THE DEATH OF MANOLETE, IN PERUGIA

I recall times in my life  when the combination of what I was reading and where I was reading came together in such an extraordinary way that they were among the things I thought of whenever I heard John Coltrane's "My Favorite Things".

One such satisfying moment occurred Saturday, July 27, in the midst of the antique market at a small piazza in Perugia, the capital of Umbria, located about 30 minutes from Panicale, where I have been for the five weeks with Nancy Silvertron.  

I was there on that hot noon with Nancy and LIz "Go Go" Hong. As they shopped for tiny coffee pots, miniscule chairs  and sunglasses, I sat on a bench and read the climatic scene of "The Death of Manolete" by Barnaby Conrad,

Though surrounded by people strolling past and inspecting trinkets. I was so deeply immersed in the story of the August 28, 1947 fatal goring of the greatest bullfighter of his time that I was glad Nancy was browsing at a slow pace, even by her anti-Senna standards. 

I first heard about Manolete from my father when I was a teenager. My dad, Tony Krikorian, had never seen him, but spoke of Manolete in a way that brought him to life for me. Manolete was the greatest figure in all of Spain right around the time of Seabiscuit. and during and past World War II.  

About six months ago, I mentioned Manolete in passing to Larry Silverton, Nancy's dad. He was stunned I even knew of Manolete and he told stories about him and said I must read the book "The Death of Manolete" by this Barnaby Conrad, who Larry knew.   

I took it along to Perguia and while the girls shopped, I took a wonderful, and sad adventure to Spain.

Later, i started thinking about those rarified moments where place and book have united in my life to create lasting memories.

The last known occurrence was reading  Laura Hillenbrand's "Seabiscuit", one of my all time favorites books. I was at Philippes the Original Frenh Dip and reading the chapter  of the book that described the match race between Seabiscuit and War Admiral. Exhilaration in hardback. 

That rich L.A. setting - 1908 restaurant crowded with its world wide clientele, the five dollar glass of Havens merlot, the double dipped Lamb with swiss - and  the match race.  Talk about a daily double.   

Two other memores of book and place are even more beautiful to me,  though they were in the saddest of times. The deaths, 15 years apart, of my mom and dad. The book was the same both times, "Les Miserables". In 1987, as my mother was dying of ovarian cancer, I'd go to a park in Gardena, off Western Avenue, with a blanket, the book and a bottle of Smirnoff. Fifteen years later, as my dad was dying of lung cancer in the VA in West Los Angeles, I read Victor Hugo's masterpiece again, much of it at the bar of the Viceroy Hotel in Santa Monica.  Le Miserables will always be my favorite book, even more than "Southside".

Another memorable  book and place. "So Big" by Edna Ferber , read on the Amtrak train that runs between Fresno and Bakersfield.   That book is about a widow with a big baby who eeks out a living on a farm south of Chicago that has real hard dirt. Talk about a book that I would not be interested in, that's it. But, the writing. the storytelling was so compelling it made me realize any tale was worth reading if the writing was sublime. There is a passage in the book I read on this southbound train where  the timeline of the story jumps from the past to the present in such a wonderful fashion that I clearly remember being mesmerized. "So Big" didn't make me want to become a writer, but it did it teach me, or rather reminded me, powerfully, the pleasures reading could bring. 

.

HASTINGS FAMILY TRIED TO GET HIM TO REHAB

AUGUST 20, 2013.     

Hopıng to get hım ınto rehab, a famıly member of Mıchael Hastıngs  arrıved ın Los Angeles from New York the day before he was kılled ın a fıery car accıdent,. the L.A. Coroner's offıce saıd Tuesday.

The famıly member stated that Hastıngs has 'pased out' sometıme between 12:30 a.m. and 1 a.m.., at least three hours before before the deadly crash on Hıghland Avenue just south of Melrose on June 18, accordıng to LAPD ınvestıgators..  Thıs famıly member belıeved Hastıngs had begun usıng DMT (Dımethyltrypta). Thıs drug, known as 'busınessman's trıp' or 'fantasıa', can cause 'ımpaıred judgement that often leads to rash decısıons and accıdents' accordıng to the Palo Alto Medıcal Foundatıon.  

