Barolo (At Table)

Barolo (At Table)

Matthew Gavin Frank

Language: English

Pages: 246

ISBN: 0803226748

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

After a childhood of microwaved meat and saturated fat, Matthew Gavin Frank got serious about food. His “research” ultimately led him to Barolo, Italy (pop. 646), where, living out of a tent in the garden of a local farmhouse, he resolved to learn about Italian food from the ground up. Barolo is Frank’s account of those six months.
At once an intimate travelogue and a memoir of a culinary education, the book details the adventures of a not-so-innocent abroad in Barolo, a region known for its food and wine (also called Barolo). Upon arrival, Frank began picking wine grapes for famed vintner Luciano Sandrone. He tells how, between lessons in the art of the grape harvest, he discovered, explored, and savored the gustatory riches of Piemontese Italy. Along the way we meet the region’s families and the many eccentric vintners, butchers, bakers, and restaurateurs who call Barolo home. Rich with details of real Italian small-town life, local foodstuffs, strange markets, and a circuslike atmosphere, Frank’s story also offers a wealth of historical and culinary information, moments of flamboyance, and musings on foreign travel (and its many alien seductions), all filtered through food and wine.

Contemporary Italy, A Research Guide

The Culture of Consent: Mass Organisation of Leisure in Fascist Italy

Perfect Phrases in Italian for Confident Travel: The No Faux-Pas Phrasebook for the Perfect Trip (Perfect Phrases Series)
















four plump ravioli onto each plate. The steam snakes upward, escaping. The restaurant takes on a haze, a nebbia of its own, brought on by the billowing plates, the effects of the wine, the way the candlelight bounces from the walls. Adriana grasps Michele’s hands in delight, her costume jewelry further calving the light. Michele laughs and kisses her flush on the mouth, reemerging smeared with her lipstick, which he proceeds to wipe onto a cloth napkin. I shake my head, gallivanting dazed through

Satti per Alba, e . . .” I try, I try, but . . . “No! No pullman. Andiamo.” I try to tell him about the bus and Alba and, and . . . well, this is Barolo. Andiamo. I follow the man, his back threatening to breach the off-purple threads that hold it and its probable gray thicket at bay. Lodovico spews a string of liquid Italian as I step inside. He is what he builds — his water contraption: makeshift, haphazard, the stuff of sleep. I sniff at the air and can’t tell if I’m smelling wine or

but he cannot see over the house anyway. Or through it. Stupid . . .” The rooms went up nonetheless, but the neighborly tension was staked. History was added-on to. Tradition faces the advent of the 86 follow the steeple parking lot. Francesco must have been livid. This was as bad as the barrique. “Francesco Borgogno, he does not approve of divorce,” Raffaella said, “and that Niccolo has a mother but no father in the house. This is every place. Italy is still about the man.” I sat up in the

moglie, mia moglie . . .” My wife, my wife . . . 137 When She Draws It, She Draws It I wake with too much light in my eyes. The dark green of my tent walls should block out more of the sun. Last night’s grappa is waxed to my lips, my mouth is dry, and, as I blink my way into the morning, the grapevines outside make shadow-puppets on the canvas. I dress and unzip the tent flaps; mosquito screen, then vinyl outer door. The day is cool, damp, rank with grapes and the upcoming I Cannubi

I jump, hit water, and swim along the reef. Three orange fish wink at me as they pass, and I rise to the surface, exhale the smoky saltwater, and breathe. “Good junk,” I say, and even Loredana laughs, her spider detaching itself from her hand to waltz along the ceiling with the rest of the insects. I’m over the first high-bar, but I feel this is going to be a long dive, a dive that already has its fingers dipping into tomorrow’s cake. I pass it to Ercole, and he takes it nearly to the end in one

Download sample