Puglia, Episode II: The Nonna Strikes Back

Note: This is Part II of an ongoing trilogy. They do need to be read in succession. To read Part I, click here.

I arrived at Claudia’s that next day at exactly 9am, just like we’d agreed. She was sitting at her outside table with another man — her son, I would later learn (Claudia’s in her 60s). No tourists had come yet. I picked up some fruit and croissants on the way, like a student bringing an apple for the teacher. I had no idea what to expect — I didn’t know if I’d be sitting at her table and watching, or making pasta myself, or what.

But when I walked up, I’ll just say that Claudia didn’t seem, well, excited to see me.

“Ah, vieni,” she said flatly. Come. She wordlessly walked me into a kitchen and sat me down. Her mother was already sitting at the table. She’s 91. The door of the kitchen faced the street.

It was a classic rustic Italian kitchen — large bags of flour in the corner, analog measuring scales, bags of taralli and orecchiette everywhere. Stone walls, cool air, and one old wooden table with long benches along each side. There was one small TV in the corner of the room. A large sign hung: “Cucina di Claudia.” Yes, this was my Italian fantasy.

Except that it wasn’t all fantastic.

I handed Claudia the croissant and fruit when I walked in. She didn’t say anything. She took the bag, pulled out the croissant, then ate it loudly.

Something seemed off. Okay, maybe it was an off day. Maybe she was going through something. We all have our moments. And remember, I was here with an ulterior motive. I wanted, ultimately, to spend extensive time with Claudia and the other women, to document their philosophies and way of life, and to eventually pitch this to publications back home. Of course Claudia didn’t know this. For her, I was just a tourist from the US with a particular eagerness to make orecchiette. And that was true. My thinking was I’d only pursue the interview if it was there, if we felt a connection. But that morning, the story was secondary. I truly just wanted to learn pasta.

We sat in silence. Claudia gave minimal instructions. She didn’t ask my name, my age, nothing. The air felt stiff. It’s hard to explain, it just didn’t feel friendly. Sweat rolled down the side of my back. My Italian didn’t seem to be working.

I didn’t feel comfortable to make conversation, but I tried anyway. Not much. Then, it was silent again. Just the sound of her knife dragging against the table, over and over, as she flattened and popped out orecchiette, just like she’d done every day, every morning and afternoon and evening, since she was six years old.

On the table was a large slab of pasta dough. Claudia hacked off a chunk and set it in front of me. “Vai,” she said. Go. So I started, doing just as she did. However my orecchiette looked rough — flat, ripped, too long. They looked more like vulvas than ears. I watched her and started to pick up some tips. Claudia started to give some advice as well. Her mom began to coach me, even though I understood about 1/10 of what she said. Soon, it was about 9:30am and the tourists started showing up outside. For Claudia, it was showtime.

She went outside to do her thing, leaving just me and the mom. Claudia’s mother is incredibly sweet. She and I made nice conversation, I only asked her to repeat herself about a million times. And that was okay.

Gradually, my orecchiette started to come out decently. The atmosphere felt more relaxed. I was no longer sweating. There was a Zen-ness to the room, to the motion. Orecchiette is a beautiful shape to make, and I was in a fine flow.

My end of the table was now covered in little ears. Claudia walked in from outside, saw my work, clapped, and bellowed: “Bravo!” I was elated. I hadn’t felt that proud in years.

Soon enough, two hours later, I had a tray full of orecchiette. The mom and I were having a great time. It was so easy, so comfortable, so relaxed in there. I was thinking this was one of my favorite experiences of my entire trip, that I’d remember it forever.

And here’s when things got dicey.

Ears and vulvas.

It was all kind of a blur.

My pasta was ready and Claudia said it was time to eat. It was 10:30 am but hey, who gives a hoot. When in Puglia, right? She came back about fifteen minutes later to boil the water. This whole time, she’d been surrounded by tourists, non-stop, putting on her show. Claudia came in, handed her son a shallow bowl and asked him to fetch some ragu. She then tossed the pasta, set it in front of me, and grated some fresh ricotta cheese.

Holy hell. I’ll just say, it was absolutely divine. I don’t know what was in that sauce, but to this day, any orecchiette I eat I compare to that morning. Maybe pasta just hits different at 10:30 am, but I was in pure bliss.

Then Claudia’s mother asked if I’d like water or wine. As a guest, I felt kind of weird asking for wine (plus it was 10:30 am), so I asked for water. But when Claudia came in and her mother told her this, Claudia erupted. She started yelling and berating this woman. It went on for a few minutes. The mother sat and listened helplessly. And then, Claudia marched to the fridge, threw open the door, grabbed a bottle of water and slammed it down in front of me. Then she stormed out.

I had no idea what happened. The mother looked sad and speechless. She stared blankly at the kitchen door. I just looked at the cap-less water bottle in front of me, stunned. Even worse, I didn’t know how to address the situation — as in, my Italian wasn’t good enough to ask what happened. It’s deep in my nature to not upset people, so this was torture.

“Tutto bene?” I asked feebly. Is everything okay?

“Si, si…” the mother said softly.

