Everyone...dive into the pool!

Hmmm, trunks or no trunks?!

It is summer and it is hot.

And the heat reminds me of a day trip we took to Paestum, Italy.

Paestum is south of Naples…actually south of Salerno in the Campania region of Italy—close to where the “laces of the boot start to meet the top of the foot.”

Traveling there from Amalfi was a bit of an adventure. We started off in a boat to Salerno, a walk from the piers to the train station, and then took the train south.

Stepping off the train at the depot for the ancient site of Paestum was a little like stepping into the shot of a “spaghetti western.” The dilapidated depot with its salmon-colored stucco chipping off was empty and locked. The overgrown weeds made it feel as if the train left you in a no man’s land.

There was no traffic on the road that ran in front of the depot and as I looked for signs of traffic—of life beyond the tracks—I could envision Clint Eastwood stepping into view down the road’s horizon. The image of his poncho-draped body rippling in the rising heat from the pavement would be underscored with the famous theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly… “duh, duh, duh, duh, duuuh…wah, wah, waaaah.” If it hadn’t been for the fact that a couple of other tourists had stepped off the train with us, I would have believed that we had gotten off in completely the wrong place.

There was a long road that intersected with “Clint’s road” and while Richard, our friend Chris, and I stopped to get our bearings, the other 3 tourists headed down the intersecting road.

“Well, I guess we should just follow them,” I said, and, like lemmings, we followed the leaders down the middle of the road, which was bordered by tall Italian cypress, and divided two fields that had been freshly plowed under.

As our leaders marched ahead, obviously keen on being the first to arrive at whatever lay at the road’s end. We slowed our pace—mostly due to the heat and the breeze, which provided as much relief as a hairdryer in a sauna. Occasionally, a Smart car would appear from nowhere and whizz past us, giving us hope that we were indeed walking toward someplace inhabited with life or, given the fact that it was a Smart car, maybe a family of clowns would spill out of its tiny interior at the road’s end.

Finally we arrived at the ancient site of Paestum, which dates back to the 7^th century BC, to discover, right before our eyes, the ruins of the ancient Greek Temple to Hera.  Stupefacente! –Amazing! Most archeological sites that I have seen are holes in the ground only displaying unearthed building foundations—nothing of any structural significance.

But here, rising out of the field was a temple…THE Temple of Hera. Massive columns, lined in repeating rows supported the roof pediments. Wow! For everyone who “must see” Pompeii with all of its history, and international marketing, I would suggest that you visit Paestum and really have your socks blown off. Though you can no longer walk inside the temples…yes there are actually four temples (Poseidon, Athena, and two for Hera)…you can certainly get close enough to appreciate their overpowering size.

Forget Clint Eastwood, the long road, and the heat. Here was something worth traversing the planet to see. Granted there are other sites just as impressive in Italy, but on that day, given that our approach to Paestum had been less than glamorous, the sights here were incredible.

There is a museum at Paestum, which houses many of the site’s unearthed treasures. Large slabs of ancient tomb walls show scenes of day life and one of the most famous is “the Tomb of the Diver.” It is a simple fresco painting showing a man diving from a tower—his image painted mid-dive… simple, ancient, and beautiful. Other fresco paintings depicted scenes that one usually expects to find—dining scenes, musicians playing lutes, warriors and triumphs of war. Still, pretty incredible for being in a field.      

We spent hours walking around the site, touring the museum, and enjoying this well-preserved piece of Greece in Italy. We hiked back down the long road toward the depot, expecting there to never be a returning train. In a strange way I had hoped that we, too, might have been caught in this timeless place—maybe even seeing Clint walk off into the sunset. But alas, our train arrived on schedule, and though we missed the boat from Salerno back to Amalfi, the bus ride back proved to be the most harrowing experience of the day. Give me gladiators, lions, Hell—the entire Greek army, but please don’t make me take the bus along the Amalfi coast!

The temples were Good, the heat was Bad, and the bus ride was definitely Ugly~

“Duh, duh, duh, duh, duuuh…wah, wah, waaaah!”

A presto,

Mark

Photos:

1. The Tomb of the Diver

2. Temple of Hera

3. Tempe of Athena

4. Column outside Temple of Athena

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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A boy named Sue...

