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Mateo leaned his weight against the iron winch , straining to turn the gears of the granite mill while rain lashed against the cracked glass of the cellar door . Fifty crates of freshly picked Coratina olives were stacked along the damp limestone wall , their glossy dark skins damp with autumn moisture . If the fruit sat unpressed for more than twenty - four hours , fermentation would begin , destroying the low acidity and peppery finish that made the hillside grove famous . The cooperative press down in the valley had closed its gates at noon after flash floods washed out the gravel access road . That left only the farm's antique stone press , a machine that had not ground an olive since Mateo's grandfather worked the terraces fifteen years earlier . " The leather drive belt is cracked , " said Don Carmine , his eighty - year - old neighbor , shining a battery lantern over the gears . " If you force the electric motor to turn the millstones today , you risk burning out the winding . " " We have no choice but to try , " Mateo said , wiping olive dust from his brow . " My neighbors in the valley managed to truck their harvest out before the storm hit ; I , unfortunately , could not . If this fruit spoils , a whole year of clearing brambles and pruning dead wood goes into the compost . " Don Carmine stroked his stubbled chin and surveyed the ancient apparatus . He examined the iron hopper for rust ; Mateo , the clearance between the upright granite rollers . Don Carmine suggested oiling the bearings with mineral grease , and Mateo promptly did so , working a grease gun into every brass fitting . " Stand clear of the pulley , " Don Carmine warned , resting his hand over the emergency power switch . Mateo threw the breaker . The motor groaned , shuddered violently , and then caught with a steady , deep thrum . For a breathless moment the leather belt slipped across the iron wheel , smoking slightly against the rim , before the friction took hold . Slowly , almost reluctantly , the five - ton granite wheel began to roll around its circular stone trough . Mateo immediately dumped two crates of fruit into the basin . The crushing stones cracked the bitter pits with a muffled rhythm that sounded like sea gravel rolled by surf . Dark , fragrant paste began to collect in the bottom channel , rich with the smell of green leaves and artichoke hearts . Don Carmine held a clean glass tumbler beneath the drain spout . A thick stream of unclarified oil spilled out , emerald green and shimmering in the lantern beam . He touched a fingertip to the liquid , tasted it , and closed his eyes . " Pungent , grassy , and completely clean . The acidity hasn't risen at all . " Mateo let his shoulders sink in relief as the steady rumble of the stones filled the cellar , drown out the sound of the rain outside .
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