It’s inevitable, of course. You’re driving through dreamy green hills, with voluptuous orchards and silvery olive groves and a bedazzling of wildflowers. Suddenly, you see it. A cluster of domes rising above a stand of trees, capped by white points. You’d be forgiven for squealing in delight at the pointy houses, declaring them the cutest things ever.

More and more of these whitewashed houses capped with grey stone domes and it starts to feel out of a fairy tale. 

Until you arrive to Alberobello, and those sprinkling of country houses become an entire town. A smurf village, if you will. Dear, and impossibly adorable.

Dropping off your luggage in your very own Trulli for the night, you’ll no doubt try out the beds—so low!—while gazing up at the stone ceiling. You’ll photograph the well in the bedroom, its opening covered with plexiglass. You’ll hunker in the garden, eyes alive with the charm of being surrounded by more stone domes. 

Crowds make it a challenge to take photographs of the Trulli houses, but you manage, making sure you get the iconic ones, with painted symbols of indeterminate meaning.

It’s nice. Like Disneyland is nice. Whimsical. Sweet.

That’s pretty much how we felt as we gathered at Trulli e Puglia for our tour with Mimmo after our night in a Trullo (also reserved through Trulli e Puglia). I should say here, we’re most decideldy not tour guide people, and only booked this one because our friends Max and Cristiana from Ciao, Andiamo insisted that we’d need a tour to really understand Alberobello. 

What’s there to understand? I read the Wikipedia page. My only lingering question was where to find the beautiful tree mentioned in the town’s name, Alberobello.

What else could there be to know?

Within moments of our tour starting, I realized… I knew nothing. Not only did I know nothing, but I’d been condensing an entire culture into terms I’d imposed to pretend I knew something, like “Hobbit House” and “Smurf Village”. 

Mimmo brought our awareness to the very real people that not only once inhabited Alberobello, but that still inhabit Alberobello, by asking us, in our house “Grazia” (all the Trulli managed by Trulli e Puglia are named for a person that once lived there), where did we think the toilets originally were?

An earthy way to begin.

He went on to tell us that Trulli were built in a specific fashion. The original residents likely descended from the middle east—at least judging from DNA—where houses were often dome shaped. People came to this side of a mountain, above a source of water, and dug into the earth, pulling up the stones they would use to build their Trulli. By digging those holes, they created cisterns to gather water. Atop the cistern, they built their houses without the benefit of mortar, low and squat, to hide in the trees. 

These people wanted no part of the government, their wars or taxation. They just wanted to be left alone. The pinnacles they placed at the top of their domes were removable. So when the tax-collector finally found them and stopped in, they could remove the pinnacle and claim the house was under construction and therefore, safe from taxation.

Once a few hundred Trulli hid amongst the trees, removable pinnacles became a less compelling excuse from taxation and the people of Alberobello found it more expedient to just kill the tax collector.

Alberobello, as it turns out, does not mean “beautiful tree”. It means “war in the trees.”

As Mimmo walks with us, he calls into the shops, greets the cluster of old men as “ragazzi” to their satisfied chortling, and stops here and there to explain more about the construction and the history of the town.

We learned that Alberobello’s positioning means that it vulnerable to wind from Africa and wind from Russia. “Hot cold hot cold,” Mimmo smiles, flipping one hand on the other, over and over. He explained how this constant change in temperature creates stress in produce, like for instance, peaches. And this stress draws the sweetness from the skin all the way into the pit, resulting in produce at peak perfection. The animals eat these perfect foods, resulting in meat and dairy products unrivaled the world over (I’m sure he’s not biased).

I missed the next few minutes of the tour, as I considered how our lives in the States are so… convenient. Yes, we’re busy, and we call that “stress”, but it’s not real stress. Trying to create more hours in a day isn’t stress. And our Charlottesville lives, well, don’t they lack some sweetness? Hmmm…

My life in Spello is sweet. Really sweet. Like a peach you need to eat over the sink because it’s so good it collapses on itself, sweet. Do we have stress in this Italian life that we don’t have in the USA? Can a two-hour walk to Collepino to have lunch with friends, chatting and laughing as we pour each other another glass of crisp and fruity white wine, can that be considered “stress”? Not knowing how to ask for antibacterial cream… is that stress? Not understanding about 30% of what people say to me, does that count? Because I have to say, I certainly don’t feel stressed in Spello. But maybe that’s because there’s this sweet side that soothes those moments when the fruit vendor yells at me for entering the store because I missed the sign that mandates only two customers at a time.

Hot cold hot cold.

Belatedly, I realized Mimmo had moved on from talking about how the people of Alberobello protected a Jewish population in World War II to talking about his own life in a Trulli. Apparently, we’d spent the night in what was once his grandmother’s house. He recalled sitting on the stone ledge in the fireplace to stay warm while he did his homework. He reminisced about grating the cheese with an enormous round grater, alive with his grandmother’s promise to take him to the cinema once he’d finished. Then later, watching the movie, his hands still smelling like cheese. 

There’s a Trulli set up like it would have been a hundred years ago. As I describe this, remember that each home is a complex of connected round rooms with dome ceilings. You enter into a common space and to the side there’s a room with a step down, where the animals are kept (remember later this when I tell you about Matera). There’s an opening, almost as big as another room, where there is a hearth. In that hearth, a bit of coal would be covered with ashes in the corner at night, to facilitate fire making in the morning. Two more rooms served as bedrooms, one for the parents and one for children. And a little partitioned space for women to wash. The house is filled with implements Mimmo found over time, in the cisterns and in the gardens—including dog tags, indicating how the people of Alberobello gave support to Allied troops. In fact, this is how Alberobello appeared in the world tourism stage. Soldiers came back, and brought their wives, to thank the people for the help they received. Those soldiers and their wives returned to their home countries, alive with tales of Alberobello.

There’s even more to Alberobello, of course. More people we met (thanks to Mimmo), more he showed us to guide our understanding of his ancestral history. But what I’ll always remember is his face as he leaned in close to say with all earnestness: “These are not Hobbit houses. They are not for Smurfs.” And I blushed a little, remembering that’s exactly how I thought of them as we nestled into bed the night before. But I nodded. This wasn’t a cartoon rendition of life. This is his family’s life.

Rather than feeling cheated of a cherished image, I walked away with the knowledge that connecting with people, understanding their lives, is so much better than admiring the cuteness of their architecture.

Eating recommendations in Alberobello

I didn’t work these into the post as I usually do, but it’s important to talk about food because food is important to Alberobello. Hot cold hot cold!

Favola in Tavola: We happened upon this restaurant when we arrived too late to make reservations for lunch and everything was booked. Alberobello, it must be mentioned, suffered very little loss of tourism during this pandemic. But as we discovered, Alberobello is comprised of a few neighborhoods, and while the main one was booked, just heading into the more residential ones, with less tourist schlock, allowed us to find a place to eat. We very much enjoyed this one, with it’s careful cuisine and cozy atmosphere. Highlights: spaghettone with anchovies, eggplant, mint, and smoked mozzarella, and orzo with cardoncelli mushrooms, basil sauce, mullet roe, and cacioricotta cheese.

Casanova: Trulli e Puglia recommended this one, so when we couldn’t eat here for lunch we made a dinner reservation. I admit, when we descended the stairs, my heart sank. This did not seem auspicious. Granted, we arrived on a kind of a high. In the more modern neighborhood/hill of Alberobello there’d been a kind of celebration, perhaps for a saint’s day, and the avenue was covered in lights, along with some of the buildings, and we’d gotten to hear the town band play some big band standards that made me think I should listen to more big band music. Plus, how charming were the breaks between songs so the head guy could catch a smoke? Stumbling on this slice of life we stumbled, when the advancing rain should have made any outing impossible, left us giddy. So we tumbled into Casanova, ready for more of this getting caught-off-guard with happiness.

But…it kind of smelled like cave. Which it is, it used to be an olive oil mill. So many empty tables, the place echoed like a sigh of resignation. And the waiters had that dated, steakhouse vibe with their black outfits. Ah well. Recommendations can only take you so far, right?

Wrong.

We started with… if you followed my other Puglia posts you already know… yes, the antipasti platter. Basket and platter after basket and platter until we heaved in relief when the waiter said that would be it. The fave e cicoria forced me to rethink my previous opinion on Puglia’s favorite dish. There was some indeterminate stew that made me close my eyes in coziness. Plus, meatballs, pittule, fried olives, and ever so much more.

