harvest time: olio nuovo everywhere!

Fusti, rinsed and drying in the sun, ready to be filled with new oil

For me, this is one of the happiest times of the whole agricultural year—it’s olive harvest time around the Mediterranean and elsewhere in the northern hemisphere where Mediterranean climates prevail (I’m looking at you, California).

Happier than the grape harvest? Well, yes, even though fermented grape juice brings a great deal of happiness. But the olive harvest is easier, more fundamental, less bother, and possibly with fewer things to go wrong. In fact, olive cultivation is so much easier than tending vineyards that I’m forever grateful that I made the decision to plant olive trees rather than grapevines when I decided years ago to restore the fields on the minifarm I inherited by default in a remote valley between Tuscany and Umbria.

Alas, I am not there to join the fun this year, but my daughter deserted her Rockport restaurant for the harvest and reports an overwhelming abundance this year—far more than in the past and with a resa, or yield, that is also exceptionally high. That was confirmed by Pamela Sheldon Johns, also in southern Tuscany, whose harvest was double last year’s. So everything is looking very, very fine and accounts from other parts of the Mediterranean are equally positive. Cristina Stribacu, who makes Lía olive oil in Messinia in the Peloponnese, also says it’s “an amazing year with fantastic quality.”

It’s all great news and it moves me to look back on other years, other harvests, in other parts of the world.

            Teverina oil, just emerging from the Landi frantoio, Cortona

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I visited an oasis near Tozeur on the edge of the Tunisian Sahara where farmers cultivated olives and made oil. I was there as a guest of the International Olive Oil Council to see an ancient method of producing oil by turning an upright wheel, a grindstone, over olives piled in a shallow, stone-paved basin. Around and around the basin, a blindfolded camel plodded, slowly turning the grindstone to crush the heap of olives. It all took place in a sort of cellar below ground, presumably to protect the olives from light and the intense heat of the desert. And yet, the olives had been kept for months piled on the flat and sunny housetops of the village in the mistaken belief that this would increase the amount of oil they contained. Instead, they had become rancid and developed a fusty-musty aroma and taste. Which was apparently what was desired.

This whole procedure was not something cooked up by the local tourist board to amuse visitors, no, this was the way these oasis farmers had always made their oil, and I came away with the impression that little had changed over the last couple of millennia, that olive oil had always been produced like this since the days when Rome relied on Tunisia as a major supplier of this vital commodity, although nowadays the oil was marketed in plastic water bottles instead of terracotta amphorae.

Olive oil, fresh from the press, for sale in the market in Tozeur, Tunisia

Another time, some years later, I visited an old lady in southern Tuscany who made olive oil at her own private frantoio or mill, rigorously following methods used by her father and grandfather and perhaps her great-grandfather before her. The olives came from her own trees, gathered, harvested that is, in December around the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Fat, lush, purple black and almost oozing with oil, they were carried to the mill which was not unlike the one in that Tunisian oasis, except in this case, mobility was provided by a small, patient horse who trudged round and round, turning the grindstone to crush the olives. The old lady’s oil was distinctive and I would be remiss if I failed to confess that it manifested aromas of dung from the horse and tobacco smoke from the cigarette that was ever present between the lips of the horse’s trainer. But, again, those aromas were accepted, appreciated, and quite possibly considered desirable.

Old-fashioned Tuscan method for making oil

In a fundamental way the procedure from start to finish, whether in Tunisia, Italy, Greece, Spain, or elsewhere, was unchanged over several thousand years. Olives harvested when the farmer deemed it appropriate--ripe, unripe, or in between—were simply rinsed of field dust and crushed to a paste; then the paste was spread on mats and pressed to release large quantities of vegetable water and small quantities of oil. The oil was separated, bottled or jarred, and stored or sold. The technology remained utterly simple, as simple as making orange juice or apple cider.

In today’s olive world, things are very different. One would be hard put nowadays to find such rudimentary processing anywhere. Even if the fundamental procedure remains the same—crush, press, strain, bottle—the means, the methods, the equipment used to that end have changed radically in the last 20 to 30 years. At the same time, researchers around the world are working with farmers and mill technicians to develop more knowledge of what creates excellence in olive oil.

Modern milling in Castelvetrano, Sicily

Today almost every mill, large or small, whether belonging to a single estate or a giant cooperative or indeed an industrial processor, is made up of continuous-cycle stainless-steel machinery that quickly and cleanly transforms freshly harvested olives into new oil. Olives go in one end and, in about 30 minutes, oil issues forth from the other. The crushing (using hammers or knives), the kneading (called malaxation), the extraction, the separation of the oil, all take place as it were in secret, enclosed within the processor and protected from light and atmosphere. It’s a clean, rapid process that means less effort and less time to produce high-quality extra-virgin olive oil, even as complaints about fraudulent oils continue to rise. I am usually the first person to stand up for traditional technology over needless innovation (give me a wood-burning oven, please, over a microwave, a terracotta cazuela over an Instapot), but in this case new methods, new technology, have undeniably led to more extra-virgin excellence.