You never have to go into the sun to turn red~

With the dog days of summer quickly approaching, the heat has me thinking about the beach and, with it being high travel season in Italy, I am sure Italy’s beaches are packed with the touring throngs.

I spent five days in the small coastal town of Amalfi once and the view from the hotel room over the bay could not have been more stunning.

Before I take any trip, I spend months surfing the web for the most idyllic places to stay and visit…and part of their beauty always involved price—a bargain price. There are bargains out there, if you search long enough.

Once such bargain was the Hotel Aurora. It took me countless e-mails back and forth with the hotel’s booking agent, Andrea, to reserve the rooms I wanted. I would write to her in my elementary Italian and she would respond in a very proper British English—with all of the gracious overtones of exceedingly polite conversation. There was nothing Standard American about her English.

For months we corresponded back on forth trying to insure that the rooms I booked would have terraces overlooking the bay and that they would be right next to each other, since Richard and I were traveling with friends, adjoining terraces were a must. I thanked her for her continued vigilance about contacting me first, before anyone else on the waiting list, should a vacancy open up. We joked about the unending throngs of tourists and I tried to be as charming as I could with my Italian—making sure to use all of the correct feminine word endings. I wanted to be as polite and formal with her as she was in her writing to me. After weeks of touching base and daily emails, by the end, I felt that Andrea and I had developed a relationship…a friendship…as basic as it was. I was excited to meet her and she responded in kind. It is in moments like these that I am quite proud of the fact that I can speak some Italian. And sometimes I catch myself gloating to Richard about how I have charmed another Italian with my fundamental knowledge of their native tongue. He congratulates me, but I can see that, in his mind, he is rolling his eyes at me.

We arrived at the Hotel Aurora hot, tired, and exhausted from the harrowing journey by private car from Salerno to Amalfi. If you have ever heard of traffic on the Amalfi Coast being terrifying—it is no joke. The narrow, cliff-side roads twist with breakneck angles, while being packed with motorized vehicles of all sizes—cars, motorcycles, small Italian three-wheeled utility trucks (envision an enclosed motorized wheelbarrow), and enormous tour buses. At times, traffic stops so people can pull their side-view mirrors in against the sides of the car or bus—there is that little clearance. There are literally only inches, and sometimes less than inches, between the passing lanes of traffic.

We approached the hotel counter, pleased to have survived the drive, and I very proudly said to the balding, middle-aged man behind the counter, “Buona sera, il mio nome è Mark Leslie e ho una prenotazione. Anche, è Andrea qui? Lei vorrei conoscere.” (“Good evening, my name is Mark Leslie and I have a reservation. Also, is Andrea here? I would like to meet her.”)

The man behind the desk looked oddly at me. I thought, “OK, my Italian isn’t perfect but he should be able to get the gist of what I said. I mean I know I am close.” Here my arrogance, much like my gloating to Richard, started to take over.

“È possibile? È Andrea qui?” I asked.

Again the man looked at me plainly before smiling and saying, “Sono Andrea.” (“I am Andrea.”)

Ugh! Andrea was a man! I am such a fool. For months I had been charming, practically flirting, with the woman “Andrea.” I knew my attempted Italian would endear her to me—and get me the rooms I wanted. That is what gloating and arrogance gets me—every time—my foot in my mouth! I completely forgot that in Italian the feminine name is “Andria” (“Ahn-dree-ah”) and the masculine name is “Andrea” (“ahn-dray-ah”). I was looking at his Italian name the whole time and thinking it was the feminine “Andrea” for the masculine “Andre.”

I turned three shades of red. For months I had been calling the man behind the counter “her”—I knew our rooms were going to be the broom closets in the basement.

Luckily, Andrea is accustomed to silly American tourists and took pity on me. We were given the terraced rooms with adjoining balconies as promised—with the most wonderful views of the bay.

Our five days there were glorious and Andrea was the most gracious concierge the entire time. One morning on our way to breakfast on the bougainvillea-covered loge, I stopped and apologized to Andrea for the entire feminine/masculine mistake. He was forgiving, though despite my attempts at making him laugh it off, he never did crack a smile.

I hope to return to the Hotel Amalfi again and, this time, Andrea will know that I remember “him.”

