Winter Is Prime in Puglia
Disappointment swept across the table. Daniela, our waitress, with tight jeans and dyed pink hair, hovered over our table, shaking her head. “I trying to warn you,” she scolded. There were dozens of bowls of antipasto unfinished, many of them untouched. She just shook her head some more. “I leaving and you eating. Now.” With a nod that smacked of finality, she turned and sashayed back to the kitchen.
I had been in Puglia for about an hour and a half. I was already full and, apparently, in trouble…. CONTINUED