Picual oil emerging from the press at Casas de Hualdo, Spain

The enemies of excellence in olive oil are heat, light, and atmospheric exposure, which is why those old-fashioned methods more often than not produced defective oils, since the olives, the paste, and the oil itself were thoroughly exposed. Often the olives, post-harvest, waited far too long, bundled in burlap bags if not spread on rooftops, before they could be processed; often too, the mill was grimy with accumulated detritus, spilled oil, uncleaned mats, rotten olives (and horse or camel manure). And crushing as well as pressing took unwieldy amounts of time during which the olive mass was completely exposed to the environment. Often, too, more oil was encouraged by heating the olive paste or even pouring boiling water over it, all of which changed the nature of the oil and diminished its quality even if it raised the quantity. Nonetheless, since almost everyone was producing defective oils, no one really paid attention and defective flavors became the standard of quality.

EXTRA-VIRGIN EXCELLENCE

Today we know, or some of us know, that there’s a standard of excellence that’s quite different. High quality extra-virgin olive oil should have pronounced flavors of fresh olive fruitiness, along with a balance of the bitterness and pungency that indicate a high quotient of antioxidant polyphenols in the oil. Why that last? Because that’s what makes extra-virgin so good for us, those polyphenols that offer protection against a host of chronic ailments, especially inflammatory ailments that can lead to heart disease, various cancers, diabetes, and even dementia. So, if the oil tastes flat, if it doesn’t have that pungency in the back of the throat, that bitterness along the sides of your tongue, it means that it is probably too old, past its prime. It is certainly safe to use, in the sense that it won’t do you any harm, but it won’t do you a lot of good either.

Cooks might keep in mind the Mediterranean kitchen principal—use the newest oil from this current season for any sort of raw purposes, garnishing a salad, drizzling over a piece of crisp toast, topping a plate of pasta; and then use last year’s oil for all-purpose cooking.

Because the other thing to say about extra-virgin oil is that YOU CAN COOK WITH IT. And you should. Yes, it is perfectly safe to use, it is not going to turn to char or burst into flames on your cooktop. That is a myth, doubtless put out by those who would rather have you invest in another kind of oil (I name no names). Extra-virgin olive oil has a smoke point of around 415ºF. (that’s around 212ºC.) and I would point out that the Joy of Cooking, that Bible of the American kitchen, recommends deep-fat frying at 350 – 360ºF. (around 180º C.)—anything higher than that and you risk burning the food before it is cooked through; anything lower than that and you risk the food absorbing too much oil before it’s done.

Do as cooks have been doing in the kitchens of the Mediterranean for the last several millennia and cook generously and often with extra-virgin. Use it for deep fat frying, for sauteing, for roasting, braising, even for poaching (there’s a wonderful Sicilian method for poaching a center cut of swordfish in olive oil—but I’ll have to talk about that another time).

Zuppa del Frantoio (the bean & farro soup we serve at harvest time)

Makes 8 to 10 servings.

Happy olive pickers with zuppa del frantoio

• 1 1/2 cups dried beans (borlotti, cannellini, or your choice, soaked overnight)

• 1 medium carrot, chopped

• 2 small yellow onions, chopped

• 1 or 2 bayleaves

• 1 1/2 cups farro (emmer wheat)

• 4 garlic cloves

• 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

• Sea salt and black pepper

• 8 to 10 thin slices (one per serving) of dense, country-style bread

• 4 to 6 tablespoons fresh new extra-virgin olive oil

• Finely minced flat-leaf parsley to garnish

Drain the beans and place in a large saucepan with the carrot, half the chopped onion, and the bayleaves. Cover with fresh water, bring to a boil, and simmer, covered, until the beans are soft. (Time depends on the age of the beans.) Keep a kettle of water at a simmer so you can add more to the beans as necessary. They should always be just covered with water but not swimming in it.

Rinse the farro to get rid of any dust, then transfer to another saucepan and cover with boiling water to a depth of 1 inch or so. Bring to a simmer, cover, and cook until the farro is tender, 20 to 30 minutes.

When the beans are very soft, set aside about a half cup. Discard the bayleaves and puree the remainder of the beans with the all their liquid and the vegetables. Drain the farro and add to the pureed beans, then stir in the reserved whole beans.

Mince 3 of the garlic cloves and add to a skillet with the remaining chopped onion and the 1/4 cup of oil. Sauté gently until soft, then stir into the beans.

Lightly toast the bread slices and rub well with garlic on both sides. When you’re ready to serve, set a bread slice in the bottom of each soup plate and dribble a liberal dose of fresh new oil on top. Then spoon hot soup over each bread slice and add another dribble of new oil to the top of the soup, without stirring it in. Sprinkle with parsley and serve immediately, passing more fresh oil for garnishing at the table.