Ascending To The Monk Of Pizza

Alfonso Golf Cart, who hustles tourists around the cliffside town in a spanky open-air four-seater, quoted us 50€ each way to a secluded four-table pizzeria up in Tramonti, run by a former English student of Nilde named Francesco. Alfonso looks like if a young Le Corbusier had given himself to racquetball instead of concrete.

There are reassuring Italian-language videos of Francesco forcefully but lovingly working his silken jellyfish-heads of dough — on floured marble in a low, amber-lit dining room — speaking in happy subtitles about the unique blend of flours he has developed (semolina di Campania, corn, rye…ba-babba ba-babba ba). In the videos he resembles a shiny-pated Yo La Tengo aficionado, with his dark plastic frames and anxious-to-please resting state, and wears a sporty white chef’s coat adorned with embroidered logos not unlike NASCAR livery.

I then watch a silent YouTube video of the road to Tramonti. (That this video even would exist says something.) It’s maybe four miles of switchbacks, takes half an hour, and often features Indiana Jones barreling the other direction in an out-of-control mine cart. (“Scusi! SCUUUSIIIII!”) After a brief discussion, Lauren and I agree to the price. (I had originally balked at 50€, so he lowered it to 40€, but then the next morning he said it had to be 50€ again.)

A Curiosity of Italian Negotiating

I met a young couple from Chicago at breakfast (Lauren stayed back to rest), and they seemed potentially interested in sharing a fare to Tramonti, so I texted Alfonso about the physical possibility of two more joining us. First he replied, “Yes Sir My question Is this people are skinny and fit?” (As an American, I was acutely aware of his implication.) I replied yes, and he replied that the trip for four would be 300€ instead of 100€ for two. He then confirmed it, upon my confirmation of what I was seeing.

At this point, I stopped trying to ask Alfonso about his prices. It seems the more you bother an Italian man, the higher the cost of his service rises. I would not be surprised to discover that among the nominativo and accusativo verb cases, there is also the levo case. Levo means leverage.

I then descended the hundreds of stone steps to town to buy “cough drops, gum, and plenty of chocolate.” (That is pasted from Lauren’s text.) I threw in two focaccia sandwiches, a few sfogliatelle, an n/a beer, and some time studying the swimsuits at the beach, as part of my learning. The sfogliatelle were far and away the highlight.

As we freshened our faces and sprezza’d the collars and cuffs for dinner, the light in our sea-canyon grew soft and cool. A high-grade evening calm settled in for the pre-barkophany hours; here a bird spip-spipped or birruped, there an unseen citrus farmer gently hammered (“tink…tink…tink…”) something iron into ancient concrete. Burning grapevine, familiar from one I used to have, lightly censed the terraces. Even the serenity they have here is better.

Next time: Pizzeria San Francisco in Tramonti. It deserves its own entry.