Mario's Italian Kitchen

Cannoli Day!

2012-02-22T09:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I spent the better part of my morning making cannoli. It was Fat Tuesday and on Fat Tuesday, if anyone’s ever looking for me, they’ll find me in the kitchen knee-deep in lard and ricotta. Fat Tuesday in my calendar is cannoli day. Cannoli were, after all, a pastry traditionally made for Carnival and although in these days they are made all year round, I take satisfaction in feeling that somehow I’m doing my bit for reviving a tradition lost.

Then again, as far as cannoli are concerned, it’s not something I would attempt to do all year round. There can be no half measures with cannoli. It’s a painstaking endeavour and either you go all out or better you walk down to the bakery and save yourself a morning of pain. I made just shy of 50 cannoli! But I’m jumping ahead of myself. There’s reason in the madness so let me explain.

Cannoli are a Sicilian specialty. They are made from a disc of rolled fried pastry – known as the scòrza – stuffed with sweetened sheep’s ricotta mixed with candied fruit (and sometimes with the addition of pistachio’s, hazelnuts and pieces of chocolate). Some bakeries use cow’s milk ricotta and although an acceptable substitute, if you can find it sheep’s milk is preferable. The pastry is made from a mixture of flour, white wine, sugar and lard. It is thinly rolled around cylindrical metal tubes and deep-fried in lard. Again, some bakeries make a concession and use vegetable oil, but traditionally it was always cooked in hot lard. My personal view is that lard gives a better finish. The resulting pastry is crisper, which is what you are looking for with good cannoli.

The origins of cannoli are swamped with speculation and fanciful thinking. There’s general agreement that they originated in the town of Caltanissetta, a city and commune on the western interior of Sicily and that they have very ancient origins. The name Caltanissetta is said to derive from the Arabic Qalat al Nissa which roughly translates ‘Fort of the Women’. The area was for long occupied by the Saracens. One theory has it that cannoli were first made by the women working in a Saracen harem. At the time the dessert would have been banana shaped, filled with ricotta, almonds and honey - a not so subtle (but tasty no doubt) allusion to the virtuous qualities of the Sultan. Somewhat in contrast, you could say, one food historian has claimed that they were first made by nuns in a local convent. I can’t quite see any common thread in the two stories.

Legends aside, what is certain is that cannoli were traditionally made for Carnival. Also according to tradition, they should be offered as gifts to friends and relatives in multiples of twelve. To offer less would be to risk bad fortune – possibly the kind of fortune that befell the Don in Godfather Part III as he munched through a whole box during a performance at the Palermo opera house. So you see, not wanting to tempt fate, when I cook cannoli, I avoid half measures. Besides, they’re frankly too much effort for a couple of pastries! If that’s what you have in mind, like I said, you might want to consider the local patisserie. My calculations were as follows: a dozen for the old couple who live upstairs; a dozen for anyone [myself included] who cares for a cannolo at my local bar, and; two dozen for the house. I do have three kids so they won’t last very long!

If you want to give it a go, here’s the recipe. However, bear a couple of things in mind. First, fill your cannoli just before you eat them. Otherwise you risk the filling seeping too much into the pastry and making it soggy. Second, some people do not like to use lard. This recipe will work with a substitute such as vegetable oil but the pastry will not be quite as crispy and therefore should be eaten soon after.On a final note, throughout I have used the plural, cannoli. In my view, cannolo, the singular is possibly one of the most redundant words in the Italian dictionary - who ever just eats one!

For the pastry

110g plain flour

15g lard or butter if preferred

15g caster sugar

40ml marsala or dry white wine

½ teaspoon dark cocoa powder

A pinch of salt

For the filling

400g sheep’s ricotta (or cow’s)

100g candied pumpkin or orange pieces

100g dark chocolate drops

180g caster sugar

Lard or oil for deep frying

Icing sugar for dusting

To make the pastry, place the flour on a large work surface and in the middle place the lard or butter, the sugar, a pinch of salt, the cocoa powder and the marsala or wine. Bring everything together and knead to obtain and smooth dough. Wrap the dough in a clean tea towel and leave in a cool place to rest for one hour.

While the pastry is resting you can make the filling. Pass the ricotta through a sieve into a large bowl (the ricotta needs to be thoroughly drained). Add the sugar and mix together well. Stir in the candied peel and chocolate drops. Place the filling in the fridge until needed.

Roll the pastry out to a thickness of 2mm (I find it easiest to do this with a pasta machine). With a pastry wheel cut circles of dough 10cm in diameter. If you find it easier you can also cut 10cm squares although the finished look won’t be quite the same.

Wrap each disc of pastry around a metal cannolo tube (these can be found in the shops or on line). I’ve heard it said that you can also wrap the dough around the handle of a wooden spoon. I’ve never managed to get this to work for me as the gap for the filling isn’t large enough. Although I suppose you could try and make a smaller disc of pastry to make mini cannoli. Which ever method you choose, make sure that you don’t wrap the pastry up too tight - it needs a little space to rise.

Fry the pastry in abundant oil which is hot but not smoking until they are a dark golden colour. Remove from the oil with a slotted spoon and allow them to drain on kitchen paper. Once the cannoli have cooled slightly remove the metal tube. Repeat this process until all the dough is used up.

Allow the cannoli to cool completely before filling. I would suggest that you wait until just ready to serve so that the pastry does not become soggy. Decorate each end of the cannolo with a piece of candied peel and finally dust with icing sugar.

A little sacrifice and deep-fried carnival delights

2012-02-16T08:26:00.000-08:00

The aroma of deep-fried dough is drifting dangerously through my back door. If there was ever an excuse needed to clear my front path of snow, I needed look no further. It’s one of the highlights of my year. In the run up to Lent a few of my neighbours set up a makeshift stall on the street next to the bar. It’s so close to home I can practically hear the oil crackling! Within five minutes I’m standing holding a crumpled paper bag filled with hot fritelle (mini deep-fried sweetened dough balls) in one hand and a glass of the local white wine in the other. The thought of waiting until I get home – less than two minutes walk – is impossible to even contemplate. I’ve never been able to resist a warm doughnut. By the time I’ve finished the wine the paper bag in my hand is looking sad and empty and I’m feeling decidedly guilty, not to mention gluttonous. But then I remind myself… that’s the whole point.

With Ash Wednesday approaching and the Spartan challenge of Lent threatening on the horizon, the race seems to be on in Italy to make the most of the last few days of the Carnival season. From now until next Tuesday bakeries and cake shops across the country will be frying dough by the wheelbarrow-load. That’s because after next Tuesday – known as Shrove Tuesday or Martedi Grasso – if tradition has its way, there won’t be a fried pastry to be found anywhere in the country. So ‘get them while you can’, appears to be the mantra everyone is living by because next week we fast and sacrifice.

For Catholics, Lent was traditionally a time of stringent fasting--one full meal and two light meals a day coupled with an abstinence from meat and meat products. The word carnival derives from the Latin, carne levamen, or ‘to take away meat’. Although the restrictions have since been relaxed as far as Lent is concerned, Carnival remains another in Italy’s calendar of acceptable periods of excess.

Carnival has very ancient origins. Some say it originated in Roman times when Saturnalia, the Saturn festival, and Lupercalia, the feast of the full moon, were celebrated. Today there are all sorts of carnival party. Venice, of course, is the most famed. It was first recorded in 1268. Every year something in the region of one million visitors from across the globe descend on the city to witness the party. I went myself a couple of years back. It’s a great experience for anyone who hasn’t been but you have to be prepared to brave the crowds. I could almost hear the streets groaning under the weight.

Every town has its own take on the carnival. In Viareggio, spectacular floats parade around the city. In Ivrea in Piedmont the whole town comes out to do battle armed with 60 tons of imported oranges. A few kilometres from home, in the small market town of Fiorenzuola, they do the Zobia. It’s hard to explain to anyone not familiar with the custom. It’s everything Venice is not – except, that is, for the shared appetite for deep-fired pastries.

Here in Castello, however, the closest we get to a celebration is the makeshift stall outside the bar. Not that I’m complaining. There’s no queuing, the company’s good and the fritelle and wine are free. What’s not to like?

Carnival pastries

The typical dolci (sweets) of carnival are fried pastries that change name depending on where in the country you happen to live. They’re known locally and in Milan as chiacchiere, or little gossips. In piedmont they are called bugie (or lies), cenci (rags) in Tuscany, sfrappe in the Marche and crostoli or nastri di suore (nun’s ribbons) in other parts of the country. Despite the diversity of nomenclature, and leaving aside a few minor variations in recipe, they all amount to pretty much the same thing. They are pieces of pastry, cut into various shapes and sizes, deep-fried and dusted in sugar. So you have just six days left to get frying - after that, it’s time for a little sacrifice – at least, that is, until the 19^th of March, the feast day of San Giuseppe, patron saint of friers!

Chiacchiere

500g plain flour

50ml olive oil

25ml white wine

4 free-range eggs, gently beaten

3 tablespoons caster sugar

½ teaspoon baking powder

Pinch of salt

Zest of an unwaxed lemon

Oil for frying

Icing sugar for dusting

Sieve the flour and baking powder onto a large work surface. Make a well in the centre and add the eggs, oil, lemon zest and wine. (I use the local white wine, a dry Ortrugo, which is slightly fizzy and I find works very well. However, it’s also commonplace to use either Marsala or the liqueur Strega.) Using a fork, begin incorporating a little of the flour into the wet ingredients. Bring everything together to the point where you are able to knead the dough with your hands. Knead for a few minutes until you have a smooth ball of dough. Break off small tennis ball-size pieces of dough and roll to a thickness of 3mm (you can use a pasta machine for this set to its widest setting). Cut the dough into rectangles with a fluted pastry wheel and make two incisions in the middle of the rectangle.

Fry the dough in hot oil for a minute on each side. Remove from the pan with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper. When cool dust with icing sugar.

Langhirano and a plate of Parma Ham

2012-02-13T09:53:00.000-08:00

“Langhirano, Langhirano, Langhirano, let’s go to Langhirano” said Gigi as we pondered over a glass of wine on a Saturday evening, how we might usefully pass our time the following morning. It was a great idea. It certainly beat his other suggestions – too cold to go to the market, far too much snow to go walking the dog in the mountains. Not everyone has heard of Langhirano. But immediately he said the name, I knew what he had in mind. Langhirano, otherwise known as the capitale del prosciutto, is the very epicentre of

Italy

’s love affair with prosciutto crudo (cured raw ham). True aficionados will make a point of only sourcing their ham from one of the many salumifici (cured meat producers) in the surrounding area. The ham produced in Langhirano epitomizes the principle of terroir – soil, climate, plant life and tradition interacting to produce something that is truly unique.

Italy makes over 100 different types of ham but it has to be said that Parma ham is the most famous. Other well known versions include San Daniele, the norcia hams of Umbria and Prosciutto Toscano. None of the above are necessarily the best, just the most widely exported and, arguably, successfully branded. The one thing that can be said with certainty is that all Italian hams, just like wine, are a close reflection of local territory.

Parma ham is made from the rear legs of Landrace or Duroc pigs. The hams are trimmed and treated to a slow salting process. The curing is completed by slow air drying, a process which takes at least 12 months. There are no artificial additives used in the production of Parma ham. In Italy the majority of hams are sold with the bone intact. Much of the ham that is exported is boned.

