Just Two Steps Away
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February 2005

You might think I'm flirting with the poetic when I say that just two steps away from my house, there is a man, born to sell vegetables, but I'm not, it's true, there is. Still just in his mid-thirties, Simone has already been selling vegetables right here in the public market in Lecce, Italy, for over twenty years. He inherited the business from his father Antonio, who was here for fifteen years, who in turn inherited it from Simone's grandfather, Aurelio, who was here for forty-one. Glance up above the rows of naked light bulbs and woven garlands of garlic, and they're still here staring back at you, in black and white and faded Kodachrome, right next to the portrait of Padre Pio, the patron saint of just about everyone and everything here in Puglia.

'Citrus fruits, incredible right now', he says, without even the slightest trace of the carnival barker common in fruttavendoli here in Italy. 'You should try the clementini'. There's a pause and I look over to catch his eyes lovingly caressing the fiery orange citrus skins, the fruit lined up in woven baskets on the floor. He turns away for a second, there's another pause and I notice that he actually has to swallow, his mouth juices going into overdrive, just thinking about the little succulent fruits. We both laugh. Yep. Born to work here.

Last summer when an ex-girlfriend and I put up five hundred jars of tomato sauce- just the two of us, in eight marathon days and nights- the cases and cases of tomatoes all came from Simone. So did the recipe, which I still have, the warbled page compromised with splashed pulp and rings of red wine. It was Simone who sold me the fifty kilos of onions that I pickled and put up in jars, my pumpkin the last two Halloweens and even these giant, 'elephant ear' mushrooms for my dinner tonight, perfect to be grilled and slathered with parsley and olive oil. 'You know, to be grilled just like a steak', he says, holding them up to the sides of his own head. I catch him through the viewfinder of my ancient camera and take a picture. Focusing on his face, I watch as contemplates the giant mushrooms, turning them in his hands, apparently thinking about their steak-like qualities... about grilling them...the meaty smell, the ribbons of smoke curling upwards...the sputter and sizzle...and then he laughs, and discreetly hords away two for his family in a sheet of newspaper. And like these giant mushrooms, ever since our little school opened, just about every vegetable we serve has come from his stand here in the public market, and Simone hasn't let me down yet.

And while it's true that this time of year, his apples are the world-famous Val di Non from up north, his bananas are Costa Rican and his blood oranges are from Sicily, most of what he sells never travels more than an hour. The names on the crates are the same ones on a local map; places that people in other parts of the world would call 'suburbs', if only folks hadn't been living there for thousands of years.

'Someone in my family has been buying these clementini from this family', he says, tapping a tiny wooden crate, 'since before anyone alive remembers'. Looking over the charmingly-warped wooden crates, most have the cities and family names clearly stamped by hand, each with a personal little flurish in the penmanship on the last vowel of their surname. 'I've never once had to discuss quality with anyone from that family, they always give me the good stuff. I call them up once a year and ask the price. I tell them I'll take all they want to sell, which really opens me up, but still, the quality never falters. I'll get a phone call and the old gentleman will say, this is the last week. Season's over.

'And then what', I ask. 'Season's over, season's over. They simple won't sell unless the fruit is perfect, at its peak. But you know, no one even really notices the end of the season, anyway, because spring onions are around the corner, then artichokes and, you know, then those fava beans, you remember last year'? He pokes me in my ribs and then deftly blocks my attack (Crane Style), and we laugh, knowing that we'll be having virtually the same discussion again, countless times, about each of his fruits and vegetables as they come into season. Sometimes I'll be with our cooking students, our arms filled with the incredible pugliese products you can't find anywhere else on earth.

There are actually three family photographs at his fruit and vegetable stall in the covered market here in Lecce, the last one- developed with more modern chemicals- scotch-taped right to the neck of his digital scale. Though only two, I'm somehow certain that Simone's kid only gets serious about zucchine if they still have blossoms attached. And too, has already mastered that knowing thump-and-listen-melon-test, not unlike the one contractors use to search for studs in the wall. An honest, smalltime farming family sells to Simone, Simone sells it to me, keeping me no further than just two steps away.

This is part one, of Two Steps Away, an ongoing, ten- part series featuring the vendors and purveyors we know and trust and frequent at our cooking school here in Lecce, in the sunny south of Italy.
You can find out more about Simone, his town of Lecce or where you can shop for, cook with and dine on his produce, by visiting www.awaitingtable.com

What to look for in March: My fish monger is one saucy lady!
Just how does the modern woman stay sexy among the squirting clams, angry scampi and mornings spent yanking out fish guts: a survivor's guide for more radiant skin and firmer fillets.

Silvestro Silvestori owns and operates The Awaiting Table cooking school in Lecce, Italy. Located in an 18th century palace in the historic center, the school offers small, intimate, hands-on classes based on individual attention and a deeper, more genuine understanding of the south of Italy. You can write him at or visit the site, www.awaitingtable.com
testo e fotografie da Silvestro Silvestori, Lecce, Italia, 2005

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Located in an 18th century aristocratic palace in the historic center of the South of Italy's prettiest city, The Awaiting Table offers Day, Weekend and Week-long courses, based on small classes of hands-on cooking and individual attention. If you'd like to see a different part of Italy, and see it in a different way, now you have an alternative.
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