Da Vinci & Mutti: A Visit to Parma, Italy.

Every time we visit family in Rome, we try to make time for at least one trip to a part of Italy (or even outside of Italy) that we haven’t yet seen. This time, the opportunity fell right into our lap: a friend of ours, Marcello Ascani, who happens to be one of the most popular YouTubers in Italy, invited Anthony and me to visit the renowned Italian tomato company, Mutti.

If you recall, the last time I visited Rome (back in 2024), my cousin, Roberto, showed me how to prepare all sorts of pastas, including my favorite (Aglio e Olio). He happened to have a bottle of Mutti’s Tomato Passata in the kitchen. He picked it up and said, “Mutti. They are the best. The best!” His praise unlocked a small memory, one I’d archived from nearly a decade ago, when his sister, Daniela, came to visit Chicago and we took her to Eataly on a lark. There, she picked up a blue and red can of Mutti’s crushed tomatoes and said the exact same thing: “These are the best.” After that, every time I needed canned tomatoes (when local tomatoes aren’t in season), I looked for that iconic blue and red can.

So, you can imagine how tickled I was when Marcello randomly asked whether we’d be interested in not just a tour of the factory, but a lunch with Mr. Mutti himself! And no, no, this isn’t a sponsored post or anything like that (though, I can’t blame you for going there… influencer culture being what it is today!). I just really like the company, was super grateful for the invite, and then totally enthralled with my visit!!

The morning after F’s wedding, we hopped on an express train to Bologna, where we’d catch a second train to Parma. All in all, we’re talking less than four hours total from Rome. The train system in Italy (and Europe, in general) is one of my favorite ways to see the country without spending too much money or having to deal with the hassle of airports.

We arrived in Parma in the mid-afternoon and it was already quite hot. Since our hotel was less than a mile from the train station, we decided to walk there, suitcases and all. We were both starving and we knew next to nothing about the vegan scene in Parma. We figured, worse comes to worst, we could always find some cheeseless pizza. But as luck would have it, the restaurant in our hotel had vegan cheese!! And not only that, the most convincing vegan mozzarella I have ever seen in my entire life. It was creamy and marvelous and the closest thing to burrata I’ve ever tasted.

And guess what? It was local!! As you may have guessed, Parma — of Parmigiano Reggiano fame — is known for producing some of the most delectable cheeses on the planet. It just so happens that one of those cheese producers is vegan. And not only that?

She is Mr. Mutti’s daughter!!!!

Called “Dreamfarm,” this plant-based cheese is indeed a dream come true. Sadly, tragically, it is not yet available in the States. I REALLY wanted to bring some home with me, but cheese is perishable and, as Anthony wisely pointed out, I needed to be as non-controversial as possible when re-entering the United States given the tenor of some of my recent content, lol. Having to declare a bunch of items was not a good idea (this time). So, I, like all of you lactose intolerant compatriots, will anxiously anticipate its arrival on our side of the Atlantic!

After our most delicious lunch, Anthony and I decided to take a walk into the center. We strolled through the park right behind our hotel — which was hosting a dog conference and thus joyously crowded with friendly furries of every variety — and across one of the many bridges that straddled the winding Torrente Parma (the Parma River). We then walked towards a large piazza where Anthony suggested we visit the Palazzo della Pilotta, a massive complex which houses the famed Teatro Farnese, a confoundingly massive theater constructed entirely out of wood. We then stumbled into quite possibly the most beautiful library I’ve ever seen. It was crammed with old, dusty volumes about politics, history, architecture, and science.

Afterwards, we spent about half an hour walking through the archeological section of the building, where I learned a ton about the Iron Age, Copper Age, Bronze Age and the gradual evolution of human technology. I could have spent about two hours in there, reading through every little card attached to the displays of crude tools, intricate jewelry, and small statuettes.

