Puglia: Trani and Locorotondo, 5/9/16

Today was a perfect day. We arrived into the Aeroporto Internazionale in Bari, Italy. We drove an hour north to Trani. We parked in the Piazza del Popolo. Interestingly, the paid parking is free from one-thirty in the afternoon until four o'clock because the city wants it's citizens to enjoy their two and one-half hour lunches without concern for parking fees.

Trani is a waterfront town on the Adriatic Sea.  We walked to the waterfront. There were very few people. It is not the tourist season. But more than that, there were not many people on view, local or touristic. When we got our first glimpse of the water through the buildings, it was stunning. The harbor almost forms a circle, of course it has outlets to the sea, but they are not much visible. The boats in the harbor are mostly small fishing boats painted blue with nets  piled neatly.

The water is green; a shade between coke bottle and emerald. The waterfront buildings are low slung, three story, stone structures. They are human scale, not monumental. The stone color is creamy; a blend of beige with a hint of rose. Much of the street and sidewalk pavement is white, rough-hewn marble. On the part of the harbor that projects most into the sea is the local church. We did not go inside. It was closed during our short lunch visit.  Most cathedrals are located on a plaza, a piazza or a town square. They are inland and landlocked. The site of the Trani church, on the waterfront, a jewel in the harbor tiara, is unquestionably one of the most beautiful on the planet.

We searched for a ristorante for lunch. Wes and I were wandering on opposite sides of the harbor. At the same time, we both took note of the same ristorante.  I was reading Mario Batali's description of it. Wes was actually looking at it. It was situated in the center of the harbor, almost an island, atop a mound of stone that seemed part of an ancient fort. We entered the place - Le Lampard al Fortino. We were one of four parties there. The eating area is a covered terrace open on three sides across the water to the buildings on the shore, to the fishing boats in the harbor, to the cathedral and to the sea. The vistas in all directions were magnificent. The climate was perfect; clear sky, sparkling sunlight, cool temperature, yet with warm breezes.

The meal was perfection.  It is the Adriatic. The harbor is full of fishing boats. The boats come to shore constantly with just caught fish and shellfish. We began with Franciacorte sparkling wine. It heightened our appreciation of where we were and what we were doing.  For food, first up was a large and perfect scallop, seared outside, yet "crudo" (uncooked) inside. It rested in a shallow pool of drippings from a sweet tomato. On top were curled, fine strands of raw celery.  Next, a thin slab of black slate arrived with various crudo (uncooked) items arranged on top.

There were salmon, tuna, a macaron filled with salmon puree, and a sculptural item that was a whole gambero rosso, a five-inch long mini-lobster with head and tiny claws attached and absolutely sweet meat.

Two years ago on the island of Saint Bart's, we had a cottage on the sand, only a few feet from the bluest, warmest water, filled with, over populated by, live sea urchins. They were on today's menu. I requested several and had my first experience with them. They are menacing looking: fist-sized, gleaming black, covered with needle sharp spikes, with an edible fluorescent-orange filling. Remarkably, they did not taste of seafood, nor of fish. They tasted like the sea—briny, watery—and had I been asked what they were, if I had been blindfolded, I'd have guessed they were plants or vegetables from the sea.

Next up, gambero rosso, (sweet pink shrimp), sliced paper thin, layed over a mound of burrata cheese, and with a few sundried, wondrously sweet, teeny tiny pinky-sized roma tomatoes. An adjacent table was having a large branzino baked in a salt crust. I was hugely tempted to have it, too, but it was way too large for two people and Wes encouraged me to have restraint. I have been known to over stuff myself when presented with food that is new to me and irresistible. 

Instead, we had two pastas. One was a long noodle with sweet gambero rosso tails, dollops of creamy burrata-like cheese and snails. I am not  a frequent snail eater. I have nothing against them, but often they are just a texture without much to offer on their own. In this dish, their texture was an asset and they earned their keep.  The final pasta was a short noodle. It featured fresh black chickpeas, which, aside from their unique color, had a wonderful texture and flavor distinct from their common garbanzo cousins.