A good Parma ham should have a rosy pink flesh with a good balance of fat to lean meat. It should be sweet and tender albeit with a fairly dense texture. Most Italians, myself included, have serious misgivings about cooking with prosciutto crudo. The only exception that I can think of is saltimbocca alla Romana – although for that dish I wouldn’t use Parma ham specifically but another ham (arguably one from Lazio).One Italian food writer wrote that using Parma ham as an ingredient is a ‘crime against its personality’. I couldn’t agree more. Cooking Parma ham completely alters its character, taste and texture. Fresh Parma ham is subtle, delicate in flavour and melts in the mouth. Once cooked – apart from the fact that it becomes cooked ham – it loses its fragrance and character, the texture is transformed and it becomes ‘salty’. It is no coincidence that despite Italian culinary ingenuity, the best we’ve been able to come up with when it comes to Parma ham is to serve it fresh draped over slices of sweet melon or figs. They’re the perfect accompaniment and why, after all, would you want to tamper with perfection?

With the shopping taken care of, Gigi and I made our way into the centre of town. We figured we deserved a treat, after all our effort. The truth is, this is what we’d really come for. Langhirano’s a small town and everyone knows about the little trattoria in the main piazza. Needless to say, it specialises in the local ham and if you want to sample Parma ham at its very, very best, there’s arguably no better place in Italy. We ordered a plate of fresh ham served over slices of grilled polenta with mixed vegetables – along with a bottle of the local Lambrusco. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday morning.

Mixed grains, vegetable & Parma Ham salad

Insalata di cereali misti, verdure crude e prosciutto di Parma

Like I said, there’s no better vehicle for Parma ham than a couple of slices of sweet melon or a few well-ripened figs. But good figs and melon are hard to find in the heart of winter. So while you are waiting for those long summer days, there are options. A good ham does not like to be accompanied by excessive acidity. Therefore, do not serve it with acidic vegetables – never with tomatoes. Gardiniere vegetables, cooked in a little vinegar but preserved in oil are perfect. Porcini mushrooms also work well with Parma ham. For the following recipe suggestion, try to find a good quality sweet orange.

Serves 4

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 15 minutes

Ingredients

250g mixed grains including rice, spelt and pearl barley

2 medium sized sweet yellow peppers

4 small young courgettes

2 untreated oranges

12 slices of Parma ham

4 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil

Salt/pepper

Method

Boil the mixed grains in salted water until cooked. You can purchase bags that contain all three grains and have an equal cooking time which makes things much easier. If you can’t find this, just use one of your favourite grains. Once cooked drain, transfer to a large mixing bowl and set aside to cool completely. To make the salad, chop the peppers and courgette into small dice and add to the bowl. Make a dressing by mixing together the juice and zest of one orange with the olive oil. Add this to the bowl and stir everything together. Check for seasoning and add salt & pepper to taste. To serve, I like to peel and finely slice the oranges and arrange them on a serving plate. Place the salad on top and, finally, finish with several slices of Parma ham.

Pancetta, bacon and the story of Carbonara

2012-02-03T05:48:00.000-08:00

One of the most powerful and enduring memories I have of the time I spent working in Philadelphia as a short order cook is the aroma in the morning of bacon strips sizzling on the griddle. These days, just the sight of a frying egg is enough to send a sharp pang of nostalgia to my stomach. Frankly, breakfast seems pointless and empty without it. Nowadays, every time I make a trip to London I load the boot, hoping it will be enough to see me through to the next trip. But it never is. My two young sons have developed a liking for it too!

The closest Italians get to bacon is pancetta. Of all the salume, it is pancetta that Italians most often cook with. Pancetta can come in many forms - smoked, unsmoked, rolled or flat. It is made from the belly of the pig and practically every region of Italy makes some form of pancetta. Here in Piacenza the local variety has achieved DOP status and is regarded as one of the best of its kind. The meat is simply seasoned by hand, rolled and hung to dry for a couple of months. The microclimate is left to do the rest.

Although it might look like bacon, Italians generally don’t fry it in the pan and eat it between two slices of bread or with eggs. Usually it’s either eaten raw, in an affettato as an antipasto, or it is cooked with other ingredients. It is, however, used often, to the extent, you could say, that it’s something of a store cupboard staple.

The dish that follows, spaghetti carbonara is one of Italy’s ‘modern’ classics.

It’s a recent invention as there’s no reference to it in cookbooks older than 50 years, at least not with this name. Like all Italian dishes there are competing claims to ownership and stories and legends which supposedly explain its origins. Truth be told, few of them appear very credible.

The name Carbonara derives from the word carbone – charcoal. So, one theory has it that it was a way of cooking pasta popular among Roman Carbinai - the men who worked in the bush, carbonising wood to produce charcoal. Others attribute it to the Carbonari - the underground Italian insurgents who fought for independence from the Austrians two hundred years ago. Another theory has it is that the dish was invented for the American soldiers who entered Rome after the Second World War. When they frequented Roman trattoria’s they would ask for eggs, bacon and noodles for lunch. Hence, Roman chefs created a dish that incorporated the three ingredients. Although it’s a charming story, it doesn’t explain where the name came from!

I’ve been served some truly awful spaghetti carbonara in restaurants – mostly abroad, I have to say. One restaurant served it with peas and ham, another even threw pieces of chicken in the mix. Two or three times the pasta has come drowned in the best part of a tub of cream. And as if to disguise the shame, they tried camouflaging it in under a forest of chopped parsley. It’s strange, given that it’s such a simple dish to prepare. Now, to avoid disappointment, it’s a dish I only ever eat it at home. There are a few acceptable variations on this dish. You can use either pancetta or guanciale (cheek), although it’s best you avoid using cooked ham. Also, I’ve been served this dish with grated parmesan cheese instead of pecorino but I have to say that whilst acceptable, it’s just not the same. Besides, good mature pecorino cheese is just as widely available these days. Whatever you do, however, avoid the Carbonara Cardinal Sin – leave the tub of cream and the parsley in the fridge – it certainly doesn’t belong here!!!

Spaghetti alla carbonara

Recipe

Serves 4

Ingredients

320g Spaghetti, although the Romans also use Rigatoni

150g Pancetta or guanciale

30g grated pecorino cheese

2 or 3 organic free-range eggs (depending on size)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Method

Chop the pancetta into cubes and cook at a low heat in a heavy based frying pan until the fat has dissolved. Don’t allow it to crisp and brown too much.

In a bowl, beat together the eggs. Add the grated cheese and plenty of freshly ground black pepper.

Boil the pasta in salted water until it is al dente, and then drain and add to the frying pan with the pancetta. Switch off the heat, add the eggs and cheese and stir rapidly. Don’t be tempted to over cook the eggs. The residual heat from the pan and the pasta will be enough to cook them through. Serve immediately with an extra sprinkling of grated cheese.

A Cassata in a van

2012-01-31T07:31:00.000-08:00

Lillo the Sicilian makes his living from driving a van filled with local produce from his home town just outside Palermo to the north of Italy. He makes the 1,300 km journey at least twice a month. In the winter the van is packed with crates of fresh oranges, mandarins and large, knobbly lemons, as well as bottles of extra virgin olive oil. He spends a couple of days parked by the roadside just down the street from my house, in the freezing cold, selling the fruit by the crate. Lillo’s always smiling and there’s always a brisk trade around his van. His fruit is of the highest quality – and everyone takes the opportunity to make their year’s supply of limoncello.

A few years back, on a particularly cold day, I took him a flask of pastina (little pasta) in chicken broth and a bottle of wine. We’ve been friends ever since and today, when he comes, he always brings a little something extra for me in his van. A couple of month’s back it was a large tub of olives, before that wine from his own vineyard. This time his wife made me a cassata – ‘it’s for the children’, he warned.

Cassata Siciliana is a sweet from Palermo in Sicily. It was traditionally made and eaten over Easter but today it can be found in bakeries all year round. There are mixed views on when or how it originated. Some claim that its roots lie in the Muslim Middle Ages, the name deriving from the Arabic word qas’at, meaning the large kettle or container which was used as a mould for the cake. This theory is disputed as some food historians believe the name originates from the Latin word for cheese, caseus, possibly making it a dish of Roman origin. It could be that there is truth in both theories as the ingredients point to influences from both directions.

It’s a moot point. Lillo’s wife’s cassata was everything a good cassata should be – colourful bordering on garish on the outside and very sweet, slightly alcoholic, fresh and creamy on the inside. The interior of the cake is made with an unctuous mixture of creamed ricotta, sugar, sponge, liqueur, candied fruit and chocolate chips. The sides are lined with a further layer of sponge and then encased in a layer of green marzipan. Traditionally the case would have been made with an almond paste, an idea which was claimed to have originated in the convent of Martorana in Sicily. However, today it’s prohibitively expensive to make cassata in this way and so a simple coloured marzipan is used instead. The top of the cake is then decorated elaborately with crystallised wedges of candied fruit – oranges, pears, lemon wedges and cherries – and, traditionally, zuccata (pieces of candied pumpkin).

It’s not a cake I’ve ever tried making myself. It’s laborious and elaborate work and just decorating the top is an art form in itself. What’s more, in my excitement last night, I completely forgot to ask Lillo if he could give me his wife’s recipe. I’m going to go and see him this afternoon. There’s a sbrislona baking in the oven as my wife wants to return the favour. As soon as I get the recipe I’m going to give it a try and I’ll get back to you!

Deep Fried!

2012-01-27T05:34:00.000-08:00

My good friend Sandro Rizzi shares a sarcastic sense of humour – something of a rarity in Italian society. In the heat of a good-spirited debate he resorts to calling me names. Usually it’s something along the lines ‘un povero mangiatore di pesce fritto e bevitore di Guiness’ [roughly translated, a poor fried fish eater and drinker of Guinness]. As far as Guinness is concerned, what can I say, I’m part Irish. As for the former, again I raise my hands: I have a liking for deep fried fish in batter – hardly surprising, given my parents were in the deep-fried-fish business back in Belfast.

Italians don’t like to admit it, but they too have a proclivity for deep-fried. You only have to look at the displays in bakeries and cake shops in the run up to Carnival. The mountainous trays of fried pastries are hard to miss. It’s a national preoccupation, the only thing that changes are the names – among others, chiacchiare (gossips) in Milan, crostoli in Alto Adige, bugie (lies) in Piedmont and lattughe (lettuces) in parts of Emila Romagna. Alongside these delicate flat pastries, frittelle (small deep-fried dough balls) - some stuffed with cream, others simply sprinkled with sugar – are practically ubiquitous throughout the country. And these are just a couple of the more common deep-fried treats, made and sold throughout the country this time of the year. To list all the regional variations would have me blogging into the next week!

As it happens, it’s not just deep-fried pastries that Italians are partial to. Nor is the deep-fryer reserved for those few weeks in the run up to Lent. Think about the popularity of fritto misto, a dish made and served in restaurants all along Italy’s 7,500 km’s of coastline and I begin to suspect I’m not the only mangiatore di pesce fritto in town.

I’m in the minority of Italians that doesn’t happen to live along the coast. But that doesn’t mean we don’t get our fair share of deep-fried. On the contrary, in the absence of an abundant supply of fresh seafood, we deep-fry our dough! It’s a specialty most commonly known as gnocco fritto. In Bologna, where it’s said to have originated, it also goes by the name crescentina. In Parma it’s called torta fritta and here in Piacenza it goes by the name of chisolini [or chisulén in the local dialect]. Needless to say these deep fried balls of dough go by many names. They are most often eaten over the summer months, being sold at practically every festival. However, restaurants in Emilia also serve them and so they have become a year-round deep-fried treat (or habit, if you like). Their popularity stretches beyond regional boundaries. I’ve lost count of the times a car has pulled up alongside me as I walked my son home from school only to be asked by the hungry out-of-town occupants (usually from Milan) as to the whereabouts of the nearest restaurant that serves gnocco fritto over lunch [many of the local restaurants only switch their fryers on in the evenings over the weekend].

