TRAVEL TO ITALY
Distinctive cuisine in historic Puglia
PUGLIA, ITALY Bordered by the Ionian and Adriatic seas, Puglia forms the “heel” of Italy’s boot, which is an apt metaphor for how it’s long been regarded by fellow countrymen and countless invaders.
Or, as Puglia native Antonello Losito, the former pro cyclist who founded Southern Visions Travel and who planned our trip, would later tell me: “This is not a place for most first-time visitors to Italy. This is for more-sophisticated travellers.”
Fair enough, though less than an hour after arriving by plane from Milan in Brindisi, on the Adriatic coast, I’m kicking myself for not visiting sooner. Eager to taste Puglia’s legendary food and wine, we’ve driven our rental car south from the airport, straight to winery Masseria Li Veli.
A cartoonishly cute pair of basset hounds greet us outside a centuriesold farmhouse, followed by stylish and young winery owners Edoardo and Alessia Falvo, who invite us inside for what will be the first of many of the best meals we’ve eaten in Italy.
Plates heaping with tender fried artichokes and zucchini, followed by impossibly fresh burrata, ricotta and mozzarella, arrive one after the other. So good is the homemade orecchiette pasta in a slightly bitter sauce of rapini that I go for a second helping. Even in multi-coursecrazy Italy, the length and variety of this prandial parade stand out. And, as we soon happily discover, it’s apparently just how meals are done here in Puglia.
Hotter days and cooler nights in Puglia favour local wine-grape varietals such as Negroamaro and Primitivo. Though back in the States I’d often associated these grapes with inky, toothstaining wines, this same fruit in the hands of folks such as Edoardo and Alessia can, as I discover at first sip, become fresh and crisp rosés.
As with most regions in Italy, Puglia is a riot of local grape types, often known only by dialect names. Among my favourites of the wines we taste at lunch is a zingy white made from Verdeca grapes.
“We found these grapes totally by chance in (neighbouring) Ostuni,” Edoardo says. “We saw these vines one day and wondered what they were.”
My wife, Gail, is especially smitten with Li Veli’s Pinot Noir-ish red made with an ancient local grape called suSumaniello, dialect for donkey. A fitting name, Edoardo says, because “it’s slow and stubborn to grow.”
Even the building housing the winery is unique to the area. A masseria, Alessia explains, is a kind of fortified farmhouse. Part barn, part castle, it was for centuries a main form of protection against invaders. Today, she says, hundreds of these buildings, abandoned and crumbling, are scattered throughout the region. It’s a structure we’ll come to know well.
Sated and jet-lagged, we say goodbye to Edoardo, Alessia and our new basset buddies and head farther south to our hotel, La Fiermontina, in downtown Lecce. As with Li Veli, this chic but cosy lodging was once a masseria. And, as with so many buildings here, it is made from the same lovely, creamcoloured pietra leccese, or Lecce stone. After a light supper at the hotel, we’re soon asleep.
Next morning, we’re met by Pugliaborn guide Paolo, who regales us with local lore on a short drive south to the little town of Sternatia. Settled centuries ago by Greeks, it is still home to many citizens who speak in a Greek dialect. Greek words adorn street and shopfront signs. As we’ll see in the coming days, this is but one of the many cultural mash-ups that make the region so curiously cosmopolitan.
Midday sun signals lunchtime. Down a narrow street Paolo leads us, stopping to knock discreetly at a nondescript door — and we are welcomed into the courtyard of a privately owned palazzo. We follow our noses through frescodecorated rooms to the kitchen, where several women are busy chatting and cooking on a wood-burning stove. On a wooden table, the eldest deftly uses the edge of a knife to press bits of dough into fresh orecchiette.
It’s a meal of other firsts for us, including crispy deep-fried and dried fava beans, ringlet-shaped sagne ncannulate pasta with tiny meatballs, and my son Ewan’s new favourite, zeppole, delicate cream-filled pastries.
As we lounge on the outdoor patio afterward, we marvel at how quiet it is. Siesta time in Puglia, Paolo explains, is sacrosanct. Making too much noise between 1 and 4 p.m. can lead to a visit by the cops to tell you to pipe down. “I’m serious,” he says. “It’s the law.”
He takes us on a short walk to an ancient urban olive oil factory, or frantoio. Like many, it’s located underground. Not only did this make it easier to crank the massive stone wheels and giant wooden screws used to crush and press olives into oil, but it also helped keep the place hidden. Precious both as food and as fuel for lamps, olive oil was liquid gold. Children, who could more easily sneak in and out of such a place, often toiled in these cavelike factories.
Back in Lecce that evening, we join the pre-dinner stroll, a daily ritual in even the puniest Italian villages. The whole convivial city seems to have turned out for this passeggiata. And we appear to be the only tourists. Not a selfie stick in site.
Pugliesi tend to eat supper later than most of their compatriots to the north, so we have plenty of time to explore this lovely, walkable city. Ambling through streets and piazzas, we notice how old baroque churches and modern o ce buildings alike share the same tan colour of Lecce stone.
A short drive away is the city of Ostuni. With its whitewashed buildings perched atop a hill, the Greek-built city looks like a giant chef ’s hat. From a cosy outdoor table at restaurant Taverna della Gelosia, we eat lunch and gaze beyond the “White City ” to the flat plains and dark-blue sea beyond. Among the dozens of dishes we eat (this is Puglia, after all), I’m especially hooked on the baccala in black tempura, a salt cod dish
T is is not a place for most first-time visitors to Italy. T is is for more-sophisticated travellers. Former professional cyclist Antonello Losito, founder of Southern Visions ravel
Proprietor Giorgio shows us where and how the company makes its cheeses, first introducing us to a few of his 65 milk cows.
The rest of the day brings us other fresh local experiences, including visits to leather and ceramics workshops, where we help fashion a leather key ring and paint traditional designs on plates.
By afternoon, we can tell we are getting close to Alberobello when we begin seeing the occasional trullo, little conicalroofed houses for which the city is famous. When we arrive, we’re met by Alberobello-born guide Mimmo. Warm and intense, he’s an ideal ambassador.
Much like an igloo, Mimmo explains, the roof of a trullo is built by stacking rings of stones. A hole is left at the top for venting smoke from hearths. Cisterns below the floor collect rainwater. The curious designs painted in white on some trullo roofs aren’t primitive graffiti, as many visitors think, he says, but mixtures of Christian and pagan symbols meant to protect homeowners. Once a city of several thousand trulli, Alberobello today has about a third as many.
After we get home, Ewan says he has one regret about having visited Puglia. “Burrata here in the States will never taste as good,” he says. Agreed.