Fruit encounter.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvUPDATE THURSDAY 3/20vvvvvvvvvvvvv

My friend Shelley is sure nespoli are loquats! She writes:

"We had a loquat tree in Davis and they looked EXACTLY like your picture. The descriptions match too. I think it’s the same thing. They had great flavor, sort of a cross between an apricot and something else. They don’t keep at all. As soon as you picked them they started to bruise so the kids (neighbors included) would stand under the tree while Kevin picked and distributed. They ate them on the spot, spitting those gargantuan seeds all over the place! They loved them! I wish you could have had more while you were there."

Thanks, Shelley!

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvEXPANDEDvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

(first posted July 14, 2006)

On the drive from Genoa to the Riviera, we noticed many trees heavily laden with small orange fruit. They looked a little like apricots, but the trees were too short, too spreading. Our Liguria guide, Fausta, said they are nespoli.

Back in Genoa, Arianna presented me with a few of these fruits.



The slightly tart fruit is extremely juicy, and as you can tell from the picture, contains three to six large, round brown seeds. They were a real suprise, popping out of the fruit's hollow center, seeming far too large to reside in such a small space.

In an attempt to uncover the fruit's identity, I've read that nespoli are also called medlars. However, pictures show a brown fruit, not an orange one. Some think it's the same as a loquat, which looks like the fruit above, but the description of the taste doesn't quite fit. Still, loquats are called Japanese medlars, so they're probably from the same family. Nespoli - Italian medlars?

I think so. At any rate, medlars have nice cameos in literarure, as a symbol of prostitution, or early dissipation. Hmmmm. Medlars are said to be "rotten before they are ripe." I don't know. With just one encounter, I couldn't learn enough to say if that is true.

UPDATE:

As I was cleaning my bookshelf this week, I found my copy of The Decadent Cookbook, by Medlar Lucan(!) and Durian Gray. These are the pen names of Alex Martin and Jerome Fletcher. If you accept that medlars are rotten before they are ripe; if you regard the smell of the durian as one of the most offensive on the planet; and if you remember that at the root of the word decadent is decay, you'll appreciate the wry wit in these authors' choice of pen names.

It's been several years since I looked at the book. Co-author's name aside, this was also the first time I'd remember actually getting some information about medlars. In the chapter entitled Decay and Corruption:

"...medlars, which resemble grenadillas, are best eaten when they have begun to decompose. To accompany the bowl of medlars was a bowl of 'pire fotute', a precise translation of which need not concern us here. This, my host informed me, was a Sicilian dish made from rotting pears which tasted like chocolate. I took his word for it. Along with the fruit we drank a glass of Sauternes. Needless to say, (my host) waxed lyrical on the subject of 'la pourriture noble' or noble rot."

That perplexed me when I first read it in the late 90s, as there wasn't a real description of the fruit or its flavor. I'm glad I now know - though the medlars I ate were anywhere close to decomposing! Ah well, next trip to Italy...

This is what Shakespeare said about nespoli in As You Lke It:

TOUCHSTONE
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

ROSALIND
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit i' the country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.

Shakespeare refers to the medlar again in Romeo and Juliet, when Mercutio mocks Romeo's unrequited love for Rosaline:

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.

(BTW, even though R&J is set in Verona, I didn't see any nespoli trees there.)

Another reference is in Chaucer's The Reeve's Tale:

My heart, too, is as mouldy as my hairs,
Unless I fare like medlar, all perverse.
For that fruit's never ripe until it's worse,
And falls among the refuse or in straw.
We ancient men, I fear, obey this law:
Until we're rotten, we cannot be ripe;

The Chef/Cartoonist/Flirt Extraordinaire

When we first arrived in Italy, our group expressed and interest in taking a cooking class, and our incredibly wonderful guide Arianna (whom we all adore!) immediately mentioned Fausto. Not only is he a brilliant chef, she said, he is also a talented cartoonist and "a very particular type of man" (which you can read as, "a real character.) So she set up this afternoon of cooking and entertainment for us.

When we arrived in Rapallo this afternoon at his restaurant, U Giancu, he popped out of a second-story window.




Below is the outside of U Giancu, proudly displaying Fausto's love of cartoons. (The window right above "U Giancu" was where we had our first peek at Il Signor Fausto Oneto.)



When he came downstairs, wearing a blue shoe on one foot and and orange one on the other, he greeted us warmly and led us into his beautiful restaurant, lined with original cartoons including some by Chic Young (Blondie). Fausto had closed his restaurant for the afternoon to accomodate us. His kitchen was SPOTLESS (and having worked in kitchens of some fastidious chefs, I can still say this is the cleanest one I've ever seen.)

All right, the food. First of all, remember that Liguria is a coastal state, renowned for its seafood.

Fausto serves only meat at U Giancu. "Everybody else serves the fish," he says, "so why should I?" This bit of information is a a mere hors d'oeuvre to his personality.

