Black South-Eaters

Address: Via S. Andrea, 14, 61129 Urbino (PU), Le Marche, Italy
Tel. 0722/327559
Email: info@angolodivino.com

Website

Directions: Cape Town to Rome by air, Rome to Perugia by bus, Perugia to Umbertide to Urbino by car, guided walk to the right door.

Shilling: High, €25; includes seemingly endless decanters of wine.

Tanti piatti fa, as Amalia, one of the fellows here at Civitella Ranieri, mused the other day*… Since the Black South-Eater likes playing around with language, he added, Tanti, tanti molto grande piatti fa. And big they were in taste when we turned one of the many divine corners in Italy, of a Thursday, 20 August.

Thanks to an anonymous benefactor in these hard times, this black south-eater was able to join his fellows on a trip to Urbino, hosted and guided by the Civitella Ranieri foundation. Given the town’s place in Renaissance history, forgive me the following homo universalis digressions then.

Urbino, a smallish town off the major routes, was central to the flourishing of the arts in Italy from the fifteenth century onwards, cohering around the famous warlord, Frederico de Montefeltro, he of broken nose and gammy eye, with walk-on parts played by the nearby Malatestas (that’s right, those not right in their heads; more specifically, those bad in the head). Curiously, this conflict included showing off who cared most for culture as well.

Montefeltro had designed and built for him a palace that eventually was developed into what was and is considered the ideal example of Renaissance civil architecture and it had the best library outside of the Vatican. The town itself is considered the ideal Renaissance city. As a patron, Montefeltro also sponsored Raphael’s early development.

The Palazzo Ducale now houses the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche where one can see Piero della Francesca’s ‘The flagellation of Christ’, a work of almost contemporary surrealism, foreshadowing Dali, but important during the Renaissance for its consolidation of the use of geometrical perspective. Check it.

Also there is Della Francesca’s ‘Madonna of Senigallia’ and Raphael’s ‘La Muta’.

There was a lot more to see but, being a universal man, the black south-eater is also interested in food; too much musing on perspective and the wars of state also makes one peckish. And so off we hungry fellows went. A short walk through the hot maze of Urbino brought us around a corner to L’Angolo Devino, chosen and reservations made by Dana Prescott, director at Civitella Ranieri. (Two pics here; the Black South-Eater is hidden from view at the southern end of the table.)

People, the Black South-Eater went high, very high. There was no low, no in-between, but all high as if on powerful drugs, or a bat in crazed flight turning a corner and blinded further by divine light.

Osteria L’Angolo Devino is concerned with the traditions of the region and, in the main, as with much food here, the dishes were simple in concept and execution. By that I mean that there were no bells and whistles. It is ‘high’ cuisine in that the tastes are exquisite and the textures fascinating, but it remains rooted by using local, ‘everyday’ ingredients. The decor was a mixture of the authentically old – sideboards and tables – and the plain yet lush elegance of well-woven cream table cloths and napkins. The two waiters that served our table of 18 heads were warm and friendly, patient and seemed to be enjoying answering questions, not flustered at all by a noisy table on a very hot day (the air-conditioning was struggling).

To the food

First, the antipasti. A polenta ‘pancake’ with a dollop of tomato sauce. Now, the Black South-Eater is not too fond of the phutu, but this was something else. Creamy yet light, and the tomato sauce was fresh with a mildly tart flavour. By what arcane and dark art do Italians manipulate the humble tomato?

This was followed by small pieces of bread with a dollop of chunky tonnato (a ‘mayonnaise’ flavoured in the main with anchovy, tuna and capers). The Black South-Eater loves fish and thus loves this sauce, and I can eat bowls of it for lunch and supper. But I’d like to insist that I think Romana, Patrizia and Patrizia’s tonnato is a notch more salty and thus more to the liking of this tongue.

The tonnato on bread was followed by wedges of spinach and cheese piadini. Again, fresh, and the bread, almost pizza but a bit rooti-like, with an unmistakable woodfire flavour.

