A pile of photographs and a bag (which originally held a nicely packaged pair of Italian jeans) full of bits and pieces are all that I physically brought back from our whirlwind tour of Southern Italy. What really stuck, though, are the memories. I was in for a weeklong, hands-on exploration of the city that inspired Tutta Bella’s pizzerias with my fellow general manager, Kelly, her husband, Mike, the owner, Joe, his partner, Jeff, and me. An impossible itinerary was laid out before us—just one week to soak up the flavors, textures, rhythms, and culture of a region in a country that I had yet to visit? So here it is, this pile, this thick of memory, this detritus from an amazing adventure. This collection of specific pictures and random objects from one of the craziest and most memorable seven days of my life. So here it is. Shall I just start with a list? I
think so…
Mike, Kelli, Joe, our friend Laura, Me, Jeff
A handful of tickets to the Unico Napoli
The Unico Napoli, the Funiculare, the preferred mode of transportation to cruise up and down the hills and into the different neighborhoods of Naples. Just hop on a train and you are downtown in no time. It does help if you know where the stations are though.
Jeff and I on the Funiculare.
A map of Naples
In this spider web of a city, the streets seemed to wind about each other in the most random fashion. They were all intertwined and, from the location of our hotel, perfectly laid out for our purposes. Vomero, the rich part of town, was above us. The Spaccanapoli to the north, Galleria Umberto, Teatro San Carlo, Castel Nuovo, and Palazzo Reale below. Our hotel was perched on the perfect mountainside to access all of Napoli’s sights and neighborhoods. Getting to them was another story. We walked for miles that first day, nine hours in total. Down the steps to the Spanish Quarter, snapping photos of the streets and piazzas and grottos and laundry hanging from window to window.
Street life in Naples.
Street life in Naples.
People in Naples really did live like it was their last day, and they drove like it too. They seemed to not care about living as long as possible. Maybe this was a Neapolitan thing and not an Italian thing, but Naples was my only point of reference so far. Busses and cars that looked like American toys. And Vespas, oh the cunning and tricky Vespa elite! How they got around, barely missing an accident at every turn. They drove, quite simply, like maniacs on two wheels, like it was their last spin on wheels. Children drove Vespas, fathers with eighteen-month-old children strapped to their chest drove Vespas. Twenty-somethings with fat mothers splayed on back drove Vespas. Chic men driving itsy-bitsy Smart Cars that look like amusement park buggies wove in and out of the way of other cars. So many commuters meant that drivers had to be inventive. Our group did get pulled over at one point for cutting someone off, but our driver must have had the right story or accent because the traffic cop allowed us to speed right along. At least on this, my very first day in Naples, all young men seemed gay. They care about how they look, and they really want you to know it. The street was a dance. If you stepped the wrong step, you died. Tango indeed!
A random parade.
I should have been exhausted but somehow this city kicks, slaps, and superimposes vibrant life into you. Passion! We visited churches and cloisters and castles. For someone who had barely seen another foreign city, it is hard to describe the sheer ornateness of it all. Americans live in a baby of a country. Everything is new and shiny and refined. I would like to say that Naples reminded me of a cross between San Francisco and Guadalajara. Sexy, fashionable, and old! “Newish” architecture next to ancient. Hip and dirty. Expensive yet poor, with everybody trying to survive in between. A melting pot of commerce, clashing with religion and an authentically localized way of life. Art and food and style central. Chaotic. Mesmerizing. Inspiring. Really and truly, authentically, Neapolitan. My legs felt like pounded meat, but when I had two hours to relax I left the comforts of the jetted tub in my room and took another walk. So much for relaxation on this trip—that was just not going to happen.
A menu from Pizzeria Trianon
That first day we had breakfast at the hotel and lunch at Pizzeria Trianon. It was the first time in a long time that I actually ate three full meals in one day. Working in the restaurant industry, eating even one good sit-down meal a day is a rarity. Lunch that first day was spectacular. With three floors crammed with people with an oven on each floor, Trianon felt very “Tutta Bella.” We were surrounded by an older couple, a group of chic twenty-somethings, a huge group celebrating something or other with cheers and clapping and another hundred or so people enjoying their meal. The service was nonexistent, but the vibe that we try to create at home in our pizzerias was all around us. A long line out the door, a crazed-looking woman directing traffic while on a cell phone to other levels of the pizzeria, hungry families, and loud over-gesturing locals all strewn about the street and lobby. Controlled chaos, here we were!
