Gargano, or in which some cheese really makes me think
Among chefs, certain destinations have heavy expectations. Say that you’re going to Napa, New York, France or in my case Italy and the people take interest:
“Have you been before?”
“No. First time.”
“Oh...you’re going to love it. It’s so amazing, you know? It just...changes how you think about food.”
Or:
“It’s so different. It’s like how we should eat.”
Or:
“The food there is just so much more real. You’ll love it. It’s amazing.”
And so one boards a plane with visions of golden light bathing meals that are vaguely but definitively life-changing.
Smart, decisive people plan. Impulsive, indecisive aspiring food and travel writers, know that if information is online in English, no one is paying for tasting and writing about it. Also, they may have booked a trip in the middle of the summer holidays because it was cheap, and been less studious with Italian than recommended.
Further, travel in a beautiful, inspirational place where they just get food is still travel. You still get off that plane trying to convince your body that it’s morning and three hours of airplane sleep is equal to eight in a bed. You still spend the day seeing somewhere beautiful through jarred, heavy eyes and getting hit up by every junk-hawker badgering tourists until they say sure, take our picture, give me the wilted roses and the lucky string bracelet, whatever, fine, here’s some coins. Travel can be a great adventure, but the rough parts are universal.
After 3 days in Rome, I felt like a failure. I’d resisted the Italian schedule, walking through siesta, needing food long before anything was open, and eating too many mini-meals at caffés. We had some good meals, fantastic gelato (that changed my aversion to sweets for the rest of the trip), and good tourist fun for a couple of nerds, but my culinary sensibilities remained intact.
Gargano is in Puglia, which produces much of the olives, fruit and vegetables of the country. It’s the home of ancient cows called Podologica, burrata, caciocavallo, and the famous fava bean puree(called ‘Ncapriata when served with chicory) that I love beyond reason. The Adriatic surrounds it, white cliffs and turquoise water on the south, and long beaches with shallow, warm water on the north.
Our drive from Foggia to Cagnano di Varano wasn’t auspicious. Every place I wanted to stop for snacks and supplies in Foggia had closed between the last publication of Fred Plotkin’s delightful Italy for the Gourmet Traveler and the recession, or for the holiday. We arrived early to Cagnano di Varano and found only a couple of caffés, with the requisite sandwiches. They were better than a ham and cheese on white bread has any right to be, but I was thoroughly tired of snacks.
Our airbnb was about 10 minutes from Cagnano, but after our caffé lunch and 20 minutes spent waiting for the supermarket to open, we decided to try the D’ok, a chain supermarket in Rodi. Up front was a commodity cheese case with tubs of burrata and I grabbed one enthusiastically. After marveling at the cheap wine prices and grabbing a bottle of Campari (€7.60!) that we knew we couldn’t finish, we found the meat and cheese counter in the back. Upon seeing Caciocavallo Podologico, Burrata Locale and Guanciale, I sent Sean back to the case in front with the now-rejected commodity cheese.
When we got back to the Airbnb, Rino and Cero were waiting for us, the former with a platter each of figs and tomatoes. I cooked down the fat, thick-skinned cherry tomatoes and made my fava puree. While we waited for the tomatoes to get saucy, we cut into the burrata. The skin was just substantial enough to scoop interior, ivory and full of little shards of curd bound together by an impossibly thick and light cream, as if someone had cut heavy cream with butter. It looked like the buratta I’d had before and was nothing like it. And in that moment I got it.
I think now of the local cheeses on offer at an Italian chain grocery in a small coastal town and suspect that Rebecca Williams would still be making Garrett’s Ferry if I could have picked it up at the Publix around the corner. I suspect that if Italian supermarkets only offered the same 5 cheese brands across the country, custom would be light.
So now I get to join the chorus of clichés. It’s different there. They get it.