 The offıcıal cause of death was 'massıve blunt force trauma consıstant wıth a hıgh speed front-end ımpact...'

The report states  'famıly had just arrıved from New York the day prıor attemptıng to get the decendant to go to rehab.' .Another famıly member was due to arrıve the mornıng of the crash.. 

The quoted famıly member saıd that Hastıngs 'belıeved he was ınvıncıble'  Hastıngs was sober for the past 14 years, but begun usıng drugs agaın ın the last month of hıs lıfe. No alcohol was ın Hastıngs system the reports states,  

The report also concluded that Hastıngs  had 'small amount of amphetamıne ın the blood, consıstant wıth a possbıble ıntake of methamphetamıne many hours before death unlıkely to have an ıntoxıcatıve effect at the tıme of the accıdent '.  

Here ıs the full report.

 Hastings, the 33-year old reporter best known for a profile that brought down a U.S. Army general, was killed in an explosive early mornıng car crash near Hollywood. His death immediately sparked internet claims of a 'black-ops' conspiracy.  

Thıs coroner's report ıs lıkely to muffle the conspıracy claıms.  

++ Thıs report was wrıtten on a Turkısh keyboard at a hotel ın Istanbul. Please overlook the even more than usual typos.

+++ If anyone has trouble pullıng up the lınked report, let me know. I wıll be travelıng ın the aır most of the day tomorrow. 

CAPRI IS BURNING

Reporting from Isle of Capri  August 18, 2013

This sunny morning, sitting at a cafe sipping cappucino with Nancy Silverton at an outdoor cafe fronting a rocky beach on the Mediterraean, I realized my memories of Capri go back nearly 30 years.  

It was in 1986, on the corner of Compton and Crenshaw boulevards, that my 1973 Mercury Capri caught on fire.  Me and my boy Nate Bowman quickly exited and took several steps away as my model 2600 went up in flames.  

"Capri is burning," I said numbly as my transportation melted before me.

"No," Nate told me. "Your motherfuckin' Capri is burning." 

We walked a few blocks up Crenshaw and bought a half pint of E & J brandy.  

I  thought of that this morning as my gaze shifted from the deep blue of the sea at Capri's Piccolo Marinia to the mustardy color of the chairs we sat in.   

"What color is that? These chairs. Like a mustard, but not French's." 

"It's like Gulden's Spicy Brown," Nancy said. 

"I used to have a Mercury Capri that color."

I told her the story of the Merc burning. Seconds later, like a master of ceremonies pointing to the band, a song came on the cafe's speakers. A woman singing.  The opening lines:

"Sometimes I hate every single stupid word you say

Sometimes I wanna slap you  in your whole face" 

We looked at each other and started laughng. I went to the bartender and asked what was the song. She looked. "PInk. Song is "True Love".

I told Nancy, "This could be our theme song."  

 Today is the last of our five night stay in Capri, and while I disparaged it on the first day, referring it as "Rodeo Drive Island", I gotta say, I had a ultra lovely time here.

The hotel, La Scalinatella, is probably nicest place I have ever stayed. 

We got into the Capri groove. A hour walk in the morning, down to the pool overlooking the sea. lunch from a poolside buffet, back to the room, drinks by the pool, walk or taxi through the narrow streets to dinner, drinks by the pool.   

The food was good, though this is not a foodie destination. The best meal we had, which was excellent, was at Paolino, http://www.paolinocapri.com/en/  This place is covered with lemon trees and we had the best tomato of the trip here.  So good, we ordered another one. Just a big tomato, called a "heart of bull", one of the owners said, with basil and a little olive oil. I'd say it was the second best tomato I ever had, coming in not far behind one from my friend Mark Arax's Fresno backyard.  

On the important people-watching front  the isle was superb. (Capri boasts one the highest Michelin one-star ratings for women per captia I have ever seen in Europe).  

Nancy saw a fancy dress.  "Maybe if your book does good, you can buy me a dress next year." Other than rescuing  a kid from a burning car, there's nothing I'd rather do.  

Poolside pasta at hotel La Scalinatella

Everyday at 1 p.m., we get in the line for the buffet at La Scalinatella . Line has two people  

Storied "Heart of Bull" tomato of Ristorante Paolino

HASTINGS UPDATE August 16

When news broke that Michael Hastings had died in an explosive car crash near Hollywood, the internet soon was thriving with conspiracy theories. It was - and remains - a sensational story lurking for an evil plot.    

What I find strange is so many people, even if they are convinced that this was simply a horrible accident, so quickly dismiss those who are equally convinced it was a dastardly act that killed the investigative reporter on June 18..  

To the former, consider this:  A Russian investigative reporter whose article brought down the Red Army general in charge of Russian commandos, and who was working on a story about the head of the KGB, died in a fiery car crash in Moscow. Would anyone in the United States believe the "no foul play" party line?  Please. 

Moving on, not surprisingly,  there are Michael Hastings rumors floating on the internet that have no or little basis. One of them is that Hastings body was cremated against his family's wishes.  The Los Angeles Coroner's said Friday morning that is not true. While Hastings body was cremated, it was done so,- by a mortuary- at the request of a friend of Hastings' wife who had put him in charge of the matter, according to the coroner's office..

"His wife had a friend out here who made the arrangements for the body to be cremated,° said Ed Winter, assistant chief of operations at the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office.   "The internet made it seem the city had burned the body to remove some kind of evidence. We didn't cremate his body, anyway. A mortuary did that."

Winder said that Hastings toxicology results would be made public "within days".

Another thought floating on the web is that Hastings' vehicle was traveling at only 35 miles per hour as it drove  down Highland Avenue heading toward doom.

That is not true. Not even close.  The Pizzeria Mozza security camera video that captures the crash shows several cars going by roughly a minute before Hastings' Mercedes enters the picture. The difference in speed is obvious, even startling. The Benz is going at least 80 mph, That's conservative.   

Videos of the crash on YouTube  have over 400,000 views.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjaPHWNzTHQ 

PIZZA TITANS MEET

CAIAZZO, CAMPANIA 

The July 8 E-mail from Faith Willnger was like Faith herself; to the point, hold the bullshit.   

"I wanted to tell you about a fantastic pizzeria in Caiazzo, Pepi in Grani, pizzaiolo Franco Pepe kneads all dough by hand, quite amazing "

 For the next month, Fatih Willinger, an American-born, Florence-living  author and expert on Italian food and restaurants, did not let up.  Pepi in Grani made the best pizza in all of Italy. she told me and Nancy Silverton, who makes the best pizza in America.   "You must go," Faith said. "You have to go."

So, as Italy MMXIII cruised toward the end of its journey, we went to the town of Caiazzo for some pizza.

Faith was right.  Pepe in Grani (grains) made the best pizza I have ever had in Italy.  

Nancy rarely eats pizza, but we spilt (well, 75-25) three large pizzas and a calzone filled with ricotta, burrata, escarole and ham that could be seen from the east side of Jupiter.

During dinner, the quiet Franco Pepe came over to our table - he knew  Faith had sent us - and said that a restaurant in Los Angeles, "Sotto",  had named a dish after him,   

"Oh, yes. I know Steve and Zack," said Nancy, referring to Steve Samson and Zach Pollack. (Indeed, at Sotto, on  Pico near Century City, the menu lists "Homage to Caiazzo" a calzone with escarole, capers, olives and burrata.)

Franco and Nancy chatted on for a few minutes in Engtalian, while I continued destroying a pizza that one of the servers described as "The Dream", which has anchovies,  mozzarella, olives, capers, basil and tomatoes. Those ingridients were so bright they energized our weary taste buds to the point we considered ordering a fifth item. We didn't.   

As we walked out, after a quick tour of the kitchen. we saw about 25 people outside on the cobblestone sidewalk waiting to get into Pepi in Grani. The look on those people's face was very familiar.

https://www.facebook.com/pepeingrani

A server at Pepe in Grani described this pie as "The Dream".  

Nancy and Franco

HASTINGS' TOX REPORT DUE WITHIN TWO WEEKS

August 9. 2013

The Los Angeles County Coroner’s office said Friday they should be finished with their toxicology examination of  journalist Michael Hastings within two weeks.

“We are continuing testing and want to make sure we don’t miss anything and no one can come back and say 'did you do this or that?',” said Ed Winter, assistant chief of operations at the coroner’s office. Winter said an examination like this can test for  more than 800 medicines, drugs and prescription combinations. "It should be done within two weeks."

Hastings, best known for his 2010 Rolling Stone profile of Stanley McChrystal which led to the former four-star general’s ouster, died in a fiery crash in the early morning hours of June 18 when his Mercedes Benz slammed into a palm tree on Highland  Avenue just south of Melrose Avenue.

A security camera in front of Pizzeria Mozza captured the car speeding by, jumping a median curb, then bursting into a fireball after hitting the tree. A YouTube clip of the restaurant's security footage (http://www.youtube.com/watchv=EjaPHWNzTHQ) ,posted by WeAreTheSavageNation,  has over 275,000 views.  

The lead investigator in the case, LAPD Detective Connie White, said earlier this week she was “not at all upset with the release of the video,” and added, as she has stated before,  “there has been nothing to change the LAPD's initial view that Michael Hastings’ death was due to an accident.”  White said Wednesday it might be another month for the case to be closed.

A video by Loudlabs News, (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNhqKRugk8QabsNews  whichshows which catches the Mercedes running a red light at Highland and Santa Monica Boulevard, a half mile north of the crash scene, has over 170,000 views.  

 The photo below is of Hastings’ Mercedes Benz being towed away hours after the crash.

A MADNESS CALLED METH

August 8, 2103.

Yesterday my friend emailed me a story about a huge methamphetamine bust in Los Angeles County invovling the powerful street gang Florencia 13, the Mexican Mafia, (EME) priosn gang and the drug caretl LA Familia Michoacan. It remind me of an old story I was part of .

 On October, 8, 2000 a joint project by the Fresno, Sacramento and Modesto Bees about the growing threat of methamphetamine was published.  My role in the special section called "A Madness Called Meth" was to go to Mexico, to Michoacan, the epicenter of meth, and reported. Freno Bee Phtographer Craig Kolhrus and I spent several days hanging out there, This is a part of the project I wrote that appeared in Chapter 5..

FROM "A MADNESS CALLED METH"

The young man is nervous during interrogation.

The detective senses it. The story just doesn't add up. Why would anyone pay someone $1,000 just to drive three men from Long Beach to Porterville in Tulare County?

"I'll tell you this right now, once you tell me the truth you're gonna feel like a man," he tells the suspect.

"All I want to do is go home to my wife and kids," he replies.

The suspect, who claims he was on his way to visit his uncle in Fresno when he was caught up in a meth bust, begins to cry.

"Why are you treating me like a criminal?"

A long minute passes. Backed into a corner, the suspect gives something up: He was paid to bring the two men up "to cook."

"To cook what?"

"I don't know. They just say to cook."

This dance is about to come to an end.

"You told me you are from Michoacan. What part of Michoacan?"

"Apatzingan."

Now the detective knows for sure. Javier Ochoa is part of the meth trade.

It's 45 minutes before midnight, and traffic is heavy on the sidewalks of Apatzingan. Bumpy, paved streets in the city's center are lined with hundreds of narrow storefront shops selling everything from new clothes to washing machines to caskets. Sidewalks are crowded with strollers.

A dressmaker watches the foot traffic. "I love living in Apatzingan," Rosalba Conchola says. "It's full of life. It's not dangerous, unlike the United States."

Music, Mexican and American, blares from passing cars, many of them new- or late-model American pickups or BMWs. There are obvious signs of money here, but there are no obvious signs as to why. It's simply understood. The chief products in this gritty farming town are mangoes, papayas, watermelons and meth. And a steady supply of meth makers.

Like some rap music in urban America, much of the popular music in Michoacan romanticizes the drug dealer. Sidewalk booth vendors in Apatzingan do a good business selling "Druga Corredos," the Mexican equivalent of gangsta rap. One song begins: "I am here across the border in America, and I have drugs for you . . ."

Apatzingan anchors the "Michoacan Trail," a pipeline that moves north through Guadalajara to Tijuana, pumping not only the product, but the people who cook it, across the California border and into the Central Valley.

"Yes, it is true," says police officer Ramon Lopez-Valencia as he slowly shakes his head. "The young people want to be crystal dealers."

Says Mike Huerta of the DEA in Arizona: "It's like they have some kind of mini academy down there in Apatzingan where they train people to cook and send them to California."

Apatzingan's police department is in the partially abandoned Palacio Municipal, a tattered two-story colonial with peeling paint, fresh graffiti and plenty of men with automatic weapons. (Across the street is the main plaza, the cathedral and the shining star of the city -- the building where on Oct. 22, 1814, Mexico's first constitution was signed.)

Fernando Fernandez-Castaneda, Apatzingan's police chief, is 23, stands about 5 foot 5 with his boots on and weighs about 130 pounds. His silver ballpoint pen sticks out of his white, blue-striped dress shirt. He wears gray slacks. Atop his burgundy vinyl-topped desk is a Samsung computer loaded with Microsoft Word. He wears no gun, but 3 feet to his left is an AK-47.

Fernandez-Castaneda smiles frequently and talks softly. He says he is determined to do something about meth in his town. "Crystal is a gigantic problem here. It has been for years," he says, as police officers armed with machine guns and pearl-handled revolvers amble outside his office. "We just used to take it all out of the country, but now the locals are consuming it, and it is very worrisome.

"We can spot the obvious drug men, and they don't care that we know what they do."

Their hair is neatly cropped, he says, and they wear gold chains and bracelets and ostrich-skin boots. They drive new pickups with fancy wheels.

During a routine raid of what Fernandez-Castaneda calls meth-rich neighborhoods, the chief runs into 23-year-old Jose Manuel. The two grew up in the same barrio. For the last six months, Manuel has a new passion -- snorting crank.

"It makes me feel excited," Manuel says, "makes me want to move."

"Is it hard for you to get it?" he is asked.

"I'll will show you how hard it is. I'll be back in 10 minutes." But Manuel, on a bike, needs a ride to score, and the chief, eager to show how common meth is, orders an officer to give Manuel a ride. After a few minutes, the chief is eager to continue the raid, so he and 22 officers in four pickups cruise along bumpy dirt roads, randomly stopping to search young men, who submit quietly.

Three crucifixes mounted with suction cups hang from the chief's windshield. A fourth lies near the gearshift -- to ensure his safety, he says. Jesus takes the place of seat belts. "It's like a university for crystal down here," says Fernandez-Castaneda, who estimates there are 10 major labs in Apatzingan and countless smaller ones. "They learn to cook and go to California."

After searching suspects in three neighborhoods, the police come up empty.

When the police arrive back at the station, Manuel shows off what is left of the quarter gram of meth he has copped for about $5. As he extends the dope, half covered in plastic wrap, the wind blows. The dope and the plastic wrap swirl out of his hand in a graceful arc, floating like a parachute to the pavement. Manuel grabs at it but misses, and the drugs fall to the concrete. He is last seen trying to sort the crystal from the dirt.

A short while later, a 17-year-old boy wearing a worn Cleveland Indians baseball cap sits on the chipped front steps of an apartment building. His old green bike rests next to him. He delivers for a nearby pharmacy but admits he wants his own type of pharmaceuticals.

"Yeah, I want my own organization one of these days," says Pablo Hernandez Rodales, taking off his cap to wipe sweat off his forehead. "I'm going to have me a new truck and five girls.

"You know, they are never going to stop the crystal now."