The pizza was amazing. Fresh, simple, and very irregular (after seeing this, I wondered if maybe our pizzas are a bit too uniform). My favorite was the Margherita D.O.C. The folks at Trianon use their hands to crush the coveted San Marzano tomato. When I suggested that we do this, I got the amused reply, “Go for it.” I got the point. The crust was smoky and salty, and though the toppings felt irregular it seemed somehow perfectly composed. Irregular but perfect. A great combination.
Waiting for a table at Pizzeria Trianon.
That day we snapped pictures of V.P.N. signs littered throughout the twisted streets. We visited Pizzeria Brandi, the joint that brought the Margherita pizza to life because the Queen liked the colors on it. Red, green, and white—the colors of the Italian flag. V.P.N. signs everywhere…
The first certified V.P.N. pizzeria.
Queen Margherita and the birth of the Margherita pizza.
Pictures of Pulcinella everywhere. Advertising espresso bars, pizzerias, and souvenir stands. Pulcinella sipping an espresso or eating a slice of pizza. Pulcinella splashed across a garage door with spray paint in the form of graffiti. Pulcinella with the black mask and white folds of fabric around his frame. Dancing, eating, drinking, living the life of a true Neapolitan! Alive! Not a mascot, but the symbolic soul of a city.
A few shots of Pulcinella in his many forms.
Gelato art.
A brochure from our hotel
This, of course, is entirely in Italian. I can’t read a word of it, yet it reminds me of the lavish accommodations that I enjoyed while staying in Napoli. The Hotel San Francesco al Monte was an amazing place to spend the night. Built in the side of a mountain overlooking the Bay of Naples, the hotel was being lovingly restored and shared with all, whether a man of the cloth or the general manager of a pizzeria in Seattle. Originally an ancient convent, the hotel now offered both a luxurious experience and an historic one as well. An entire afternoon could be spent exploring the rooms, passageways, artwork , caves, and huge views of the Bay of Naples and the Spanish Quarter below. Besides the panoramic view from the rooftop restaurant, my favorite discovery was the ancient oven and “Conventuuli” areas, the kitchen and wine cellar. The oven was built right into the rock in the side of the mountain, and the wine cellar was a bit creepy and, it seemed, full of catering equipment. An adjoining room, with a table that seated at least thirty, upholstered furniture, and restored murals, seemed the perfect place to entertain your next royal gathering.
The lush accommodations, stellar service, excellent food, and killer views steeped in history beyond my imagination made for the best hotel stay I have ever had. Staying here was pampered paradise.
The ancient oven at the Hotel San Francesco al Monte.
The view of Naples and Mt. Vesuvius from my hotel room.
A nicely designed card
The card, printed on expensive paper, is from Vanulo, a buffalo mozzarella farm. It lists the items that they create: mozzarella, boccancini, averzana, treccini, cardinali, yogurt, scamorza, provola affumicata, ricotta, barro, gelati, and budino. Visiting Vanulo was a true treat. Not only do they make exceptional buffalo mozzarella, they flat out produce some of the best dairy products that I have ever tasted.
The afternoon started with a tour. First we were shown the production of Vanulo’s locally sought-after prize, its mozzarella. Watching them make the mozzarella, I understood that this was definitely a hands-on operation, and teamwork was essential. The curd was twisted and manipulated and caressed into the desired size and shape. Unfortunately, the photos from this part of the tour did not come out well because of the glare from the glass separating us from the artisans producing the luscious cheese.
We visited the buffalo next. Boy, the pampered life of a female water buffalo at this farm! You couldn’t tell past the point of the very strong smell —and smell is a four letter word here—of the place. These ladies had it all. Most importantly, each one had a name. And each one had a bed, her
own bed. They had automated misting systems and something akin to the scrubber brush from a car wash that rotates to clean them as they desire. Shower and a massage, anyone? They had the most beautiful, sad, but very content, bovine eyes that I had ever seen. The males, on the other hand, were not as prized, for obvious reasons, and therefore were not named. Amongst our group, we tried our best to come up with a few good names.
