This story appeared in Venturing in Puglia, a Land Between Two Seas (Travelers’ Tales, 2008).
To paraphrase a well-known aphorism, a journey of one thousand excesses begins with a single bite. And—one single bite after another—I happily ate my way through Puglia, in southern Italy. Anticipating the visit was a gastronomic adventure in itself. Puglia has a long coastline, an agricultural heritage and a tradition of frugality. It is known for healthful and unpretentious cuisine, influenced by centuries of interactions, whether by trade or invasion, with Greeks, Byzantines, Arabs, French and Spaniards. My heart was set on tasting the local specialties, particularly the superb seafood, burrata (a rich, fresh mozzarella) and orecchiette pasta. But my heart—and my waistline—expanded to embrace lowly vegetables, ripe fruit and humble bread as gourmet highlights. In Puglia, I discovered, fine food and folkways combine to make an irresistible repast.
Our culinary experiences, which I quickly came to regard as orgies of the very best kind, typically began between one and two o’clock in the afternoon and lasted until three-thirty or four, once even five o’clock. As in many other countries, the long meal here is timed to coincide with the hot afternoon sun, which precludes heavy labor both indoors and out. But no matter what one’s vocation, a meal in a hurry is an unthinkable insult in Italy, where sharing food is one of life’s simple—and essential—pleasures. And the fact that the event was stretched out over such a long period of time somehow made my holiday gluttony seem almost acceptable.
We ate at least five courses at each meal, beginning with antipasti. These were typically five or six small, very flavorful dishes, such as mozzarella tied into a small knot (nodino) or fresh seafood. Often there would be julienned beets or carrots dressed with olive oil and vinegar. Ristorante Orsa Maggiore’s antipasti included zucchini flowers fried in a light, tempura-like batter; and pittule, a fried croquette-like dish made with a batter of flour, potato and yeast surrounding a bit of blanched cauliflower. I never managed to choose among the antipasti. In fact, I felt compelled to try every one—in the name of culinary research—and a small bite never seemed to be quite enough. The antipasti were offered in such quantity and variety that I was inevitably satisfied after sampling them, but the main meal was yet to come.
After the antipasti we were presented with a first course of pasta and a second course of meat, the portions of which were inevitably generous and understandably quite filling. These were followed by a palate-cleansing raw vegetable course at which slices of carrot, cucumber or finocchio (fennel bulb) might be served. At the restaurant Trullo d’Oro we cleared our palates with raw slices of a pale green, slightly sweet vegetable called carocello, specific to this region, which reminded me of a honeydew melon and others of a cucumber. Next came the fresh fruit course featuring sweet watermelon slices; perfect, firm-but-juicy Bing cherries; small, tart apricots and sweet plums during our June visit. We finished with cookies or a cake course and then a serving, if one dared, of strong Limoncello liqueur. An espresso was available to top it off.
The meals were so huge and so delicious that I began to eat myself sick on a daily basis. And I began making promises to God: every day, I swore that if I could only finish this one last meal—sampling just a bite or two of everything that was offered—and then make it through the afternoon, I would never again overindulge. Every afternoon I pictured myself virtuously pushing away from the table at the next meal, maintaining my figure and my health. And every evening I sinned again, salivating the instant I saw the menu.
Mussels were among the most difficult to resist. Don Carmelo Ristorante Pizzeria served them in the peasant style—that is, combined with other ingredients into a one-dish meal, characteristic of this part of Italy because it was faster for working families both to prepare and to consume. Preparing a mussel tiella (casserole) is quick and simple: slices of zucchini and onion are layered together in a baking pan. Chunks of peeled potatoes are added and steamed, opened mussels in their shells are arranged on top, then layered with rinsed rice and sliced tomatoes. Finish with Pecorino cheese and breadcrumbs and bake in a hot oven for half an hour.
One taste and I became a mussel maniac. When cooked, the smooth, flesh-like morsels tightened and huddled—warm and peach-colored, sweet and tender—at the edge of their rough blue-black shells. They hunkered there, clinging, small and succulent, as if anticipating the approach of my hungry tongue and teeth. The mussels’ slippery folds released trickles of the dish’s rich juices, inviting exploration. (Simultaneously providing plenty of selenium, vitamin B12, zinc and folate.) I savored them at every opportunity.
Another local staple is purea di fave (broadbean puree). Many broadbean recipes call for the addition of cooked potatoes or a little milk for smoothness and to extend the dish. The heavy, pale puree is traditionally served with bread and a counterbalancing cicorie—wild chicory, salted and boiled, then cooked up with olive oil to a deep, bitter green. In the one-dish version, the chicory and fried cubes of dry bread called cecamariti (“husband-blinders”) are stirred together with the bean puree.
The origin of the expression “husband-blinders” to describe food is not clear. The most likely explanation, in my opinion, is that leftovers are used to create a dish so tasty that it dazzles—or blinds—a husband into thinking his wife has slaved for hours in the kitchen. But there is also the possibility the expression was used to describe a dish so filling it will placate a hungry husband, or a meal so delicious it will drive a husband to overeat, and subsequently to fall asleep. My favorite explanation suggests that cecamariti have the power of “putting husbands to bed, leaving wives free to meet their lovers.”
Husband-blinding may be the most picaresque of Puglia’s culinary traditions, but it is certainly not the only one…
Read the rest of this story in Travelers’ Tales Venturing in Italy: Travels in Puglia, Land between Two Seas:
