The Cheese Saga

This pecorino has a past.

In the late ’60s, Uncle Al, hoping that he could tame the odor, wrapped and rewrapped several round slabs Poppy had requested and stuffed them in a bag. The cheese went through Customs safely. His clothes that shared the bag, however, had to be thrown out. No matter how many times they were washed, the smell wouldn’t go away.

But to some, the pain is worth the gain. In 2000, Uncle Bruno and JoAnn devoured the portion of the thick cheese pie Poppy gave them as a gift from his last visit to Sant’Andrea. The cheese, which is made by a goat herder, or pecoraro, near Sant’Andrea, was shared equally between Uncle Bru, Aunt Vera and Dad.

“The cheese was gone in two days,” recalled Uncle Bruno, who tried to hide his infatuation with the formaggio by sneaking some upstairs to munch on. But the smell of the cheese, of uncleaned feet, gave him away, and JoAnn caught him in the act.

We had no choice but to bring at least one pie back to Poppy from this trip. And by the second day, he called three times to remind us.

So Uncle Bru set up a visit for the next day with Nino, Nanny’s second cousin from her mother’s side. Nino was supposed to have the cheese ready.

We thought it would be easy. It turned out to be an adventure.

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Part II: Nino fakes us out

I remember meeting Nino once or twice as a kid when he visited by grandparents’ house. They called him “Travolta” because he often boasted about his dancing skills. His hair was also usually combed in “Saturday Night Fever” style.

That was a long time ago, and Uncle Bruno reminded me to nix any thought of calling him Travolta for fear of death. I agreed, but I couldn’t get the picture of a disco ball out of my head.

Arriving at Nino’s house on the border of Isca, the first thing you notice is an imposing black electronic gate. On the right of his property is a field of olive trees owned by an engineer who lives in Rome. Nino’s own olive and mandarin trees block the house to the left, but I’m sure it’s considerably smaller. The Leaning Tower of Pisa is smaller.

“Ciao, Nino, e’ Bruno!” Uncle Bru called through the telecom.

No answer.

“Ciao, Nino, e’ Bruno!”

Nada.

On the third try, the gate slowly slid open. No one appeared immediately, so Uncle Bruno and I walked down the long cement driveway, passed Nino’s olive trees to our left, until we came to an opening. Olives were strewn on the cement, and some were placed on a towel, apparently to dry.

Nino’s house is three stories tall, all orange brick, with terraces on every level. We went onto the first terrace to look for an opening. The terrace overlooked the olive and mandarin trees, as well as pomegranate and fig trees. There was a door, but it was not the main opening, and we turned to go back down to the driveway.

That’s when Frine appeared from the rear of the house up the long driveway. Frine, named for a character in a 1950’s Italian movie about Cleopatra, is Nino’s old German Shepard who follows Nino wherever he goes. The poor thing limps from arthritis pain, yet still has the ability to open and close doors. Frine takes small leaps that no doubt kill him, but Nino prods him in his loud basso: “Chiudi la porta, Frine!”

Nino emerged in his gardening outfit, his hands, shirt and pants stained with dirt and his mostly white hair mussed up. He had been picking olives that would later be sent to be converted into oil.

Uncle Bruno and Nino chatted it up, I’m assuming about old times, but God only knows. As someone unfamiliar with Nino’s thick Andreolesi accent though competent in understanding proper Italian, all I heard was “Buh buh buh buh buh.”

And it seems I’m not the only one. There’s a reason Poppy’s voice is the one greeting callers on Nino’s answering machine.

Nino proceeded to show us around. I was at first reluctant to eat a fig from Nino’s tree, but then the old guy handed me one. “Buh buh buh buh buh. Try it.” He spoke two words of English! In that case, as a show of respect, I had to try it. And it was good.

Inside, the house is made of brick, slate and marble. It has six bedrooms, four bathrooms, three living rooms and terraces everywhere — far more than needed for only Nino and his wife.

In fact, Nino remarked that he hadn’t been to the third-floor terrace in a year and a half before he took us there that day. Nonetheless, what a view! From every angle was a tremendous panorama of untamed land. (In the photo above is Isca, where weather alerts come in the form of clouds rolling over the mountain.)

Another thing that stood out in the house were the photos of young Nino in every room. Yes, every room. Sure, there were family photos here and there, including one of his father and grandparents, but none of his wife. And Nino makes sure to remind you to look at his young self stationed on some shelf … in every room.

We asked to take a picture of Nino for posterity’s sake, and he jumped at the chance, positioning himself next to the upstairs fireplace that he hadn’t used in years. And, of course, he called to his dog: “Buh buh buh buh buh buh, Frine! Vieni qua!” Frine immediately sat with Nino for the picture.

OK, now that we got the grand tour, I was hoping to get the cheese and leave. We had so much to see and so little time.

That’s when Nino dropped the bomb: “Buh buh buh buh buh.” Uncle Bruno translated that into “I don’t have it.”