Then some salami, coppa and mountain ham. Oh my. Tender, full of flavour, where the curing does not kill off the flavour of the meat, especially the mountain ham.

The first mains was a festive pasta, a dish cooked for celebrations. A cubed pasta made of flour, eggs, butter and cheese, it is cooked, held in netting, in a chicken stock. Served in a pale yellow broth of (probably) that chicken stock with hints of citrus peel and saffron, and shavings of truffle.

This dish was most incredible. At first, the texture of the small cubes of pasta (of about 1cm square sides; reportedly unique to L’Angolo Devino) was strange. A bit porous, almost bread-like, one may have been eating bread just soaked in soup this very minute. But unlike bread, the pasta maintains its structure and consistency, and after two mouthfuls, the porous, bread-like texture becomes clear, as if revealed in light. It is the perfect company to the rich yet delicate broth – not a thick broth, but one that presents its umami without shame, its osmazome without reticence. And the pasta takes this on board as if they were lifelong, natural companions. Everybody ooh-ed and aah-ed.

This is the thing: balance. The dish made a tremendous impact on the tongue, yet had a transitory feel. It is at once heavy and light. Too quickly gone, but the endorphins still whizzing through the brain. Fortunately, it was a large table and as the waiters started gathering bowls at one end, Moira leaned over to my oohs and aahs dying with a dying fall, beneath the music from a farther room. She couldn’t finish hers and, miraculously maintaining exterior dignity, the Black South-Eater had two more scoops. God, this stuff is like crack cocaine.

Not that I have ever had crack. But, you know, I read. So, someone once described the crack euphoria as this incredible force, akin to being hit by a juggernaut, and if being hit by said juggernaut can be described as euphoric, but a force of great power too soon gone. Heavy and light.

Mains number 2 was called ‘Crazy Roll’. A compressed log of pasta made with breadcrumbs, it is also cooked in a stock, then served in slices – here three to the plate – topped with tomato sauce and formaggio di fossa. Another amazing mouthful and by now everyone was groaning with the weight in their bellies, and indolent from the wine and heat.

A finish with a simple greenleaf salad, and Claudio, the owner-chef and a charming, ego-less man, popped in to see whether everything was alright. More than alright, we chorused. Bene, molto bene, and a few belissimos as well.

It was a great meal, and a huge meal, and we all stumbled up the hill, some in search of gelato (!), some just for an espresso and a cigarette, over which to contemplate the heavy and the light, the balance in perspective.

Notes

* Many plates ago. Many, many very big plates ago.

It’s been a while for the Black South-eater. Tanti tanti piatti fa (many many plates ago), as Amalia Jacir, a fellow fellow at Civitella Ranieri put it. So, I’m bringing over two posts I have written about food adventures in Umbria and which have appeared at the Civitella blog. There are also many notes of said adventures that will be written up in due course. Here’s the first, from 19 August:

Blur

I have forsaken my vow to note all the Civitella Ranieri food consumed and to report on it for the benefit of readers of Black South-Eaters, and now it’s all a blur of pleasure. Somewhere in this blur I remember the amazing bulger wheat (I think) and tuna salad for lunch, tender fillets of pork in a ginger sauce, creamy mashed potato with an edge of parmesan or pecorino, pieces of chicken (on the bone as this Black South-Eater likes it) in a ginger and lemon marinade, and, last night, veal tonnato and fresh peas. Also somewhere in the past week, battered, deep-fried zucchini flowers stuffed with I don’t know which formaggio, and battered, deep-fried sage.

And yes, always there are the fresh vegetables, which I eat con gusto, with no need for Romana, Patrizia nor Patrizia to admonish me to eat them all or forfeit the pudding. Working for the man and such, the Black South-Eater knows the cost and value of labour and thus pays homage to the hands that shell the peas by eating all his peas. So pass the peas is what I always say.