ITALIAN BITES PART 3 MMXIII

AUGUST 7, 2013

As Italy 2013 bites on and on, the team of Nancy Silverton and Michael Krikorian have added a slew of dishes that will compete later this month for the DOT (dishes of the trip) awards, that culminates in that most coveted award, Taste of the Trip. 

Several guest diners have added their tastes to the pot,  they include chef Matt Molina (who won a James Beard Award and the rare James Goatee Award), Liz “Go Go” Hong, chef of Pizzeria Mozza and, it shockingly turns out, not the dumb blonde she was when she entered the country.  Also joining was professori di vino Bobby Silverton, a Philly/Venice Beach  guy devoted to fine dining.

It has been over 10 days since the last restaurant update, and many good dishes will not even make this preliminary list. To get on the following you best grab hold of our taste buds, grab them and say “Don’t I taste good, fool?!”

GELATO IN ORVIETO

Orvieto, about an hour from Panciale, is best known for its cathedral which has a strikingly beautiful façade. I like to take the unsuspecting, like Liz Go Go Hong,  lead them down a small street that live ends at the church, and twirl them around like I did with Go Go and also with Larry Silverton.  Both said “Wow” and “Oh my God!.”  Larry said he was tempted to become a Christian.  As for Go Go, she was so taken with the church that I convinced her to go inside. She hadn’t been in a church since the Battle of Verdun.  Go Go entered the church and said “Ok, lets go get some gelato.” Total time in church 9 seconds.

NOTE - I didn’t see this, but Nancy swears Matty Molina even took a photo of this church.

The church is about 60 meters from GELATERIA PASQUALETTI, where in 2012 I had nine scoups.  This time I cut down to eight. The highlights are the pistachio and chocolate rum.  The Fiore di latte with frutti de bosco is also excellent. Ya know what? All their stuff is good.

YOGURT AMUSE BUSCHE AT CIBREO

Cibreo is one of the top restaurants in Florence.  So many things were good here at our lunch - roasted stuffed rabbit, fish soup, orange cheesecake -  but the most stunning, most sensual single bite was this mold of yogurt flavored with turmeric,  I am doing a rotten job of describing this, so |I’m going to yell upstairs and see if Nancy has anything to add.  Hold up   Ok. “It was a yogurt panna cotta with turmeric set with gelatin and very flavorful and tangy.”  It was a superb  way to wake up .the taste buds and let them know they were in for an exhilarating ride.

The entire lunch  at Cibreo was excellent.

http://www.edizioniteatrodelsalecibreofirenze.it/index.php?option=com_content&view=section&id=12&Itemid=2

MEAT TROLLEY

Our American friends in Panicale, Alan and Barbara, known as “A and B” and from Las Vegas by way of Pittsburg,  spend several months a year in Italy,  tracking down restaurants and operas the way Lord Baltimore tracked Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “I know my food,” A said last night. He sure does. He has recommended three places this summer and all three were Returners, one of our highest honors.

This place is located in Sansepolcro, where Piero Della Francesca was born in 1415.  The restaurant is Da Ventura and we were alerted by “A” to get the meat trolley. And indeed, for 12 euros, a meat trolley with three roasts pulled up to the table and a waiter starts carving. We had on our trolley a porchetta, a pot roast to rival Jar, and a veal shank.    Avoid the pasta here. Or even any antipasti and go straight for the trolley.

The restaurant is 100 meters from the Musee Civico, which features masterpieces by Piero Della Francesca and several self portraits by Pat Asanti.

http://www.albergodaventura.it/homeeng.html

OSTERIA FRANCESCANA had several dishes that will  make it to the grand finals at the DOT awards. A short script about this dining event will appear later.

BISTECCA MOLINA and Roasted Potatoes-

A week ago, while I read a good book called “Southside”, Nancy, Matt and Liz prepared dinner. It was a homeland feast highlighted by a one-kilo steak cooked in the outdoor wood oven and some simple roasted potatoes with rosemary and olive oil.   Go Go made some good salsa verde and would frequently remind us of this throughout dinner.