What?! But Poppy said he had it. We were supposed to go to Nino’s for the cheese. We did out duty, saw the fortress, the trees, the view and the dog, and now it was time to go.

But no. We were behind the iron gate and we would only leave when Nino wanted us to leave.

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Part III: Round and round we go

Italian drivers are nuts. And if you abide by the rules, they think you’re nuts.

We quickly learned in our 10-hour trip from Rome to Sant’Andrea to move out of the left lane if anyone was behind us, because no matter how fast we were going, they wanted to go faster.

We were routinely high-beamed, honked at and nearly pushed off the road by teeny weeny cars whose drivers felt they had to go as fast as their cars would take them. For us, that meant 130 kilomoters per hour, or 80 mph. Our Fiat Panda simply refused to go any faster, even downhill.

The trip down to Sant’Andrea was an experience, but nothing prepared us for driving with Nino.

Nino kindly volunteered to take us to the supermarket to get groceries for Aunt Nuzza and company. It was the least we could do considering how they had graciously opened their home to us.

A minute from Nino’s house on the way to the Marina toward the Davoli supermarket — the only one open between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m., when everything closes for an extended lunch — you come to a roundabout.

Here’s how it’s supposed to go: You go to the right and the guy coming from the other direction goes to his right, allowing for a continuously flow of traffic.

Easy, right?

Silly American.

Nino’s the type of guy who has to turn his head every time he talks, which usually means he slows down at best or veers off course and then slows down, supremely ticking off decidedly impatient Italian drivers.

As we approached the nicely manicured roundabout, Nino was doing his driving-while-talking routine and slowed down near the entrance. He proceeded around the right side, but the guy behind him, apparently peeved by Nino’s dawdling, zoomed around the left side and lunged to cut us off.

Nino would have none of it. He and downshifted from third to first gear and bursted into an assembly of curses that would have been difficult for anyone to follow. With the car’s engine screaming, we jettisoned around the roundabout.

Now, all I was thinking in this blink of a moment was “Please God, I want to see my girls again.”

Surprisingly, we didn’t die. In fact, Nino won. We squeaked ahead of the wrong-way driver.

Even after his victory, Nino continued his litany of curses, calling the other guy crazy and who knows what else. Uncle Bruno, being the smart guy he is, repeatedly agreed with Nino about the other guy and entirely overlooked the actions of Mario Andretti to his left.

The good news is that we survived. Nino helped us get the best bargains in the store and even treated us to Italian McDonald’s.

We got back to Nino’s each with our respective pieces in places.

After swigging down some of Nino’s homemade coffee liquor (gasoline) and chatting with some of Poppy’s old friends (help me here, Uncle Bruno), we agreed to come back the next day for lunch with Nino and his wife. Then we would be allowed to get the cheese. He told us he would take us to the guy who sold the cheese at the Soverato open market on Friday. We’d go just before we left for Rome.

I should have known that there would be a lot more to the story before that happened.

Part IV: The scenic route

As I mentioned, Nino hinted that he had the cheese but wouldn’t give it to us unless we came for lunch. We would have gone anyway, but getting our hands on the cheese was an added incentive. If he didn’t have it, he would at least bring us to the guy at the Soverato market on Friday.

Now, Uncle Bru and I made a pact before we left for Italy that we would dip into the Ionian Sea together. The water is an integral ingredient to life in the region, and dumping into the water would be the ultimate Andreolesi baptism.

Nino promised to bring us to the perfect place for a dip before we had lunch at his place. The spot, he said, was near his house in a more private location than the center of the Marina, where we had planned to make the plunge.

They all thought we were crazy, but we didn’t care.

So we piled into Nino’s VW and headed out to the water.

Or so we thought.

Ten minutes into trip we were still driving parallel to the water, though it should have only taken us a minute or two to get to the location. At first, we thought Nino was still looking for the right spot. But he soon informed us that he was taking us someplace different first.

After a brief chat with Nino, Uncle Bruno turned to me: “He’s bringing us to the cheese guy.”

“What?!”

“He’s bringing us to the cheese guy’s factory.”

Cool! We were going to get the deed done sooner than we thought. And we’d get to meet the cheese guy!

Now we’re talking, I thought.

Just then Nino turned to ask for the factory’s address, pointing to the white plastic bag beside me in the backseat. I opened the bag to find a pot of gold: the original block of cheese my grandfather wanted, wrapped air-tight in plastic with the branding “Fattoria Pirritano” in Guardavelle Marina.

Nino had it all along, but he knew we wanted to get more for Uncle Bruno, my father and Aunt Vera and he was prepared to make sure we did.

Nino wanted the address because he realized that we passed the spot where we should have turned toward the factory. He stopped to get directions, turned around and no more than a minute later did we come to sign with an arrow directing us toward Fattoria Pirritano. It was up a road that was more dirt than gravel.

This is when I noticed something strange for a cheese seller in the middle of no where: a Web address. My mouth dropped. Could we have simply ordered the cheese online at fattoriapirritano.it?