How they are eaten depends on where in the country you happen to be. At festivals they tend to be eaten straight out of a paper bag with just a sprinkling of salt. In restaurants they usually come as an antipasto along with a plate of mixed cured meats. In certain parts of the country they are filled with ham and soft cheese. Personally I could eat them any way. But the best way, in my opinion, is as they do here in Piacenza – served in a basket alongside a platter of thick cut slices of local salami.

Deep fried dough

Gnocco fritto

Serves 4

Preparation time: 15 minutes + resting time

Cooking time: 5 minutes

300g strong plain flour

150-180ml tepid water

½ teaspoon salt

10g fresh yeast

Extra flour for dusting

Lard or oil for deep frying

To make the dough, place the flour on a work surface and mix in the salt. Make a well in the centre and crumble in the fresh yeast. Next add the water and knead together for at least 5 minutes. Cover the dough with a clean tea towel and let rise for 1 hour, or until doubled in size. After the dough has risen, knock it down and knead again for a minute or two before dividing into about 16 pieces.

Heat the oil or lard (traditionally they are made with the latter) in a deep-sided frying pan. Roll each piece of dough into a round about ½ - 1cm in height. Carefully place the dough, in batches, into the hot oil and fry for 2-3 minutes, turning half way through, until golden and puffed up (like little bellies). Carefully remove the fried dough with a slotted spoon, drain and sprinkle with salt. Serve hot with slices of salami.

Taboo? Italians and horsemeat

2012-01-23T06:49:00.000-08:00

I was invited by a friend to eat horsemeat over the weekend. Although the idea arouses distaste and criticism for many in English-speaking countries, eating horse in many parts of Europe is still considered acceptable. The Italians, along with the French, the Belgians, the Dutch, the Germans, the Swedish, amongst others, to varying degrees, are all still ready consumers of horsemeat. The Italians have the highest consumption rates in Europe, although the tradition is concentrated in certain parts of the country - particularly in the Veneto, parts of Emila and Tuscany, Piedmont and parts of Puglia.

In Italy horsemeat is sold in specialist butcher shops. Ordinary butchers are prohibited from selling horsemeat. The meat itself is similar to beef, although many say it is slightly sweeter in taste and has a less complex flavour. That said, many Italians argue that it is a healthier option than beef, being both lower in calories and has a higher content of glycogen. Generally it can be treated in much the same way as beef. It also lends itself to curing (such as in bresaola and salami) and to eating raw. One of the most popular methods in Italy is a dish of steak tartare.

Horsemeat is something that most Italians will eat al momento. It does not keep as well as beef and therefore is best bought and used fresh on the day. Gigi had been nagging me for some time to try horsemeat with him. When I arrived he was busy preparing two plates. There are various recipes for preparing the dish but the principle is generally the same. A combination of lemon juice, garlic and chopped parsley is added to freshly minced meat. After a good seasoning the mix is allowed to rest for 5 to 10 minutes – during which time the lemon juice begins to cook the meat, explained Gigi. He also added a couple of small yet fiery chilli peppers – a personal preference.

There is little consensus when it comes to eating horsemeat. The tradition of doing so has existed in much of Europe for centuries. Although consumption rates have dwindled in the past years, it’s not a tradition that is going to disappear. I can understand the aversion that many people have to eating horsemeat. Yet, at the same time, in many parts of Europe eating horsemeat is deemed socially acceptable. I have to respect both viewpoints. It is the same dilemma that pervades over hunting. After ten minutes, Gigi gave the dish a final drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and pushed a plate in my direction. Now I had a decision to make – to eat or go home?

Steak tartare

Serves 2 people

Preparation time: 15 minutes

Cooking time: N/A

400gms lean horsemeat (or beef), minced

1 lemon

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

A handful fresh parsley, chopped

Nutmeg

1 small chilli, chopped

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Whether you are using horsemeat or beef buy it fresh from a reputable butcher. It is probably best that you mention that it will be eaten raw. Choose a lean cut of meat such as rump. Have the butcher trim off any excess fat and mince the beef. Place the meat into a bowl. Squeeze over the lemon juice and add the chopped parsley, garlic, chilli (optional) and a grating of nutmeg. Mix the ingredients very well and divide equally onto two plates. Flatten the mince down with the back of a fork and season with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Allow to rest for about 10 minutes. To finish, add a good drizzle of olive oil and serve with crusty bread and a simple salad.

Tagliatelle alla bolognese

2012-01-20T01:03:00.000-08:00

Ragù alla bolognese is traditionally served with fresh egg tagliatelle (not, as some would have it, spaghetti)! The secret to a good ragù alla bolognese is ‘time’. This is not one for a quick evening meal, best you leave it for a leisurely Sunday lunch. It’s a substantial plate so you need only follow with a simple green salad and perhaps a platter of cheese.

The recipe uses milk in the cooking, which some might find a little odd. But the end, in this case, justifies the means. One word of warning; the aroma as it cooks will test your patience. You have to be firm. Open a bottle of wine, slice some salami and prosciutto and wait it out. The result, in my view, is without a doubt one of Italy’s greatest culinary achievements. But what would you expect coming from a city nicknamed ‘the Fat’!

Serves: 4

Cooking and preparation time: approx 2.5 hours

Ingredients

300g beef mince

150g pancetta

50g carrot

50g celery

30g onion

5 tablespoons of tomato passata

½ glass of dry white wine

1 glass of full fat milk

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Method
Finely chop the pancetta with a half-moon chopping knife and place it into a heavy-based (terracotta, if you have it) frying pan. Over a very gentle heat allow the fat from the pancetta to melt.
While you are waiting, finely chop the carrot, celery and onions. When the fat has melted add the vegetables to the pan and allow to soften. Next add the beef mince and fry until it begins to colour (but not brown). Finally, add the wine and tomato sauce, stir and leave it to simmer on a gentle heat for approximately two hours.

At this point you might want to think about opening that bottle of wine. But whatever you do, don’t forget about the sauce and let it dry out. Check every 20 minutes and as it begins to dry, stir in a little of the milk. You should get through a good glass full. Finally check for seasoning.

Serve the sauce over fresh egg tagliatelle (about 80gms per person). You can buy this at the supermarket or, alternatively, for a real treat make it yourself while you are waiting for the sauce to cook. It’s worth it!

Gastronomy, place and preserving traditions

2012-01-19T05:52:00.000-08:00

On the 17^th of October 1982 Bologna’s Chamber of Commerce agreed and recorded the official recipe for Ragù alla Bolognese. It marked the end of a long process which was initiated in the 1970s by the City Council and l’Accademia Italiana della Cucina di Bologna to bring about a modicum of official clarity to what is regarded as one the world’s most popular dishes (although, strictly speaking it’s not a dish, rather a sauce).

It’s not the only Italian dish that has been officially registered. Costoletta alla Milanese was given Denominazione Comunal (De.Co.) status on the 17th February 2008. Risotto alla Milanese was granted its badge of authenticity as a typical Milanese plate in 2007. The list is long and includes such household names as bistecca alla Fiorentina, pesto Genovese and even traditional Neapolitan pizza.

Registering a dish that stems from a city or the surrounding territory is not simply a question of laying claim to ownership. Certainly that’s part of it. But more than that, it’s a question of cultural heritage. In Italy food is an expression of cultural heritage. Gastronomy and place are synonymous - it’s what sets one region apart from another. Just as such great architectural landmarks as the Coliseum, Piazza San Marco or the Ponte Vecchio conjure images of historical cities such as Rome, Venice and Florence, so too do its great dishes. Risotto alla Milanese and Costoletta alla Milanese are as much a part of Milan’s cultural and historical heritage as the magnificent Duomo or the Galleria.

Earlier this week Italians across the globe celebrated their culinary heritage with the 5^th edition of International Day of Italian Cuisine. The rationale behind the event, at least in part, is to promote and help preserve the authenticity of Italy’s traditional dishes. It’s a worthy cause. The dishes selected each year to mark the event are those most recognized throughout the world – they also happen to be the most imitated, misunderstood and often abused. Anyone who as ever sat down to a plate of spaghetti and boulder-sized meatballs or spaghetti drenched in a meat ragù, often erroneously labeled spaghetti Bolognese – or worse still, ‘Spag Bol’ – should at least appreciate it has nothing to do with the fair city of Bologna.

‘Isn’t this a lot of fuss over a name’, you might well ask? It’s like this: if I happen to be in Milan doing some shopping I can go to practically any restaurant, order a plate of risotto alla milanese or osso buco alla milanese or costoletta alla milanese and know exactly what I’m going to get. Similarly, if I happen to be working down south somewhere, in the heat of the summer, I can order an insalata caprese and I know that the light refreshing plate that will follow won’t have me struggling back to the hotel for a siesta. The Italian menu is, in effect, a road map – one that’s easy to navigate (once you know how to read it) and it keeps you on track.

Over the past years Bologna, like other cities across Italy, has felt compelled to put an official stamp on their culinary heritage. It’s about more than just protecting or laying claim to a name as nnyone who has ever been to a restaurant and ordered an old friend, only to be confronted with an impostor, will understand. And don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against meatballs… or spaghetti for that matter. Just call it what it is and keep Bologna out of the equation!

International Day of Italian Cuisine, Saint Antonio Abate and osso buco

2012-01-16T06:54:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow marks the 5^th edition of International Day of Italian Cuisine. For the past 5 years the 17^th of January has been set aside to celebrate the Italian contribution to world cuisine. Every year a classic dish from the pantheon of Italy’s great and good is selected to mark the occasion. This year it’s osso buco alla Milanese.

Unlike many of Italy’s classic dishes, relatively little is known about the origins of osso buco – or oss buss [pronounced oss buse] in the local Milanese dialect. Milan’s city council registered the dish in 2007 as a De.Co., which effectively means that the dish stems from the local territory. As to when it first made an appearance, no one can really say. It certainly dates back some time as the recipe was included in Pellegrino Artusi’s famous book, ‘La scienza in cucina e l’arte di mangier bene’ in 1891. But whether it originated from cucina povera or higher end Italian cuisine is uncertain. The use of a cheaper cut of meat in the dish, veal shin, might suggest that it was a dish of the poor reserved, of course, for Sundays and special occasions, but not necessarily so.

As for the dish itself, it is relatively simple to make, albeit somewhat time consuming. Veal shin, roughly 3cm in thickness, cut through the bone with the marrow included is lightly floured and browned in butter with onions. White wine or broth is added and the meat is allowed to simmer until meltingly tender – about 2 hours. The dish is finished with a gremolata of chopped parsley, lemon peel and garlic (and sometimes anchovies) and served traditionally with a risotto alla Milanese. Today, many people find the rice too heavy and opt instead to serve the veal over creamy mashed potatoes, polenta, plain white rice cooked in butter or just with rustic pieces of country bread. It’s a question of taste.

Other takes on the Milanese version include osso buco alla Fiorentina, a classic Sunday plate of the Tuscan kitchen. The method is pretty much the same except that a classic battuto of chopped vegetables (including celery, carrot and onion) is added and the meat is cooked in a tomato sauce. In Reggio Emilia a version known as alla reggiana is made in which the shins are cooked in a combination of white wine and tomatoes.