Ciao e a presto~

Mark

The Photos:

(1) The mosaic tiled map that is embedded in the wall above the main gate into Amalfi.

(2) The town of Amalfi viewed from the bay.

(3) The view from our balcony. Thank-you Andrea!

(4) Boats moored at night outside the Hotel Aurora.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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This little piggy went to market~

…and there will be no “wee, wee, weeing” all the way home!

 

It is summer and, besides the HEAT, that can only mean one thing—farmers’s markets! Italy is famous for it’s farmers’s markets that, on any given Saturday, fill every piazza from Venice to Sicily. 

 

When I lived in Viterbo, Italy, I only went to the Saturday morning market once. It was all right. I know you expect me to say that everything in Italy is “amazing” or “unbelievable” and “not to be missed.” But like everywhere, not everything is the best.

 

My favorite market to go to, and one of the most famous in Italy, is the market in the piazza Campo dei Fiori (Field of Flowers) in Rome. There has been a market here for hundreds of years, if not thousands, and when we were there this past November, I could see why.

 

Rows of tented fruits and vegetables, bucket after bucket of flowers, spices, and oils, along with vans with glass cases displaying cheese, meat, and bread. Tables with books, knickknacks, rugs, stacks of boxed athletic shoes, racks of clothing, pots and pans…you can find a little bit of everything here.

 

Most of the items are no different than what you might find at your local farmers’s market here, well, I guess we have a distinction between a flea market and a farmers’s market. One implies food and the other implies no food. In Italy, the Saturday market always has both. There is something exotic about walking through a market like this in a foreign country. In America, when someone says to you, “Hey, check out these shoes!” “Come on, you need to see my books,” or “Buy some sausages to take home tonight,” there is something irritating about their hawking; however, in a foreign tongue, how interesting all of those pleas become. Maybe they are enticing you to trade your cow for some magic beans, or if by not understanding the salesman pitch, you bought that urn and polished it too hard, encouraging a hot, tantalizing Italian genie to appear ready to grant you a wish and blink it into reality.

 

My favorite woman at il Campo this past year was an elderly lady, wrapped in a furry sweater, with a hot pink scarf tied around her neck. Very fashionable, I thought. She seemed very sophisticated working her cheese wagon—well, van. She would give customers an inviting smile, assist as best she could the non-Italian speaking tourists, and toss her head back and laugh when humored by a fellow Italian.

 

She was the type of person that I was glad I couldn’t really understand her. It was far more fun to create some imagined truth about her—an aristocrat down on her fortunes after being swindled by a dashing, tall, and dark-eyed stranger at the casino, or maybe she was incognito and hiding from her years as an international spy. Hmmm, international secrets traded at night and fresh mozzarella sliced and wrapped during the day. In my imagination she led a very incredible life. And I am going to keep it that way.

 

I hope this summer you visit your local flea and farmers’s markets. And when some woman in a t-shirt is trying to sell you her used Holly Hobbies, imagine not understanding a word and believing that inside Holly there might just be some microfilm of the secret plans to the newest Russian weapon of mass destruction…okay, maybe that is too James Bond.

 

“Goldfinger…he’s the man…the man with the golden touch…” “Si, signore, 250 grami della mozzarella. Un momento~” 

 

It could happen.

 

Ciao, ciao, ciao,

Mark 

 

The photos: The market in the Campo dei Fiori, Rome, Italy.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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Where's the beef?

Discovering the Italian sandwich~

 

Recently a friend e-mailed me asking for a “big, fat, greasy, wet, sloppy, Italian Beef Sandwich recipe.” Sadly, I had to tell him that the only place I have ever eaten something like that is in Chicago—and never in Italy. That isn’t to say that something like that doesn’t exist in Italy; I have just never seen it.

