Natalia Nurzia stirred her thick Caffe al Morrone, a shot of espresso topped with nougat and milk. At the same time, we sat at the bar of her family in L’Aquila, which is the capital city of the Abruzzo region. “We’ve been here since 1835,” she told us, gazing out over the square. “Not even wars, not even earthquakes could move us.”
The family of Nurzia generations has created the chocolate Torroneit, the most well-known version made with honey, swirled with cocoa, and mixed with hazelnut chunks for extra crunch. It’s called Fratelli Nurzia. They were in the area on April 6, 20,09, the day that L’Aquila was struck by a quake that killed 309 and wounded over 1,600. It was among a series of rare earthquakes that struck central Italy for more than a decade. In August of 2016, The town of Amatrice, located in the neighboring Lazio, was torn down in a blaze. Then, two months later, it was time for Norcia, which is a medieval town with a wall located in Umbria known for its churches as well as its food.
Central Italy has long been recognized as one of the nation’s most gastronomic destinations. Before the earthquakes, while tourists made their way to Rome for pasta all amatriciana, Romans traveled to Amatrice to enjoy the food in the town of their birth. While tourists dreamed of Prosciutto from Parma, people of Umbria knew the hams from Norcia, which were so delicious that the city was able to give Italy the name norcinowhich means someone who cures meat. The region surrounding L’Aquila, situated at the foot of the mountains of Gran Sasso National Park, was famous for its hearty, energetic food, which included nougat. It’s still a popular spot.
The skylines are now dotted with cranes, and the skyline is dotted with cranes, but they are “paesi terremotati,”“earthquaked cities,” and are rebuilding from the bottom up. This fall, I escaped the bustle of my hometown city of Venice to take a trip across the region. It was five days of stunning landscapes and the most famous Italian food to observe how tourism can help heal the region’s injuries.
Nurzia put it best. “L’Aquila can only restart with tourism,” she declared while pointing to the shackled structures around the square, which used to house offices of the workers who kept her bar filled. The building process is slow. “We need people to love it, to come on vacation.” and she suggested eating but didn’t actually say it because she was drinking another sip.
On the other side of Fratelli Nurzia, I came across the Deli La Camoscina, where Vito Laterza was seated behind a counter that was stacked with wheels of cheese. He pointed to a chunk of ricotta that was firm and mountain-churned to me and explained the method by which shepherds use juniper berries to cook the cheese, then add saffron to the top. I purchased some along with the bottle of Genziana-the liqueur derived by removing the roots of the gentian plant, which is grown within the National Park and Vito’s “fearsome” (his word) wine. “There are only two times to drink it: alone and with company,” he said with a smile.
Twenty miles to the east of L’Aquila, just to the east of L’Aquila, is Santo Stefano di Sessanio, an ancient village that has been incorporated into the mountain. The town was once famous for its shepherds. The city was a part of the Medicis, who processed and traded the valued wool in Florence, and today is the home of the Sextantio, an albergo diffuso (“scattered hotel”) with traditional rooms in the homes of the village that have been abandoned.
In the restaurant of the hotel Locanda Sotto gli Archi, the menu is stuffed with traditional food items that are typical of the working class. I sampled a ravioli, which was as big as my palm, filled with ricotta, and dipped in saffron-based sauce. I had a pork neck that was soaked in figs sweet and sweet and Panzanella, a soupy mixture of crumbs from bread and onions, the santoreggia (an indigenous herb), and tomatoes that were so sweet that I believed they had been candied.
The next day, I drove through the national park over Santo Stefano onto a plateau where a cowboy galloped cattle through a wheat-colored plain and a mountain range with toothy gray peaks that erupted from the backdrop. With whirligig turns before returning to L’Aquila and then north into Lazio, I came to the heather-hued, velvety mountains that bind Amatrice in a hug.
Or, what is left of Amatrice? The first thing you notice is nothing. My eyes were trying to adjust to a tiny bell tower that was destroyed and was the only human-made structure left standing after the rest of the rubble had been removed. It is planned to restore the town, but seven years later, the city has not seen much progress made.