NOTE Later that night, Go Go destroyed Nancy and myself in a stupid game of Scrabble. It was significant because it was the first inkling either of us had that Liz had a functioning brain.  Days later, it would be revealed that in some societies , Go Go would be considered intelligent. On a nighttime walk, I handed her 30 pages of a novel to read.  Nine footsteps later she handed it back saying “Change the $25,000 purse. Make it 10.” Girl can speed read.  However, I learned she prefers to play down her brain so others will focus on her body. She did a good job of this at the piazza in Panicale prompting one Panicale veteran, George,. 77,  to proclaim  “I’ve seen women with more clothing on at a nudist colony.”

FISH BAKED ON SALT.

In the Adriatic seaside town of Cesenatica, north of Rimini,  is the restaurant La Buca where Matty insisted we go. This guy is talking about this place like the fish is caught by Jesus with Peter as his netman. We went. The crudo was bright.  The big  prawns lightly grilled and good.  The highlight was a sparidae, a fish related to bream and dentrice..   This fish was cooked on, not quite a bed of salt, but more like a yoga matt of salt. Not encased where you crack that salt cover off, the bottom of said fish had a nice, kinda, well,  salty tinge to it. Real moist.  We lucked out here on this \July 31 lunch as the fishing in the Adriatic shuts down for the month of August to allow the fish to build up their population and for the fisherman to essentially do the same while on vacation. .

http://www.stefanobartolini.com/la-buca/

After La Buca, we strolled over to a gelato place called Labratorio, something like that, and I have four flavors, including a pistachio made, they claim, with “100% DOP pistachios”. The gelato here was intense and good and the lady whose photo might be below says they are going to open a place in Malibu in conjunction with the Toscano folks.

NOTE ABOUT GELATO- The hotter it is, the better good gelato tastes. The heat can help a so-so gelato, but it straight out turbo-charges the good stuff. If you could get a real good gelato in hell, it would be out of this world.

FEGATINI aka CHICKEN LIVER ON TOAST.

“A” , our friend from Pittsburg and Las Vegas, hit a three-run homer with his recommendation of Piccolo Trattoria Guastini in Valiano, a 34-minute drive, (timed twice) from Panicale on the back road to Montepulchiano,

With Bobby Silverstein, we went two weeks ago and we very pleased. We decided to give it another try and this time it was even better. The highlights included a simple Fegatini, a dish available all over the country, but never better than this version.  Nancy took one bite and uttered probably my favorite positive food term “delicious”. Coming from her, it has some pulp.

The dish was not cooked down to a smooth or even course consistency and spread on toast. Instead it had, excuse the word, gobs of chicken  liver. The owner of Guastini said it was somewahto an accidental dish.

“We always cooked the dish like everybody else. But one day, we are cooking it down and some situation happened. A commotion. And we turned off the pan to look into the problem When we came back, an hour so later,. I tasted the chicken liver and, wow, it was so good. So we now serve it that way.”  I told him if he changed it, he would be  having a real commotion.

Guastini also scored strong on their ravioli stuffed with pigeon and topped with two gigantic pigeon legs.

http://www.piccolatrattoriaguastini.it/

SAUSAGE AND EGGS

Yesterday for lunch Nancy made a frittata with pancetta, onions, parmesan and aged percorino. She cooked up some sausage from the Coop, a supermarket made famous in a photo with Nancy wearing their shirt.  Added a little salad.  Just the two of us on the porch with the Panicale backdrop.  Lou Rawls was on the box singing “Old Folks”.  I  don’t even have to say no more.  You feel me?  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90bGU8YX0v0

Meat Trolley at Da Ventura in Sansepolcro

Panicale Porch lunch August 6

MY TURKISH FRIEND

Across the Armenian-Turkish divide

Op-Ed

For years, the genocide fueled my anger at all things Turkish. Then I met Murat Kayali.

April 23, 2013|By Michael Krikorian

In 2001, I wrote a story for the Los Angeles Times about April 24, the annual Armenian Day of Remembrance, that had this lead: "The Armenian genocide."