And the pudding. I remain convinced that Romana conducts from within the kitchen a simphony of epicurean pleasure which is at once a fellow of pain, making torture into pleasure and pleasure into torture, and so of deeper pain, thus deeper pleasure, as she tweaks the meals up notch by notch, note by note. Gentle, gentle, pleasure upon gradual pleasure, then bang: orange cake on a lake of chocolate sauce. A pleasure that pierces the heart, that reboots the brain.

Then Romana gently lets go. Have some lovely fruit, some pears, banana, plums, peaches for dessert. Then bang, again: panacotta tart with pine nuts served on the most intense raspberry coulis. Anyone having only half of theirs? Thanks. Pass it along.

I mean, how is the Black South-Eater to retain some sense of decency? How is one to survive? How high, how intense, how broad and wide and deep is the torture going to be next week? And the pleasure? And what will be its release?

But today we are going to talk about the passion, the matter of the porchetta, the porchetta that matters.

Bleep-bleep-bleep…. Dateline: …Umbertide, Wednesday 19 August 2009… market day.

Reports all of the last week have mentioned the matter of the one that is holy in this region, the divine porchetta. Blips on the Black South-Eat-dar that have bleeped and blipped for attention. Keywords: market, street, streetfood, holy roasted porchetta.

Dobroe Utro,* I said. Today I will investigate.

The Man in the White Hat

Special Agents Mencaroni and Keating both gave me the coordinates for the location of the secret of the holy. Agent Mencaroni himself drove me there, dropped me off at a location nearby and surreptitiously pointed to the man with the white hat: “That is him. Ask the right questions. He will answer you.”

Try as I might, it was difficult to blend in, to sidle up, to ask the man the question that will get the right answer. There were several civilians, in front of whom I did not want to ask any questions, right or wrong. My task was going to be difficult, I thought, while around me I heard the occasional grasso. I did not know this word. I did not know how to ask for crispy bits, which, as you might know, are dear to my palate. But wait, I get ahead of myself.

Agent Mencaroni dropped Agent Sosa and me off with instructions on how to avoid the authorities and get to the pig of it all.

Watches synchronised, our rendezvous confirmed, we crossed the street to the stall with the man with the white hat. His is the most basic stall, sans billboards and fancy paintwork – simply a man in a white hat.

Just shoulder high, in front of us, and as simple as it gets, lay the brown log of pig. Oh the crackling! And fresh crispy rolls bundled against the glass the length of the stall. To our left, grinning at us from on high in its own little display cubicle was the head of hog.

Agent Sosa decided to head on to the market proper. But what cares the Black South-Eater for fresh vegetables when Romana, Patrizia and Patrizia make sure I get my greens. Today my mission was a surgical strike. Get pork, get out.

Civilians mustered and demanded: grasso, grasso. Croccante, per favore.

The man in the capello bianco sliced with small flourishes, weighed the merchandise, took it off the scales to add a sliver or two more, a swathe of crackling, pasella, extra et gratis, then wrapped and delivered it to the customer, letting go with an open arm gesture as if to say, simultaneously, voila and bravissimo, look at this flourish with which I slice the pork and oh, what miracle! here is your bundle of holiness too. All with a goodly porcine smile and all at a pace that was neither hurried nor leisurely. It was of appropriate pace in reverence of porchetta. Who cares about Michelin stars and white table cloths and waiters that hover ghostly, neither absent nor present, but in limbo, as if a shade from Dante? Who cares about all this when you have the man in the white hat? The man at one with porchetta. Man and animal in a dance of Zen.

Eventually it was my turn. I spoke the code words: Bonjour. No parla Italiano… aah, eh… p… por…

No problem, he said in English and smiled peacefully.

I lifted my shoulders in a gesture seeking help and pointed at the porchetta, made a little tortoise with my hands, indicating size and breadroll.

He nodded with a peaceful si, si. Then in English again: Bread?

Bread.

