The hedonist's blur

Blur

I have forsaken my vow to note all the Civitella Ranieri food consumed and to report on it for the benefit of readers of Black South-Eaters, and now it's all a blur of pleasure. Somewhere in this blur I remember the amazing bulger wheat (I think) and tuna salad for lunch, tender fillets of pork in a ginger sauce, creamy mashed potato with an edge of parmesan or pecorino, pieces of chicken (on the bone as this Black South-Eater likes it) in a ginger and lemon marinade, and, last night, veal tonnato and fresh peas. Also somewhere in the past week, battered, deep-fried zucchini flowers stuffed with I don't know which formaggio, and battered, deep-fried sage.

And yes, always there are the fresh vegetables, which I eat con gusto, with no need for Romana, Patrizia nor Patrizia to admonish me to eat them all or forfeit the pudding. Working for the man and such, the Black South-Eater knows the cost and value of labour and thus pays homage to the hands that shell the peas by eating all his peas. So pass the peas is what I always say.

And the pudding. I remain convinced that Romana conducts from within the kitchen a simphony of epicurean pleasure which is at once a fellow of pain, making torture into pleasure and pleasure into torture, and so of deeper pain, thus deeper pleasure, as she tweaks the meals up notch by notch, note by note. Gentle, gentle, pleasure upon gradual pleasure, then bang: orange cake on a lake of chocolate sauce. A pleasure that pierces the heart, that reboots the brain.

Then Romana gently lets go. Have some lovely fruit, some pears, banana, plums, peaches for dessert. Then bang, again: panacotta tart with pine nuts served on the most intense raspberry coulis. Anyone having only half of theirs? Thanks. Pass it along.

I mean, how is the Black South-Eater to retain some sense of decency? How is one to survive? How high, how intense, how broad and wide and deep is the torture going to be next week? And the pleasure? And what will be its release?

But today we are going to talk about the passion, the matter of the porchetta, the porchetta that matters.

Bleep-bleep-bleep.... Dateline: ...Umbertide, Wednesday 19 August 2009... market day.

Reports all of the last week have mentioned the matter of the one that is holy in this region, the divine porchetta. Blips on the Black South-Eat-dar that have bleeped and blipped for attention. Keywords: market, street, streetfood, holy roasted porchetta.

Dobroe Utro, I said. Today I will investigate.

The Man in the White Hat

Special Agents Mencaroni and Keating both gave me the coordinates for the location of the secret of the holy. Agent Mencaroni himself drove me there, dropped me off at a location nearby and surreptitiously pointed to the man with the white hat: "That is him. Ask the right questions. He will answer you."

Try as I might, it was difficult to blend in, to sidle up, to ask the man the question that will get the right answer. There were several civilians, in front of whom I did not want to ask any questions, right or wrong. My task was going to be difficult, I thought, while around me I heard the occasional grasso. I did not know this word. I did not know how to ask for crispy bits, which, as you might know, are dear to my palate. But wait, I get ahead of myself.

Agent Mencaroni dropped Agent Sosa and me off with instructions on how to avoid the authorities and get to the pig of it all.

Watches synchronised, our rendezvous confirmed, We crossed the street to the stall with the man with the white hat. His is the most basic stall, sans billboards and fancy paintwork - simply a man in a white hat.

Just shoulder high, in front of us, and as simple as it gets, lay the brown log of pig. Oh the crackling! And fresh crispy rolls bundled against the glass the length of the stall. To our left, grinning at us from on high in its own little display cubicle was the head of hog.

Agent Sosa decided to head on to the market proper. But what cares the Black South-Eater for fresh vegetables when Romana, Patrizia and Patrizia make sure I get my greens. Today my mission was a surgical strike. Get pork, get out.

Civilians mustered and demanded: grasso, grasso. Croccante, per favore. The man in the capello bianco sliced with small flourishes, weighed the merchandise, took it off the scales to add a sliver or two more, a swathe of crackling, pasella, extra et gratis, then wrapped and delivered it to the customer, letting go with an open arm gesture as if to say, simultaneously, voila and bravissimo, look at this flourish with which I slice the pork and oh, what miracle! here is your
bundle of holiness too. All with a goodly porcine smile and all at a pace that was neither hurried nor leisurely. It was of appropriate pace in reverence of porchetta. Who cares about Michelin stars and white table cloths and waiters that hover ghostly, neither absent nor present, but in limbo, as if a shade from Dante? Who cares about all this when you have the man in the white hat? The man at one with porchetta. Man and animal in a dance of Zen.

Eventually it was my turn. I spoke the code words: Bonjour. No parla Italiano... aah, eh... p... por...

No problem, he said in English and smiled peacefully.

I lifted my shoulders in a gesture seeking help and pointed at the porchetta, made a little tortoise with my hands, indicating size and breadroll.

He nodded with a peaceful si, si. Then in English again: Bread?

Bread.

He made me a little tortoise with lots of slices of pork, and bits and pieces of extra salty herbaciousness, and a sliver of crackling. Flourish, voila, bravissimo, Zen, as if all a promise to lead one to the true knowledge of all that is holy and transcendent - all at the Black South-Eater-friendly streetfood price of €2.50 for this bundle of holiness deboned and seasoned with fennel seeds, salt, black pepper, garlic, possibly rosemary, and who knows whatnot from the holy grail of a family recipe, seasoned and rolled into a big fat log and roasted over coals until meltingly golden.

Known for skills in hand-to-mouth combat, this Black South-Eater clasped his grail and disappeared through the traffic and chose a spot with a view on the rendezvous point, so he could watch who was watching it, and eat porchetta sandwich without being clocked by the pigs.

Oh my goodness! How delectably salty some pieces are! How succulent! How tender! And, ooh, yes, let's gobble that piece with the fatty edge. Go away you nosy bee! And the crackling! The crackling, the crackling... Oh my fennel seed, the crackling. Praise be to the holy of holies of North Umbria. Blessed is the pig that roots in the mud of the Upper Tiber Valley.

Seriously, this is some good pork meat. Some edges are a bit dry, but mostly it is succulent, tender. Indescribable.

But I'll try: fennel is the dominant note, but not forte, rather mezzo forte, which of course makes the all round flavour nevertheless avere un forte effetto. And salt for those who have soul (I have noticed that cooks here are not reticent to salt food, which is solace to the soul of the Black South-Eater.) And the crackling is at once of crisp and of melt. It snaps and cracks at the bite, then melts away in reverent mastication. Who knew that a piece of pork could provide transcendence?

Debrief

I realised I need to ask more questions at pre-mission briefings regarding the proper code for extra crackling; I had only a sliver, a torturously small sliver. But fear not, I shall visit the man in the capello bianco again. He shall know me by my hungered look and he shall know me too by my ability to distinguish fat from skin, to speak his code, to enter the cabal. And I shall know to say to him, sotto voce, porchetta et pane, del grasso, extra croccante per favore. Or is it crepitio? Or cotenna? Or arrostita? Agent Mencaroni, Agent Mencaroni, do you copy? Come in Agent Mencaroni...