19 Oct,2025 By Fake Travel News
Anton Kowalski, The Equestrian Epicurean, rides with his horse, Margie, throughout Europe. They expose food conspiracies along the way.
“You can’t just eat good food. You’ve got to talk about it too. And you’ve got to talk about it to somebody who understands that kind of food.” – Kurt Vonnegut
What Kurt forgot to mention: sometimes the somebody who understands is a horse.
Margie’s hooves hit Montemarano’s cobblestones like she was filing a noise complaint against every stone in Italy. Three days riding through Campania, and my mare was done being polite about it. The village was positively quaint.
We’re not your typical restaurant review team. While other critics GPS their way around in rental cars, Margie and I do it old-school.
The locals definitely hadn’t seen this before. Kids pointed and giggled as we clip-clopped down Via Roma, bells jingling from Margie’s reins (my grandmother’s Slovak bells – she always said they bring good luck on journeys). A few shopkeepers came to their doorways to watch. One guy nearly dropped his groceries.
That’s the thing about arriving on horseback – you get genuine reactions.
Antico Casale sat on a hill like a fat, satisfied toad. Giuseppe, the owner, kept wiping his hands on his apron but seemed genuinely excited about my unconventional arrival. He walked me to the old stable himself.
“Ah, un blogger del cibo!” Eyes darting toward the kitchen. “You will love our specialties. Especially the mozzarella. Very… local.”
Three years traveling with Margie taught me things. Like that low rumble she makes – her “something’s off” sound. Same sound before the spoiled fish in Gdansk, the fake truffles in Croatia, that sketchy foie gras operation in Prague.
“Local mozzarella?” I said, playing dumb. “That’s wonderful. How local exactly?”
His laugh came too quick. “Very local! Family farms. Traditional methods.”
Margie pawed the ground. Three times, deliberate.
We’d developed signals, her and me. Not on purpose – just happens when you spend every day together. Three pawing meant she was very sure about something.
I made a mental note. Started paying closer attention.
My table overlooked the kitchen’s back entrance. All afternoon, these unmarked purple vans kept pulling up. I started timing them, writing down patterns.
The meal opened well – white wine with good banana and pear notes, focaccia that didn’t taste like cardboard. So far, decent.
Then things got interesting.
Antipasto Misto — cured meats and a generous portion of what the menu proudly called “buffalo mozzarella di Campania DOP.”
Real buffalo mozzarella has this delicate sweetness, almost floral. Cuts like butter, releases milk. The color’s closer to cream than paper-white.
This? Rubbery. Squeaky when I chewed it. That flat, slightly sour taste you get from cheap industrial stuff. Cow’s milk mozzarella, probably from some factory in Poland, stamped with a fake DOP label.
“Marco,” I said, “this mozzarella — which buffalo farm supplies you?”
His smile went tight. “Is local producer. Family operation.”
“Name?”
“Is… I get you the name.”
From outside: Margie neighed. Twice, sharp. She’d never interrupted a meal before.
Marco disappeared into the kitchen. Never came back with that name.
I made notes. Started watching everything more carefully.
Octopus in “Cream Sauce” – except I’ve tasted cream sauces from Paris to Budapest, and cream doesn’t stretch like mozzarella. Doesn’t have that pull. Someone was passing off cheap cheese as cream.
“Marco,” I said when he brought it, “this cream sauce – very unique texture. Almost elastic? What’s the technique here?”
His eyes shot to the kitchen. “Is… family recipe.”
“Family recipe, sure,” I said. “But what gives it this particular consistency?”
“Is… complicated.”
Right. I made notes. Margie made noise. Both gathering information, different methods.
Pasta with Mystery Tomatoes – cheap canned tomatoes dressed up as San Marzano DOP. I’ve tasted enough real San Marzanos to know the difference. These were Bulgarian at best. Wrong acidity, wrong sweetness, that telltale metallic undertone from inferior canning. The mozzarella fraud was just the beginning. When a restaurant cuts one corner, they usually cut them all.
“These tomatoes, Marco. San Marzano, you said on the menu?”
Sweat on his forehead now. “Is… yes. From Campania.”
“Protected designation of origin?”
“Of… of course.”
Right. And I’m the Pope.
Outside, Margie’s bells started up. Deliberate pattern: three rings, pause, two rings, pause, three rings.
She was counting something. The vans?
Between courses I went to check on Margie. Found her outside her stall. Door open. She can pick simple latches if she’s motivated enough.
On the ground, arranged in a line:
“You’ve been busy,” I said.
She snorted. Looked proud of herself.
Here’s the thing about traveling with a smart horse for three years – you stop being surprised. Margie’s always been nosy. Curious. Gets into things. I learned to check what she finds because half the time, it’s useful.
Voices floated up from the wine cellar:
“Salerno batch tomorrow. Same story – local production.”
“What about the blogger?”
“Feed him well. He’ll write nice things and leave.”
I was processing this when Margie walked to the cellar door and popped the latch with her teeth. Just opened it as if she’d been practicing.
Giuseppe and another guy froze.
Margie stuck her long neck into the cellar, grabbed a ledger off the shelf, dropped it at my feet.
“Your horse just—” Giuseppe started.
“Yeah, she does that,” I said, picking it up.