He was going to show us how to make focaccia, the real Ligurian variety, filled with stracchino cheese, as well as one with onions. A quiche of swiss chard, fresh herbs from his amazing garden, ricotta cheese and two crusts. A fresh green vegetable medley with fettucine. Pesto, the real Ligurian way. Gnocchi, to serve as a medium for that pesto. Rack of lamb, seasoned with fresh herbs, also from the garden. For dessert, we melted a chocolate-hazelnut combination called gianduia (pronounced jahn-DOO-yah) and mixed in roasted whole hazelnuts, then put it to cool in molds, for a treat called nocciolato. And for starters, tempura-style fresh sage flowers (fior di salvia), which he took us into the garden to pick.



Beverly and twin sister Barbara with Fausto, holding the freshly picked sage blossoms.

Fausto began with the focaccia dough. Notice that he changed his cap. (One of many cap changes he made today.)



Outside the window you can see lemon trees in his garden (more on the garden in a moment.)

He made sure each of us had a chore. Here Fausto explains the correct way to saute the vegetable medley while his assistant Stefania works; Blaine sets about his task of coating the rack of lamb in the herb mix.



All this time there was an incredibly diverse mix of music playing from his iPod through a stereo in the kitchen. I heard an Italian favorite, "Mamma," sung by a tenor; Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, and Aaron Copland, to name just a few!

Fausto certainly was charming. After Beverly chopped some herbs, this is what he did with her finished product.



I can't even begin to describe his outrageous flirting. (That thing with the herb heart was pretty mild, believe me.) Fausto's assistants were just rolling their eyes. He was having the time of his life with us.



When it came time to eat, oh my word. Or should I say, there are NO WORDS. In addition to the dishes we prepared, he presented us with bruschette, salami, pickled baby eggplants, and AMAZING white and red wines bottled especially for his restaurant.

Fausto is a great big showman with an obvious passion for his work. He is very knowledgeable, and intimately understands the historical and cultural context of Ligurian cuisine. In his three cookbooks are his very clever cartoons. His garden gives him fresh herbs, onions, garlic and salad greens. The trees bear figs, cherries, lemons, oranges. The shrubs give capers, flowers, berries. I can’t tell you how much else there is in that garden, but clearly Fausto uses the garden as inspiration, coming up with dishes based on what’s ripe and at its peak. The garden is just beautiful, and so fragrant. Nothing about his cooking is contrived or affected. Nothing is over-seasoned. He simply flows with the best nature has to offer at any moment. Everything in perfect balance.

Under all the flirting and hamming is a serious and brilliant chef. AND Fausto has more personality than all the chefs on the Food Network, put together. Ask any of my tourmates, and I know they will back me up. He is beyond outrageous. He is – in the truest sense of the word – an original.

I tell you, if you ever have the chance to come to the Italian Riviera, you MUST go to U Giancu (pronounced ooh-JAHN-koo) in Rapallo and eat one of the most amazing meals of your life, AND partake of the whole Fausto experience. It's rare to see a this much talent, charm, passion and eccentricity, all in one body.

Okay. Now we get to the final picture of the day.

CAPTION CONTEST!! CAPTION CONTEST!!!

Leave your suggested captions in the comments section, or e-mail me.



All I can say is, if you show an Italian man your cooking skills, you'll go far with him. Notice the change of cap?

And on that note, buona notte, amici.

Gillian Coldsnow

The Riviera really is as amazing as you've always heard.

Portofino harbor

I lived on the Oregon coast for seven years, and felt really blessed to live in such surroundings. But I confess that over the last ten years, I've seen changes that have detracted from the natural beauty. Development, mostly, and the horrendous tourist traffic in the summer, to name just a couple.

Somehow, the towns of the Italian Riviera have managed to avoid that. The picture you see above is of internationally renowned Portofino. The glib and glam flock here - but doesn't it look just like a little fishing village, still? In fact, many of the homes still sport laundry lines outside the windows! And the relaxed and friendly demeanor of the locals doesn't give away the hidden character of Portofino's part-time citizens.

But it took some laws to keep the town's aura. Tour buses are not allowed to drive through, and when tourists arrive by boat (as we did) the guides have to quit using the microphones before the boat pulls up to the pier.

Doesn't this seem like a sleepy little town?



What you can't see is what's behind the facades of those old fishermen's homes. The interiors, a long time ago, were torn out and transformed into small but gorgeous apartments for people who live elsewhere most of the time. A studio looking out on the Portofino harbor can easily cost more than a million Euro!

Part of the character of the Riviera towns come from the distinctive colors. Only four colors are allowed on the facades: faded yellow, a terra cotta-ish pink, brown or green. These old fisherman's homes have all been designated as historic landmarks.

We hiked up the path to the cliff where the historic San Giorgio church sits looking out above the Mediterranean.



A relic of Portofino's patron saint, Giorgio (yes - that's one and the same as England's St. George!)is believed to be found here.

And this is the path leading up to the church, with some our our tour members listening to our guide, Fausta.



From L-R: our Liguria guide, Fausta (with back turned to camera), Melinda, Sylvia (hidden), Barbara and Liz. Leaning up against the fence are Cherri and Blaine.

Look at the stone path leading into the church:



Individual stones, black and white, arranged into that beautiful pattern. We saw the same type of path leading up to the town church in neighboring town Camoglie as well.