My favorite photo!
Automated bath time!
The folks at Vanulo had a nice little museum containing tools that were used before machines were introduced to get the job done on the farm. The most memorable was a huge rock (actually, a boulder) attached to a lever system to press the juice from grapes in the wine-making process. I suppose it was a step up from smashing them with your feet.
Old school wine press!
After the tour we washed up and sat down to an amazing lunch—one of a handful of meals that I ate on this trip that I often describe as something out of a movie. We sampled all of Vanulo’s dairy alongside the freshest produce grown on the farm. Crisp butter lettuces and tomatoes just plucked from the garden. Sweet, raw onions like I’d never tasted before. Better than the Walla Walla sweets that my grandfather grew and would eat raw with vinegar. The most sublime ricotta, mozzarella, and yogurt that I had ever tasted, creamy, tangy, and rich. The service (again like something out of a movie), location, and company were magical. This was
lunch in Italy. In the middle of the day. Not in a restaurant or on a date. Just a sampling of what this part of Italy had to offer.
The table set for lunch.
Mozzarella, ricotta, tomatoes, sweet onion and freshly picked lettuces.
We then visited the gelateria for dessert. Again, amazing. Did I mention that they also craft the most beautiful leather goods in an effort to use every last bit of the animal? True artisans indeed. A trip to the country worth every minute.
A ticket to the Scavi di Paestum
I have a ticket to the Scavi di Paestum here dated the 13th of April, 2007, the same day we visited Vanulo. We toured the Greek Temples of Paestum, Italy’s most intact and well-preserved Greek ruins, the remains of the ancient city Poseidon. It was a warm afternoon and a great sight to see. To walk among such massive archaeological ruins was breathtaking. The temple of Poseidon, the Roman forum, the still-intact ornate tile floorings. The vast number of dogs roaming around that Kelli managed to photograph. Kelly took pictures of dogs everywhere on this trip. Go figure…
One of the Greek ruins at Paestum.
Me standing amongst the oldest of them all.
Another business card
This one is from a restaurant above the Amalfi Coast in a tiny village where our driver took us after drinking wine at his house high above the coast. The village was Pogerola, and the restaurant was La Capannina Ristorante and Pizzeria, in existence since 1950. I don’t think most American tourists would be taken to this spot. For one thing, getting there involved a twisty, turny ascent up the steepest cliffs that I had ever seen homes built on. The food was pretty good. We ate pasta for the first time in a while, since eating our weight in pizza. We were left to ourselves, as the local patrons and staff had nothing more on their minds than the soccer game on the big screen. Typical.
Though we spent only a portion of a day on the Amalfi Coast, it was truly memorable. One could easily get car sick along the way. The roadway scissored back and forth, up and down, and wound gradually along one of the most impressive coastlines of the world, or so I’ve heard. And the lemons! Prized for its lemons, the Amalfi Coast is the place to make limoncello. At first I thought it was a joke. As we were winding along the coast, I saw huge nets securing massive harvests of lemons clinging to the side of a cliff. Roadside stands selling fruit the size of a baby’s head cropped up every few paces. Huge lemons, I tell you, cartoonlike. Needless to say, when we had the opportunity to relax a bit in the seaside town, I bought two bottles of that prized limoncello, one for me, one for my mom, who I was sure would love it. I wish that I had at least one week to dedicate to the exploration of this romantic locale. Walking up the sixty-two steps of the Duomo di Sant’ Andrea was exhilarating. The huge bronze doors were awe inspiring. From the top of the steps, looking down on the twinkling lights of the storefronts below and the reflections of those lights on the water was enchanting. I wanted more time here, but we were off…yet again…
The Amalfi coast.
Taking in the killer view!
