The Drive There

A tale of family, food, and connection

Photo by Liam Pozz on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

The drive to Amatrice takes about an hour and a half from our place. A beautiful drive deep into the Appennini, a mountain range that extends along the length of the Italian peninsula. Dad would sit in the front, my brother Paolo in the back, and I would drive. Dad loved these little trips. We all did. We’d go to get food you could only find there, such as pecorino cheese, guanciale (cured pork cheek), and mortadella di Campotosto, a particular type of salami made on the shore of the nearby Lake Campotosto, a truly gorgeous place. Authentic stuff, handmade and sold by locals in their own farms -- their sole source of income. Knowing where and when to find these things was crucial. Sometimes we found something, sometimes we didn’t. If we didn’t, that was it for the season; we had to wait until the next year. In some cases, these farmers had their own little shop in town, but for the most part, you had to go where things were actually made. 

Prior to the earthquake that wiped it out in 2016, Amatrice was a charming small village nestled in the heart of central Italy, where the regions of Lazio, Abruzzo, Umbria, and Marche converge. That’s where they invented Spaghetti all’Amatriciana (named after “Amatrice”), a renowned pasta dish made of spaghetti sautéed in a sauce of ripe tomatoes, guanciale, and pecorino cheese. Although many consider it a typical Roman dish -- which might explain its prevalence throughout Rome -- its true origin lies in Amatrice. Specifically, in the restaurant of a hotel called Hotel Roma, ironically. It’s a shame that today, seven years after the earthquake, Amatrice is still a bunch of ruins, with minimal reconstruction done. Hotel Roma no longer exists. I remember I had lunch there so many times; seated at the restaurant, you had a magnificent view of Monti della Laga and Monti Sibillini, two majestic mountain chains that surround the area. In its place they built a modern structure called Ristorante Roma, run by the same, historical family. There, they continue to make the same old Spaghetti all’Amatriciana.   

Once, many years ago, we embarked on a quest for the perfect mortadella di Campotosto. Cause yes, it’s true that you can find it only in that broad geographic area, but it’s also true that it’s full of fakes out there. So we started at a little shop on Amatrice’s main road, where we had bought good, authentic ones a few years prior. Unfortunately, they were out of stock this time. But you can try and go straight to the farm, in Campotosto, the shop guy told us. And to the farm we went -- a fifteen minute uphill, winding drive. He gave us a number to call. When you get here, wait for me in the main square, the gentleman on the other end said. I’ll be in a red Lacoste shirt. And sure enough, no one in a red Lacoste shirt showed up. So I called the number again. I’m sorry, I got tied up in something, please come to my place, he said. And gave me directions. If you get lost, just ask around, people will be happy to show you the way. Yes, happy. People are generally quite happy in these places, where life is slow, colors bright, flavors strong, and anxiety non-existent. 

So we finally got there and he was right outside waiting for us, red Lacoste and all. He ushered us in, where four black-dressed old ladies were seated in the living room, quietly knitting. They all said buonasera in unison, without even looking up. How surreal, I thought. But then again, not that much. After a brief reciprocation from our side, to which one of the ladies, this time looking up, gave a hint of a smile, he led us down two flights of stairs to the cellar. More of a vault, really. There, hundreds, maybe thousands, mortadella di Campotosto were hanging from canes placed right below the ceiling, drying. It was dimly lit, but they went as far as the eye could see. How many pairs do you want? he asked. 

These short trips to Amatrice were more than just picturesque drives through charming villages and breathtaking landscapes, or fun hunts for authentic local products. They were a way of spending time with Dad, something I regret having done too little of. This is something I think about a lot, now that he’s gone. Many times, we drove up there just the two of us, always in the summer, always in August. And he would open up like he never did under any other circumstances. I don’t know what it was, but, as I drove, he’d tell me things about himself and his personal history and the history of our family that I had never known. And I was there, listening, interjecting with a question every now and then, or a clarification, or a curious remark, all conducive to him getting even more at ease with talking and telling. I miss his positivity, his optimism, his sense of humor. To him, anything was possible, any dream could come true, any problem could be solved. The only thing there’s no remedy for, he’d always say, is death. His was never explicit advice, he never said that I should do this or that. Having gone through so much distress and struggle early on in his life, when he had to drop out of school and go to work due to his father's health issues, he had to figure it all out on his own. I learned a lot from observing his behavior and listening to his stories, rather than from him sitting me down and teaching me things. Maybe this is why I don’t like to give advice myself, or seek advice. 

How many pairs do you want? The guy asked. A fun and quirky fact about mortadella di Campotosto is that they’re stored and sold in pairs, as they say their shape resembles that of a mule’s testicles. This is why they’re also called Coglioni di Mulo (Mule’s Nuts, that is). Whenever we were fortunate to find good ones, we’d load up on them. That time, I think we got, like, twenty pairs (it might sound like a lot, but they’re really not that big and go like candy; plus, we’d also give them to friends). And so we resurfaced from the cellar with a huge bag full of them, happy that our hunt went well. But as we walked past the knitting ladies, said arrivederci to them and got a smile back, toward the exit, the guy goes: Next time just call me and I’ll ship them to you, vacuum packaged; no need to come all the way here. 

No, thanks. We love to drive up here, we thought. But said nothing.

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