After a smooth flight (we were all too excited to sleep), we land in Milan, then jump into the rental car and head south to Florence. Jack researched restaurants and found a jewel on a side street near the Duomo. The decor is simple: comfortable upholstered chairs and square marble tables. Once we’ve ordered, Jack excuses himself and goes into the kitchen to watch the food preparation. He read an article in Food & Wine magazine that said Italian chefs love to be observed in the kitchen, so he’s taking them up on it. He wrote letters to a couple of restaurants requesting observation time and they agreed.
“Is he going to watch the chefs make every meal we eat in Italy?” I wonder aloud.
“Ma, he wants to open a restaurant. Why do you think he tries recipes out a million times?” Etta says.
“He’s a perfectionist?”
“No, he’s experimenting. He says he’s tired of construction.” Etta shrugs.
I look at Iva Lou. “Better to open a restaurant in a midlife crisis than to buy a Harley and trade in the wife for a new model,” she adds.
“Who’s going to keep an Italian restaurant in business in Big Stone Gap? Stringer’s is a hit because it’s like a Baptist potluck supper with the steam tables and the all-you-can-eat Friday-night shrimp fries. Nobody in Big Stone is going to pay for fancy pasta,” I say.
“Who says he wants to open it in Big Stone Gap?” Etta says without looking directly at me.
“Well, where does he want to open this restaurant, then?” I sound pitiful, but I am out of the loop on this one.
“Kingsport, maybe. Knoxville. I don’t know. Ask him.”
“I didn’t think he was serious about it. I thought he was kidding around. You know, like when I say I want to go back to college and study spelunking.”
Etta gives me one of those looks like I’m insane, snaps a bread stick in two, and munches on it quietly. Iva Lou looks at me and pours me a glass of wine, then pours one for herself.
“Excuse me,” I tell the girls. I pretend I’m heading to the ladies’ room, but instead I take a sharp left and sneak past some red-and-gold-striped curtains with enormous red tassels across the top, which separate the kitchen from the wait station. A waiter looks up at me, I smile, and he shrugs, so I enter the kitchen, hovering close to the curtains, so as not to draw attention to myself. Here is something I have never seen before: my husband is assisting the chef. The chef, a short, balding man around sixty, continues to work at a clip as he explains what he is doing. He allows Jack to take the homemade noodles off a drying rack and throw them in the boiling water; he pinches salt into the water and hands Jack a slotted spoon to stir with. When Jack stirs too hard, the chef grabs the spoon and demonstrates a gentler technique. About three minutes go by before Jack asks the chef if he can drain the noodles. The chef looks at Jack suspiciously, and Jack indicates the sink, then explains that in America, we strain the noodles in a colander and run water over them before we add the sauce. The chef feigns a heart attack and asks Jack to watch closely as he lifts some of the steaming noodles out of the water into a colander, shakes them, and puts them aside. He explains to Jack that if you rinse the noodles, you kill the flavor of the pasta and make it impossible for the noodles to absorb the sauce.
The chef then takes another pan and pours olive oil into it. In a flash he dices up some fresh garlic and throws it in. As it sizzles, he takes strands of pancetta, a salty ham sliced so thin it’s see-through, and lays them in the pan (it reminds me of the hunk of pork fatback Fleeta uses when she makes collard greens). Then the chef dumps in about a cup of fresh cream, followed by some pasta. Quickly he cracks two eggs on top of the mixture and, just as fast, tosses the eggs through the pasta and the sauce below until all the noodles are coated evenly. The pasta is whispery golden, like yellow rose petals when they’ve faded.
You’d think I would know this from my mother’s cooking, but the truth is, we rarely ate pasta. Mostly we had risotto, a creamy rice dish, in many variations. When we did make pasta, it was often baked in small pots, or layered like lasagna in a pan, or gnocci (which means “knees”), a pasta made from potatoes and flour (rolled by hand into small round puffs light as clouds and coated in a light cream sauce). Spaghetti with tomato sauce was not a typical meal in my mother’s hometown of Bergamo.