But the most extraordinary part of this random museum trip came at the very last minute, literally 20 minutes before the Pilotta was scheduled to close. There was a small area that folks were being turned away from, but Anthony got a hang of one of the museum’s staff and sweet-talked him into letting us into that wing (Anthony’s beautiful Italian continues to come in handy!). We walked into a massive corridor packed with stunning oil paintings. I lingered towards the front so I could study them, but the young man who ushered us in waved at me and told me to hurry. Hurry towards what? I wondered.

Hurry towards this:

Only in Italy can you randomly wander into a museum, beg your way into the wing that was previously cordoned off, and then fall headfirst into a freaking DA VINCI MASTERPIECE, La Scapigliata (Head of a Woman).

This is the magic of Italy.

Afterwards, we found a focacceria that made us two absolutely delicious sandwiches before ending the evening with gelato (vegan, of course). On our walk back to the hotel, the setting sun cast deep shadows between the tall buildings while splashing itself across the stone walls and glittering off the barred windows. A woman in dark dress shoes and a skirt mounted her bicycle, put on her helmet, and began the ride home. We stopped at a piazza and sat down to take a selfie, just like the one we took a decade ago in Piazza Trilussa. Anthony was actually wearing the exact same t-shirt he’d worn back then. The air was thick with private conversation, easy laughter, the keening lament of an accordion.

Gelato is so good, I thought to myself.

The following morning, we had vegan cornetti (Italian croissants), which the hotel offered in its breakfast buffet as a matter of course (I love this about Italy). Our driver then picked us up at 10:30am sharp and accompanied us to Mutti’s headquarters. I wore a red dress for obvious reasons. Upon arrival, we were greeted by Simone, who works with the company’s marketing department. A gracious host, Simone has been with Mutti for several years. As he described the rigorous tomato selection process, the company’s investment in the local farming community, as well as the innovation that allowed this tomato company to dominate a crowded market for the humblest of fruits, his voice carried the kind of pride one might have for a favorite nephew. Simone told me his family had a background in farming so that working with Mutti was, in some ways, like coming home.

Our visit was too early in the season to see the production facility in action, so the massive machinery that took up the majority of the outdoor space was hauntingly quiet. Mutti does not work with preserved tomatoes. Indeed, all tomatoes that make the cut are packaged within 24 hours of being picked. The canned tomatoes are treated to as little heat as possible — only for pasteurization — to maximize freshness and flavor. Tomatoes that end up not being packaged are used for animal feed or donated to science (a local university was working on using tomatoes for renewable energy).

We got dressed in smocks and hairnets (even Anthony!), put on some sturdy shoes, and walked through the packing facility. It was just like those episodes of Sesame Street or Mr. Rogers — thousands of bottles clinking together in single file lines like tomato soldiers about to be deployed into grocery stores across the world. I saw tubes of my favorite tomato paste cascading down a conveyor belt and I took a video of it because it looked so pretty. Afterwards, while we were treated to a tasting of their products, from polpa (crushed tomatoes) on down to tomato paste, I was reminded of how tomatoes are practically a different fruit in Italy than in the United States. They are sweet, like fruits are supposed to be, but not too sweet, the Asian in me concluded.

Once the tasting was finished, we were led to Quisimangia (“here we eat”), a beautiful, new “canteen” framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that look out upon soft green grass and a distant stream, which, according to Simone, was sometimes visited by Egyptian geese who detoured their way into Parma. Mr. Mutti’s villa, hazy from the day’s heat, sat far off in the distance, observing all of it with the grey eyes of a doting father. Helmed by the chef of a Michelin starred restaurant (I mean, if you’re going to make a dining hall for your employees, why not?), Quisimangia looked a bit like a corporate eating area, albeit with a fairly relaxed and convivial atmosphere, but the food itself was far more reminiscent of a fine dining restaurant.

