Artisans and Pigs · Aug 21, 02:41 PM by James Martin
There is an interesting article over on Michael Ruhlman’s site called Artisan Butchers that got me thinking about the folks who I had the privileged of watching break down a pig last winter. I’m pretty sure they don’t call themselves artisans, although the word comes from the Italian artigiano, I’m told.
Ruhlman says:
Artisan means: a worker skilled in a trade; craftsman (this from my Webster). It does not mean artist. I love the idea that a sign painter is an artisan. I hate the idea that any butcher would call himself or herself “an artisan butcher.”
Ok, so it’s true: it’s darn pretentious for someone to call himself an artisan. The guy up there to the right is just doing what he does, running various hand tools (and his hands) over a pig until it’s broken into the parts that make meat and salumi.
It’s not an automatic process you do like a factory worker. Adjustments are made on the fly.
Pig Owner (Armando): “The chops need more fat. Last year they didn’t have enough fat around them.”
Butcher: “You won’t get as much lardo you know!” (remember that lardo is one of Armando’s specialties.)
Armando: “Yeah, I know. More fat on the chops.”
The butcher straightens up, then slides an evilly sharp knife into the soft and pillowy white flesh and carves out the rack of chops lickety split. If there ever was an artisan moment that went by in a flash, this was it. Amazing accuracy, the line of fat surrounding the chops was as uniform as you could wish for.
As I watched I saw every last bit of the pig sliced and cleaned for use later, like the intestines you see over there—casings for Armando’s Lunigiana mortadella and the salame Toscana.
Which brings me to the next point about “artisan.” We, the consumer, need a signifier to clue us in to where we might find a butcher like this, one who doesn’t just run everything through a band saw and put the cubes of it into Styrofoam trays. We have chosen to use the word “artisan” for that. (Or at least I have—and I’ve watched as a local Californian “butcher” sawed my rack of ribs in half, not by cutting between the middle bones, but by running the saw over the bones lengthwise. He was not an artisan.)
According to Ruhlman:
Artisan and artisanal are indeed over used to the point that they’ve been co-opted by big business and turned into marketing terms.
I disagree, not with the outcome, but with the idea that it takes overuse for big business to co-opt a concept that will make them ever more money. This is a process that’s been going on for a long time (the Christians did it to the Pagans, remember) and has simply been happening faster and faster as industrial crap food gets ever more dangerous and tasteless.
I watched the guys on the right work in an unheated garage on marble slabs. And I still trust what comes out of the garage more than I’d trust an American industrial egg that you have to fry for an hour and a half so it doesn’t kill you. They didn’t taste the salami they were making by frying a little up and trying it, then adjusting the seasonings—they just pinched some of the raw mix off and down it went.
They’re still alive.
So let’s stop blaming ourselves when the sign hanging over the pimply-faced kid’s head at the Safeway says “Artisan Butcher”. Just smile and back off—and promise you’ll use the meaningful version of the word when you pass on to other discerning folks the name of the artisan butcher you find in your area. (Although I also like the term “master butcher” as suggested by Judy Witts Francini, too.)
Anyway, read Ruhlman’s blog. There’s some good stuff in there about food and how to put it together without all that fuss that’s collected over the years in American kitchens.
Italy Travel Toolbox
- All About Italy Rail Passes
- How to Ride Italian Trains (video)
- Italy Maps
- Italy Cities Climate and Weather
- Italy Autostrada Map
- Cinque Terre Hiking Map
Villa La Pescigola · Jul 2, 05:55 PM by James Martin
One of the things I miss in California is the way Italian buildings age so darn gracefully. Our houses rot. Italian houses don’t get pretty until a little plaster starts flaking off the wall and the gaudy paint gets splotchy and fades to an artistic and variegated tonality.
The (clickable) picture to the right is of Villa La Pescigola, which is not far outside Fivizzano in the Lunigiana. They have great gardens. But the villa itself is what amazes me.
And there’s always someone around who knows exactly what to do with the inner courtyard. See over there to the left? Incredible. Wouldn’t you want to eat like this, in an inner courtyard, sheltered from winds but in the open air nonetheless? I thought so.
But another thing about Villa La Pescigola is the fountainage. The use of theatrical masks and statuary—and those bathtubs that remind you instantly of Rome (perhaps on the Via Giulia just outside of the Piazza Farnese).
Of course there are flowers. I have countless pictures taken in the tranquility of early morning before folks showed up for some kind of event.
You see, we sort of snuck in before a gala for which one had to have purchased tickets. I confess that I drove past the ticket taker at the entrance to the grounds a little sheepishly. Of course, they hadn’t invited me to dinner, so I didn’t feel too much like a pecora. At least I got to see the place settings.
