Page 31 of I Think Olive You
She points at the arm—a little ridged bottom there to push the fruit along, and slats for the leaves to fall through.
“The extraction is done the traditional way. The fruit is ground into paste between these huge granite millstone wheels to press and crush the olives. A scraper moves along the bottom to keep it moving between the wheels of the press.” I look up at said wheels peeking out from the top of the giant bowl and I’m struck with a child-like wonder at getting to see how all of this comes about.
Arturo leads us further along the equipment which runs connected from start to finish.
“Once the paste is as smooth as the press can get it, it moves into a kneading machine to separate it out and break the paste into water and oil for the first time.”
My arm brushes against Giuliana’s as we follow the pipes and something inside me clenches. This room is more factory-like, the modern sneaking in.
“It gets piped onto fiber disks, stacked in layers and piled up, slowly compressed through a hydraulic press over hours until the oil leaks out over the sides and collects into tubs at the bottom. It’ll be separated again into unfiltered olive oil, and water.”
I’m trying. I’m really trying to pay attention to the actual words she’s saying. But her words blur in my mind and I can’t stop thinking how badly I’d like to taste them on her tongue.
“The unfiltered oil is an opaque murky green, and it gets stored in these giant stainless-steel tanks until it’s ready to be packaged and sent out.”
I’m not sure why the stainless steel is surprising to me, perhaps because I thought olive oil and wine might have similar processes. I expected wooden barrels stacked underground.
“Abundantia also sells both kinds of oil to cover different spots in the market. Filtered loses some of the taste but it has a much longer shelf life. Unfiltered is the preferred and superior product. Arturo does the filtering through a funnel with cotton wool, dredging the impurities until it looks like the stuff you’d find at the grocery store.”
So clinical but she makes it so interesting. I’d never considered the process before—how much work must have gone into a single product.
“Arturo still has a few bottles of last year’s harvest. You want to taste the fruits of our labor?” Pride leaks into the words and her expression is open—hopeful. I’d do anything to put a smile on her face. Even if it means baiting her. Even though I’d be breaking my promise.
“Sure thing, sunshine.” I can’t even get it out without a shit-eating grin and she rolls her eyes.
“I’ve made my nickname preferences clear, Matteo.”
“Ah, but it could be we just haven’t found the right one. Is it the English you don’t like? Maybe you can teach me a few Italian ones.”
I’m rewarded with a scoff and another one of those skin-tingling brushes and she moves around me to exit through the door. Once outside, we walk side-by-side toward a farmhouse, Arturo leading the way. The years cover his body like a thick blanket, back bowed under the weight. How long has he been doing this?
Finally, Giuliana addresses my comment, the air between us supercharged.
“I will do no such thing. Behave, please. I’m trying to teach you the business. You know what’s at stake. It’s important I get it right.”
She’s losing steam and I can’t keep my hand from brushing against hers, hoping the touch of our fingers might inject some kind of strength or comfort into her. Her pinky twitches against mine and she doesn’t pull away.
“You know I can multitask.”
We reach our destination and the conversation drops as Arturo explains the layout, Giuliana’s mouth closing around unuttered words. Arturo’s table is set up with little cups of oil. Some are murkier than others and there’s crusty bread set up on little plates beside each one.
I’ve been to a wine tasting before; this feels familiar.
“We use recioppella as our main cultivar, which is more popular in Calabria but grows well in our region as well. It’s an old variety with spicy, bitter notes. When harvested at the right time it has undertones of fresh herbs like basil, sage, and mint.”
Shuttered expression back, Giuliana is on task again.
“For curiosity’s sake, what happens if they’re not harvested at the right time?”
“The flavor profile is off. Too soon and it’ll be very acidic, too late and the bitterness overwhelms the other tastes.
“You can see the difference between filtered and unfiltered in each variety. The first set is recioppella—our commercial oil from the most populous trees of the grove. The other set is from the small private grove I told you about—peranzana. That one is fruitier, with a fresh and spicy taste.”
Swirling the liquid in the cup, I watch it kiss the side of the glass and leave its film.
“Go ahead, you can take a small sip and then drizzle some of it onto the bread.”
Giuliana’s wide eyes are trained on me as I let the cold oil slide over my tongue. It lights up inside my mouth, smooth and so much more flavorful than I ever expected. The filtered kind is similar, if a little diminished.