Mr. Mutti arrived wearing navy blue trousers, a crisp white button down, and red suspenders. Apparently, this is basically his uniform. I was doubly glad I wore my red dress. As a result of my lawyer life, I’ve had the opportunity to meet with the founders and CEOs of many companies, small and large. Common to almost all of them is a sense of deep pride in what they’ve built, but also responsibility. There were easily a hundred Mutti employees enjoying lunch in that cafeteria — one Mr. Mutti had built out of the ground to provide healthy, delicious meals right on campus. We discussed a wide range of topics, from production to inventory to pricing to market share (can you tell I was an antitrust lawyer…?), and it became clear he took as much ownership of the company’s choices as he did the menu propped up on the glass display.

I think he was also surprised to discover that a red-dressed vegan influencer was also a lawyer. 😉

And, of course, we talked about his daughter, who has been vegan for a few years and, in addition to making the best vegan cheese ever, is also doing what she can to influence those around her (including Dad). The cheese is doing exceptionally well in Italy and other parts of Europe and I was eager to express my enthusiasm for its eventual introduction to the States.

While all this talk was going on, we were treated with a mouthwatering and truly stunning four-course meal that ended with an apple pie.

Afterwards, I had a sampling of more vegan cheese. The vegan ricotta was hands down BRILLIANT. Like nothing I’ve tasted since going vegan. Flavorful, but not overly sour or salty with the exact right texture. I also sampled the stracciatella, a cheese I’d never had (even before I went vegan). It is super creamy and the way it was explained to me is that it’s like a creamier, wetter version of burrata. Simone explained that the pasta we had featured both, the sauce was made creamy and thick with the ricotta, and the dish was drizzled with the stracciatella.

All in all, I left Mutti feeling stuffed to the gills, but also moved to see a company that loved the land, loved the people, and loved the tomato with such devotion and heart.

After lunch, we shared a ride to the train station with Marcello and his girlfriend. During the short commute, I learned that many Italian grandmothers drop a square of dark chocolate into their bolognese, to counteract the acidity. I also learned that you can use garlic or onion when preparing your own red sauce, but DON’T YOU DARE USE BOTH!!

If you’d like to learn more about Mutti, here are two exceptional videos from our friend Marcello. They are in Italian, but you can turn on the english subtitles or change the audio track (if it doesn’t automatically do it for you).

My editor (of my forthcoming memoir) asked me to put together a video to share with the sales team. I begged for two extensions. I almost never ask for an extension, even if it means I will be working late into the night. But in this case, I was dealing with something that brute labor couldn’t fix:

My face.

As I mentioned in my email last week, I came down with COVID (thank you for the well wishes, btw!!!). And, as I explained, maybe because I so rarely get sick, when I do fall ill, it gets ugly. Literally. My face broke out into fever blisters, and within a few days, they were scabbing all over my nose. I looked like someone had attacked me — my therapist even asked with deep concern whether I’d been injured in some sort of accident. And try as I might, every time I put concealer on them, it just made everything look somehow worse.

I was so embarrassed. I didn’t even want to leave the house to walk my dog, lest one of my neighbors bump into me and cast me out for being a leper.

And that’s the weirdness of all this. Why should I feel ashamed of being sick? It wasn’t my fault! Illness doesn’t come with moral attribution! Fever blisters are not a sign of some deficiency in character or other personal failure. And yet, there was a part of me that squirmed at my own reflection and balked at the idea of getting in front of a camera. Mind you, I was fully recovered, I’d tested negative for COVID days before. It was truly just my appearance that had me cowering inside my house.

I share all this here with no real lesson. It’s just an observation of a series of feelings I can’t reconcile, and thus want to challenge. I went to the farmer’s market this morning without any makeup on. The scabs had mostly healed, but some of them still remained. I got on camera and filmed a few Instagram stories of myself enjoying a fresh peach, biting into a massive strawberry. Someone DM’d me and asked “What happened to your nose??“

I ignored it.

Wishing you all the best,
-Joanne

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