It was time for us to conclude our meal. Our lunch parking time allotment was almost concluded. And we were full. And we were the only table that remained. But then I remembered: Moscato di Trani. It is unique to that town. It is one of their specialities. It was on the menu. How could I miss the opportunity. I ordered it. It was floral and mildly sweet and nectar-like and wonderful. Now, we really had to go, but first, before the check arrived they sent out another black slate laden with tiny and colorful single bite desserts. My favorite was a cream puff with hazelnut creme. We paid. We went to the car.

The day was perfect. Could it get better? Yes, it could. Yes, it did. We drove south, one hour, to Locorotondo. Wes, is an outstanding and superior researcher. We arrived to the farmhouse inn (called an "agriturismo masseria") he selected, from the probably hundreds he surveyed, and it is more than perfect. The host probably was born here on this land, some thirty acres of vineyards, cherry orchards, ancient olive trees, a horse, a pointy-eared donkey with a mis-shapen rear end, etc. Each morning, Anna Maria Aprile rises before the sun to bake the breakfast goods. The Italian classic breakfast is a few spoons of unsweetened yogurt and coffee with a sweet cookie, roll, cake or toast with preserves. (Everything made from scratch by Anna Maria.) They do not take eggs or meats or cheeses or cereals.

Our room is a suit of spaces both indoors and out. Our room, of course, is indoors, but our kitchen is outdoors.  It is a stone arched alcove. Inside is a stone slab counter with a grill in it's center. Beneath the grill is a small area for arranging wood to make a fire for the cooking. There is another stone arched alcove seating area with a vista—past the horse, the cherry orchard, the donkey, past the vineyard, through the meadows of swaying-in-the-breeze red poppies—uphill to the scenic village of Locorotondo. And there is yet a final covered dining area that faces an orchard and garden, stone courtyards and large planters of exotic flowering plants busy with large black and yellow fuzzy buzzing bees.

The innkeeper loaned us a book of recipes of the local specialities. Then she sent us uphill to a ristorante to sample them. The ristorante, uCurdunn da Peppino e Margherita, had vaulted stone ceilings and stone walls all painted white. Outside, the village is also stone painted white with rough white marble pavement. So many parts of the village are perfect locales for putting on a chamber music concert or a play or a recitation of Shakespeare's sonnets.

Our dinner began with capocollo, sliced meat. Initially, I was unenthusiastic. Sliced meat, I thought, it will be nice I am sure, but I'd rather have cooked food. I was so wrong. It was not a sausage, but a cured pork concoction. The meat was put into a mold, weighed down, poached in white wine and salt, then dried, smoked and sliced. Wildly good. It was thinly sliced and piled around the edge of the plate—like rose petals. In the center was a bed of chopped radicchio beneath a ball of burrata cheese . It came with a side of caponata: eggplant cubes simply cooked and seasoned. Perfect.

Next, came fresh, made in house, orecchiette (ear shaped pasta), in tomato sauce with tiny meatballs. Meatballs from heaven. More parmesan cheese and chopped garlic than meat. They struck my palate as wonderful. The pasta itself took me  by surprise. In far northern Italy, some pasta noodles contain dozens of egg yolks. They are golden and rich. Here, in the south, it is entirely opposite. Pasta noodles here are made without eggs. Their texture could be called bland, a touch squishy, maybe incapable of having the beloved "al dente" mouthfeel.

Finally, the local legendary dish, "fave e ciccorie." Dried fava beans pureed with a touch of potato, topped with sauteed chicory, (which in Italy is across between spinach and swiss chard), and drizzled with the best olive oil.

We drank a local white wine; a specialty of Locorotondo. To finish we had a house made liqueur. Packed with sugar and herbs, I have found it takes the edge off of feeling indigestive. It is called a digestivo. One drinks a mere thimble of it for a good result. Our ristorante makes their own. It was dark and green. We thought it tasted of clove and basil, but in fact it was made from leaves from a laurel tree, which those of us who make chicken stock call bay leaves.

Now, it is time for bed. Arrivederci.  Ciao belli.

Wes and Marlow
Locorotondo, Puglia,  Italy
Monday, May 9, 2006