Jack is still unaware that I’m watching (a testament to his passion for cooking) and asks a question. The chef motions for Jack to remain quiet, and what he does next is pure art. He takes the pan and turns to a butcher block behind him. He has only to pivot, like a ballerina; every spoon and pot, strainer and lid, hangs within overhead reach, and his pristine cutting board and knives are lined up along the counter. The chef flips a wooden cap off a wheel that is a foot and a half across and about ten inches deep; at first I don’t know what it is, but then I realize it’s Parmesan cheese. He takes the steaming pasta, now coated with the buttery mixture, and throws it into the wheel—which is dug out deeply in the center, from many such dishes, I imagine—and then, putting the hot pan aside, he picks up two wooden instruments (they actually look like hands) and tosses the pasta while a thin layer of cheese peels off the sides and bottom of the wheel and onto the pasta.
“Hi, honey,” Jack says, looking up at me. I am startled and smile back. “Mia sposa,” my husband says, introducing me.
“Italiana?” the chef says, smiling in approval at me.
“I’m a better one having seen you cook,” I tell him in Italian.
“Andiamo!” he tells the waiter, who takes the plates from the worktable and hurries them to our table. “Go. Go. Eat!” The chef pats Jack on the back. I practically run to the table. I can’t wait to taste the masterpiece.
When it arrives at our table, Iva Lou rolls the tender pasta around the fork and takes a dainty bite. “Jesus Christmas. This is better than—”
“You can say it,” Etta says as she dives into her spaghetti puttanesca.
“It’s better than sex,” Iva Lou declares. “And you know for me to say that, well, it’s a mouthful.”
I take a bite and agree. Jack chews carefully and closes his eyes, then he reaches for his wine and takes a taste.
“I think this is the best meal I have ever had,” he says, opening his eyes.
“Me too, honey,” I tell him, squeezing his leg under the table.
“Now, y’all, none of that. This is Mood Food and therefore dangerous,” Iva Lou says as she savors another bite and nudges Etta. “We single gals have to be very careful tonight. This sauce has magical powers. We may fall under the spell of some Eye-talian man.”
“But you’re married,” Etta reminds her.
“You sure know how to bring the groove down.”
“Uncle Lyle would want your groove down.” Etta laughs loudly, and Iva Lou joins her.
For a moment I wish I had the camera out; I would capture this moment forever. But I decide not to. I want to retain this night in the warmth of memory, this meal consumed in an Italian bistro where the walls are washed in an iridescent gloss the color of pumpkins, where the candlelight makes us all look like movie stars, and where, behind the striped curtains, the chef stands proudly, watching with delight as we eat.
I am so glad we rented a car instead of taking trains, I’m thinking as we drive through the hills of Umbria, the gentle green gateway to Tuscany. The four of us feel safe and at home in the familiar landscape of small towns connected by single roads.
Jack has been very cagey about plans for Tuscany. He knows that I wanted to spend more time in Florence because I love the Duomo, the art galleries, and the Ponte Vecchio, loaded with more gold treasures than Cleopatra’s jewelry box. “Ladies, next stop is Loro Ciuffenna,” he announces.
“She sounds pretty,” Iva Lou teases.
“She is a place, Iva Lou,” Jack corrects her.
“Why do you want to go there?” Etta asks as she studies her map.
“I want to meet the King of Olive Oil,” Jack says.
We girls have a good laugh. “Is
there such a person?” I ask him.
“According to Renzo, the chef in Florence.”
“What’s the king’s name?”
“Giuseppe Giaquinto.”
“He sounds sexy,” Iva Lou decides.
“I don’t know about that. I do know that some chefs will use only Tuscan olive oil when they cook or bake, but Renzo uses only Giaquinto olive oil.”
“That’s a pretty strong commitment.”
“I thought so. Renzo gave me the address and called ahead.”
I can’t believe that this is my husband making plans with total strangers in a foreign country. He’s from Big Stone Gap, a place so small no one’s ever heard of it, and yet when he ventures outside its borders he becomes daring, curious, and bold. This is not the man I married, but I have to say, I like him.