The Villa Pescigola has a web site, of course, and it’s in English. If you’re ever around the Lunigiana you should check out the events. If you come in spring you’ll be rewarded by a great number of blooming things.
Lunigiana Panorama · Jun 25, 01:40 AM by James Martin
Francesca and Armando wanted to take us on a little walk to a chapel yesterday. At four o’clock. Italy, you may recall, was booting balls fruitlessly at that hour.
Odd, when the world cup started, Armando watched it voraciously. When we got in the car, Francesca climbed in with us so we wouldn’t get lost. I asked her why they weren’t watching the game. She doesn’t like calcio. But Armando?
“He doesn’t like it when the team is playing like bozos, so he won’t watch,” she said in Italian, but actually used the word “bozo.” I had to look it up to see if it was an Italian word. Maybe it’s universal. The concept is.
(Italy, of course, played like bozos that evening and are out of the World cup, unlike the powerhouse US team.)
Anyway, we drove a long way on roads that weren’t much wider than the average bathtub. Then we stopped. There was a “road” off to our right, which looked like an avalanche of white rock and river cobbles. Of course, we had to drive up it. Just to see, mind you, if it were “doable.”
And of course we’d use our car.
We lurched and bottomed and spun the tires for 100 yards up the pile of stones before the car started smelling like a burning oil slick full of sea turtles. Then we parked.
It was a bit of a walk, a bit of a climb. Along the way were wild flowers I’d never seen before—not to mention wild thyme in profusion. We foraged. This is Italy after all, and the wild is always better, unless, I suppose, you’re a soccer player.
Anyway, we reached the little chapel. It was locked, because otherwise the sheep get in and trash the place—which they had done anyway, it seemed.
But—off to the right there were these stunning views, unobstructed by the usual trees which they plant to keep you focused on driving between the ruts. I whipped out my video camera. Who wouldn’t?
So below is the video. I hope it will give you an idea of what we saw and how we got there to see it.
The main city you see in the video is Fivizzano, with the craggy Alpi Apuane behind—the mountains of Massa and Carrara where the marble comes from.
On the way back home, we had to inch past a tiny tractor with a hay wagon behind which held the requisite hay plus a sturdy mountain woman. Armando got his car by, then we started inching forward, left wheels in the weeds.
The woman glanced at us and suddenly leaned forward, screaming “Stranieri!” to her hubby at the wheel. Our French license plates had given us away as foreigners. The tractor lurched to the right to remove itself from our path.
We foreigners inspire respect here in the Lunigiana. Or maybe it’s fear. We evidently don’t drive right at all.
Popular These Days
La Locanda del Grillo - and Chicche! · Jun 18, 09:38 AM by James Martin
Amazing. We’ve had the house in the Lunigiana for 7 years and still we can meet folks and they tell us of new and wonderful places to eat within a 15 minute drive. I mean we’re really, really, rural here, as you can see in the picture in our last post.
Why this amazes me is that I grew up in rural Illinois. My mom still lives there. When we want to go out to eat and don’t want to push a fork through dismally re-hydrated mashed potatoes in a restaurant, we have to drive all the way out to the “Quad Cities.” Then the choices, if you don’t want industrial food, are still quite limited. I mean you’d think that four cities stuck together in America’s fertile heartland could come up with some fab food put together by real people who know what a potato looks like. But no.
So anyway, we drove out to La Locanda del Grillo, whose card says it’s in Licciana Nardi but it’s really not that far from Terrarossa, truth be told. It’s way out in the middle of nowhere in any case, like many good restaurants here in the Lunigiana.
Over there is one of the primi we had. Chicche con le Vongole is what you’re lookin’ at. Chicche are little gnocchi, or gnocchetti, made from potatoes and, in this case, some spinach. The sauce was a bit spicy. The vongole fresh and tangy. It’s over there on the right. Clicking it will make your mouth water—and/or make the picture bigger. Whatever.
We drank the house white with it and some fizzy water. Then, for seconds, came platters of grilled calimari. Then platters of cippolini agrodolce, sweet and sour onions. Lunch for two with wine: 24 Euro out the door.
Lunch at the Locanda del Grillo was first-rate, a solid choice. The place is filled with working men, some of whom had ordered special food because a big table next to us was definitely in the middle of a huge feast. When locals choose a place to feast at, it’s gotta be good.
Oh, and there are four, good looking bocce courts on the property adjacent to the restaurant. I wanna play! You don’t see bocce so much in the Lunigiana.
Stats:
La Locanda del Grillo
Via Costmala, 36
54016 Licciana Nardi
Tel: 0187 420128
—-
Here’s something for travelers to think about: eBags Summer Kickoff Event: 20% Off + Free Shipping On Every Order!