Now in its 5^th year, International Day of Italian Cuisine has celebrated some of Italy’s most iconic plates. Previous contenders have included spaghetti carbonara, risotto alla Milanese, pesto alla Genovese and tagliatelle al ragù alla Bolognese. The event, in part at least, is intended to help preserve the identity of Italy’s classic dishes. The dishes selected are not only some of the country’s most widely known on an international level, but they are also some of the dishes that are most abused and misunderstood outside their country of origin.

It has to be said, however, that although International Day of Italian Cuisine has in a few short years achieved something of an international platform, it is still an event that in Italy goes by relatively unnoticed. Most Italians are ignorant of the newfound relevance of the 17^th of January, many knowing it better as the Catholic feast day of Saint Antonio Abate, patron saint of, amongst other things, domestic animals, pigs, pig herders, butchers, salami makers, people with eczema and any other communicable skin diseases. For a nation that enjoys its salami more than most, that makes Saint Tony something of a VIP in Italian eyes.

Unfortunately this year, I have to admit, I’m not going to be taking part in the celebrations, however unpatriotic that might sound. The truth is I ate osso buco alla Fiorentina in the mountains on Sunday with the family. We worked our way through over 1 kilo of veal shin! Fortunately, or not – depending on how you look at it - neither my wife nor my children indulge in the best part of the dish – the sought-after bone marrow. So I got to suck my way through the better part of a plate of bones (I used the suction method as I haven’t got around to buying a set of long handled spoons known as esattore, namely tax collector, which are designed for this very purpose). Eating through a kilo’s worth of bone marrow isn’t necessarily a good idea. But I couldn’t help myself. As expected, chronic indigestion followed yesterday evening. Luckily I had a bottle of nocino [an excellent digestive] to hand to ease my suffering. Tomorrow I’m expecting to break out in spots. But I’m not worried. It is after all the feast day of Saint Antonio and he’s just the guy for taking care of that sort of thing!

Braised veal shanks, Florentine-style

Osso buco alla Fiorentina

Serves 4

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 2-2.5 hours

4 veal shank steaks

1 onion

1 carrot

A few celery stalks

1 clove of garlic

750ml tomato passata

200ml water

3-4 tablespoons plain flour

Olive oil

Freshly chopped parsley

Salt & pepper

Finely dice the onion, carrot and celery stalks. Add a few tablespoons of olive oil to a large heavy-based frying pan and gently fry the vegetables and garlic until beginning to soften. This should take about 5 minutes. Remove the vegetables from pan with a slotted spoon and set aside. Lightly coat the veal steaks in seasoned flour and then place them in the same pan. Add another tablespoon of olive oil and cook over a medium to high heat until browned on each side. Return the vegetables to the pan and add the tomato passata and water. Season with salt and pepper and simmer gently for 2 hours until the meat is soft and tender. Sprinkle over freshly chopped parsley and serve over either mashed potatoes, polenta or rice.

Practice makes perfect in the kitchen

2012-01-13T05:37:00.000-08:00

I took the family to the local pizzeria last night. The pizzaiolo, who’s become a good friend over the years, set my sons to work. For the past few months they’ve been learning how to make their own pizza - little pizza chefs in training you might say. My younger son, Giuliano, always opts for the classic margeherita. The older one, Massimo, likes to throw a little Italian sausage on top. It’s surprising how quickly, with a little perseverance and the occasional guiding hand, they’ve come to master the important art of pizza making. They now always make their own and last night, to my surprise, between the two of them they even managed to serve me up one of my own personal favourites – a pizza with extra onions, extra anchovies and olives. My wife wasn’t too pleased but the pizza was perfect! That’s practice for you.

A few days back I was watching TV and something I heard struck a chord. A celebrity chef was working his way through a recipe setting out a few key pointers in the making of a good stew. The dish complete he said something along the lines that if you follow these principles ‘you never have to have the same stew twice’. In truth I can’t argue with that, there are no doubt endless versions on the theme. Similarly, in a cookbook I was reading some time ago, the author (a noted chef), pointed out that there is no reason ever to have the same bowl of pasta twice. Again, strictly speaking, I guess he’s right – if you consider the sheer number of commercially available pasta’s available these days, not to mention fresh pasta, coupled with infinite choice when it comes to dressing your pasta, you could theoretically go through life never having to eat the same bowl of pasta twice. I guess both chefs come from the ‘variety is the spice of life’ school of thought.

There is, of course, something to be said for variety. There’s nothing like a little experimentation in the kitchen to get the creative juices flowing. But then again, there’s also something to be said for revisiting a dish that’s been tried-and-tested. Here in the provinces my neighbours are true creatures of habit. They like to revisit the same old dishes time and time again. In fact, I would bet every single Euro in my wallet (which, trust me, isn’t many) that I could guess at least one dish that every one I have met and spoken with today has eaten in the past week. There’s nothing boring in that. In fact, it’s something that I (and my local neighbours) find reassuring. I still can’t bring myself not to eat fish on a Friday night – a habit I acquired as a child back in Belfast living above the family restaurant. I need a humble bowl of spaghetti red sauce at least twice a week or I start suffering withdrawal symptoms and Sunday lunch here just wouldn’t feel complete unless I started with a bowl of stuffed fresh egg pasta swimming in a sea of homemade broth.

As with the table, the same principle applies in the kitchen. If we are constantly changing what we eat, how are we ever going to achieve anything in the region of perfection? Let’s not forget that the same chefs who advocate a different dish every time we take to the kitchen probably cook the same dish dozens of times every day of the week at work. That’s why their food tastes so good - practice makes perfect!

Writing a short article on cucina della nonna for Taste Italia magazine a couple of days ago I got to thinking about the time I spent years back as my grandmother’s de facto apprentice in the kitchen. Like most Italian grandmothers, she was a creature of habit. She had her repertoire of recipes and she cooked them perfectly. Why she did so was simply because she had been cooking them all her life. And there was something wonderfully reassuring about knowing what to expect every time I visited. Those skills and flavours have carried with me and I’ve spent years trying to recreate her food to the point where I can’t tell the difference if my grandmother herself had been standing in the kitchen cooking – and, I still have some way to go!

I read somewhere once that to get really good at something – a trade, a skill, whatever – requires something in the region of 10,000 hours of practice. It’s a principle, I think, that applies well to the kitchen. You could, certainly, go through life never cooking or eating the same dish twice. But if you do so, how are you ever going to know what that dish could taste like? How are you ever going to become accomplished at making something? How would my sons ever have been able to make me my favourite pizza? Variety might be the spice of life in the kitchen - but practice makes perfect. No doubt the next time I have a hankering for a bowl of pasta or a warming pot of stew, I might well open a recipe book and try something new. But then again, I might just stick to an old favourite!

The Brasato

2012-01-10T02:00:00.000-08:00

The brasato is another legacy of cucina povera. The name derives from brace, or the hot coals over which it was traditionally cooked. Usually it is made with the lesser cuts of meat, which lend themselves to slow cooking. For farmers with small holdings, the better cuts of meat would have been sold or used to make salami and other cured meats (many of which were also sold). Whatever remained would be thrown into a pot and would stew slowly whilst everyone got on with the daily chores. In some cases the meat is marinated beforehand, with aromatic herbs and spices, then browned in fat or oil, and, as in the classic brasato al Barolo, allowed to absorb the better part of a good bottle of wine. There are more versions of brasato than one could possibly imagine, and what goes into a brasato depends very much on the region, the province, the season or whatever comes to hand.

Beef stew with Barolo

Brasato al Barolo

Serves 4-6

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 2 ½ - 3 hours

1.5kg joint of braising beef in one piece

1 carrot

1 onion

2 celery stalks

1 clove of garlic

1 bottle of Barolo wine

Olive oil

Salt & pepper

Sprig of rosemary, 1 bay leaf, a few sage leaves

Begin by finely dicing the onion, celery and carrot. Place these in a large casserole pot with a few tablespoons of olive oil and the clove of garlic. Gently fry until the vegetables are softened (about 10 minutes). Remove the vegetables from the pot with a slotted spoon, turn up the heat and add the joint of beef. Brown the joint all over to seal in the juices then add the herbs and season well. Place the vegetables back into the pot, pour in the bottle of wine and bring to the boil. Once boiling, lower the heat to a gentle simmer, place on the lid so that just a little bit of steam can escape (which allows the sauce to reduce slightly as it cooks) and leave to cook for 2 ½ - 3 hours.

Once cooked, remove the meat from the sauce and slice. Serve with the gravy from the pot and a heaped ladle of polenta. If you prefer a smoother, less rustic sauce, you can whiz the vegetables together with the gravy with a hand held blender after you’ve removed the meat.

Minestrone, minestrone, minestrone!

2012-01-07T04:11:00.000-08:00

No two bowls of minestrone are ever the same and every family in Italy has their own preferences. What is added to minestrone very much depends on individual taste, seasonality and location. Across the arc of the Alps, ingredients such as chestnuts and faro are commonly used. White wine and cheese are used in the cooking, giving the soup an almost fondue-like quality. Such soups are often served over dark rye breads.

On the plains, particularly in Lombardy, pumpkin is the preferred ingredient. Along the spine of the Apennines, where the terrain is less suited to traditional agriculture, it is common to use seasonal ingredients such as mushrooms, chestnuts and wild herbs and greens. Broad beans are highly favoured in Tuscany as is chicory [scarola] in Lazio.

Pulses, grains, cereals, pasta and rice were traditionally added to a minestra to give the dish greater bulk and sustenance. By doing so it would have been eaten as a piatto unico (a plate in its own right). In the north rice is commonly used whereas further south, dried or fresh pasta is more commonplace, as in minestrone alla napoletana. Pulses and grains are especially evident in mountainous regions. Naturally, along the coast, there are countless takes on zuppa di pesce.

In the following recipe I have used a combination of rice, faro and pearl barley. The red radicchio, which is more commonly added to a risotto, gives the soup a strong and distinctive flavour. It’s a highly versatile and popular vegetable, and is excellent both in salads or grilled with a sprinkling of cheese and finished with a healthy drizzle of olive oil. When picking radicchio avoid heads with droopy or tired looking leaves. The head should be firm and crisp, pungent with a clean white central nerve.

Minestra with red radicchio

Minestra di radicchio rosso

50g faro

50g pearl barley

50g white rice

1.5 litres chicken or vegetable stock

100g diced smoked pancetta

1 large head of radicchio rosso

1 onion chopped

4 thick slices of bruschetta

Grated Parmesan cheese to serve

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

Salt and back pepper

Finely chop the onion. Add to a large sauce pan with the olive oil and sauté gently over a low heat until the onions begin to soften. Add the diced pancetta and roughly chopped radicchio to the pan and fry gently for a further 5 minutes until the pancetta has browned slightly and the radicchio softened. Then add the rice, pearly barley and faro. Give it a good stir and pour the stock into the pan. Bring to the boil and continue to simmer gently for between 20 to 25 minutes until the rice and pulses are cooked. Taste for seasoning and then ladle over slices of toasted bruschetta. Serve with a sprinkling of grated parmesan cheese and a drizzle of olive oil.

