Chuls' Perspective - Summer 2009

The collection of buildings that make up the Calafiore residence is typical of a farmhouse, including such essentials as the bleating of sheep and the overwhelming smell of sheep shit when the wind is southerly. It not only houses several families on a permanent basis but also acts as an Agriturismo, for wealthy tourists (Germans, Dutch, American) who wish to live Life Under The Tuscan Sun for a few weeks every summer. A time during which most sensible Italians go and spend their summer jam-packed onto a piece of seaside land the size of a postage-stamp. On offer by the Signora who owns Calafiore is fresh pecorino cheese from her sheep and bottles of organic Tuscan red wine. For 2 euros a bottle we start to get the feeling that our blood is more Sangiovese than Sangue.

Claudia and her fidanzato Leo came to pick us up for the epic Gaetano dinner, held every six weeks or so in the courtyard of his villa. This time we're not going alone. Three friends from home had arrived in their camper unexpectedly a few nights earlier and were not going to miss out on this piece of real Italy for the world. Earlier in the day Gig and I had ventured to Gaetano's for pranzo, lunch, but I'd made a bit of an ass of myself by being hungover and unable to eat; particularly the chicken and duck heads that the boys had so kindly kept aside for me. A snooze on the couch and watching Rossi winning another race later I was good to go, starving from the lack of food. We descended on Gaetano's in convoy, with many more cars turning up after us. Long trestle tables were set up in the large courtyard nestled between one of Gaetano's cantinas and his kitchen and were already laden with plates, cutlery, water, and of course, his homemade wine. There looks to be about forty people present, not a large gathering but not exactly small either. Ben picks up a fiasco of wine and mutters something about it being rocket fuel and a vital ingredient for your headache in the morning. Ben has been to one of these dinners before, he knows what to expect. Tara and Tim are Gaetano virgins. Gig tells them that he hopes they have their eating boots on because it's going to be a long night.

The sun sets over the Tuscan hills, dappling the sky with a golden hue. The heat still escapes from the stones of Gaetano's villa, keeping us cool even as night falls. Primi piatti (first course) is made up of panzanella, a Tuscan favourite. Stale bread, olive oil, fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic and red onion are all thrown together in a tossed heap. Salt and pepper are added, maybe a little vinegar. Tara eats Ben's leftovers and goes back for seconds. Being vegetarian I had warned her that the secondi will more than likely be just meat, so she stocks up on this no-meat entree. I was right. Secondi was slow-cooked duck, eaten with a small salad and loads of the unsalted Tuscan bread. Duccio had been cooking this duck since before lunch, four ducks that had earlier in the day been quite happily scratching about in the dirt had ended up whole in a pot with herbs, wine, tomatoes and some other unidentifiable culinary items. This was, by far, the best duck I've ever had in my life. Ben, Tim and Gig went back again and again, and as long as that pot was out the boys were sniffing about in it, getting the choicest bits of meat and sauce. I ate until I was stuffed. But no! There is more food! A typically antipasti type dish was presented after the secondi consisting of home-cured salami, proscuitto, melon (of the rock and water variety) and then if that wasn't enough, cakes. Cakes and biscuits, tira misu, several tonnes of sugar being piled onto plates heaped in the middle of the table. Still hungry? Gaetano pulls out a few bags of pistachios and peanuts. I wonder sometimes if Gaetano is actually an old Jewish woman with the amount of food that is prepared at his dinners.

Not to be outdone by the food, the wine and spirits also make a good impression. Gaetano's vino rosso goes down like mothers milk, followed quickly by his vin santo. Vin santo is a dessert wine, made from grapes that are picked and dried in dark garages and cantinas. Commercial vin santo is often sweet, like those sickly syrupy dessert wines enjoyed in Australia. Home made vin santo is dry. Gig had been welcomed into the fold of wine experts after announcing last year during a festa that vin santo was supposed to be dry and not sweet and anyone who thinks it should be sweet is a stronzo, a turd. I merrily go pouring all of us glasses of vin santo with mixed reaction from the group. Judging by the faces and the shaking of the head Tim and Tara were not fans. Ben would drink anything alcoholic so was happily scoffing his vin santo away. Then Gaetano comes around with a prune liquor, dark purple and obviously kept in the dark recesses of a freezer. It's Sicilian (aha! The Mob, again) and Ben and I are instant fans. So much so that I start looking for where Gaetano has disappeared with the luscious bottle because I want it all for me.

The night ends with a lot of sign language between the Australians and the non-english speaking Italians. We all disappear into the night, blissfully fed and slightly tiddly. This Gaetano cena was quiet compared to other dinners we've been to, where a folk band has been assembled in the corner for the oldies to ballo liscio to. But we're happy to go home at the early time of midnight, the campervan contingent have to be up early to drive up to the Cinque Terre. Gig and I enjoy taking our friends to places like Gaetano's, it's the Italy that you don't read about in the guide books and certainly not what you see on a guided tour. I said to the boys that it still hasn't quite sunk in that this is where I live now, this is just a normal part of life. Our Italian friends find it amusing that we get so excited over these dinners, but then we would probably find it amusing if they came to Australia to find that you didn't have to pay to go to the beach.

Gig and I didn't drink for three nights after that dinner. We didn't eat that much, either...