That and the Negroamaro wine made me sit back in my seat. Astonished. Maybe this would be good after all. Wrong again.

It was sublime.

Gabe had a risotto with shrimp and zucchini flowers that I warned him away from because he’s used to my risotto, which is cooked far past the point I’ve ever had it in Italy. Well, maybe they cook risotto longer the further south you head, because this was just like mine in texture, though far far more wonderful in flavor. He ordered cicoria on the side, which he didn’t like because of the grated cheese, so I happily devoured it for him.

Keith got the tagliata, sliced steak with rucola and shavings of grana, which we mocked him for because it’s what he always orders in Umbria, but he insisted that’s what he wanted, and he was quite pleased. Perfectly cooked and wonderful. 

Remembering how so many people at the Masseria at our first Pugliese stop ordered the entrecote, I did the same. Entrecote, I should add, is a different cut of steak from what is used for a tagliata.

I no longer think Mimmo is biased, I think Mimmo is a genius. That steak quite blew my mind. 

Question: Does the stomach expand for exceptional food? Because we had no trouble polishing off every morsel, even with that enormous antipasti platter.

I’ll be honest, none of us can remember what Siena had, but I know it was delicious, it’s lost in the blur of all the phenomenal flavors on the table.

For dessert we ordered one basil and one strawberry semifreddo. The waiter also offered us limoncello or grappa, which we happily accepted. Along with our dessert, we got a special treat, a wooden board with a block of chocolate to cut with the attached blade. There is something to be said for shaving a bit of chocolate and letting it melt on your tongue while you sip limoncello.

We wondered why every meal didn’t end with chocolate, and in fact, though we lack the board, we have since started stocking chocolate to have a square after dinner.

The pull of our night in a Trulli prompted us out the door, and when we stepped out on the street… magic. The rain left everything shining and there was not one person to break the hush. The quiet streets alternatively made us quiet our voices in reverence before skipping ahead and twirling. Or maybe that was the chocolate.

La Cantina: We asked Mimmo where he liked to eat and he said this was one of his favorites and then made us a reservation for lunch. We stored our luggage at Trulli e Puglia for our post-lunch drive to Matera, and made our way to La Cantina.

A snug little restaurant, it’s remarkable for the kitchen, which is open. A counter separates it from the rest of the restaurant, and on that counter is where the chef dices, stirs, and preps. The stove is against the wall. An inveterate foodie, I thought I’d gone to heaven watching the chef in action. It would be worth a trip to La Cantina just for the show, but the food was also spectacular. Some of my favorite of the trip to Puglia, though it should be said, Alberobello as a whole may have the award for best food. Hot cold hot cold.

Our enormous and varied antipasti platter contained foods I didn’t know to imagine—a cold pork loin with miniature marinated mushrooms and a kind of salami cured in oil. Everything we had was top notch—from my grilled pork with perfectly caramelized edges and a simple squeeze of lemon, to Siena’s bombette (the Pugliese speciality of crispy pancetta wrapped around thin pork filets wrapped around cheese and grilled or fried), to Gabe’s lamb scottadito, to Keith’s tagliolini with chestnuts and cardoncelli mushrooms (a variety we’ve realized is in season in Puglia). Always on the hunt for cicoria, Gabe asked what the seasonal vegetable was and his eyes widened.

Barattiere.

We’d discovered this class of vegetable in Gallipoli at a fruttivendolo and found it to be kind of a cross between a cucumber and a honeydew melon. This one was rounder and sweeter, a dose of refreshment for all of us as we snuck pieces off Gabe’s plate. 

Barattiere–yet another thing I didn’t know I had no idea about. It’s wondrous, isn’t it? How travel pushes the limits of what you thought you knew, allowing you access to ideas and philosophies and flavors you never dreamed of?

People often blow through Alberobello, but I encourage you to stay. When the tourists leave in the evenings, and before they arrive in the mornings, you’ll be able to commune with the town, past and present, in a way that seems impossible as you’re waiting for yet another group to finish taking selfies. Besides, this town, perhaps more than any other I’ve been to, is a destination of one phenomenal meal after another.

 So, stay.

One night, at least. You’ll be glad you did.

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