A table in Galatina. A small baroque town in the southern region, Puglia, forming the heel of Italy’s “boot. A month in the town, un-licked by English and pushing late May was still not in season, they’re doing it for themselves. I’m just a lucky observer, and this is my take. Architecture, so nonchalantly monumental, so casually old-world royal with weeds growing through the cracks. The overwhelming feeling of this place is its understated grandeur–egoless perfection. The proof of the method, the proof of the quality stands centuries strong. Hand made. Nonna made. Pastries made since 1742. Olives, scooped out of a bucket from where they cure next to the fridge. Butter hand wrapped with wax paper and sealed with damn hand-punched domes. Hand-painted plates, 24-karat gold detailed glasses, a dime a dozen. Hand-stitched lace. I didn’t even know lace could be made like that. Of course it could, they did it first. I felt like a child, tasting things for the first time, seeing things once used for their utility adorned in ways I had never expected, and the adults in the room showing me “This is how it's done.” There is no exaggeration in my portrayal of Puglia, no hyper in my realism. It’s only the simple offerings I found and enjoyed there. I hope you can feel the warmth of the southern sun, I hope to pay my respects to the slower, quality-focused way of life by slowly and meticulously portraying those aspects here in ‘Puglia’.