Maybe, but I as a I thought about it more, I realized didn’t care. We were on our way to the cheese herder, on our way to il pecorino degli pecorari (cheese of the goat herder). What better way to get the cheese?

So we drove down the road, passing old abandoned stone houses and a few farms. More importantly, we drove nearer to the mountains, where the region’s rugged natural beauty shone through. It was a sight to behold, and we hardly noticed how far we were driving.

Finally, Nino, who hadn’t been to this area before, informed us he was lost. We stopped at a stone house near the road that had a truck and some cars parked outside. Perhaps this was the place.

Nope.

We checked around, trying to avoid the mud, though Nino, again in a suit, didn’t seem to mind.

We came to the rear of a barn attached to the small house and noticed the asses of four cows sticking out. Nothing else.

We called out, but no one came, and we decided to head back home without seeing the cheese guy.

We eventually did get that dip in the sea, and we had a nice lunch at Nino’s place, where we even got a taste of some of Nino’s own stash of the cheese, as well as some homemade soppresata. We also got the season’s first taste of Nino’s red wine.

Not seeing the cheese guy was a bit of a disappointment, but we knew we’d still have the opportunity to get the stuff.

And if not, we could always order it online.

P.S.

Mimo Pirritano told us the factory was on the road we traveled, but further up into the mountains.

Part V: We got it!

It was the night before our departure for Rome and there were two things on our minds:

1. We’re going to sorely miss our Sant’Andrea family. The took such great care of us, and we shared many laughs. It was heartbreaking to know we wouldn’t be able to see them often. It seemed as if we had never been apart at all.

2. If in fact we do get the cheese, will U.S. Customs allow us into the country? Some had warned us that cheese was among the unwelcome items from abroad.

We prepared for the worst.

Remembering what Uncle Al said about his ruined luggage the last time a packaged the pecorino for Poppy, Uncle Bru set aside a whole bag for the cheese. He planned to pack each one twice before even allowing a chunk into his bag.

This process, we thought, would both save his bag and reduce the odor. Maybe, just maybe, the Customs gods would shine brightly on us.

The next morning we said our so-longs to Uncle Al, Aunt Nuzza and Daniela and head out to meet Nino. We were finally going to see the cheese guy.

The Soverato Market, open each Friday, has just about every fresh food available — from produce, to meat, to fish, to beans. And yes, cheese, too.

Take a look

But we were here for one reason and one reason only: THE cheese. And not 50 feet from the entrance, there he was — Mimo Pirritano and his truck-full of stuff, whose family has been goat herders for hundreds of years.

I was overjoyed. I hadn’t planned on it, but I got a half-chunk. Angela had to get a taste. (Thank you, Uncle Bruno.) I was almost surprised that Mimo sold more than pecorino. He mozzarella, ricotta, privola, mixed cheese, you name it. I was also expecting an older guy who was weathered by time and the elements. Yet Mimo was a modern entrepreneur who happened to sell cheese.

At long last, we got it. And we got everyone their share.

Sadly, we also had to say good-bye to Nino. He was an adventure, and as much as I kid, I am deeply appreciative of his time and effort.

We said good-bye and he said good-bye.

Or at least I think that’s what he said.

…

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Part VI: Did the pecorino pass?

I can’t tell you whether we got the cheese into the country. We may have simply shipped it over. We may have left it for Dino and the family. We may have even left it for Nino’s consumption.

I CAN share a could-have-happened, might-have-happened, would-have-been-nice fictional story that the U.S. Customs office would probably object to — if it were true, of course.

After another 10-hour trip to Rome — this time getting view of the majestic Amalfi Coast — we spent time with Dino and got a quick tour of Rome. Then we spent another 10 hours on a flight from Rome to JFK.

In Italy, the lights from buildings below were generally sparse. Ditto over Nova Scotia and New England. That made arriving over the skies of New York, whose lights beamed as the sun in comparison, all the more impressive. It was obvious that many people on the flight had never been to New York before. The cabin erupted into applause at the sight of Long Island, which looked as if it were covered with an intensely thick patch of white Christmas lights.

Wait until they got a view of the city, I thought.

Uncle Bruno and I spent about 45 minutes waiting for our luggage by the turnstile. It was amazing to think our adventure was over. We did it. We saw and experienced so much in so little time. We reunited with family, tasted every aspect of Sant’Andrea that we could and dug up some amazing family history. We dipped into the Ionian Sea, and had an amazing tour guide in Nino – and Frine, of course.

Now we only had one mission left to complete: Get the cheese into the country. We had come so far, it would just stink as bad as the cheese itself if it was taken from us.

As if to drag out the drama, the bag that MAY have held the cheese was the last item off the turnstile. We spent the 45 minutes thinking that the bag was somehow confiscated right off the plane. But it was safe.

Now we had to go through the imposing Customs officers. If we got caught, we really didn’t know what to expect. A fine? Confiscation? Jail? We expected the worst situation. We wound up sailing through.

The Customs guy didn’t even ask to look at the bag that MIGHT have had the cheese in it, and we walked through to the good ol’ USA without a problem.

Mission accomplished!