joplin playing. The bar staff are cool, and put up with a lot of late nights, which tend to be our fault. I took my family there a couple of times, and I have known other visitors to eschew the delights of the rest of Lecce and spend every evening of their holiday there instead.
Andrea, the owner, originally needed a place to showcase the local artisanal products he knows so much about, but local licensing laws were the tide that finally pulled him into opening a full-scale bar. And thank God he let himself be carried by the current. The bar sells all kinds of goodies to eat-in or take with you, and there are walls of wine and a few locally made beers. If you want something specific to go with the beautiful aperitapas that they make at the bar, Andrea’s the person to ask: this man knows his stuff. I could try telling you a thing or two about some of the wines now, after spending most of my year on a stool being plied with Salice Salentino - one of the three big local grape varieties. But unsurprisingly, my memory is a bit patchy.
Andrea had been there when I left the night before, so he was looking about the same as I was feeling that morning. He gave me a big glass of green apple juice and sat for a bit, giving me a dose of his dry sense of humour and very cheeky grin.
Ylenia arrived, awake and smiling. Turns out she and Andrea knew each other: unsurprising, as I had previously noted that they both seem to know everyone. She was then followed by our Italian-American companion and food buff Laura, and then came Ylenia’s partner Michele. We moved inside out of the sun and propped up the bar. Ylenia pulled out her camera as Andrea put down a large plate of pasticiotti (local speciality: sturdy pastries filled with pastry cream, and so, so good) and some brutally strong coffee. Just what I needed.
What were we doing today? I asked. Off to a masseria, was the reply. Masserie are a combination of luxury B&B, food-lovers outpost and wine hub. They are usually a family concern and a product of great expense, passion and effort.
We needed to set off early, the place we were heading was way up the coast near Mola di Bari and we were due to be there for a cooking class before lunch. I was full and sleepy and would have just as happily sat on my bar stool all day chatting and giggling with Andrea, but experience had taught me that Ylenia does everything with an almost psychic knowledge of what her group needs. So whatever she had planned would have been equally good tonic for my achy body and mind. So we all piled into the car.
The road that runs from Lecce to Bari clings to the Adriatic coast, and between you and the sea stand acre upon acre of olive trees planted in the ochre earth. It’s a road that makes you sigh, and wander where you’ve been all your life if it wasn’t here in Puglia.
We pulled onto a dusty track that ran through cypress groves, before finally stopping outside a gate. The small side read Tenuta Pinto, 1729. Down the path, through the trees sat a tall, white building with high windows. A gleaming white church stood next to the gate in the sun, reminiscent of the churches which dot the Greek Islands. This is where we were having lunch. On this property. I gushed.
Domenico Pinto, tall, sturdy and bursting with enthusiasm, came out to meet us. He showed us first around the church, and then down into the cool gloom of a cantina which he had big plans for. I could tell that what he really wanted to do was to show us the house. It too was clean and white, and slowly filling with furniture. The house was almost finished. As we walked and talked, Domenico explained how he had vetoed some architects during the long process of restoring the building. Apparently, there is a tendency for some local architects to be in more of a rush to place their own mark on these old buildings, rather than restore them sympathetically. Domenico showed us an old wood stove in the wall, not unlike a pizza oven, and the old stone troughs where the animals would have fed under the main part of the house. In many plans, these old features were to be removed. We all congratulated him for his integrity in keeping it just as it would have been all those years ago, minus a few animals.
On the shadier side of the house there was a lovely paved patio area, with young vines in tubs. I thought about how it would look in a couple of year’s time, with vines providing added shade for the table and chairs beneath it. I sighed a sigh of happiness again.
I could hear the sounds of activity upstairs, and the occasional good smell drifting down from the open windows. We were taken up a stone staircase, halfway up which sat a large ceramic urn full of shining, fresh vegetables. Give me that over a vase of flowers any day. I had a sense of what was coming. The love and care that had gone into everything. How keen Domenico was to show us around, and how he was always apologising that the house wasn’t quite finished. Even though it was all new, there was a sense of family history in the place. Of love and of excitement, of enthusiasm and pride.
At the top of the stairs was the main communal space, set up on that day as a dining room. Everything was white- not cold white, but light and fresh and airy. The tall, windows let the daylight stream in and the simple furniture fitted the room perfectly. But the best, the absolute best thing, was the table. Already laid out with bowls of sliced fennel, carafes of wine, and a plate of small white cheeses for each of us. Mozzarella, burratine, ricotta, all freshly made and shining. There were trays of bruschette. It was beautiful, and clearly done with a lot of pleasure and skill. To the side sat a small, lower table, with a bottle of homemade limoncello and a large basket full of sweets and biscuits made with pate di mandorla (almond paste) – again, all homemade and individually wrapped in brightly coloured tissue paper. This family obviously had an eye for the bella figura- that Italian preoccupation with making everything look perfect. If you’ve seen shop window displays in Italy, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
There was a hubbub coming from the kitchen. Domenico gestured us in. There, in aprons, surrounded by bags of flour, piles of onions, bottles of olive oil, were Domenico’s family. His wife Isa, their two daughters and young son, and another teenage boy, who I think was there with Domenico’s eldest daughter.
And what a lovely family they were. The teenagers shy about their English at first, but very welcoming and friendly; Isa, warm and smiling and obviously just as keen as Domenico; and their young son, who later told me proudly through his gappy grin (in Italian of course) that he was six years old.
