G and I went out to East Hampton for the holiday weekend to visit my aunt and to get away from the city for a bit. Saturday was a rainy day, so we all went to Sag Harbor to see the boats and to grab a bite to eat at a new place called Grappa (excellent portions for a light lunch)—I had a rose’ with my grilled asparagus and poached egg salad, G had a panino made of salami, and my aunt had the arugula salad. We all shared a cheese plate, with Taleggio, Fontina, and Gorgonzola Piccante, all very flavorful and yummy.
On our way home, G and I mentioned that we might like to go bowling. Next thing I knew, my aunt had dropped us off at a bowling alley. We walked in and immediately decided that it was not what we wanted to do at that time. Instead, we decided to cross the very busy street to the “Tutto Italiano” food store across the street–it promised good things, since it even included Sardinia in the map, which no one ever does.
We were in luck. Instead, we witnessed a man making in-house mozzarella. He was squat, about 5’7″, with a big chest, a bigger belly, and huge forearms. We watched him as he labored over his big, metal bowl of milky water. He pulled the mozzarella like taffy over and over again, across the flat part of his long paddle. His left arm bulged as he steadied his movements, while his right hand massaged the cheese. He rolled it over and over again in the water, until he thought it was ready to form.
He began to pull and gather the cheese into fist-sized balls, which he twisted off and dropped into a vat of more milky water to his right. Every now and again, he made bite-sized bocconcini, which made my mouth water just thinking about biting into them. When he finished, he moved around to where we were standing, so we got out of his way. He began to place them in their plastic containers to be weighed, when we heard “where did that couple go?” He saw us and said “Paesano, vien qua,” more or less, get over here peasant.
We scooted back over, and behind his back, he handed G a bocconcino. G turned his back on the crowd, and as he took a bite, a change came over his face. “Let me try” I said, and he offered me a bite. Milky, smooth, nutty, sweet–the homemade mozzarella was all of these things, none of which we had expected. We looked at the man in wonder, and he responded, “It’s all in how you work it… no one takes the time any more to do it like this.”
We found out that Pasquale had moved over from Naples when he was fifteen. His grandmother had chosen him of all of the nipoti to learn the family recipe, and he’s made his living off of the trade–as a nineteen year old, he made $700 a week making mozzarella, the same as his colleagues, some of which were upwards of 60 years old, slightly insulted that some kid from Italy was better at their trade. Now, he owns the food shop in East Hampton and still makes the very special cheese that got him there.
Tutto Italiano by Citarella, 631 324 9500. 74 Montauk Hwy East Hampton, NY 11937.