Photo: Gentl & Hyers / Condé Nast Traveler
Silvio Berlusconi, Italian prime minister, serial seducer of comely young maidens, lifetime misogynist, lost it-again. Stunned by the fact that the country’s top court had removed his immunity to prosecution, thereby opening the way to investigate his web of murky businesses, he accused foreign interests of plotting against him.
OK, this was just a titanic fit of paranoia, coupled with a titanic ego, coupled with a titanic sense of privilege. But then Berlusconi went further. He instructed the Italian tourist authorities to launch a campaign extolling the attractions of Italy to those who might, in view of his antics, be discouraged from visiting.
Is he mad? (Probably).
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been seriously considering just what it would take me to cancel a trip to Italy:
- An outbreak of bubonic plague, if it encompassed the entire peninsular.
- An accidental nuclear strike from North Korea.
- A sudden change in climate that covered the country in a ten-foot crust of ice.
- Possibly being invited to spend a weekend with Berlusconi.
I have friends who live in Italy, some native, some expats. They have a
litany of complaints. Try to get a new phone installed in less than six
months without greasing a palm. Try finding a lawyer you can trust for
a real estate deal. Or, in the case of a world class architect, try
getting planning permission for a superb new office building.
Give me a break.
There’s a light, persistent fog hanging over the Po Valley. In late afternoon the earth begins to sweat a little. A feeble breeze unveils the tops of a line of poplars. My nostrils twitch. There’s a palpable scent of pig farm wafting in. Something is hanging from a hook in the process of curing. Perhaps a dozen or so somethings. I know that aroma.
Italians make a big deal of prescribing the “authorized” boundaries of what can be produced where like the provenance of wines, the territories are distinctive and not to be mucked about with. I know better. I’m pursuing the finest cut of all, the Culatello. It’s fashioned from the inner meat of the rear legs of the pig after the skin and bones have been removed. This expensive reductive process gets to the most tender ham, which has to be cured for a minimum of a year.
I’ve tracked down moonshine Cognac in France by detecting the wood smoke coming from a remote farmhouse - a telltale sign of the distilling process. And in the Po Valley I know a few places where the Culatello, a pear-shaped anthem to the sublimity of pig, is made in small batches away from “authorized” areas. Fog is part of the chemistry: It penetrates every hog house and it seems to help in concentrating the flavor during curing. It also helps to give mystery to the chase.
A few hours later I am sitting at a simple wooden bench, cutting almost transparent slices, dipping some bread in olive oil and wrapping it around the illicit ham.
Nobody talks of, or cares much about Silvio Berlusconi.
Salumi in Seattle: Armandino Batali, father of the esteemed chef Mario Batali, makes salumi-including Culatello-in small batches and sells it from his tiny store in the city. Every day there is a line around the block, a slow moving line, of people wanting to shift their stomachs to the Po Valley for a while. It really is almost the real thing.
Related Story
The Filthy, Fecund Secret of Emilia-Romagna (Condé Nast Traveler)
Give me a break.
There’s a light, persistent fog hanging over the Po Valley. In late afternoon the earth begins to sweat a little. A feeble breeze unveils the tops of a line of poplars. My nostrils twitch. There’s a palpable scent of pig farm wafting in. Something is hanging from a hook in the process of curing. Perhaps a dozen or so somethings. I know that aroma.
Italians make a big deal of prescribing the “authorized” boundaries of what can be produced where like the provenance of wines, the territories are distinctive and not to be mucked about with. I know better. I’m pursuing the finest cut of all, the Culatello. It’s fashioned from the inner meat of the rear legs of the pig after the skin and bones have been removed. This expensive reductive process gets to the most tender ham, which has to be cured for a minimum of a year.
I’ve tracked down moonshine Cognac in France by detecting the wood smoke coming from a remote farmhouse - a telltale sign of the distilling process. And in the Po Valley I know a few places where the Culatello, a pear-shaped anthem to the sublimity of pig, is made in small batches away from “authorized” areas. Fog is part of the chemistry: It penetrates every hog house and it seems to help in concentrating the flavor during curing. It also helps to give mystery to the chase.
A few hours later I am sitting at a simple wooden bench, cutting almost transparent slices, dipping some bread in olive oil and wrapping it around the illicit ham.
Nobody talks of, or cares much about Silvio Berlusconi.
Salumi in Seattle: Armandino Batali, father of the esteemed chef Mario Batali, makes salumi-including Culatello-in small batches and sells it from his tiny store in the city. Every day there is a line around the block, a slow moving line, of people wanting to shift their stomachs to the Po Valley for a while. It really is almost the real thing.
Related Story
The Filthy, Fecund Secret of Emilia-Romagna (Condé Nast Traveler)
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