A business card with my name and the address of our Columbia City location
A little reminder of the first Tutta Bella that I have had the pleasure of running. I dropped these cards around Naples like crazy. I tried to make my mark in the huge city, but I don’t think it worked…
A nicely designed sugar wrapper from an espresso bar
I drank a lot of espresso in Napoli. Here is the drill: go to cashier, pay for espresso, get receipt. Stand in line at the bar, squeeze in when space allows. Barista uses tongs to remove porcelain cups from a boiling water bath. Hand over receipt. Barista pulls shot. Put as much (Italians use a lot) sugar as desired into cup, stir and sip. Quickly. Burning your lips. Velvety crema, full bodied, nutty, and smooth. Ahhh, real espresso, sipped, in a hurry in Italy. Not grande, nonfat, vanilla, etc. The pure essence of espresso done perfectly and without pretense. “Here’s your espresso, drink it, let the fellow in line behind you sip now.” No “please,” “thank you,” or “goodbye.” I now know that as a human being I am entitled to this every day. If not, why start the day, or the afternoon, or before dinner, or after dinner? I deserve it, all day long if I choose.
One of the many espresso bars we visited.
An umbrella from my one day of shopping
The thought of shopping in Italy was just too much for me. I have issues with shopping, no secret there. Serious issues. The thought of traveling to a foreign city without shopping would make the whole trip a bunk deal. Useless. Boring. Even for work, even if my job depended on it. Even for my career with food and wine. It was important to me, damn it, and, thank goodness, Joe obliged. Our last day in the city was ours for the taking. Kelli and Mike took off for Capri, Joe and Jeff spent the day at a friend’s home in the country, and I was left alone in Napoli. I know, I know, Capri, Italian country house, or shopping? I chose shopping. Typical.
As luck would have it, rain came down by the bucketful that day. Downpour. Shopping monsoon. Wet Neapolitan street cleansing. I grabbed the Funiculare, shot downtown, and hit it, my nose sniffing for a deal at Gucci (yeah right!). I was on a budget but seeking the wearable souvenir or travel statement for the coffee table—was that so much to ask? Jeans and underwear. Dried pasta in shapes that I had never seen. A small painting of Pulcinella. A sweatshirt with a hood—not intended, but with the torrential downpour on my shopping bags and boots, needed. I bought a beautiful satchel from a ritzy shop. When I went to examine it in the window, I turned to hear, “No, no! Sample. NO. Please do not touch.” Those Neapolitans did not want you to touch their displays with your soggy tourist digits. When I finally realized that they were talking to me, I left, ashamed and embarrassed, another clumsy American. But I couldn’t stay away. I returned and purchased. They packaged it so finely and carefully, artfully even. It took no time at all to get their attention once I asked them if I could touch it before I bought it and they realized I wasn’t using a credit card. Success!
I couldn’t stand it anymore, the rain. I had to drink more espresso, have lunch solo, in silence, soaking up the journey, before heading back. I never use an umbrella in Seattle, but I broke down and bought one for a couple of bucks from one of the many street vendors capitalizing on the weather of the day. It seems a fitting souvenir. I’ll never use it here at home, but I might display it on the coffee table or put it in a shadow box and hang it on the wall.
A business card from La Locande del Palazzo
The highlight of the trip for me, by far, was our visit to the winery and vineyards of Feudi. We started at the winery, where the folks were more than gracious and accommodating. After we toured the winery, we toured their vineyards in Basilicata and then stayed overnight at their boutique hotel. Both sights were memorable, yet they were completely different.
The winery was ultra-modern. All angles and steel and state of the art. The cellars were impeccable and the suspended tasting room (hard to describe but basically a glass box suspended between two floors. I wish I had a picture!) was an architectural wonder. We were treated to a wine and cheese tasting and a tour of the restaurant and kitchen. The kitchen was immaculate! I took a peek at the bar, snapped a few photos, and tried out the dishwasher. I took pictures of the floral arrangements and of the urinal in the men’s room (yes, it was
that nice). We toured the grounds as well, which included beautifully maintained rose and herb gardens with a killer view of the countyside. Our host and guide, Robin, was eerily knowledgeable, spoke I don’t know how many languages, and was a fountain of information about local tradition and history. An instant member of the extended Tutta Bella family.
Kelli and I in the herb garden at Feudi.
Barrels in the cellar at Feudi.
Riddling racks.
