Read Online The Telling Room: A Tale of Love, Betrayal, Revenge, and the World's Greatest Piece of Cheese by Michael Paterniti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Paterniti
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he was, living his father’s life, living his grandfather’s life—and the life of other Molinos patriarchs before—in what was known as the
tierras de pan llevar
(the bread-carrying lands) of Old Castile. He might be down at the bar; in a crowd with Pinto, Carlos, and Abel, Antonio, Teo, and Cristian, discussing weather patterns and grain prices; or up at the
bodega
plotting rotations and new seeds (this year, sunflowers; the next, hay). Endurance was one part of being a farmer, as was hope. And because of the harshness and unpredictability of the climate, ‡ one’s dignity was derived less from results thanfrom hard work. Could you survive the bad years, the catastrophic, the penurious? What if the bad years lasted decades, as they had during the thirties and forties, upending everything, leaving people only with the by-product of their backbreaking labor, referred to during that time simply as El Hambre, or The Hunger?
As hard as he worked, however—and despite the fact that farmers could turn inward and superstitious under the weight of their anxieties—Ambrosio never had a problem with merriment, welcoming any
porrón
of wine, any plate of food, any fiesta or gathering of friends. And Julián, his treasured
majo
, could often be found by his side. They fit so easily together that their friendship became a photo album of dances and youthful drunks, meals at the
bodega
and vacation double dates. Ambrosio had met a girl, Asunción, from Julián’s town, Aranda, and began courting her as Julián began courting his wife. Eventually Ambrosio married, had a daughter, then a son, and another son. Julián had his own daughter. They would meet on Sundays, sharing
porrones
, discussing their good times and bad. “He’s my blood brother,” Ambrosio said. Remembering those rich hours spent in repose, he described them as “some of the best of my life.”
All the while, he was aware of owing the universe, to the extent that he sometimes grew panicky. A parent himself now, he was reminded of the primordial bond between father and son. And he knew, of course, that time was the great undoer. So how could one slow
that
beast? In some bygone era, he’d have placated the gods, and their death-greed, by trekking up Mon Virgo and putting the flashing blade to the neck of a beautiful lamb or a succulent pig. In this era, he might have been at church each day, saying the rosary. But since that wasn’t possible, he could only wait.
Until there came that fine summer evening, twilight in the offing, dust rising off the earth, sky a Tyrian purple the color of the grapes. Out in the fields together, he and his father had missed their
merienda
, the late-day snack before dinner. They were starving, talking about food. Ambrosio’s father craved some wine, which was typical, and a little piece of something. It was nothing more than a passing statement:
Some cheese would be fine
. It would have ended there. Or more likely it would have ended with the father and son knocking off work, heading up to the
bodega
with a block of Manchego from the refrigerator, filling the
porrón
, and then sitting back and telling stories before the
cena
. But it may have been that sky, illumined with stained-glass light, or it may have been the sound of his father’s voice, with its tenor of youth—whatever the spark, the idea entered Ambrosio’s mind fully formed.
Once there’d been a time when families had made their own cheese, as they’d made their own wine. § Ambrosio had a memory of eating his family’s cheese as a child, and even now could conjure its sharp tang and the images associated with it: his mother’s kitchen, with its gas fires and simmering pots of milk, and the
bodega
shelves, where it was stored—in each case, surrounded by people, warmth, the past. As he understood it, the family cheese had been made for so long there’d never been a written recipe.
Then came the Civil War, mass killing, societal rupture, dictatorship, The
tierras de pan llevar
(the bread-carrying lands) of Old Castile. He might be down at the bar; in a crowd with Pinto, Carlos, and Abel, Antonio, Teo, and Cristian, discussing weather patterns and grain prices; or up at the
bodega
plotting rotations and new seeds (this year, sunflowers; the next, hay). Endurance was one part of being a farmer, as was hope. And because of the harshness and unpredictability of the climate, ‡ one’s dignity was derived less from results thanfrom hard work. Could you survive the bad years, the catastrophic, the penurious? What if the bad years lasted decades, as they had during the thirties and forties, upending everything, leaving people only with the by-product of their backbreaking labor, referred to during that time simply as El Hambre, or The Hunger?
As hard as he worked, however—and despite the fact that farmers could turn inward and superstitious under the weight of their anxieties—Ambrosio never had a problem with merriment, welcoming any
porrón
of wine, any plate of food, any fiesta or gathering of friends. And Julián, his treasured
majo
, could often be found by his side. They fit so easily together that their friendship became a photo album of dances and youthful drunks, meals at the
bodega
and vacation double dates. Ambrosio had met a girl, Asunción, from Julián’s town, Aranda, and began courting her as Julián began courting his wife. Eventually Ambrosio married, had a daughter, then a son, and another son. Julián had his own daughter. They would meet on Sundays, sharing
porrones
, discussing their good times and bad. “He’s my blood brother,” Ambrosio said. Remembering those rich hours spent in repose, he described them as “some of the best of my life.”
All the while, he was aware of owing the universe, to the extent that he sometimes grew panicky. A parent himself now, he was reminded of the primordial bond between father and son. And he knew, of course, that time was the great undoer. So how could one slow
that
beast? In some bygone era, he’d have placated the gods, and their death-greed, by trekking up Mon Virgo and putting the flashing blade to the neck of a beautiful lamb or a succulent pig. In this era, he might have been at church each day, saying the rosary. But since that wasn’t possible, he could only wait.
Until there came that fine summer evening, twilight in the offing, dust rising off the earth, sky a Tyrian purple the color of the grapes. Out in the fields together, he and his father had missed their
merienda
, the late-day snack before dinner. They were starving, talking about food. Ambrosio’s father craved some wine, which was typical, and a little piece of something. It was nothing more than a passing statement:
Some cheese would be fine
. It would have ended there. Or more likely it would have ended with the father and son knocking off work, heading up to the
bodega
with a block of Manchego from the refrigerator, filling the
porrón
, and then sitting back and telling stories before the
cena
. But it may have been that sky, illumined with stained-glass light, or it may have been the sound of his father’s voice, with its tenor of youth—whatever the spark, the idea entered Ambrosio’s mind fully formed.
Once there’d been a time when families had made their own cheese, as they’d made their own wine. § Ambrosio had a memory of eating his family’s cheese as a child, and even now could conjure its sharp tang and the images associated with it: his mother’s kitchen, with its gas fires and simmering pots of milk, and the
bodega
shelves, where it was stored—in each case, surrounded by people, warmth, the past. As he understood it, the family cheese had been made for so long there’d never been a written recipe.
Then came the Civil War, mass killing, societal rupture, dictatorship, The
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