Knowing your minestrone

2012-01-06T09:17:00.000-08:00

Why would you use just one word – ‘soup’ – when you can use dozens? Minestrone, minestra, minestrella, minestrina, pottagio, zuppa – not to mention regional and provincial dialect for what amounts to the same thing – are just a few of the words Italians use to compartmentalize, categorize and make some kind of sense of their infinite variety of soups. Indeed, many soups have names of their own – the famous Tuscan ribollita or acquacotta, Mantovan stracciatella, virtù from Abruzzo [which some claim to be the King of Minestrone] - are just a few that apparently deserve a name in their own right. To confuse matters further, precise definitions are somewhat superfluous given that names vary from one region to the next. If you have a hankering for a bowl of fish soup you might think zuppa di pesche! Well, think again. If you are in Marche you’ll have to look out for brodetto. Alternatively, if you are in Livorno on Tuscany’s northern coast, they go by the name cacciucco (with 5 ‘C’s – other parts of the same region settle for 4!). Travel a few miles up the coast, however, and you can forget about a bowl of cacciucco: you’ll need to ask for either buridda or ciuppin. Why don’t they just call it fish soup, you might well ask? Firstly, because that would be too easy: And, secondly - and more seriously - because we need to have some system for sorting out the multitude of different styles of soup made throughout the country. Otherwise, next time you visit a restaurant you might end up ordering a soup swimming in broth when you wanted say a heavier soup served over slices of bread.

To try and simplify, ‘minestra’ is a general term used widely throughout the country referring to a first course dish generally (but not always) of vegetables, pasta, rice or cereals cooked and served in broth. The range of dishes that fall into this category is practically endless. The term ‘minestra’ derives from the custom of ‘serving up’ – from the verb minestrare – the first course into bowls by the patriarchal head of the family.

A minestrone, as the name implies, is a larger version of minestra. More ingredients are used in the preparation of minestrone including ingredients such as potatoes, pumpkins and legumes which are used both to bulk up and thicken the dish. They say that the greatest expression of minestrone is the so-called virtù from Abruzzo. According to a local legend, true virtù is supposed to contain 7 ingredients, each of which was originally picked by one of 7 virtuous young girls. I can’t quite see myself how this legend arose given that a mere 7 ingredients in a bowl of virtù would probably be seen as rather miserly. What can be said with certainty is that it is a dish traditionally eaten on the 1^st of May to signify the end of the winter and the start of spring. The ingredients used in the preparation are supposed to signify the changing seasons. In the preparation, the cupboards would be emptied of winter stores of ingredients such as dried vegetables, beans and pulses along with leftover cured meats to which would also be added a variety of early spring vegetables and wild herbs. It’s a great dish, one of the few that transgresses two seasons and I can see why many consider it King of the Minestrone.

Of course, I’d be amiss not to mention the famous Tuscan ribollita. The famous Tuscan ribollita starts life as a humble minestra – that is, a bowl of vegetables cooked in broth. The next day a miraculous transformation takes place when the same bowl of vegetables is reheated, thereby becoming a ribollita – literally, twice-cooked! However, joking aside, ribollita is worthy of its name as anyone who has tried true ribollita will testify. The re-heating of leftover soup, a virtuous practice born of necessity, has the effect of concentrating the flavors, resulting in a denser, highly flavorful soup. In many respects, the story of ribollita is the story of minestra or minestrone. Most Italian soups derive from cucina povera – or peasant cooking. The ingredients used were dictated by seasonality, local availability and whatever happened to be lying around in the kitchen larder. Today the same principles apply. Like most of my neighbors, I make minestrone at least three times a week – if anything, it’s a great way to get your ‘5-a-day’. But what I put into the minestrone will depend on what’s freshest and best at the local market. There are no hard-and-fast rules. It’s a question of experimentation, using whatever you have to hand and understanding the local ingredients.

Virtù

The Minestrone King

1 or 2 carrots

2 stalks of celery

1 medium onion

100g broad beans

100g Brussel sprouts

100g spinach leaves

100g pumpkin

50g small pasta

1 heaped tablespoon freshly chopped parsley

100g pork loin

100g diced pancetta

2 litres vegetable or chicken stock

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt & freshly ground black pepper

Finely chop the onion. Peel and dice the carrot and celery stalks. Place a few tablespoons of olive oil in a large saucepan and add the onion, carrot and celery. Secure the lid and cook over a gentle heat until softened (about 5-6 minutes). Chop the pork loin into thin strips and add this to the pot together with the diced pancetta. Cook for another 5-6 minutes. Whilst this is cooking, quarter the Brussel sprouts, dice the pumpkin into 1-2cm cubes and roughly chop the spinach leaves. Add these to the pot together with the stock. Bring to the boil and simmer for 40 minutes. Next add the pasta (any type is fine as long as it is small) and continue cooking until the pasta is cooked (which should take about 5 minutes). Finally, check for seasoning, stir through the freshly chopped parsley, and serve with slices of rustic country bread.

Note: Ingredients can be varied according to taste and season.

Armed and ready for the New Year

2011-12-30T01:36:00.000-08:00

I’ve got a rusted old horse shoe hanging outside the front door. There’s a huge pot of lentils simmering on the stove. The cotechino is already cooked and waiting in the fridge. There are three large bunches of wrinkled prune-like grapes (passito), the remnants of September’s harvest, hanging in the cellar. They should be super sweet. I’m walking around in red underwear with an extra-heavy bunch of change dangling in my pockets. There’s mistletoe hanging in practically every room of the house (not that I’ll be doing a lot of kissing because women are strictly out-of-bounds for the duration of the evening). And I’ve got a bunch of crap (an old and worn non-stick pan, a broken chair and a cracked mug) sitting in a pile waiting to go out the window at the stroke of midnight! All the shutters are down and now all I need to do is find a bloody hunchback… emmm… that’s going to be a tough one.

Italians take their superstitions seriously. And it’s contagious. The problem is there’s very little agreement between the regions as to what constitutes good luck and bad. We all seem to agree on lentils though. Eating lentils on New Year’s Eve with cotechino [a large sausage], Italians believe, will bring good fortune – of the financial kind. Down the road in Bologna and Modena they eat zampone [pigs trotter], which is shaped like a purse, with their lentils.

The grapes I’ve been saving especially for the occasion also symbolise good luck. As the saying goes: “chi mangia l'uva per Capodanno, conta i quattrini tutto l'anno". “whoever eats grapes at New Year, counts the money/coins all year round”. I’ve got a lot of grapes so I bought a calculator just for the occasion. On the subject of food, raisins and jars of dates and dried figs covered in honey are also supposed to bring a smile to your bank manager’s face over the year. I’ve got little bowls of raisins in the hallway, upstairs and down, a nibble for anyone passing – might as well spread the luck. I’m going to eat a bowl of honey-covered dates and figs with chocolate sauce and cream after dinner.

I’m going out for dinner – for the traditional New Year’s Eve cenone [literally Big Supper]. Luckily I don’t live in Naples so I’m going to leave the crash helmet at home. The Neapolitans believe that throwing old furniture - TV’s, fridges, pots, pans and the like – literally out the window will make room for what’s to come. It’s a prohibited practice these days but in Naples it’s best to be careful, just in case. I’ve really filled my pockets with loose change because it is supposed to multiply over the year. As for the red underwear, they say it wards off the Evil Eye. If you’re recently married, give your partner a pair – they will also bring prosperity and fertility!

It’s a quiet neighbourhood and the restaurant is just around the corner but just to be sure I’m going to wear a pair of blinkers. After all, I wouldn’t want to spot any priests, grave diggers or doctors on the sprint home. I don’t know any grave diggers but doctors and priests are a sure sign of bad fortune (of the worse kind) to come! On the other hand, if I happen to spot a hunchback or a white horse, I’m sure to be in for a bit of luck. As for women, the jury’s out on that one – they say the year could go either way. I’m not taking any chances. I’m going to have a boy’s night out!

Thanks everyone for your support this year and for taking an interest. Let’s hope the next year is full of good luck and fortune for everyone. Happy New Year!!! Felice Anno Nuovo!!!

P.S. If you know any male hunchbacks living in my area, please let me know.

P.P.S. If anyone needs a loan, feel free to ask. I’m feeling especially generous [not to mention, they say anything loaned on New Year’s Eve will be returned a hundredfold over the coming year].

Buon Anno.

Spending time in the kitchen

2011-12-28T02:12:00.000-08:00

This Christmas I made anolini in brodo (stuffed pasta cooked in broth) along with fresh tortelli with a chestnut stuffing finished in butter and fresh sage. The mains included a traditional bollito misto (a dish of mixed boiled meats used to make the broth for the pasta) followed by faraona alla creta (stuffed guinea fowl baked in a clay mould). One of my young sons [the creative one] did the sculpture-work. The other [the destructive one] wielded the hammer over the table. Luckily everyone managed to avoid the shrapnel and the bird was perfectly cooked, juicy and tender. We finished with a chocolate zucotto followed by a traditional panettone made by the local artisan baker. It was a great meal, simple yet fitting the occasion. All in all, I estimate I spent approximately 4.5 hours in the kitchen. I can’t really complain as most of that time was spent watching the meat boil. That said, I’ve been invited to my neighbours for Boxing Day and I’m eating out on New Year’s Eve!

My Christmas efforts were average (time-wise, that is!). A recent survey found that 42% of Italian households spent between three and five hours preparing Christmas dinner. It’s a figure that pales in comparison to the 12% of households that spent over eight hours! Only 6% managed to get dinner on the table in under an hour (how they did that is anyone’s guess). The remainder (40 per cent), spent somewhere between one and three hours. Nine out of ten Italians had lunch with family.

We all spend more time in the kitchen over the Christmas holidays. Yet I wonder just how much more time the average Italian spends in the kitchen compared to any other Sunday lunch throughout the year? Why do I say this? I say so because I know that what my local neighbours ate on Christmas hardly bears a difference to what they eat practically every Sunday. The anolini in broth and the mixed boiled meats are so commonplace in this area they are a given. And a roast of some sort almost always follows. Of course everyone enjoys a little extravagance over Christmas – perhaps a few slices of the finest culatello, maybe a shaving of truffle over fresh pasta and, for those with a sweet tooth, the occasional extra dessert. But we have a machine at home for slicing the ham and as far as dessert is concerned, as often as not, that merely entails a walk to the local pasticceria. I know because it’s a small town.

My point is this.

Italy

is still a nation of home cooks that live [or is it love?] to cook. Whilst the five-minute polenta flour and boil-in-the-bag cotechino sausages might have taken some of the sting out of cooking, Italians still spend a significant amount of their time in the kitchen. Ready-made-meals and pre-prepared vegetables in the supermarket are noticeable by their absence. So if you want to eat here, there is no alternative but to put in the effort. That said, I’m still going out New Year’s Eve!

An Italian Christmas for the Italians

2011-12-22T02:15:00.000-08:00

Italians are patriotic when it comes to shopping. And this is never truer than at Christmas. According to a recent survey, Italians will spend 2.2 billion on ‘Made in Italy’ products over the festive holidays. They’re looking for value for money, eschewing anything that’s out-of-season (peaches and cherries etc), opting instead for home grown and local. A whopping 73% said that they would only buy products ‘made in Italy’, a level of patriotism which is much higher than the European average of 60%.

Most Italians intend to give food as gifts for Christmas. Among the top contenders are Christmas sweets, torrone [nougat] and chocolates, Tuscan panforte and cantucci biscuits, pandolce from Liguria, panettone, struffoli from Campania and Puglia and various salumi or cured meat products made throughout the country. Specialty pastas, lentils and beans also feature high on the national gift list. Of those surveyed, 33% intend to buy local and 28% organic.

The gift of food, for Italians, is considered the greatest gesture one can make. Over the summer, Italians fortunate enough to own a large vegetable garden will gladly pick a few extra tomatoes for their neighbour every time they venture into the garden for the ingredients for a salad. So too, an excess of mushrooms, truffles or any wild food gathered is almost always shared with friends and family. The gift of food is always appreciated and it never gets old.

