Where in the world is Val?

Everywhere I went in Italy, I saw Philadelphia cream cheese. It showed up in the refrigerated aisles of groceries in Venice and Rome. It was employed with arugula and speck in sandwiches served at rest stops along the autostrada. It even popped up amongst a dozen kinds of cured ham at a very high end food shop in Bologna (one that sells the same Roi olive oil and Carnaroli risotto rice that we do). So what's that all about, anyway?

A bag of ricotta and the old castle: the primary attractions of San Gregorio "Come," said Emanuele . "We are going to the wild boar festival." So the two of us climbed into Emanuele's small white van and drove the narrow, winding, mountain roads to the nearby town of San Gregorio. "When I was a boy, my friends and I would ride our bikes to San Gregorio," he told me. "It was hard to get there, uphill the whole way. But going home again was easy." The drive into San Gregorio was perfectly romantic. The town is precariously perched along the ridge of a mountain peak. A medieval castle still defends the entrance to the old part of town (though today it is guarded by policemen who tell you where to park). As we approached the town, passing under the branches of blossoming redbud trees and the tiny, bright green foliage of early spring, it almost felt as though we were driving into a fairy tale. Walking the streets of the town was less ro...

“Let’s discuss the program for today,” said Emanuele on Saturday morning, just after we had deposited my baggage at his son’s agriturismo but just before he drove me out to visit his olive groves and oil mill . “This afternoon, my friend invite me to hunt for wild asparagus. You like to go?” A wild asparagus hunt. It sounds terribly romantic, doesn’t it? And in some ways, it is terribly romantic. You drive out into the countryside with your friend Maurizio. You park your car on the side of the road, and then you put on Emanuele’s wife’s rainboots (luckily you happen to have the same size feet). You climb over a pair of rickety wooden fences while Emanuele hums “I don’t know but I been told.” Then you tromp across a rocky hillside strewn with wildflowers and you catch your breath soaking in the incredible beauty of the valley below and the misty mountains in the distance. Some may say it’s a little less romantic once your pants and hands and even your face are smudged with...

In France, every interaction starts with a "bonjour" (or, if it's past about 5 PM, a "bon soir"). It doesn't matter how small the interaction is: buying a baguette from the boulangerie or asking for directions, you start every conversation with a hello. To not say hello is very rude; I suspect that, when people talk about how rude the French are, it's partly because they don't know this basic facet of the culture. In Italy, you don't necessarily say "buongiorno" when you greet someone. In fact, on the phone, you don't start with "hello" at all, but "pronto" - essentially, "I am ready, speak to me." But if what I have seen in the past few weeks is typical, you always say goodbye. When you leave a restaurant or shop, you are sure to hear "arrivederci." And, just for good measure, you'll probably also hear "grazie," "buona giornata" or "buona serata" (have a...

Last week I visited Vecchia Dispensa , an acetaia [balsamic vinegar maker] in the province of Modena in northern Italy. Like most Modenese families, the family behind Vecchia Dispensa has been making balsamic vinegar for generations. In the past, every family kept a batteria , or set of barrels for making balsamic, in the attic. The production was small - just enough for the family to use the balsamic to cure occasional headaches or indigestion.  (As a side note, I stayed in an agriturismo in Modena one night last week. We got to talking about food with the owners, one of whom then led me over to the attic closet to show me their own family's balsamic batteria. Even as balsamic becomes a known entity around the world, the small family production tucked away in the attic remains a part of Modenese culture today.) Today Vecchia Dispensa produces a little more balsamic than the family requires; we sell hundreds of bottles of their vinegar every year. The tradizionale vinegar ...

I'm working on this theory. It goes like this: you can learn all you really need to know about how a country eats by visiting one of its highway rest stops. In the US, at an interstate rest stop, you find Starbucks and shitty burgers and pizza. In Belgium, you can chow down on mussels, fries, and beer when you stop along the road. And what did I find at a rest stop along the Italian autostrada last week? An espresso bar. Sandwiches (fairly decent ones, I might add), served hot. Buttery pastries filled with creams. A buffet with four courses (antipasti (hot and cold), primi, secondi, dolci), plus wine to drink and an oil and vinegar station for dressing your food to your taste. Bags of pasta and bottles of wine to take on the road. I don't think I could design a more perfect microcosm of Italian food culture if I tried. The only thing that's missing is the gelato case.