I finished my pasta, then washed and cleaned the plate. I went outside and thanked Claudia profusely for the experience. She looked a little embarrassed. She sheepishly said ‘you’re welcome’ and ‘goodbye.’ I bought a bag of taralli, then threw it away three blocks later.

I walked out and was in a daze. I felt raw, rotten. How did things shift that quickly? And what the hell happened? The interview, obviously, was a no go. I had no desire to enter that kitchen again. But I felt really bad about the situation. Was it me? Had I done something to cause such anger?

At the time, I was staying with one of Francesco’s friends, who very kindly offered to host me. She’s originally from Bari, lived mostly in Rome, and speaks perfect English. That night, she had some friends over for an aperitivo (a happy hour of sorts). One of the men was a professor from Bari and had lived there his entire life. He even used to live right next to Claudia. So I told him what happened, recreating it as faithfully and honestly as possible, hoping he could point out where I might have misstepped.

“Well,” he said, “did you offer money?”

It hit me. “No,” I said. “At one point I thought about it, but I get really uncomfortable with money in a foreign culture. I don’t know the etiquette, and I don’t want to offend people.” I told him a story of how, in Tuoro, an Albanian man took me to the electronics store to replace my phone. I offered him money for gas, and he looked at me in total disgust. To him, I learned, I was refuting his favor while also treating him like a servant. What I thought was respectful was actually an insult.

“I understand that,” my friend said. “But here in the south, for Claudia, the language is money. And I think that’s what set her off — that you came into her kitchen, ate her food, then started asking for a drink, without offering anything.”

It made perfect sense. Of course that’s what happened. Or at least, it made enough sense to me. So I asked him what I could do about it.

“Go back and pay her,” he said. He suggested an amount and that was that.

The next day, I went to see Claudia. I was extremely nervous. Like I said, she had this loud, boisterous personality. I had this fear of being berated on the streets in front of all these people, of being publicly shamed and humiliated. I’d leave Bari in disgrace, my tail between my legs, forever scorned by the famous grandmas of Italy. What a disappointing twist of events that would be. But I had no other choice, as I saw it. So I said a little prayer and I made my way toward her, like a man approaching the guillotine.

Of course she had a huge crowd around her. It was 9:30am. As soon as I saw the crowd, I made a sharp 180 turn and hid behind a street corner. No way would I go in with that many people. The scene of being flogged popped in my mind and horrified me. It happened a few more times — I’d walk up, see the people, then turn right around and wait. Finally, the crowd dissipated a bit and I saw my chance. I walked up.

“Scusi, signora,” I said. She recognized me. The next line I practiced in Italian about a hundred times before saying it: “I’d like to offer money for your lesson yesterday.”

And fortunately, she smiled. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

Claudia went and helped a few more tourists, took a selfie or two, and then returned. I pulled out a few bills. “I hope this is appropriate,” I said in my best Italian. "And if it’s not, please let me know.”

Well, the woman lit up. I saw a complete transformation. Her eyes got big and she smiled from ear to ear. She grabbed my face, kissed both my cheeks, gave me a giant hug, then enthusiastically wished me safe and excellent travels. She then insisted I take a photo with her and her mother.

Of course I wouldn’t write the story. Nor would I do any interviews. And it wasn’t that Claudia did anything wrong, or that I thought she was mean or materialistic. Not at all.

I’d simply misjudged the situation.

I thought this was about passion, about love, about preserving a sacred tradition. And I’m sure that’s part of it. But passion is not the primary guiding force.

No, this is about money.

Bari is a historically poor city. For many people, you go to college and then you move north. These women aren’t here rolling pasta because they necessarily want to — they have to. This is what their mothers had done, and their mothers before them. Making pasta is their vocation. It’s what they do. It’s how they, quite literally, make their bread. Yes, it’s a labor of love. But make no mistake about it — it’s still labor.

I was the one who came in with a fantasy, and who didn’t ask about the terms of our exchange. I imagined Claudia to be a certain way based off things I’d read in magazines and newspapers. I turned her into a caricature. And she’s not. She’s a human being, and one that’s part of a culture, history, and context that goes far beyond my understanding. Fortunately, Claudia did show me another layer to her culture, but she also showed me something deeper. People say to never meet your heroes, that you’ll always get disappointed. Well, that’s not true. I believe we shouldn’t turn people into heroes in the first place.

Bari is seeing an influx of tourism, just like the rest of Italy has. And Claudia is a tourist attraction. When I walked up to give her the money, I saw a wall of iPhones. People pointing them right at her face, staring blankly, not even looking at her but looking through their phones, filming the famous pasta woman of Italy so they can share it with their friends. And Claudia, faithfully, performs. She knows her jokes. She has her shtick. She knows her points and her punchlines. Claudia knows exactly what’s going on, perhaps better than we do. And I am not one to say whether that’s right or wrong.

Here’s what I do know. I had a beautiful morning in that kitchen, regardless of how it ended. And these women, who get up every day to mix flour with water and roll it into little discs of dough, have put their little neighborhood on the global culinary map. They are drawing in people from all over the world. And those tourists, regardless of how you may feel about them, are pumping money into this neighborhood and creating all sorts of new opportunities, for better or for worse. It’s a remarkable story, for sure.

It’s just not the story for me.