The Dolce Vita Diaries. Cathy Rogers
favourite became an olive oil which was made entirely from Leccino olives and came, improbably, from Uruguay. It was quite smooth and fruity but had a definite peppery kick and a freshness that was just mmmm.
One Saturday we went in for our customary cheapskate snack lunch and the lady there, who knew our game but didn’t seem to mind as actually, doh, the joke was on us—given how much oil we bought from them—said, ‘You’re fond of that Uruguayan oil, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yes, sure.’
‘Well, we’ve had a 25-litre barrel arrive that’s badly dented. We can’t really use it as we need a perfect one for the display. But we could sell it to you for cheap if you were interested?’
Interesting.
‘How much?’
‘Well, shall we say $150—after all, it’s a 25-litre barrel.’
What dilemma and confusion it threw us into. We loved it, it was definitely a bargain. But $150? And 25 litres? It seemed a bit decadent. We went away, telling her we’d have a think about it. It sounds ridiculous now but we really did hum and haw for ages thinking about that barrel of oil. Should we shouldn’t we, should we shouldn’t we? Then on Monday morning in the office, I just had a feeling that it was a good thing to do and phoned her and said, ‘If you still have that oil, we want it—we’ll come and pick it up this evening.’
When we arrived, she’d laid out not just the barrel but also about 50 empty half-litre cylindrical tins with their little green lids, so that we could decant the oil at home. We packed up our booty in the car and drove home feeling quite pleased with ourselves.
It was there, attaching the little tap to the barrel and pouring out oil tin by tin, that one of us, we can’t even remember which, said, ‘Why don’t we make olive oil? We love it. It would mean good outdoor physical work and we could be really proud if we made oil that was halfway as good as this stuff.’
So that was it. Life decisions needn’t be so terribly taxing. We would make olive oil in our new life. That was that.
We went a bit mad with that oil for a few weeks. We were like crazed apothecaries, experimenting with every kind of flavouring we could think of. In the end we had about thirty little bottles in the cupboard: oil infused with basil leaves, oil with pieces of rosemary thrown in, oil with bits of garlic that we’d try to ‘home-sterilize’, infusions with mint, some with lemon; every herb and leaf that we could lay our hands on was somehow stuck into a bottle of oil and left to mature in its dark home.
In the end most of it wasn’t particularly good and a lot of it went mouldy—which gave us a new-found respect for those Christmas trinkety oils you buy containing baubles of chilli pieces and rosemary. However, in a way, that wasn’t the point. Those witching hours stirring cauldrons and making pulps of herbs and concentrating on olive oil were really the start of our plan.
One evening, we decided to have an olive oil tasting. If we were really going to make this stuff, we needed to know our onions. We had invited a bunch of friends round. They weren’t perfectly qualified for the job in that none were olive oil experts; they were all Hollywood producers more used to viewing rough cuts than reviewing condiments. But they all loved food and had a good spread of knowledge levels and food snobbishness, so we thought it’d be interesting.
Jason had been devouring every book on the olive he could get his hands on, whether it was about olive cultivation, cooking with olive oil or the historical significance of the olive tree. That night would be a prime opportunity for him to show off his burgeoning knowledge.
Our search for fine olive oils to taste took us to Joan’s on Third, a small but well-stocked delicatessen in West Hollywood. They have a mouth-watering display of international oils and a great café with yummy food and fine coffee (depending on which member of staff strikes up the machine). It’s not cheap though and the four bottles of olive oil we picked up cost around $80. We couldn’t help wondering how much of that the olive farmer claps eyes on.
Jason had read that olive oil is the oldest unadulterated food in the world. And when you think about it, even wine has preservatives added nowadays. Olive oil is the crushed fruit, nothing more, nothing less. Pure as can be. Another of his favourite facts at that time concerned the distinction between ‘green olives’ and ‘black olives’. We, like many, had always assumed that there were different species of olive which turned out either green or black. Imagine our delight when we discovered that no, there was no more difference between a green and a black olive than between a green banana and a yellow—it’s just a question of ripeness. How we would be able to wow our friends with these great new factoids.
Thankfully, when we wheeled this out later that evening, everyone was impressed. Jason sounded positively erudite. ‘Each olive variety has a specific moment when it’s in prime condition—that is, when the oil will be at it finest. The Leccino variety, the one from our Uruguayan booty pack, produces its fruitiest, grassiest oil when it’s just turned black. The Coratina produces the bitter, spicy oil it’s famed for when it is half purple and half green…’
‘Does that mean you have to go round picking the ripe olives one at a time?’ asked Rex, ever thoughtful of the labour costs of a job, having always been a film’s purse-holder.
‘Well, no, you pick a whole tree at once when say 50 percent of the olives are the right colour,’ Jason said confidently.
‘And what about the difference between olives for oil and olives for the table?’
‘Of the hundreds of types of olives, there are specialists. Some, like the black, wrinkled ones from Greece called Kalamata, are best for the table, others like the little pert Picual from Spain are revered for their oil. But there’s no olive you can’t eat, nor one you can’t make oil from.’
Only about 10 percent of olive oil produced is in the top quality extra virgin olive oil bracket. The rest of the stuff is chemically extracted, in other words not simply crushed. The top dogs at the International Olive Oil Council (yes, there really is one), divide olive oil up like this:
Extra virgin olive oil
An acidity of less than 0.8 percent, and an extraordinary range of colours, flavours and textures. To qualify, the oil must be cold pressed and only mechanically. Note to selves: we want to be making this stuff.
Virgin olive oil
An acidity level of less than 2 percent with a ‘perfect’ aroma, flavour and colour. Cold pressed.
Olive oil
A mix of refined oil. Heat and sometimes chemicals are used to get the remaining oil out of the pulp left over from the first pressing and this is combined with some virgin olive oil. The good stuff gives the taste and the less good stuff gives the bulk. It officially has an acidity of less than 1 percent. We’d use this kind for frying, but nothing else.
Olive pomace oil
Refined oil from the olive residue. Good for oiling the door hinges.
But enough of the facts and figures—it was time to get down to serious tasting.
We didn’t agree on which oil was the best. There isn’t a right answer. But everyone agreed that olive oil production seemed an estimable and wholesome business to be in. And as we sat under the Californian night sky, illuminated by the twinkly lights of the luscious houses of the Hollywood hills, our path to olive oil producers seemed a simple and dignified one. A quick poll of where we should go to pursue this honest labour was pretty decisive and summed up by Rex:
‘Dude, it’s got to be Italy.’
Here are our tasting notes from that evening:
The Italian oil
It tastes sweet, of apples