The Feudi vineyards in Basilicata were another testament to the importance of rich, fertile soil in the growing of produce. Not only do they employ several different staking methods for their vines, they know their soil as well as Caputo knows their wheat and Solania knows what makes their tomatoes stand out! I snapped a shot of the earth that clearly showed the different layers of soil with that volcanic ribbon running right through it. I had to get photos of the flowers that have naturalized there over the years—poppies, irises, Jupiter’s beard, the list goes on. The soil is rife with spreading and nourishing vegetation, grapes not withstanding. After the tour of the vineyards, we were shown to our rooms at their small hotel, again something out of a movie. Not ultra-modern but more like ultra-unmodern. We relaxed a bit and walked around the smallest of Italian towns. We met back up for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, La Locanda del Palazzo, and were treated to the most memorable meal of the trip. A soup made from wild greens, stuffed rabbit, pasta with mint, and the most divine tart, still warm. Each course was paired perfectly with stunning wines, a couple of which I loved but are not imported to the United States. The company that night was a delight, and we sat for hours swapping stories and wallowing in the still-fresh memories of that amazing meal. The proprietors of the hotel and restaurant must have spent all day preparing that dinner for us, and only us; we were the sole guests in the dining room and at the hotel. Truly pampered yet again. I could live like that every day!
The dining room at La Locanda del Palazzo.
The still warm, swoon inducing tart!
The vineyards in Basilicata.
A red apron from Caputo
We were all tired and groggy. Cranky from moving around and hitting the road so early in the morning after the previous night’s dinner at La Locanda del Palazza—the best meal of the trip, in my opinion. It was one of the last days of the journey, and we were going to visit flour. Flour! Flour at a mill in the industrial outskirts of the city. How interesting could flour be really? Could we skip it, please? Relax a bit? Take in the city a little more? Nap? Nope.
Many of us in the Tutta Bella family will tell you that Italians, Neapolitans, are masters at blending ingredients, for whatever reason, culinarily, economically, aesthetically. Wine, espresso beans, spirits, seafood, produce, the list goes on. I learned this important lesson during our visit to Caputo. Antimo Caputo and company do this with wheat. Wheat? Where is the fun in that? They tackle this question of fun with passion, science, and proud determination. They do not produce flour for pizzerias with the cheapest, most plentiful, and easily sourced wheat in the world. Instead, they seek out the most perfectly suited blend of wheat to create the silkiest flour for specific use in pizza dough. They purchase wheat from around the globe to create the best
pizza dough imaginable, and they succeed. One year they might use wheat from Montana or North Dakota, the next, Kazakhstan or South America. The folks at Caputo seek out the best blend in the world, for that season, no matter where it comes from, or at what cost—with exceptional results. Focused passion, Tutta Bella style, if you ask me. The tour of the facility, with its huge machines, delivery trucks, and piles of brightly colored bags was interesting, but the real magic happened in the lab. Bowls of wheat from different countries dominated the work table, each with different characteristics and profiles. Hearing them explain the process reminded me of listening to a wine maker going on about his grapes. Master blenders indeed!
Wheat from around the world.
Caputo flour bags waiting to be filled.
Brochures and booklets from Sarno
Our trip to Sarno, the region and town that grows and exports our coveted San Marzano tomatoes, was exciting to say the least. We were led to the town hall, where we were greeted by photographers and local journalists. It seemed that our arrival was a special one. The residents of Sarno were very happy to host us and extremely proud of the produce that they harvest there in “the shadow of Mt. Vesuvius.” They wanted everyone to know that their tomatoes are prized around the world. Joe nervously spoke with the reporters, they snapped a few shots, we grabbed an espresso (a shakerato, to be precise) and were off to the tomato fields.
Though the tomato seedlings were still in the greenhouse, we were able to see firsthand how rich and fertile the soil is in this region. They were harvesting sweet onions and fennel at the time of our visit, and we had a great time asking questions, getting our hands dirty, and meeting the people who pick the tomatoes that we feature on our pizzas. A natural spring was at the center of the fields. Running cool and fresh, its water was used for everything from irrigating the fields to washing the produce to quenching the thirst of the farmers. We tasted fennel, onion, and some not-so-pretty-tasting homemade wine. We stood for photos with the farmers and got to know them a bit. We came away more in touch with the soil that we talk about here every day. We ran our fingers through that rich volcanic soil and breathed the crisp country air. Magical.
The tomato fields waiting to be sewn!
The town center in Sarno.
That famed volcanic rich soil.
Artichoke season.
"Please send comments to R.C. at: (rjennings@tuttabella.com)"