Pages of transactions. Supplier codes. Shipment schedules. Addresses that repeated. The same numbers kept showing up: 373, 7/7.
I filed that away.
Back at my table, pretending normalcy. The lamb arrived – and immediately something felt wrong. The seasoning had this odd aftertaste. Almost chemical. And the texture of the exterior crust – too uniform, too perfect. Like it had been treated with something.
I’ve eaten lamb from Scotland to Greece. This had the signature of meat that’s been “enhanced” – probably injected with solution to increase weight and moisture. Common fraud technique. Sell cheap imported lamb as premium local product, pump it full of additives to mask the quality difference.
Marco hovered nervously. “The lamb – is from local farms. Very fresh.”
“Local farms,” I repeated, cutting into it. “Which farms specifically?”
His face went white.
More noise from outside. I excused myself again.
Margie had moved to the parking area, walking van to van. She’d sniff a door handle, then either move on or scrape her hoof in the dirt next to it. Three vans got marked.
Then she walked to my saddlebag, carefully pulled out my phone with her teeth, and dropped it at my feet. Looked at the marked vans. Back at me.
“You want photos.”
Head bob. Obviously.
I photographed the three license plates. Cross-referenced with my notes – they matched the times when suspicious dishes appeared.
“You can smell which ones are carrying the fake stuff,” I said.
She walked back to her hay. Job done.
We’d figured this out over time, her and me. I investigate through talking, she investigates through that incredible nose. Compare notes after. Works surprisingly well.
Dessert arrived — chocolate lava cake with what the menu called ‘house-made ricotta cream.’ Except ricotta doesn’t have that telltale mozzarella stretch. They were recycling the same fake cheese in yet another disguise. Giuseppe appeared with his “everything good?” smile.
That’s when Margie strolled into the dining room.
Horses don’t usually do this. But Margie isn’t usual.
She walked straight to a tapestry I’d seen Giuseppe glance at maybe four times during dinner. Pulled it aside with her teeth.
Wall safe.
“Interesting place for that,” I said.
Giuseppe’s face lost all color.
Margie started tapping her hoof. Three taps, pause, seven taps, pause, three, pause, seven.
I grabbed the ledger from my bag. The Salerno address was 373. Registration date: 7/7. Old safe, probably original combination.
“Worth a try,” I muttered, spinning the dial. 3-7-3-7.
Clicked open.
Falsified certificates of origin. Contracts with shady distributors. Documentation of the whole operation. Industrial mozzarella from Eastern Europe, repackaged as artisanal Campanian buffalo mozzarella. Canned tomatoes from Bulgaria with fake San Marzano DOP labels. Solution-injected lamb from who-knows-where sold as local Irpinian product. The whole menu was a lie.
“How did you—” Giuseppe whispered.
“She found your pattern book,” I said. “I read patterns. Team effort.”
Margie helped herself to a breadstick off the nearest table. Fair payment for investigative work.
I called the Carabinieri. Then the EU food safety office.
Turns out they’d been looking for this network. My photos, the ledger, the falsified certificates – exactly what they needed.
Giuseppe and his partners were running a full-scale food fraud operation. Seventeen restaurants across three regions, all selling fake “local” ingredients at authentic prices. Almost two million euros annually.
The actual buffalo mozzarella producers from Campania showed up later – furious that someone was destroying their reputation with factory cheese. The San Marzano DOP consortium sent representatives too. Even the local lamb farmers arrived, livid about the counterfeit meat. They were all grateful someone finally caught it.
One of the mozzarella producers gave Margie a whole bag of carrots. She was very smug about it.
Here’s what I learned traveling with Margie:
Pay attention to your partner. Whether they have two legs or four, they notice things you don’t.
Trust your expertise. I know food – ingredients, techniques, what’s real and what’s fake. That knowledge matters.
Combine skills. My interrogation and analysis, her nose and resourcefulness. Neither of us solves this alone.
Stay curious. Ask questions. Notice patterns. Follow the weird leads.
Also, some horses are just naturally nosy and good at opening things. If you’ve got one, use it.
The local paper called us heroes. Giuseppe’s in custody. The fraud network’s shut down.
We’re heading to Umbria next. There’s a risotto place that’s been getting suspiciously good reviews for suspiciously low prices. Margie’s already packed the saddlebags.
She included evidence bags and a magnifying glass this time.
I didn’t even know we had those.
Trust Your Palate: Years of tasting builds a mental library. Use it.
Watch Reactions: Ask innocent questions, see who gets nervous.
Notice Patterns: Delivery schedules, ingredient sources, repeated numbers.
Document Everything: Photos, notes, timing. It adds up.
Use All Resources: Even unconventional ones. Like a horse with an incredible nose.
Ask Specific Questions: “How local?” “Which farm?” “What technique?” Details matter.
Follow our adventures at @EquestrianEpicurean, where every meal is a review and some meals are investigations.
The non-fake disclaimer: Fake Travel News is a satire travel blog. We have fun creating and exaggerating travel stories from around the world, but we also love travel and the very real magic it grants to the human experience. For non-fake information on the food and wine scene in Avellino, you can visit the following link: Guide to Avellino, Italy – Petite Suitcase Italy
