A few weeks back, you might remember that I mentioned something about going to Italy for work. I was on a wine trek in Puglia—the heel of the boot, if you will—eating and drinking my way through Manduria, Salice Salentino, Martina Franca, Lecce, and Brindisi. The wine portion of the trip was really interesting for many reasons, the biggest of which is that this particular wine producing region is going through some significant growing pains when it comes to putting their wines on the world market. Up until recently, much of what was grown and vinified there was bought in bulk from wine producers in the north of Italy, Spain, Germany, and even France (mon dieu!) for blending purposes in other wines, or the selling of inexpensive jug stuff—which, honestly, is what my family drank when I was growing up. I used to think those large, hook-handle jugs were romantic looking! Of course, my dad’s father from Calabria, across the way from Puglia in the toe of the boot, made wine, but that tradition has long been lost. So now, here I am, a grown woman who has achieved the dreams of my immigrant grandparents and aunts—a college educated American woman!—and all I want to do is know more about the things that they did back in the homeland, and try to do them myself.
But getting back to Puglia—I had been there about a decade ago with my husband, Dan. His mom, Aurora, is from Lecce so when we were there, we pretty much stuck to that stunning, baroque city and its surrounding beautiful beaches, with a couple of short sight-seeing trips out of town for good measure. This time, though, I got to learn a ton about Pugliese wines like Negroamaro and Primitivo—readily available in the United States, usually reasonably priced, and which I highly recommend you seek out—but also Malvasia, Susumaniello, Verdeca, and Uva di Troia, grapes with which I was only vaguely, or not even, familiar prior to this wonderful jaunt. I also sipped another thing that totally knocked my socks off.
It was our last night of the trip and my fellow journalists and I were treated to an evening in the ancient town of Ceglie Messapica, known for its great food. And indeed, the slow-food minded restaurant we ate in, Cibus (www.ristorantecibus.it) was something I won’t soon forget. Fresh burrata and ricotta with local, toasted almonds; warm, cured olives harvested from nearby trees; house-made pasta; locally-raised veal. My god, I can still taste it all. Housed in a fifteenth-century convent, it was the perfect place to wind up after a week of seeing how Pugliese vino producers are more and more committed to showing the world their unique and lovely wines made from indigenous grapes that, by and large, grow nowhere else in the world except there. Cibus’ owner Lillino Silibello does the same with food (and the wines on his list, too). Silibello was taught at a young age to respect and preserve his local Pugliese food traditions—something he is now nothing less than devoted to doing. I don’t think there was a single thing I ate or drank that night that hadn’t been sourced locally. The olive oil, the cheese, the vegetables, the meat. All of it Pugliese.
After the meal, we all began meandering around the stone-walled dining room, talking about the week behind us, the incredible meal we had just eaten, the wonderful wines we had drunk. Lillino’s wife, Angela, came up to me and asked if I’d like a digestif. I’d spied a bottle of Fernet Branca amaro on the back bar and said I’d love a little of the bitter, herbal after-dinner quaff. Her eyes lit up: “If you like that, I have something better!” She led me to the back of the room where, perched on a stone wall, were numerous slim, label-less bottles with different colored liquids inside. “These are made by Lillino’s mother,” she told me, and proceeded to remove the corks from each one so I could smell them. Roses, rosemary, lemon, orange. Each bottle smelled better and more entrancing than the last. It turns out Lilliano’s mother has a knack for making homemade liqueurs. “I wish I could make these,” I said dreamily, sipping on a glass of one made from linden leaves. “Oh, I can take you to meet Lilliano’s mother and she’ll tell you!” Angela excitedly exclaimed, but just as she grabbed my hand to lead me to the kitchen, the bus arrived to take us all back to our hotel and my impromptu liqueur-making class was cancelled.
Downstairs, right now, sits a glass jar on the counter in my kitchen filled with the peels from nearly a dozen lemons that I carefully stripped this morning. They are macerating in a bottle of vodka. Within a week, when the color has drained from the skins, my limoncello will be ready for sweetening and, ultimately, drinking. It may not be exactly what Lillino’s mother does (the lemons, sadly, are definitely not local!) although I do hope one day soon to return to Ceglie Messapica for that liqueur-making lesson—for now, my limoncello will have to hold me over.
Do you ever try to recreate an incredible trip though food and drink? How did you do it?
Limoncello
- 8-10 lemons, rinsed and dried
- 1 750 ml bottle vodka or grain alcohol
- 2 cups simple syrup
Carefully peel the lemons, being careful not to cut too deeply and wind up with much pith (it will make the limoncello very bitter if you have too much). In a liter-sized jar or wide-mouth bottle, add in the lemon peels and pour the vodka or grain alcohol over the top. Allow to macerate for 1 week in a dark, cool spot. Make your simple syrup (2 cups water and 2 cups sugar, cooked on low heat until sugar dissolves) and allow to cool. Remove the peels from the alcohol and add to your simple syrup and let sit for 2-3 days.
Remove the peels from the syrup and discard them. Combine the syrup with the alcohol, strain through a cheesecloth, and bottle.
Vino Italiano For more on Italian wine, check out Vino Italiano by Joseph Bastianich and David Lynch.
Amy Zavatto has been writing about wine, spirits, and food for ten years. Her work appears in Imbibe, Gotham, and Every Day with Rachael Ray, among others. She is the author of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Bartending and the co-author of The Renaissance Guide to Wine & Food Pairing.
