“Traveling-it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” -Ibn Battuta
I was gathering stories on a recent cross-country road trip. Here are three short ones for the road.
Story #1 Boubon Water
We pass this iconic water tower each time we go back and forth to the Midwest. NO, it’s not full of Bourbon, though it seems to be a bit tipsy. The water tower is no longer in use, but still stands as an often-photographed novelty. So what’s up with this? I googled as we drove along:
Bourbon, Missouri, population 1,946 is on I-44 (old rt. 66.) It claims the distinction of being the only town in the United States named for bourbon whiskey.
When the railroad came through the area in the 1850s a settlement sprang up. A man named Richard Turner established a general store on his property to serve the needs of settlers and railroad workers. He imported barrels of a new brand of whiskey called Bourbon, and placed one large barrel labeled “Bourbon” on the porch of his store to advertise. Soon, the railroad workers were calling the new settlement Bourbon. The name stuck.
I wonder… If Mr. Turner had placed a crate of potatoes on his porch, would the town be known as Spudville? Tater Town? It just wouldn’t be the same….
Oh man. I was going through some photos of our trip to Italy and came across this. Have you every tried authentic Neapolitan pizza? Now this Seams Like a Story worth telling. Who knows? Maybe it will make an appearance in the travel memoir I’m working on. Come on, take a few moments and travel with me to Italy.
Ed and I found a little pizzaria in a small village not far from Naples. We descend ancient stone steps and duck through the arched doorway of the town’s pizzeria. The centuries-old building has been modernized but maintains its vintage style. Red and white checkered cloths and vases of fresh flowers adorn round tables where a few people are enjoying a late lunch. A young woman at the hostess stand is folding boxes for take-out orders. There is no signage on the door, but it makes no difference. Locals know where to come–the pizzeria has been here for generations. But even if you are new to the city, the aroma of freshly baked bread and rich tomato sauce coming from the wood stove would lead you here.
The hostess greets us and invites us into the kitchen. The space is tiny and is filled with organized clutter, perhaps like any diner kitchen. Yet unlike a typical diner, the centerpiece of this kitchen is a monumental wood-fired stove. The outside edges are charcoal-black from decades of wear. It’s iconic curved opening glows crimson, like a one-eyed dragon, or the gates of hell radiating waves of heat. A fan twirls in the window above the industrial sink and a stainless steel table is in the center of the room. Behind the table stands a small man with graying hair, a trim mustache and wire-rimmed glasses. He wears jeans, a white tee shirt and a clean white apron tied around his waist. A young woman is at his side.
“Ciao! Welcome to our pizzaria. My name is Sophia. My uncle Franco and I will be your guides today. This business has been handed down through our family for generations. It is our pizza, but also our passion that we will share with you today.”
Franco nods and smiles, content to let his niece do the talking. Because the space around the table and in the oven is limited, we work in pairs. It’s hard to wait our turn, but soon, it’s time for Ed and and I to make our pizza. Franco takes a ball of dough that has been rising in a covered container. His experienced hands move quickly, flattening and stretching the dough into a dinner-plate sized circle.
“Now for the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Sophia says.
On cue, Franco tosses the circle of dough high in the air, letting it spin and stretch, then catches it at exactly the right moment. We laugh and clap in amazement as he repeats the process with the next ball, then places the perfect circles of dough in front of us. Under his watchful eye, I ladle a generous amount of sauce onto the dough and use the back of the utensil to spread the liquid-tomatoey goodness almost to the edge.
“We make the sauce here. Local tomatoes, garlic, basil. Simple. Now we add some freshly made mozzarella.” She hands each of us a section of the creamy white cheese and instructs us to pinch off small bits to distribute around the sauce.
“And we bake.” Franco ceremoniously takes a large wooden paddle from a hook on the wall. In a series of smooth movements, he shoves the paddle under my tomato and mozzarella topped circle of dough and slides it off onto the glowing stone floor of the pizza oven. Immediately the crust puffs, and the mozzarella bubbles over the tomato sauce releasing a burst of aroma that lights up every appetite-inducing neuron in my brain. While the pizza bakes, Sophia explains that we are making Pizza Margherita, in the traditional Neapolitan style.
“ According to the legend, Pizza Margherita was invented in by a chef in the 1800s to honor Queen Margherita of Savoy and the unification of Italy. See the colors of the Italian flag? Red tomatoes, white mozzarella, and here is the green.”
She reaches for a vase of fresh basil. The pizzas bake quickly and Franco knows exactly the right moment to pull them out–when the crust is golden brown with a few bits of char from the intense heat and heavenly blobs of mozzarella have melted over the sauce. He slides each one onto an oversized dinner-plate that has obviously been made for exactly this purpose. It can barely hold the 12” pizza, more than enough to serve two people, but we each get our own.
I’m not one of those people who take pictures of their food-usually-and it sounds silly, but this pizza is beautiful. I pick up one of the wedges and take my first bite. I’m in love. Pizza love. The crust is perfect–crispy yet light and puffy–unlike anything that could be accomplished in a traditional oven. The combination of tomato, cheese and basil is heavenly. The cheese and sauce slide off and dribble down my hand. Extra napkins all around.
So here’s what you need to know. Forget what you thought was pizza–the double stuffed, extra cheese, sausage, pepperoni stuff that late night college runs are made of. If you are expecting that, you might be disappointed in this simple pie. Many Americans who come to Italy are. But if you approach this pizza with an open mind, you will experience pure Italy–simple, fresh, authentic. Amore
Now, who’s hungry?
Threads of thought?
What is a favorite food memory from your travels?
Are you an adventurous foodie when traveling? What’s the stangest thing you’ve tried?
What toppings would be on your pizza amore?
Debra VanDeventer is an educator, author, blogger, sewist and traveler. To read more check out:
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