Feast Day--The Video · Jun 14, 09:59 AM by James Martin
I wanted to give you a little idea of the ambiance of a small village’s feast day in Italy. The celebration was Sacro Cuore di Gesù. So, as Francesca explained, our saint is, in essence, Jesus himself.
I’ve kept my voiceover out of the video and have used a few text overlays to explain the essence of what’s going on. You won’t find a livelier bunch, I think. I’m extremely proud to be able to live amongst these folks, so here we are: a 2 minute video of a 4 hour lunch in the Lunigiana:
The town was decked out in lights, and later that night there was a religious procession smack in the middle of the main highway through town, and, of course, tables of food to come back to placed in the parking lot in front of the church.
War Stories in the Lunigiana · Jun 14, 04:11 AM by James Martin
Our little corner of Tuscany, the Lunigiana, was known for its tough resistance in WWII. In fact, the territory in the nearby Emiglia Romagna and its rough and tough mountain characters are celebrated in the book and movie “Love and War in the Apennines.” The author, Eric Newby himself bought a house in Fosdinovo in the Lunigiana.
There’s a resistance museum here, filled with the latest technology to give you an idea of what lives of the locals were like at the time. They weren’t, it reminds us, fighting for “politics,” they were fighting to keep their own way of life.
Reminders of the war are all around us, in the form of little memorials of folks who gave their lives to the cause. In fact, our own “apartment” became an attic home for the woman who now lives below us, when she had to give up her rooms to the Germans to avoid exposing her husband as a member of the resistance.
Stories of war time are not infrequently heard in these parts. Yesterday, as we basked amongst the dregs, huddled from the sudden rain which fell after the feast celebrating Sacro Cuore, we heard an interesting one which, of course, featured food.
One of the reasons the tough terrain like we have here is difficult to conquer is that the clever locals in places like the Lunigiana know the resources provided by nature. It’s darn tough to cut those supply lines. It’s also quite amazing that the all-conquering US army hasn’t learned about these attributes, but nevermind.
In any case, it’s only the industrial processed foods that could be put at arms length from the rural populations. So, when the war ended, as the story goes, “mom” bough an enormous bag of sugar and took to hiding the lot in all the furniture. Little bags of it went in the sofa, the overstuffed chairs, the mattress. She would never go though that again!
And it was still there when they found it in 1968.
Processed food. Get over it. It’ll get you in the end.
The Feast of Sacro Cuore · Jun 13, 10:46 AM by James Martin
We 24 have finished eating. Read this as if it were triumphal. It was a marathon.
This is our village’s feast day. As the sun sets the procession will take to the streets. Solemnly. The feasting is over.
There were only four courses. Yes, normal folks could handle the load. But what courses!
In the Lunigiana, we have many kinds of pies stuffed with greens. They’re called Torte delle Verdure. I lost count of how many were at the table after I hit 7. They were all delicious. Then there was Armando’s mortadella and Alcede’s spicy coppa and foccaccia and olives and other things too numerous to mention.
On to the fettuccine with wild boar sauce we videoed Francesca cooking last night.
Then a pile of boar meat made its way to the tables.
And what can you say when dessert is pastries and cherries and flan and all manner of homemade liquors? Then champagne.
Excuse me while I lie down a moment…
La festa del Sacro Cuore · Jun 12, 10:04 AM by James Martin
Our little village is preparing for La festa del Sacro Cuore tomorrow. It’s the biggest feast day of the year for little Piano di Collecchia. For weeks, folks have been sweeping, cleaning, pruning, weed-wacking and thinking about food.
Right now, 24 hours before the big event, folks are cooking like you wouldn’t believe. Francesca is making her mother’s chinghiale recipe for over the tagliarini. Wild boar. They bought about a quarter of one. Leg and ribs. Francesca let us video the whole deal.
The community wood oven is going. Angelo made the fire. He was in charge. Well, he was in charge until this humongous wasp-like thing came by and decided to stay near the oven a while. Angelo warned us that Alcede had been bitten by one just like it only smaller, and had to go to the hospital. We men have reverence for such bugs.
Angelo’s solution? He called in Gabriella. She ignored the beasty and moved stuff around like you have to do in a wood oven. There’s no knob to twist to set the temperature you know. You put things in certain places and shove them into different places if they get too hot or cold. Gabriella used a shovel. Folks here don’t use fancy equipment.
I am going to give you my theory, which has always been true in my experience: The taste of the food is inversely related to the cost of the equipment used to make it. Folks get too wound up on the subject of untensils, and the industrial empire is ready with the gold plated. motorized pizza tongs to sell to all the fools who think they need one to take the place of skill in the kitchen.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t wait. These dinners go all afternoon. It’s life celebrated to the max. Be back later with the results.