Our Grandfather’s Le Marche: Antipasto of Grapefruit and Shrimp with Balsamic Vinegar

For the past month, I’ve been doing research on Le Marche, the region on Italy’s Adriatic coast where my paternal grandfather was born. It started because of a discussion about a little black Fiat that has been with the family in Italy for generations. Below you’ll find the story of the Topolino Fiat that led me down this path, and as usual, that research led me to the food of the region. So I decided to include a bright, light recipe that is perfect for this time of year: an antipasto of grapefruit, shrimp, and shaved fennel. As you will read below, I found the recipe in an old Le Marche cookbook that I picked up on one of my visits to my grandfather’s village, but first…

The Topolino in the Garage

The first time I saw the Topolino, it was sitting in our cousin’s garage in Le Marche. My cousin Massimo lifted the door, and there it was: a small black Fiat tucked among suitcases, green glass demijohns, and a bicycle. Its nose was pointed toward us, the chrome of its grille shining in the dim light in the garage. After hearing about this car since childhood, there it was. Despite a little dust, you could tell it had been lovingly restored and cared for.

This was 2014. My brother Joey (Giuseppe when he is in Italy) and I had come to Le Marche, to Scapezzano, the village above the Adriatic that our grandfather, also named Giuseppe, had left as a young man at twenty-two. Joey had visited in more recent years, but for me, it was my first time in the village. I had imagined this village often sitting up on a hill above the beautiful blue sea.

To understand the car, you have to go back to Gaspare. Gaspare Becci was our great-grandfather, born in 1864, and his photograph has hung on my wall for years.

I stare at his photo often as I pass. There is something so alive in his eyes. I imagine him at the end of a long day’s work, climbing the hill back to Scapezzano, the Adriatic spread out blue behind him, the salt breeze from the sea at his back, while Filomena and his four children waited above. I am sure life was not easy in those days, but I like to imagine that they were happy there, with the views of that big blue sea.

From that hill, the children eventually scattered. Three left Scapezzano for the Americas. My grandfather and his brother, Giovanni, went to the United States; his sister, Giuseppina, to South America. One brother, Francesco, stayed.

Our grandfather crossed the ocean at twenty-two, settled, and built a life with his hands as a stonemason. But he did not leave his village behind as cleanly as that. Just behind his home in America, he built the Italian-American Social Club, where the men could gather the way they always had in Scapezzano. And between the two buildings, he planted a grapevine, trained it, and tended it for years. We spent so many summer nights under that grapevine. I have a favorite photograph of our grandmother, my mom, Joey, and me posing under it on a warm afternoon, the grapevine heavy overhead. He had crossed an ocean and recreated Le Marche around him, piece by piece.

In 1955, our grandfather, now 67, returned to Scapezzano. It had been more than forty years since he had set foot in the village that he had left as a boy; forty years since he had hugged his brother or seen his friends. While he was there, he bought the little Fiat Topolino. A car to drive down to the sea; a car to travel around Italy. And when he returned to America three months later, he gifted the car to his brother, Francesco.

So, when Massimo, Francesco’s grandson, opened that garage in 2014, I was not looking at an old car. I was looking at that gift that had been passed from one brother to another, still here, fifty-nine years after my grandfather had gone back to America. Years after his brother Francesco was gone.

Years later, I once again visited our family in Scapezzano. Massimo’s son, Francesco, said he had a surprise for me. He said he would return shortly.

And then, I saw the car coming down the street. He had totally restored the little Fiat. The black paint now shone. The chrome along the grille was as bright as the sunlight. He said, “Jump in”. I smiled from ear to ear.

Joey and Francesco’s twin brother Fabrizio trailed behind as the Topolino had only two seats. Top down, car humming, down the hill we went to the seafront in Senigallia, under the same sky, towards the same bright blue Adriatic that I had always imagined Gaspare loved.

Our grandfather had bought that car and gifted it to the family who stayed. Three generations later, the family who stayed had brought it back to life and were using it to carry the family who had gone. I smiled at the thought.

There are a few photographs with that Fiat that I cherish. The first is a photo that was taken in 1955 of my grandfather Giuseppe and his brother Francesco standing alongside the Fiat. Six decades later, my brother Giuseppe and Massimo’s son Francesco are standing next to the same Topolino, with the same license plate in front of the same building where the original photo was taken.

And my other favorite photo is the one at the top of this article.

Once we all arrived at the seafront, we gathered around the Topolino for photos. How we laughed as we took those photos, with that beautiful sea behind us. Our grandfather’s little Fiat, nearly seventy years old, was a thread between the two halves of one family gathered around it.

I have a letter Francesco wrote to his brother, our grandfather, in November of 1955, weeks after he returned to America. In the letter, Francesco expresses that Giuseppe’s departure was very hard for him and his family. He writes, “Now we have to resign ourselves to it, hoping we can embrace each other again someday.”

That embrace never happened. Our grandfather never returned to Italy and died in 1967. He saved the letter. I don’t know exactly how it came to me after that, only that somehow, it did.

Near the end of the letter, Francesco mentions his grandson, a small boy who that month had stopped saying he wanted to go to Rome and started saying he wanted to go to America to see his ‘Zio Peppe’.

The boy’s name was Massimo. The same Massimo who, all these years later, lifted that garage door so I could see the car for the first time.

I had come to Le Marche to stand in Scapezzano and feel the presence of the people I came from. That presence turned out to be a black Fiat with the top down, a cousin’s son laughing at the wheel, the road unspooling toward a sea my great-grandfather had walked home beside every evening of his working life. The silver thread between the brother who left and the brother who stayed had never broken. It had been tended to on both sides of the ocean. A vine in one yard, an old car in another. And it still carries us to this day: a bond between those who left and those who stayed. 

Our family in Le Marche was a huge help in piecing together the dates and details for me. I waded through photos from my trips to Le Marche, remembering just how good the region’s food is. Joey has visited many more times than I have, and between us, we’ve collected a good number of Marchigiana recipes in our archives. Digging through the food photos also sent me back to my Marche cookbooks. Given the summer heat, I was looking for a light lunch or antipasto that I could make for an upcoming lunch with friends. In an old 2011 cookbook that I picked up while in Le Marche, “Le migliori ricette delle Marche”, I found a light, bright antipasto with the unusual combo of langoustines and grapefruit. Just perfect for a summer lunch. I did modify the recipe a tad. I substituted shrimp for the langoustines. And to make it a bit heartier, I added some fennel and toasted walnuts on top. The cookbook recommends serving with a fresh, crisp Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi. A delicious choice if you can find it!

A few notes:

• Shrimp – warm or room temperature? Served warm, the shrimp contrast beautifully with the cool greens and grapefruit. But this dish is also delicious at room temperature. Pick whichever suits your mood. Grilled shrimp work beautifully here as well.
• On the balsamic: Use a young, pourable balsamic, not an aged or thick one. You want brightness and acidity, not sweetness. A good Modena IGP works well if you can find it.
• The fennel fronds: If your fennel bulb comes with its feathery fronds, save them. A few scattered over the finished plate add a wonderful note and look beautiful.
• Make it Marchigiana: The original recipe calls for blanched scampi, but I find that a quick sauté gives much more flavor and texture while honoring the simplicity of the original. I also added the walnuts and fennel to make the dish a bit more substantial.

Enjoy!

Un abbraccio,

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