Loro Ciuffenna is south of Florence and west of Siena at the foot of the mountains. We drive up a mountain pass that is worse than any in Wise County: extremely narrow, hollowed out, and pitted from wear, with no guardrails on the driver’s side. On the opposite side is a menacing wall of jagged rock, which, if you drive too close, could peel the car doors off like the lid on a can of tuna fish.
“This is a tight space,” Iva Lou says, shutting her eyes and sounding like she feels slightly ill.
“Wait till we go to Schilpario. The Alps are really, really high. And the roads are more narrow than shoelaces,” Etta warns her.
I hadn’t mentioned any of this to Iva Lou. Why scare her so far in advance? Luckily, we begin our descent to the town through a picturesque passage. The road widens, and the terrain becomes smooth. On one side is a deep green valley, and on the other, a hillside dotted with olive trees almost precisely the same distance apart.
“That ground under them trees looks mighty dry,” Iva Lou observes.
“It’s supposed to. That’s how you grow good olives,” Jack tells her.
Etta makes Jack stop so she can get a picture of a white Tuscan farmhouse with a brown tile roof, set back off the road behind a spectacular iron gate. Even the most ordinary things are artful in Italy.
“That’s the two-story traditional farmhouse I’ve been looking for. I want examples of architecture from the eighteenth century on,” Etta says as she gets back into the car. “See the front? That opening on the ground floor is where the animals stay, and the second floor is where the family lives.”
“I don’t know if I’d want a cow that close to me,” Iva Lou says. “ ’Course my mamaw had a goat that lived in her kitchen. Fresh milk on tap. So I guess it ain’t so bad to keep an animal indoors.”
“Everything stays warmer that way in the winter,” Etta tells us.
“You could be a tour guide,” Jack tells her proudly.
I turn to look at Etta, who reloads her camera and smiles.
“This looks mighty modern,” Iva Lou comments as we pull up to the metal gates outside the Giaquinto olive-oil plant in Loro Ciuffenna.
“Look up,” Jack says, pointing to the hill above the factory. “There’s your old Italian town with the castle.” He presses the speaker panel. When he mentions Renzo’s name, the gates open instantly, revealing a simple stone building, a long rectangle whose only marking is an olive tree in relief over the glass doors. Iva Lou quickly powders her nose and snaps her compact shut. “I ain’t meeting the King of Olive Oil with a shiny nose.”
A young woman around thirty greets us on the steps of the factory. “Welcome!” she says in an accent that can only be described as American Deep South.
“Lordy mercy, honey, where you from?” Iva Lou wants to know.
“Mississippi.”
“Bless your heart!” Iva Lou looks at us and nods in approval.
“My name is Elaine.” She is tall and slim, with long brown hair tied back in a simple bow. Her heavy-lidded green eyes are rimmed in soft brown, but that is her only makeup; she is a natural beauty. We follow her into the hallway; several doors lead off it to small offices. She takes us to the back, to the largest office. The sign on the door reads G. GIAQUINTO.
Mr. Giaquinto motions for us to enter, though he is on the phone shouting every Italian curse word I know. We do enter the office but hover by the door, afraid to interrupt. Giuseppe motions for us to sit, in a broad sweeping gesture that tells us to follow his instructions immediately. He continues to rant to the person on the other end of the line. Iva Lou’s nose is now shiny, as is the rest of her face. She’s nervous, poor thing; she’s never heard anyone go full-out Eye-talian before. Suddenly, without warning, Giuseppe slams the phone down. Etta jumps in her seat a bit, then quickly shifts.
“Welcome,” he says, looking up at us. The King of Olive Oil stands. He’s around five feet eleven, trimly built, and simply dressed in black trousers and a white button-down shirt. He is in his mid-forties and has a handsome face, not rugged but refined. His nose ends in an elfin tip that swoops up (he’s optimistic), and he has a high forehead with a widow’s peak.
“You study me intently,” he says to me with a smile.
“Tell him,” Iva Lou says under her breath.
“Tell me what?” Giuseppe looks at me.
“I’m Iva Lou Wade Makin.” Iva Lou extends her hand. Giuseppe takes it and shakes it with both hands. “I’m a librarian, and my friend here studied the ancient art of Chinese face reading. And she’s right good at it.”