 

But his question did put me in the mood for un panino—a sandwich. In America, paninis have become all the rage and I have even seen them offered at convenient stores. Mamma mia! Actually, my first panino was at a convenient store, of sorts, at one of the autostrada (freeway) exits in Italy. However, this convenient store is leaps and bounds ahead of any convenient store in America

 

Autogrill offers a wide array of food, beverages, children’s games, wine, candy, and just about everything else you might find at an interstate truck stop here in America, except that almost all of the food items would be considered gourmet by American standards. Local percorino, Parmigiano-Reggiano, gorgonzola, asiago, and a host of incredible Italian cheeses fill the case next to rows and rows of salamis varying in color, size, and texture. The selection of Italian wine is vast—both in region, vintage, and price. The counter bar is packed with standing Italians enjoying their shots of espresso. There are no to-go or “venti”-sized cups bearing a green label. Here your shot comes in a small ceramic cup with saucer and a tiny spoon to stir in your sugar—and no twists of lemon. I have yet to see un caffè—a coffee—served in Italy with a twist of lemon—maybe I haven’t been to that part of Italy yet.

 

Next to the counter bar is a glass case containing stacks of panini. Some have only cheese, others offer meat and cheese, and one of my favorites is fresh mozzarella, sliced tomato, and arugula. Once ordered and paid for, the panino is placed between the two heated sides of the panini grill, toasted, and pressed down. Crunchy and hot, this Italian sandwich is wrapped in a piece of parchment paper for you hold and eat as you go about the rest of your shopping business.

 

Every time we are in Italy, we have to stop and eat at Autogrill as we drive out of Rome headed north toward Lazio or Tuscany. It might be due to the fact that we are usually completely exhausted from the flight that the sandwiches, coffee, chocolate, and drinks taste so good.  I have yet to find a panino in America as good as those from the roadside Autogrill.

 

Sorry that it isn’t “big, fat, greasy, wet, sloppy” but here is my version of a panino:

 

Marinate 4 (1¼ pounds) beef chuck boneless steaks (sometimes called “breakfast steaks” which are a little thicker than “sandwich steaks”) in a plastic re-sealable bag with 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, the zest and juice of one lemon, a ½ tablespoon Kosher salt and a ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper. Seal the bag and work all of the ingredients together, making sure that the marinade covers the steaks. Let marinate at room temperature for about 20 minutes.

 

Heat a medium skillet over medium-high heat. When hot, add 1 tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil and, using with a fork, remove the steaks from the marinade and place into the heated oil. Discard the marinade and the plastic bag.

 

Sauté the steaks in the oil until they start to brown, 3 to 4 minutes. Turn the steaks over and cook the second side for another minute before adding a splash (a couple of tablespoons or a ¼ cup) of red wine to the skillet. Lower the heat and cook until the wine has reduced by half, about another 3 minutes. The steaks should be a nice medium-rare at this point. (Cook longer if you like your meat more well-done.) Remove the skillet from the heat and place the steaks on a plate to rest. Reserve the sauce that remains in the skillet.

 

While the steaks rest and cool, slice, on angle, 8 slices from a rustic Italian bread (either a boule, a long loaf, or a ciabatta). Freshly grate 4 tablespoons Parmigiano-Reggiano, Grana Padano, or Pecorino Romano cheese into a bowl and set aside.

 

Once the steaks have cooled for 10 to 15 minutes (letting them cool to room temperature is even better), place on a cutting board and slice each steak on the bias (on angle) into ¼-inch to ½-inch thick slices. Each sliced steak will make one sandwich.

 

To assemble: Drizzle a slice of bread with a little of the pan juices. Next, layer one steak worth of sliced meat onto the bread. Sprinkle some of the grated cheese over the meat. Top this with some fresh arugula, followed by a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, a pinch of kosher salt and a grind of black pepper. Top with a second slice of bread. Repeat the process to make 4 sandwiches. Cut each panino in half and serve.

 

If you truly want to make this a panino, place the prepared sandwiches into a panini maker and toast until the bread is a golden brown and has grill marks on it.

 

Don’t have a panini maker? Don’t worry, I don’t either. Heat a dry skillet over medium heat and, as if making a grilled cheese sandwich, place the panino into the hot, dry pan. Using a spatula, press down on the panino until it is toasted and dark brown on one side. Flip it over and, pressing down again, toast the second side. Repeat with the other sandwiches. Panini are best when hot and pressed thin.

 

Sorry about the no “big, fat, greasy, wet, sloppy” but if you truly desire that—head to Chicago where they make the best Italian beef this side of…hmmm, I was going to say Sicily, but I think it is truer to say…this side of Chicago!

 

Buon appetito!

Mark

 

The photos: my version of a panino.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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