Isa was keen to set us to work, and equally keenly, I bowed my head to have an apron placed over it. I was given a board with flour, olive oil, salt and a small glass of wine – and I was going to make some of my favourite wine-time snacks, taralli. Taralli are little ring-shaped biscuits not unlike shortbread, but are dry and moreish enough to make glasses of wine empty twice as fast as they would normally. The variety with fennel seeds are my favourite.
I used to make pasta and bread both at home and in my café, so as I rolled up my sleeves I was feeling confident. My confidence was misplaced. I mixed it all up well enough, but couldn’t get enough leverage on it when it was time for the kneading. I couldn’t get the elasticity it needed and I could see Isa’s daughters itching to help. Even the youngest of the clan could see this English girl was getting it all wrong. It was all in good spirit however, and not once did I feel uncomfortable. I tried my best to make jokes in Italian and chat with the children, and we all laughed together. In fact, by the time Isa’s daughter had coaxed the right texture out of my dough, I was having a (dough)ball.
I made short, fat little snakes to stick together into rings, and before I knew it, my work was in the oven. Michele was filming Isa’s handy work as part of Ylenia’s Mamma in Cucina project. In fact, Ylenia knows plenty of Mammas in the area who are more than happy to open their cookbooks and kitchens to visitors. I felt lucky to be a part of it.
I watched as Isa used the same dough for the calzone. Heavenly smells came from the oven and the two girls pulled out a huge focaccia covered in soft onions. It was glistening with olive oil and sparkling with salt, and we were each handed a piece. I can honestly say, it was the best focaccia I have ever eaten. Crisp and oily yet light and fluffy, all hot from the oven – and lip-smackingly salty. Others soon joined it – one plain, one with tomatoes. I’m drooling thinking about it.
During that lunch I was a bottomless pit. First came the hot focaccia and the calzone, which we ate with the bruschette, the fennel, the cheeses. More fresh vegetables were passed round, each variety prepared in different ways. It was light and delicious. The wine was perfect. Everything was perfect. Then came those fatal words ‘now for the pasta!’ More? When will I ever learn? There’s always more! Even Domenico and Isa’s youngest son, who I had been entertaining and been entertained by for most of lunch, still had room for more.
Pasta came in the form of long, tagliatelle-type strands (though tagliatelle is made with eggs), again, made by Isa. There was masses of it and it was coated in olive oil and pangritata. I’m fairly sure that’s what it was – ultra-fine bread crumbs fried in oil –I’ve seen it made with rosemary before but I’m not sure how traditional that is. If memory serves, pangritata was an integral part of pasta dishes back in the days when parmesan was too expensive for most people. But anyway, today the pasta was coated in this delicious grit, and small bowls of salted anchovies were passed around for us to have with it. Yum.
After lunch, the sweets and the limoncello were passed around, and we were given little trays of the leftover sweets to take with us. Infinitely more special, another take away present we were given were bottles of Domenico’s olive oil. Domenico held himself together admirably as we all congratulated him and Isa on their lovely house, their family, their project. It was a dream realised, and he was happy to share it with us, he said. We were happy to be guinea pigs.
We sat on the little terrace outside the kitchen door, soaking up the sun and talking about the upcoming apricot harvest. The family grow most of their own food, and I later spotted a couple of solar panels on the land. They wanted to respect the environment, said Domenico. Tourism is really increasing in Puglia he explained, and as a region they have learnt from the mistakes made on the Costa del Sol, in Rimini and on some of the Greek Islands. There were to be no developments here, no concrete high-rises, as little litter as possible. Everything was being done carefully: quality not quantity. I can vouch for this. I only hope it stays that way.
The older children had to study for school the next day, and we needed a coffee. Domenico, Isa and my young friend piled into one car; Ylenia, Michele, Laura and I into another, and together we all headed for Polignano a Mare, a stunning town built on cliffs overlooking the sea about 30km back towards Lecce.
It was about 6pm, and Polignano was stretching after its siesta. The streets were filling up and people piled in and out of the entrance to the old town like ants. After a short walk down into the cove, where you are sheltered by high cliffs to the left and right, and where the sea laps at your feet, we walked back up to a café opposite the gate to the Old Town. There you can buy a speciality specific to Polignano, for it is the brainchild of a local woman: café speciale. It is made and served like a normal coffee in a short glass, though, added to the espresso are amaretto, cream and a piece of lemon. It’s foamy, warm, and incredibly tasty.
Our beautiful day was coming to an end. I had chatted with Isa in my shoddy Italian and told her how much I had enjoyed making the taralli and I hoped to see a recipe of her focaccia sometime soon. We waved goodbye to the family and headed back for Lecce, where I had a shower, got changed, and went to see my friends and Andrea at Mamma Elvira for a glass of wine. Or two.
You will find Mamma Elvira in Lecce, a few doors down from the stunningly over-the-top Basilica di Santa Croce on Via Umberto I. Look for the bar with the cacti out the front. The Pinto family’s masseria is now open and ready for business. I thoroughly advise you to go. For information email Ylenia at http://www.yltourcongressi.it/ or dig out a translator and visit this page http://www.tenutapinto-blog.com/ . If you have facebook take a look at some of the things Ylenia does here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/YLTOUR-slow-life-and-culinary-paradise-in-Puglia/296344160383906
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