Why? Because the appreciation of food in Italian culture still stems from a time when food was scarce. The hard times, or cucina povera of old, is still engrained in the national psyche. And it wasn’t so long ago. The older generation in Italy is still young enough to remember times when food wasn’t readily available – and it’s a lesson that’s passed from one generation to the next. The frugality of the times was such that festive occasions such as Christmas became heightened in importance. The weeks, even months, in the run up to Christmas was a time of sacrifice. Eggs would be stored to make pasta, chestnuts and mushrooms would be dried and a good salami would be hung specially for the occasion. These were not foodstuffs that were eaten on a regular basis. Any surplus would have been sold to buy sugar for something sweet on the day.

Of course, there’s another angle to the Italian appreciation of food as a gift. It’s one steeped in religious tradition. The Italian Christmas begins on Christmas Eve and carries through to the Epiphany on the 6^th of January. Gifts of food given in the days before Christmas are intended to last throughout the festive season. They are not exclusively intended for Christmas day. Again, this in part reflects a culture that left nothing to waste and understood the importance of making things last. It’s no coincidence that many dishes made over the festive season are dishes that are made to last – panforte, tortelli, panettone, spongata, the various cured meat products, to name just a few – and will be enjoyed throughout the two weeks of Christmas.

Christmas in Italy is very different from Christmas in most other countries I’ve spent time in. Although modernity has taken its toll, with an element of commercialism creeping in, it certainly hasn’t changed the fundamental character of the festive season. Personally I’m not complaining. There’s something quite comforting about going back to basics. These days I’ve come to expect the inevitable knock on the door followed by a panettone and a bottle of something homemade. I’m guilty myself – this year I have a surplus of dried mushrooms packed into pretty jars, homemade apricot and cherry jams, as well as some great biscuits. It beats socks and soap any day of the week!

Fish and chips and La Vigilia

2011-12-19T09:24:00.000-08:00

Traditions die hard in Italy, particularly food traditions. That’s why most Italians will tell you that on Christmas Eve, known here as La Vigilia, they will eat ‘magro’ or ‘lean’. Don’t let that fool you. To interpret this as ‘light’ is completely mistaken! Since when have you heard of Italians eating light? Rather, it just means no meat – of course, they compensate with extra vegetables and plenty of fish.

The number of courses served on Christmas Eve tends to be symbolic – seven for the seven sacraments, 12 for the disciples, 13 with the addition of Jesus. The type of fish you eat really depends on where in Italy you happen live. A firm favourite in the past was il capitone (eel), either fried or in umido. However, tastes have changed somewhat and it’s probably fair to say that today the preferred choice of fish for most Italians is baccalà or merluzzo (salt cod).

I’ve no intention of attempting 13 courses, or 7 for that matter! But, being a huge fan of salt cod, I do love cooking for Christmas Eve. That might have something to do with the fact that my family was, for many years, in the fish-and-chip business in Belfast. This year, like every year, I’m cooking salt cod two different ways – one for the Irish in me (deep fried in batter) and one for the Italian (alla Napoletana). As my family originated just outside of Naples, I guess you could say that this is a real family combo for me!

Salt cod Neapolitan-style

Baccalà alla Napoletana

Baccalà is sold everywhere in

Italy

in the run up to Christmas. It is important to buy it in advance as it needs to be soaked in water for a couple of days before cooking. It’s also important to remember to change the water several times a day. Baccalà alla napoletana is a hugely popular dish cooked not only in Campania but across the country (albeit often under a different name). The addition of sultanas and pine nuts really lifts the dish and makes it something special and festive.

Serves 4-6 people

Preparation time: 15 minutes + soaking time for the fish

Cooking time: 30 minutes

1kg salted cod fillet (ready to use)

800g tinned chopped tomatoes

150g black olives

50g sultanas

25g pine nuts

1 tablespoon capers

2 cloves of garlic

Flour of dusting

A little olive oil

Salt and pepper

To make the sauce, in a deep-sided frying pan gently fry the two cloves of garlic in a few tablespoons of olive oil for a few minutes. Next add the chopped tomatoes, olives, sultanas, pine nuts and capers. Allow to simmer gently for 15 minutes and check for seasoning. If necessary add salt and pepper.

Whilst the sauce is simmering take the fillet of prepared salt cod (see above) and cut into steaks of about 5cm wide. Dust with seasoned flour and fry in a separate frying pan with a few tablespoons of olive oil until golden on the outside. You can do this in batches.

Once all the cod has been fried, place into the pan with the sauce, cover and continue gently simmering for 25-30 minutes until the cod is cooked all the way through. Serve immediately over polenta or with crusty bread.

Deep fried salt cod

Merluzzo fritto

Serves 4-6

Preparation time: 15 minutes + soaking time for the fish

Cooking time: 15 minutes

1kg salted cod fillet (ready to use) cut into large pieces

Vegetable oil for frying

150g plain flour

75g corn flour

Good pinch sugar

Salt

Mix together all the ingredients for the batter with 225ml chilled water and 1tsp of salt and leave to rest for about 30 minutes.

Heat the oil to about 180ºC. Dip the cod pieces into seasoned flour to coat and then dip into the batter. Allow excess batter to drip off. Then fry in hot oil until golden and crisp, and cooked through in the centre.

Cook the fish in batches, drain on kitchen paper and keep hot in the oven while you cook the rest. When all the fish is cooked, sprinkle with salt and serve with lemon wedges or vinegar and oven baked chips.

Reinforcing salad

Insalata di Rinforzo

Insalata di Rinforzo hails from the Campania region in the south. Its name means to reinforce the appetite! Full of strong flavours typically of region, this dish will evoke memories for anyone who has ever visited Naples or the surrounding region. For me, this is one of those clever Italian dishes that feeds more than just the appetite. Both in the making and in the eating, the preserved vegetables bring back an all but distant memory of warmer summer days – a perfect tonic on a cold winter’s evening. For many people across the country, the preparation of the dish will have started on a hot July or August day when vegetables were being harvested and preserved fresh from the fields.

Strictly speaking, the peppers used are generally jarred and preserved in vinegar. However, along with the pickled cornicions, capers and salted anchovies, I find this over-powering and prefer instead to inject a little mild sweetness, which you can get by roasting the peppers. It’s just a question of taste because ultimately this is a great dish as it’s versatile, there are no hard-and-fast rules, it can be prepared well in advance and if you see it’s running low, you simply top it up! What’s more, serve the salad on a large platter, put your feet up and let the guests help themselves.

Serves 6-8

Preparation time: 15 minutes

Cooking time: 10 minutes

1 cauliflower

3 red/yellow peppers

150g cornicions

200g black olives

150g large pickled onions

80g salted anchovies

4 free-range eggs

3 tablespoons white wine vinegar

6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Salt/pepper

Put the peppers on a baking tray and place in a pre-heated hot oven for about 15 minutes, or until the skins are blackened. Remove and place in a covered bowl and cool. Once cooled, peel the peppers and slice into strips. Set aside.

Break the cauliflower into florets and boil in salted water until tender, but still retaining a bite. Set aside to cool. In the meantime, boil the eggs for around 8 minutes until hard-boiled, then peel off the shell and set aside to cool.

To finish the dish, arrange the cauliflower on a large serving plate. Distribute the roasted peppers over the cauliflower and then the remaining ingredients. Finish off with the hard boiled eggs sliced in half.

To make the dressing, simply whisk together the oil and vinegar, and season generously. Pour the dressing into a serving jug and allow guests to dress their own salad to taste.

Dolce Natale - Sweet Christmas

2011-12-17T03:26:00.000-08:00

With Christmas just around the corner, it’s time to get serious about the menu. And a good place to start is with desserts. For most of the year Italians buy or eat their desserts at the pastry shop or in the café. Christmas is one of the exceptions to the rule. Luckily, however, as most Italian Christmas cakes keep well they can be made in advance taking at least some of the stress out of the day! Here’s two recipes you might like to try that are very popular and quick and simple to make. Incidentally, both recipes also make great gifts!

Pampepato

Ferrara’s famous cake, the pampetato, was first mentioned in a document dating back to 1465. It is believed that the original recipe was created by the famous renaissance chef, Cristoforo da Messisbugo as a tribute to the Pope. It was, at the time, known as Pan del Papa (Bread of the Pope). Over time the name changed but the essence of the cake has remained the same.

Despite its name, pampetato is not ‘peppered’ or ‘spicy’, unlike many of Italy’s Christmas desserts. It is, however, a rich fruit and nut-based cake covered in chocolate and in its final form has been likened to a small pumpkin. It is still very much associated with the city of Ferrara and over the Christmas period bakery windows are filled with wonderful displays of their favourite cake.

Pampepato

Spiced chocolate cake

Serves 6-8

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 20 minutes

200g plain flour

100g blanched almonds

100g caster sugar

80g plain cocoa powder

100g candied fruit

Teaspoon ground cinnamon

2 finely ground cloves

120-150ml warm milk

100g plain chocolate

Place the flour in a large bowl and add all the other ingredients with the exception of the chocolate and the milk. Stir together well. When all the ingredients are well combined, add 100ml of warm milk and stir in. Continue adding the milk a little at a time until a soft but firm dough is formed. Work the dough a little with your hands to form a ball and then shape into a dome. Place this on a baking sheet and bake in a preheated oven at 170ºC for 20 minutes. Once cooked, remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack. When completely cool, melt the plain chocolate in a double boiler and then drizzle all over the pampepato. Allow the chocolate coating to set before serving. This cake is very rich and dense, so it should be served in small slices!

Salame di cioccolato

The chocolate salami is something of a newcomer. It’s not strictly traditional but a more modern day invention. It’s still considered something of a novelty in Italian homes, especially for children, and its relative simplicity in the making, and the fact that it can be made well in advance and keeps well, has made it an increasingly popular dessert. It is eaten of course sliced, just like a salami, albeit not at the start of a meal! It is generally enjoyed along with coffee and liqueurs.

Salame di cioccolato

Chocolate salami

Serves 12

Preparation time: 10-15 minutes + chilling

Cooking time: N/A

150 – 180g dry biscuits

130g unsalted butter

100g caster sugar

75g plain cocoa powder

50g blanched almonds

2 egg yolks

1 shot of rum

Place the egg yolks and half the sugar in a large bowl and whisk with an electric beater until light and foamy. Next, add the butter which has been melted and cooled, the cocoa powder, the rum and the rest of the sugar. Beat again to mix everything together. Finally, add the biscuits which have been roughly crushed and the almonds. Stir together well.

Place a large sheet of greaseproof paper on the work surface and tip the mixture out onto the paper in the shape of a salami. Fold the paper over the mixture and press down, compacting the mixture and at the same time trying to create an authentic salami shape. When you’re happy with the final result, wrap the ends up well and place in the fridge for at least 3 hours before serving. Before serving, if you roll the salami in icing sugar it really lends to an authentic salami look.

Cats, pasta and Garganelli

2011-12-14T11:36:00.000-08:00

Every Italian food has to have a legend. A good story lends its own kind of flavour - colour, character and form. Sometimes the legends are just that – stories designed to entertain and feed the soul, as well as the appetite. Sometimes there are multiple stories - every small town in Italy, after all, has to lay claim to something. And sometimes they are grounded in something more concrete. The question is; how do you tell the difference?

Garganelli, the grooved quill-shaped pasta, is a case in point. They originated in Romagna, taking their name from the dialect word garganel, which is used to describe the cartilaginous rings around the trachea of a chicken. They are made by rolling out squares of pasta around a pencil-like stick and then rolling the tubes over a wooden comb. This gives them their distinctive grooves.