He made me a little tortoise with lots of slices of pork, and bits and pieces of extra salty herbaciousness, and a sliver of crackling. Flourish, voila, bravissimo, Zen, as if all a promise to lead one to the true knowledge of all that is holy and transcendent – all at the Black South-Eater-friendly streetfood price of €2.50 for this bundle of holiness deboned and seasoned with fennel seeds, salt, black pepper, garlic, possibly rosemary, and who knows whatnot from the holy grail of a family recipe, seasoned and rolled into a big fat log and roasted over coals until meltingly golden.

Known for skills in hand-to-mouth combat, this Black South-Eater clasped his grail and disappeared through the traffic and chose a spot with a view on the rendezvous point, so he could watch who was watching it, and eat porchetta sandwich without being clocked by the pigs.

Oh my goodness! How delectably salty some pieces are! How succulent! How tender! And, ooh, yes, let’s gobble that piece with the fatty edge. Go away you nosy bee! And the crackling! The crackling, the crackling… Oh my fennel seed, the crackling. Praise be to the holy of holies of North Umbria. Blessed is the pig that roots in the mud of the Upper Tiber Valley.

Seriously, this is some good pork meat. Some edges are a bit dry, but mostly it is succulent, tender. Indescribable.

But I’ll try: fennel is the dominant note, but not forte, rather mezzo forte, which of course makes the all round flavour nevertheless avere un forte effetto. And salt for those who have soul (I have noticed that cooks here are not reticent to salt food, which is solace to the soul of the Black South-Eater.) And the crackling is at once of crisp and of melt. It snaps and cracks at the bite, then melts away in reverent mastication. Who knew that a piece of pork could provide transcendence?

Debrief

I realised I need to ask more questions at pre-mission briefings regarding the proper code for extra crackling; I had only a sliver, a torturously small sliver. But fear not, I shall visit the man in the capello bianco again. He shall know me by my hungered look and he shall know me too by my ability to distinguish fat from skin, to speak his code, to enter the cabal. And I shall know to say to him, sotto voce, porchetta et pane, del grasso, extra croccante per favore. Or is it crepitio? Or cotenna? Or arrostita? Agent Mencaroni, Agent Mencaroni, do you copy? Come in Agent Mencaroni…

Notes

* Dobroe Utro: Good morning (in Russian)

Agent Mencaroni has provided me with a set of instructions:

Please follow the line as a normal costumer;  when it’s your turn, ask

UN PANINO CON PORCHETTA PER FAVORE

GRASSO E MAGRO PREFERIBILMENTE SENZA FEGATINI

ANCHE UN PO’ DI PELLE SE POSSIBILE

GRAZIE

Last night Romana (head chef) and Patrizia or Patrizia (R&P/P) rustled up an Umbrian feast. There were some important or well-liked guests to some opening of some exhibition in the castle’s gallery, thus a mini banquet of 26 people afterward.

Starters were canneloni filled with something green (spinach? broccoli?) and yummy, creamy ricotta, drizzled with a rich yet light bechamel sauce. I think that is the holy grail in any cooking – balance – and perhaps in something like bechamel one can measure how far from the golden mean a cook strays. (My bechamel is, for example, generally a bit on the heavy side, too creamy, too thick.)

Then came platters and platters filled with roasted coniglio and agnello (rabbit and lamb). Hunks of lamb, crispy brown quarters of rabbit. Naughty, crispy little rabbit…

One of this eater’s favourite childhood nursery rhymes concerned a naughty little rabbit, in a family of six. This naughty little rabbit was full of tricks, and did not mind his mother, nor his aunt. Sometimes, this naughty little rabbit even had the audacity to disobey his wiser elders and say ‘I shan’t'!

Hy was baie ongehoorsaam. (He was very disobedient.)

Ignoring warnings and disobeying strictures, the naughty little rabbit went off to play in a field somewhere. Perhaps there were juicy carrots involved.

Bang! Bang! The naughty little rabbit ended up in the sights of a farmer’s gun.