When I was driving through the city, the scent of bacon was a constant haze through the windows. It was from a field that lies on outside town where a collection of chalet-style huts designed in the style of Stefano Boeri (the architect behind Milan’s Vertical Forest) is a bulwark against the loss of its ruins. The structure was constructed using earthquake funds collected from the public; this square, dubbed”the Piazza del Gusto, Tradizione and Solidarieta (Taste, Tradition, and Solidarity), is home to the remaining eight Amatrice restaurants that are still thriving despite the odds.
At the restaurant Ma-tru in Amatrice, Daniele Bonanni was seen emerging from his kitchen. “This was one of the oldest restaurants in Amatrice,” Bonanni said, pointing through the elegant chairs to an image of his former place, a trattoria that was on the main street. The owner was his mother, and he was the deputy. That day in 2016, he was killed. Everything: the family house, their home, and their restaurant.
“I didn’t want to abandon Amatrice,” he declared in a quiet voice. “My mother sacrificed herself for this place.” Therefore, he gathered the few things he had left from his house -the wardrobe of his grandmother and an old bed warmer — and put them into this hut and then started over.
Amatriciana is among the most basic pasta sauces and is perhaps the most elegant. Daniele’s was awe-inspiring in its simplicity: the tomato that was warmed by spice, the nearly-charred bits made of guanciale (pork cheek), and the snowball of pecorino that topped it. His secret to success, he explained, was using local produce. He hesitated. “And the love you put into it.”
In the afternoon, Amelia Nibi was waiting for me with a dessert. Her family owns Casale Nibbi, an organic dairy and apple farm in the hills, 15 minutes to the west of Amatrice. She served me hunks of cheese. She then snatched an apple from the ground while we walked across her apple orchards. “What kind is it?” I inquired. She shook her head. “I dunno, an apple!” This is where the method you use to cultivate an item is as important as the thing you can grow.
The day I left, I trekked along the hillsides of Norcia. This area is popular for pilgrimages to religious and culinary sites just an hour to the northwest of Amatrice. The church dating back to the medieval period that was built by St. Benedict, which is the site of the patron saint of Europe, is currently being rebuilt following its collapse during the 2016 earthquake. While other structures remain standing, they’re plagued by cracks and are unsafe to walk into. Restaurants have a camp in prefabricated structures within the town’s walls.
The first stop is Cantina 48, for bruschetta covered in black truffles that are found on the mountainside. Then, Palazzo Seneca, a gastro-hotel in a 16th-century palazzo. The Bianconi family runs the hotel; it is home to Michelin-rated restaurant Vespasia, where, instead of Prosecco, I was served the palate-cleansing Genziana cocktail. The five-course vegetarian menu consisted of roasted celeriac paired with cream made from sheep’s milk and poached egg that was accompanied by wild mushrooms, black truffle, and a lentil broth.
The lentils were cultivated in the Pian Grande, a vast eight-square-mile plain that is wedged between the rippling green mountains to the east of Norcia. The cultivation of pulses has been in place for centuries. In the summer months, when the wildflowers and crop plants bloom, the meadows turn colorful: red, violet, blue, and yellow. When I drove through the region, I observed a variety of different shades of green as fresh plants burst forth from the soil.
The town of Castelluccio, which is located on a hill overlooking the valley, was nearly destroyed in the year 2016. Although the majority of the rubble was cleared, the town has not yet been rebuilt. The majority of former residents reside elsewhere and commute to work. But Castelluccio was alive as Italians packed into shacks to sample their famous lentil soup. I had the soup from the restaurant La Campagnola. It was it was rich, almost meaty, and drenched in rich olive oil in a green color. Alongside me, motorcyclists slurped down bowls of food; at the produce stand, Lu Soccio, an elderly couple, debated over the merits among the five kinds of chickpeas that were on sale. Nearby, I saw the farmer Vincenzo Bertoni, who was selling his locally grown pulses in the ruins of the home of a friend.
“Progress is slow, but we have to thank the tourists who never abandoned us,” He declared, securing my lentils as well as the roveja, an uncommon variety of pea with a nut-brown color. Only in Italy can food be used to help entire communities recover from the trauma of their past.