There are a number of stories accounting for the birth of garganelli. One version has it that they appeared for the first time in 1725 in Imola in the home of the Cardinal of Aragon, Cornelio Bentivoglio, the Papal Legate of Romagna. A creative cook, so it’s claimed, had rolled out squares of pasta to make cappelleti (a stuffed ravioli-like pasta) for the Cardinal’s lunch. But when he discovered that the cat had ate the filling, he was forced to improvise. So he rolled the dough out with the tools he had at hand and served the quills in a capon broth. They were well received and the idea quickly spread to neighbouring wealthy families.

Another story attributes them to the cook of the court of Caterina Sforza (1463-1509), wife of Girolamo Riario, nephew of Pope Sixtus the IV, Lord of Forlì and Imola. Alternatively, it could be that their origins are more humble, originating in the local countryside. If so they would certainly have been reserved for Sundays and special occasions given the use of eggs and the fact that they can be quite time consuming to prepare.

Making them by hand isn’t that difficult, if you have patience and a little time on your hands. It’s well worth the effort. However, the dried egg-pasta version sold in delis and some supermarkets are also well worth a try. As it happens, the first pasta making machine for making garganelli was invented by Edward Bacchini in 1984, a pasta maker from Romagna.

There are a number of ways for getting the best out of your garganelli. The typical classical versions from Romagna are to serve them with either a meat ragù or with a creamy sauce of peas and ham and a sprinkle of nutmeg. Prawns and courgettes in cream is also a popular combination. Ideally you want something with a sauce, the grooves in the garganelli designed for the very purpose of holding it. I’ve opted for a combination of prawns and peas. It’s a great combination. Just watch the cat doesn’t eat the prawns while you are waiting for the water to boil!

Garganelli with Prawns and Peas in a creamy tomato sauce

Garganelli con gamberi e piselli in una salsa cremoso al pomodoro

Serves 4

Preparation time: 5 minutes

Cooking time: 10 minutes

300g garganelli

250g large fresh prawns, cleaned

200g fresh peas

200ml tomato pasta sauce

100g mascarpone cheese

Salt

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil and add the garganelli. If you haven’t made them fresh, cook according to packet instructions. Whilst the pasta is cooking warm the tomato sauce and stir in the mascarpone cheese. In a separate pan boil the peas until just tender (about 3 minutes), drain and add to the tomato sauce. In the meantime, cook the prawns in a large griddle pan for 2-3 minutes and then add to the tomato sauce also. When the garganelli are cooked, drain (reserving a small ladleful of cooking water) and add to the saucepan with the sauce. Toss everything together well, adding a little of the cooking water to loosen the sauce if necessary. Serve immediately.

Bargnolino – Sloe berries

2011-12-12T09:43:00.000-08:00

Italians like to make their own liqueurs. From mid November little vans parked by the roadside sell crates of lemons from Sicily, Campania and Liguria. It’s a sure sign that it’s time to make the annual supply of limoncello. In June, 70-year-old Italians clamber up trees for fresh green walnuts to make a liqueur known as nocino. In the early summer they will take a trip to the forests for wild strawberries, in September it’s grape lees for making grappa and in late autumn, early winter it’s sloe berries that are the focus of attention.

Every region has its own particular after-dinner preferences. And every Italian thinks that they harbour the secret to the best liqueur in town. In that respect, I’m no different. Through a process of trial and error I think I can make a bottle of limoncello that can compete with the very best. This weekend it was bargnolino that had me mixing and bottling into the small hours of the morning. The secret to bargnolino, however, is not in the method. The secret to good bargnolino is nerve.

Bargnolino, an after-dinner digestive, is made from sloe berries which grow on spiny shrubs throughout the Tuscan-Emilian Apennine area. This drink is widely made at home and its popularity seems to be growing by the year. In Ivvacari, they hold a bargnolino competition which takes place during the salami festival. He (or she) who is judged to make the finest bargnolino is crowned King of the Sloe! I’m fixing to run next year.

The key to this liqueur is collecting the berries when they are just right. The season begins in October and can, in some years, run through as late as mid-December, depending on the weather. The colder it is, the sooner the berries will ripen. The optimum time is after the first heavy frost. The berries should be soft to the touch, to the point where they stain your hand as you collect them. Most give in to their impatience. They succumb to the fear that if they wait, there won’t be a kilo of sloe berries to be found anywhere within a 100km radius. And so they go picking long before the berries have reached their best. Like I said, it’s a question of nerve.

This year, the weather has been particularly mild. It didn’t rain throughout August and well into September. Throughout October and the first half of November the berries were smaller than usual and firm to the touch – not exactly what you are looking for. So (nerves of steel) I waited… and waited, well aware it could be too late. But, if willing to take it, it’s a risk that can really pay off. I picked 8 kilos of berries in a place high above Morfasso in the lower Apennines a couple of weeks back. They were soft to the touch, perfect for bargnolino. The hint of envy on the faces in the bar was clear for all to see. All that’s left is for the King of Bargnolino to collect his Crown!

Here’s the standard recipe for you. Experiment and make it your own.

Makes approximately 2 litres

1kg of sloe berries

1 litre of pure alcohol (or strong vodka or a dry grappa)

500 ml of Italian red wine (a fizzy Guttornio if you can find it)

A generous ½ kilo of sugar

Method

Lightly wash the berries discarding any debris such as stray twigs and leaves. Place the berries in a small demijohn (or a large glass jar with a lid) and cover with the alcohol. Seal the jar and place in a dark closet or under the stairs. Leave for 60 days, but remember to give the contents a good shake every 2 or 3 days.

After 60 days, strain the liquid through a muslin cloth and then add the wine and the sugar. Stir vigorously until the sugar has completely dissolved. The bargnolino can be bottled immediately. It is, however, best not to start drinking for about 30 days – just enough time for ‘the sugar to eat the alcohol’!

P.S. If you decide to give it a go, I’d advised taking a good pair of gloves as the shrubs are seriously thorny.

P. P.S. Keep the bottle in the freezer and serve ice cold in shot glasses after a meal.

A bowl of stew and a good book

2011-12-09T06:55:00.000-08:00

In Italy, stew is always an occasion. That’s because, if you want to eat a good stew, there are no shortcuts – barring the lazy option, a visit to the local trattoria. Personally, when I get a hankering for stew – which I often do on a cold winter’s day – I make my own. There really is no substitute and although it may be time consuming, it’s hardly arduous. It’s a great Saturday afternoon dish. Brown a little meat, soften a few vegetables, add wine and stock and put your feet up with a good book and a glass of whatever’s left in the bottle. I got through the best part of a Lee Child novel the last time I made a stew.

Italians can be pedantic, particularly when it comes to matters of the stomach. Stracotto, brasato, umido, stufato, spezzatino, salmì, not to mention a very long list of regional and provincial variations, are just a few of the more common names given to describe what in the UK would simply be labelled ‘stew’ – i.e., a piece of meat, sometimes whole, sometimes cut into pieces and slow cooked for hours with various spices in a stock or wine or a mix of the two.

Stew in Italy is always specific. Spezzatino is arguably the term that most closely resembles what in the UK is commonly labelled ‘stew’. That is, meat cut into small pieces, browned and stewed with the addition of vegetables in a stock. This differs from a stufato, where the meat is marinated first in wine, garlic and various herbs and then slow cooked without browning for up to 8 hours. Game meats are often cooked this way. Alternatively, with a brasato, the meat is browned first and then cooked slowly in wine. A piece of meat which is rich in fat is most suited to the method. It’s most popular in Lombardy and Piedmont, the brasato al Barolo being the obvious example.

Umido refers to a slow cooking method where the lid is kept on, the desired result being a sauce that is still quite liquid, perfect for pouring over a heap of polenta or mashed potatoes. It’s a method commonly used for rabbit, hare and chicken. Alternatively, a stracotto - which is highly popular throughout central and northern Italy - is made with an uncut piece of meat, usually beef, but sometimes horse or game. The meat is browned before being cooked with tomatoes and stock. Cooking time can be anything from 4 to 8 hours to 2 days. Here in parts of Emilia a specialty is fresh egg pasta stuffed with stracotto. Not a dish to be making every day of the week, naturally, it’s generally reserved for special occasions.

Salmì is one of the oldest methods for cooking stews in Italy. It’s especially suited to game. The meat is marinated in wine along with vegetables and spices and cooked slowly in the marinade with the lid kept on. The method, they say, dates back to the 700s.

I got hooked on stew during my childhood in Belfast. The aroma of an Irish stew, cooked slowly in stout (or Guinness), has stayed with me all these years. Occasionally, when I’m hit with a bout of nostalgia, I’ll take a trip to the supermarket and buy a few bottles of Guinness, some neck of lamb and take to the kitchen. It always takes me back. Today though, it’s a spezzatino – beef, slow cooked in stock and tomatoes, with loads of potatoes added in the last hour to soak up the juices. I’ve got another Lee Child novel I’ve been meaning to read. All that’s left is to open a bottle of wine and get stewing!

Beef stew with potatoes

Spezzatino di manzo con patate

Serves 4

750g shoulder of beef (boned and cut into pieces with some of the fat trimmed off)

1 medium onion, chopped

1 clove garlic

1kg potatoes, peeled and cut into pieces

2x 400g tinned tomatoes

150ml beef stock

1 bay leaf

A handful fresh chopped flat leafed parsley

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 teaspoon sugar

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Put the chopped onion and garlic into a heavy large casserole dish with the oil and sauté gently until starting to brown ever so slightly. Remove the onions from the dish and set aside. Turn up the heat, add the meat and brown evenly. Return the onions to the pan along with the tomatoes, stock and bay leaf. Add the sugar and stir well. Bring to a very gentle simmer, season well with salt and pepper and cover the pot. Adjust the heat so that it is just simmering. Continue to cook for 2.5 hours, stirring occasionally. After this time, add the potatoes and give the stew a stir. Check to see there is still sufficient liquid. It should just cover the potatoes. If not, add a little extra stock. Continue cooking for another 40 to 45 minutes with the lid off. By this time the meat should be tender and the potatoes cooked through and beginning to break apart slightly. Allow to rest for 5 minutes, sprinkle over the chopped parsley and serve with plenty of crusty bread.

A question of Truffles

2011-12-07T08:58:00.000-08:00

The first hour of a truffle hunt is the most difficult. It’s a frenzy of activity. Ciara, my young four-legged Laghotta Romagnola - an old Italian breed of truffle hunting dog - has seemingly boundless energy and it’s all I can do to keep up. You’ve got to stay within reaching distance of the dog. It’s a question of being close enough to read the signs. Otherwise the dog can find a truffle and you won’t spot the signals. So you crash through the woods, looking for a path through dense bramble, legs burning, gasping for breath and wishing to God you hadn’t had that extra brioche at breakfast.

For some, truffles are big business. Every truffle hunter dreams of finding the ‘Big One’. In late November 2007, Stanley Ho, a Macau casino owner, outbid British artist Damien Hirst at a charity auction to the sum of £165,000 for a magnificent 1.5 kilo (3.31lb) specimen. Of course, not all truffles fetch such exorbitant amounts. But they are big business nonetheless and for many years have been out of reach for all but those with the deepest pockets. White truffles or the Alba truffle (Tuber magnatum) fetches up to €4,000 per kilo at the Fiera del Tartufo (truffle fair) in Alba in Piedmonte on a good year.

Personally, I don’t hunt truffles for profit. Anything I find I eat or, if lucky enough to find a surplus, I give them to friends as gifts. I’m always popular at the local bar after a day’s truffle hunting! Hunting truffles for profit, in my opinion, takes something away from the exercise. There’s a difference between hunting truffles to sell and doing it for the sheer thrill and pleasure of finding truffles. I know a number of truffle hunters who never eat what they find – which frankly I just can’t bring myself to understand.