That was it, the entire first paragraph.

I was proud of it because it didn't say "the alleged genocide" or "what the Armenians consider a genocide." It just called the 1915 massacre of a million Armenians what it was, even though the U.S. government — in deference to official Turkish denials and our air bases in Turkey — won't use the word.

When I was a teenager, I used to go with my grandfather Nahabed to April 24 protest marches on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood and later on Wilshire Boulevard. I've been to maybe 25. I'll probably go again this week.

I heard the tales of horror from both pairs of grandparents, Nahabed and Siranoush, from the city of Kharpert, and Moses and Siran, from a village near Van. Siranoush saw her pregnant sister bayoneted, the fetus coming back out on the blade. For my other grandmother, Siran, there was never enough distance to completely wipe away what happened. It all enraged me, eliciting a young man's desire for revenge.

When 19-year-old Hampig "Harry" Sassounian shot and killed the Turkish counsel general at a stoplight on Wilshire Boulevard and Comstock in Westwood in 1982, I mostly admired him. What a bold thing to do, I thought then, to kill this Turkish official who denied the ultimate crime.

In those years, whenever I saw or heard about anything Turkish, I hated it. Even Turkish Taffy. I'm not joking. On Redondo Beach Boulevard near Prairie Avenue there was a bar called Turk's Grass Hut. I doubt the owner was even a Turk, but every time I drove by at night, I considered shooting out the sign with my .38.

When I met Turks, which happened a few times, I immediately said I was Armenian. It's an example of my vast ignorance that I was always surprised when they didn't recoil in hatred.

One of them said he had been engaged to an Armenian girl, but her parents wouldn't allow the marriage. Big deal, I thought. Why would anyone want to marry a Turk anyway?

I knew, of course, that all Turks weren't bad. My Uncle Harry and Uncle Aram told me that many had helped Armenians in their darkest hour. But the rest of them had killed my ancestors, or stood by and then denied the atrocities.

Years passed. My anger eased. And I met Murat Kayali.

He was a delivery driver for the restaurant my girlfriend owns. When I saw this new guy lingering in the parking lot, I introduced myself. As I do with just about everyone I meet, I challenged him with a "Where you from?" (I've probably been hanging out in Watts too long.)

"Turkey," he said.

I said, "I'm Armenian."

And his face lit up.

He told me of the many Armenian friends he had back home in Ankara and how much he loved the Armenian people. He had this engaging smile and a contagious exuberance. We talked for a while.

I walked into the restaurant thinking, "Hmm, I liked that guy. I like that Turk."

Every time I saw him, he greeted me with "Michael, eench bes es?" — the phonetic version of "How are you?" in Armenian. I started to seek him out.

Turned out he had a UCLA engineering degree and was working at the restaurant to put away some money. His goal was a good job in his homeland. He invited me to his wedding at home in Ankara, promising me I would be treated like family.

How could I not like him? How could anyone not like this guy, even someone like me?

On the afternoon of the Oscars last year, the to-go orders were piling up at the restaurant. I went into the kitchen to help. Organize the time sequence of the orders for the delivery drivers, I was told. Soon, Murat joined me, sorting the tickets.

"Check it out," I said loudly to the staff. "An Armenian and a Turk working side by side."

"And having fun," Murat said. "Someone take a picture."

We laughed and gave each other a hard sideways five. Pop. The sting felt good.

Murat finally moved back to Turkey. Two weeks ago, he Facebooked me. He had his dream job as an engineer in Ankara. His marriage was a delight. He was happy. I was happy for him. He wrote, "You are one of my best friends in USA." He told me to come visit. Again.

Imagine that. Me going to Ankara to see a Turkish friend. Maybe I will. Maybe there's hope for the planet after all.

Michael Krikorian, a former Times staff writer, is the author of a crime novel, "Southside," due to be published in November.

http://articles.latimes.com/print/2013/apr/23/opinion/la-oe-krikorian-armenians-genocide-20130423

Murat and Michael in Istanbul