Here's a story set in Italy...For the Love of Europe. Tuscany: "Here Begins
Prosciutto." I checked into the farmhouse inn on the Gori family estate.
This is Tuscany in the rough: a working farm, not a resort...no TV, no swimming
pool, lots of real character.
My host, Signora Gori, is both old-money elegant and farmhouse tough.
After I settle in, she takes me on a welcome stroll.
Our first stop is a sty dominated by a giant pig.
Signora Gori says, “We call him Pastanetto — the little pastry.”
While the scene through my camera’s viewfinder is pristine and tranquil, the
soundtrack is not.
After a horrendous chorus of squeals, she says, “That's out slaughterhouse.
We call it out little Beirut." Hiking to the rustic slaughterhouse,
we enter a room dominated by a stainless-steel table
piled with red sides of pork.
Signora Gori says, “Here begins prosciutto.”
Burly men in aprons squeeze
the blood out of hunks of meat
the size of dance partners.
Then they cake the ham hocks
in salt to begin the curing
process, which takes months.
While the salt helps cure the meat, a coating of pepper seals it.
In another room are towering racks of aging ham hocks.
A man in a white coat tests each ham by sticking it with a bone needle and giving
it a sniff. The room smells heavenly.
Back outside, Signora Gori takes me into the next barn, where fluffy white lambs
jump to attention, kicking
up a sweet-smelling golden
dust from beds of hay.
Backlit by stray sunbeams, it’s a dreamy, almost biblical scene.
Picking up a baby lamb and giving it an Eskimo kiss, she explains,
“We use unpasteurized milk in making the pecorino cheese.
This is allowed, but with strict health safeguards.
I must really know my sheep.”
Walking down another lane, we observe the family’s team of vintners in action.
Signora Gori’s brother empties a bucketful of purple grapes from a dump truck into a
grinder, which munches through the bunches, spitting stems one way and juice with
mangled grapes the other.
Following pipes of this juice into the cellar, Signora Gori explains that
winemaking is labor-intensive, “but right now, the grapes are doing most of the
work.” As the new grapes ferment, we taste the finished product.
A key word from my Tuscan travels is 'corposo' — full-bodied.
Lifting the elegant glass to my lips, I sip the wine while enjoying the pride in the
eyes of those who made it.
Satisfied, I say, “Corposo.” They reply, “Si, bello.”
That night at dinner, we’re joined by the rest of the Gori family.
The two sons dress and act like princes home on break from some Italian Oxford.
We sit down to a classic Tuscan table, focused on simplicity, a sense of harmony,
and the natural passage of time necessary for a good meal...each of
us with a glass of good red wine.
Dipping my bread in extra-virgin olive oil and savoring each slice of prosciutto,
it’s clear: Great wine goes best with simple food.
I nod to my hosts, appreciating
that I’m experiencing the true
art of Tuscan cuisine.
Full and content, we sip port and enjoy a game of backgammon on a board that's
provided after-dinner fun for 200 years in this very room.
Surrounded by musty portraits that put faces on this family’s long lineage,
alongside a few guns used in Italy’s 19th-century fight for independence,
I realize this evening — so special for me — is just another night on
the farm for the Gori family.
'Corposo.'
That’s how I like my wine...and my Tuscan travels.
And that's all, For the Love of Europe.