You may all laugh now, but this eater used to close his hands over his eyes just before the ‘bang! bang!’. I identified with the naughty little rabbit and felt sorry for him. Which of course was the point of this nursery rhyme: get the little ones to identify with the little rabbit, kill the rabbit, and then the little ones will never again disobey.

But such socialisation only lasts so long. I remained a naughty rabbit, even as I have lost my sympathy for that other naughty little rabbit. So, whenever pieces of rabbit appear with their goose cooked, I know that they have been naughty. And I fret not for the fate of the naughty rabbit.

I lie. I still feel a little bit sorry for the rabbit; I just cannot help myself helping myself to a piece, especially if it is crispy naughty rabbit.

So, yes, golden brown pieces of naughty but crispy little rabbit. The crisp was a bit too crisp, but there were heaps of bones on everyone’s plate. However, only the black south-eater had cleaned his bones of all tasty, salty, chewy, crispy bits of rabbit.

Nevertheless, and sorry, but I have only one word for the little rabbit: delicious.

You were delicious you naughty little rabbit; almost like chicken, only better, much better (I gotta get me some rabbit raising skills for home).

As always, I get ahead of myself. Crispy rabbit, heaps and heaps of crispy rabbit, alongside heaps and heaps of roasted hunks of lamb. The black south-eater is an everything-eater. But I shall never foreswear my deep love of meat, so do not casually place platters of crispy meat in front of me and expect me to behave.

With all the meat came platters of fine green beans, cooked exactly like this black south-eater prefers them: soft but firm (there’s the balance again). The raw green bean is fine and has its place; but when cooked, the bean should not squeak out in pain when one bites into it. It should have been laid to rest; it should be soft. Of course it should not be overcooked, but it should not still be squeaking. It’s kind of like al dente for beans.

And to round it all off, a salad of green leaves.

I misbehaved and loudly called across the table to a fellow to please pass me that platter on which I espied a darkly glistening chunk of lamb for seconds. My previous piece was a bit dry, and I think R&P/P had been stretched by us getting to the table late, taking too long with our canneloni, having to keep the meat warm, etc. So smaller pieces (I was being modest with my first serving) may have dried out a bit. And so my second piece of peasanty-chunk of goodly Umbrian goodness was indeed good.

It’s an interesting comparison to South African Karoo lamb. It’s not as strong as Karoo lamb, and I’m not talking about herbacious tidbits the SA lamb graze on. You can taste the lambness of the Umbrian lamb, but the flavour is not strong (I know a few unfortunate people who retch when they smell lamb cooking; I doubt this would happen with these Umbrian lambs. I shall delve more into this, but I think it’s probably because it’s real lambkins, slaughtered at an earlier age.)

I rounded off this chunk of lamb with another quarter little naughty rabbit.

An interesting cultural note: this black south-eater grew up with the salad on the plate of the main meal. And I have been to homes where the salad is eaten as a starter, and where it is eaten after the mains as a…? I don’t know.

Of course you can have a starter which happens to be a salad, but when the salad bowl is placed on the table alongside the main dish, what is a black south-eater to do? I, like many others, had their salads with their mains; while many others had their salad after the meat. Is there a calculus that can plot this variance?

And of course, there was the wine from the convent which, I must mention, is served in these hah-hah-weird carafes. I believe they are of the famed Deruta hand-painted ceramics.

The carafes at Civitella are chickens. Shaped and painted like a chicken. Someone mentioned that the chicken looks drunk. But the weird part is the pouring: the wine runs through the beak of the chicken and it is as if the chicken is sticking a long, red tongue into one’s glass.

Dessert was dainty cubes of peach and fig (oh I have not had figs for aeons) on a panacotta base. All delicious, always delicious.

I have a slight suspicion that Romana and Patrizia or Patrizia are playing this like a symphony, and that we are gradually building up to something intense, so intense that it may disturb the black south-eater’s sense of proportion.

Watch this always delicious space.