“What does my face say?” Giuseppe asks, turning to me.
“That you’re a brilliant perfectionist,” I tell him. Elaine laughs from the doorway.
“You think that’s funny?” Giuseppe says to her with a wink. “You met my girlfriend?”
“I find it hard to believe that a robust Eye-talian such as yourself had to go all the way to Mississippi, U.S.A., to find himself a woman,” Iva Lou comments.
“She found me. At a food show in San Francisco.”
“And my life has never been the same,” Elaine says dryly.
Jack Mac introduces himself, and then all of us, with beautiful southern manners. Giuseppe seems soothed by my husband’s tone and latches on to him as we tour the factory. I don’t mind being left out of their conversation as I look at the rows of dark green glass bottles. The labels are beautiful, and some have gold leaf on the edges, an elegant touch. The explanations of the contents are pure poetry.
“You really believe in your product,” I tell Giuseppe.
“Olive oil is a religion to me. I worship its natural perfection.”
Iva Lou learns that olive oil is the best moisturizer. Etta takes pictures as Iva Lou rubs olive oil into her hands.
“Can you use olive oil for everything?” I wonder aloud.
“Absolutely. If it’s good,” Giuseppe tells us. “Good olive oil, meaning it is made from the olives grown here in Tuscany. When you eat olive oil, it nourishes your body. When you apply it topically, it soothes your skin. You need never use anything on your skin but olive oil, and if you ingest anything but this natural oil in cooking, I think you are insane.”
I rattle off brands sold in the States. Giuseppe grandly dismisses them with a wave of his hand. “I would not put those oils in my car.”
I name an expensive brand.
“I would not wash my feet with that!”
“Why?”
“Because the olives come from all over the place and are picked whenever it’s convenient, not when nature dictates. Those brands take olives from Tunisia, for example, Greece, where the standards of pressing are not good, so the product is not pure. They mash everything and anything together. Stems! Leaves! Crap! They add colors to olive oils. Either green dye to make it look extra virgin, or gold to make it look standard. This is a black mark on our industry, but it happens all the time.”
“How can you tell good olive oil from bad?” Iva Lou asks.
“Once you taste my oil, you cannot ingest another. The other oils taste like gasoline. You’ll see. My family has made olive oil since nineteen thirty. I’ve been running the company for the past tw
enty years. To not be educated in this, I would have to be the village idiot. Let me show you.”
We pile into Giuseppe’s van to tour the farm where his olives are picked. As we drive along a long, dusty road, he points to the trees, small and spindly with a sprinkling of green leaves, many anchored to the ground by string. “I use the best pickers. Some have been doing this for fifty years. It takes a trained eye to know a good olive. They can feel if the olive is good as they pick it. I never have to check their work. They are more selective than me!” He laughs.
“I find that hard to believe, Big G,” Iva Lou tells him, giving him a nickname now that she feels at home.
As Giuseppe explains the evolution of olive oil from tree to bottle, we are mesmerized. It really is a simple process, with three steps: growing, harvesting, and mashing. Etta is amazed that the pits, as well as the meat of the olive, are crushed to make the oil.
“I work in the only pure manufacturing business in the world. Nature does the work, I collect the gold.” Giuseppe raises his hands in victory. “But I must be a soldier, watching every step without taking my eyes off it for a second! If I look away, maybe an imperfect olive makes its way into the tubs, or the storage drums are the wrong temperature, or God knows what could happen. I have to watch everything!”
“Now you taste.” Giuseppe gives Jack three small pieces of unsalted bread, then pours three types of oil into small cups and sniffs the first before handing it to Jack. Giuseppe taps the side of his nose. “This, this is my la-bore-a-tory.”
Jack sniffs the oil, then dips the bread into the cup and tastes it. “This one is spicy.”
“Aha! Good taste buds. This oil is made from olives that have just begun to ripen. Full-bodied, yes?”
Jack nods and tastes the next oil sample. “This is . . . flowery.”
“You are a genius! This oil is made from olives about to peak. We snatch them at the last possible moment.” Giuseppe claps his hands together. “I may have to hire your husband.”