I learned how to hunt for truffles about 5 years back with my good friend Sandro Rizzi. A passionate mushroom picker with a love for both dogs and the boschi (woods), truffle hunting came naturally to me. And once I found my first truffle, I was hooked.

Truffles and mushrooms share common cultural characteristics in Italy. They are both pastimes cloaked in secrecy. Mushroom pickers seldom give away the location of their most prized picking grounds. When it comes to truffles, the secrets are even more stringently guarded. There have been many reports of old truffle hunters taking the secrets of their picking ground to the grave, unwilling even to share them with their own children. I was fortunate in that I found Sandro, a 50-year-old hunter who was willing to share more than just stories.

Today was a good day. We found black truffles, Tuber melanosporum, over a dozen, decent-sized, fresh and very pungent. I’m not going to mention where. But generally speaking, although truffles from Alba in Piedmont are considered the most highly prized, both white and black truffles can be found in the regions of Tuscany, Umbria (notably the tartufo di Norcia), Le Marche, Emilia Romagna and Lazio. I’ve had white truffles from Alba and I have eaten white truffles from Emilia Romagna and personally I have never been able to tell the difference. The fact that I found the latter myself might have something to do with it. Food you’ve personally foraged for and cooked is always going to taste better! Next week I’ll return to this subject with a few tips I’ve learned over the years for cooking with truffles.

Sbrisolona – The Italian Cookie

2011-12-05T10:30:00.000-08:00

There’s something destructively satisfying about breaking into a sbrisolona at the end of a meal. It’s not a cake you can cut into neat slices but rather one that requires a sledgehammer. One of the symbols of Mantuan cuisine, sbrisolona can perhaps best be described as a cross between a crumble cake and an over-sized cookie. Yet, strictly speaking, it is neither.

The first written records of sbrisolona date back five centuries to the Gonzaga court in Mantua. However, it is likely that the recipe originated much further back, created originally as a country cake. This would seem evident from the main ingredients which included corn maize and lard, both ingredients associated at the time with cucina povera, or food of the poor. The cooks of the Gonzaga court were responsible for giving the basic recipe a makeover, enriching it with sugar, spices and almonds. In the country version, all three ingredients would have been beyond reach and if nuts were added, they would have been hazelnuts foraged locally.

Although it originated in the province of Mantua in Lombardy, versions of the cake were made throughout the Padana plains. It goes by various names – sbrisulona, sbrisolina, sbrisulusa, sbrisulada, to name a few. In the Piacentine dialect it’s custom to ask for a turta di sbrislon.

Although today there are variations on the recipe (my local baker, for example, makes a cholesterol-free version with olive oil instead of butter) the dominant characteristic of the dish is its brittleness, from which it takes its name – sbricolona or crumbled. Many years back I was politely reprimanded by my dinner guests when I went to cut into the cake with a knife. The proper etiquette, I was told, was to place the cake centre table and apply a well-placed, firm fist. It is generally eaten with coffee at the end of a meal or a glass of sweet white wine. In parts of the Veneto region, where it’s commonly known as ‘rosegotta’, I’ve had it served with grappa. My personal favourite, however, is as you would eat any cookie – with a tall, ice-cold glass of milk.

Recipe

Ingredients:
200g white flour,
200g fine cornmeal
200g chopped almonds,
200g sugar,
200g butter
2 egg yolks,
The rind of one lemon

1 vanilla pod

Mix the flours together along with the sugar, vanilla, lemon rind and chopped almonds. Bring the butter to room temperature. Chop and add along with the egg yolks. Mix everything together quickly with your fingertips until you have a crumbly/lumpy consistency (pretty much as you would have a crumble topping).

Pour the crumble mix into a buttered baking tin, pressing down gently and taking care not to squash down the lumps. The baking tin should be large enough so that it forms a layer about 1 inch thick. Bake in a pre-heated oven (175 degrees) until brown. The cake should be golden and the almonds toasted.

Pazzo for Panettone!

2011-12-03T06:30:00.000-08:00

For one month of the year Italians go crazy [pazzo] for panettone. If anything could be classified as a national festive cake, you need look no further. You know that Christmas is approaching in Italy when supermarkets replace autumnal displays of chestnuts, porcini mushrooms and pumpkins with pyramid-shaped mountains of boxed panettone cakes. Come the 15^th of January, once the dregs have been cleared in the sales, you won’t find a panettone for love or money.

There are many legends which lay claim to the origin of panettone. One of these dates its origin back to the 15^th Century, when a Milanese nobleman Ughetto degli Atellani, fell in love with the daughter of a poor baker named Antonio. To win her love, the nobleman disguised himself as a baker and invented this rich bread. After having tasted the rich bread, the Duke of Milan, Ludovico il Moro Sforza, gave his permission to the marriage and the new cake-like bread gained popularity. Another, much more simple explanation finds reference to a ‘Pan dei ton’ in the 1300s which translated means ‘luxury bread’ in Milanese dialect.

Today panettone has achieved a national popularity that is largely unparalleled. It’s a subject of considerable debate and speculation. Which brand/ or brands of panettone are you buying this year? Do you opt for an artisan panettone, made by hand, or a mass-produced industrial version made by the likes of Bauli, Motta, Tre Marie or one of the many supermarket-own brands? Do you go for a traditional panettone made with canditi (a mix of orange and lemon peel) or a version from Verona traditionally made without the candied fruit? Alternatively, do you opt for one of the many more recent adaptations made to placate modern tastes such as with chocolate or chocolate drops or chocolate cream or chocolate topping or vanilla cream or almond topping etc., etc., etc!!! You get the idea. The range is staggering and it’s no wonder that you can be left feeling a little bewildered and overwhelmed.

Italians are pragmatic when it comes to panettone. Two factors determine decision-making: cost and quality. The difficulty is that Italians will seldom ever buy just one panettone. It’s custom today to give them as gifts, so it doesn’t come as a surprise when someone arrives at the doorstep holding a boxed panettone in one hand, a bottle of spumante [sparkling wine] in the other. Buying just one panettone doesn’t happen – hence, I guess, the huge supermarket stockpile. Personally, I buy anywhere up to a dozen every year and my thinking goes like this. For gifts, I’ll buy a decent supermarket variety – how decent depends on the recipient. If the postman has delivered a particularly good service over the year, it will reflect in the brand. If the neighbours have been giving me trouble about my dog, it’s a supermarket own brand, I’m afraid. As for the house, there’s no consensus. My wife enjoys nothing better than a non-descript supermarket brand (€2.50), no thrills but excellent for dunking into a café latte in the morning. I like the rustic, traditional artisan version whereas the kids want chocolate. They say there’s no pleasing everybody, but at Christmas you have to try and make an exception.

Recipes

Mini panettone

If you have the time, homemade panettone, in my view, always tastes better. They taste buttery and unctuous and you have the luxury of being able to incorporate the ingredients of your choice. The following recipe is based on the classic Milanese version. I have also included a variation – stuffed mini panettone. I’ve used a mascarpone and candied peel for the filling. You could, however, substitute with chocolate drops, chopped nuts, dried fruits or a combination of any of the above.

Makes: 6

Ingredients for basic panettone

6 mini panettone cases

380g plain flour
1/2 teaspoon of salt
12g fresh yeast
1/2 cup lukewarm milk
2 eggs
2 egg yolks
150g unsalted butter
65g candied peel
80g raisins or sultanas

To make the panettone, sift the flour and salt together in a bowl. Make a well in the centre and add the yeast which has been dissolved in the milk and the whole eggs. Mix enough flour with the milk to make a thick batter and leave to 'sponge' in a warm place for 30 minutes. Next, add the egg yolks, sugar and softened butter and knead for about 5 minutes until you have a soft, smooth and elastic dough. Let rise for 1-2 hours until doubled in size. Finally knock the dough down and gently knead in the sultanas and candied peel. Divide the dough into 6 pieces and place into individual panettone cases and let rise until doubled in size. This should take about 1 hour.

Bake in a preheated oven at 170 C for 20 minutes and then cool on a wire rack. Decorate with ribbon and serve.

As an alternative, you can fill the panettone with a mascarpone cream.

Ingredients

6 mini panettone (as above)
2 egg yolks
2 tablespoons of sugar
250g mascarpone cheese
50g candied peel

To make the filling, whisk the egg yolks with the sugar until thick and foamy. Beat in the mascarpone cheese (leave the mascarpone out of the fridge for at least 30 minutes before using) and stir in the candied peel. Cut the tops of the panettone, scoop out a little of the filling and fill with the mascarpone cream. Place the lid back on, decorate and serve.

Customised Panettone

If you don’t have the time to make your own panettone, simply buy one at the supermarket and give it a rich makeover. It looks impressive and it tastes even better!

1 panettone (any supermarket variety will do)

2 egg yolks

2 heaped tablespoons caster sugar

250gm mascarpone

300gm chocolate grated

250ml double cream

Icing sugar for dusting

To customise your panettone, gently scoop out the middle of the panettone from the base with a knife. Make sure you leave enough around the edges so that the panettone keeps its shape. Crumble the insides into small pieces and set aside.

Beat the egg yolks with the sugar until you have a thick creamy consistency (about 2-3 minutes with an electric beater).Add the mascarpone (make sure it’s room temperature when you do so) and beat into the egg mixture. At this point, should you wish, add a shot of your favourite tipple. To finish the stuffing, fold in the crumbled panettone. Pack the mixture back into the shell and place on a large serving plate.

Gently heat the cream (making sure it does not boil) and then add grated chocolate. Stir until the chocolate is melted and pour over the panettone. You don’t need to be too precise, allow the sauce to drip decoratively down the sides. Allow to cool and then dust with icing sugar and decorate as you please.

Polenta and wild boar

2011-11-24T05:41:00.000-08:00

Italians can’t help themselves; they are slaves to their cravings. With an hour’s notice I once travelled 200kms to the coast because a friend was suddenly stricken with an uncontrollable craving for fresh seafood. Another time I spent three hours in the car because someone decided it would be a good idea to get a steak in a restaurant just outside Florence. Another friend even suggested we take a train to Naples because he fancied a pizza – luckily work commitments put an end to that particular excursion.

A few days back someone suggested a trip to the mountains for polenta and wild boar stew. I should have seen that one coming. We are in the midst of wild boar hunting season here at the moment and Italian cravings tend to be seasonally dictated. From late autumn through to the end of winter everyone here is always talking wild boar and looking to get their fix. ‘Eat it while it’s in season’ - that’s what they say here.

So that’s how I ended up driving in convoy to an off-the-beaten trattoria in the pre-Alps in Lombardy. We took three cars – wild boar has always been a popular choice here. It was a typical Alpine trattoria: rustic, hearty seasonal fare, a roaring fire, a warm welcome and a wonderful atmosphere. The polenta was local – a variety known as Taragna, a blend of coarse ground corn flour and buckwheat which takes about 45 minutes to cook. The stew was rich and moreish. Large chunks of wild boar cooked for hours in wine to the point where the meat simply fell off the bone. It might well have been a long drive but no one was complaining. Here’s to seasonal cravings!

Cheese with [out] borders: Part 3

2011-11-20T00:40:00.000-08:00

I’ve been returning all week to the subject of parmesan and I realise I’ve hardly begun to grate below the surface. Why I do so is this. Just as it’s hard to imagine a Chinese kitchen without a wok, so too the Italian store cupboard would seem bare without a piece of grana. It’s fundamental. To the Italian cook, a piece of grana is not simply a piece of cheese. Nor is it simply just another ingredient. It’s a kitchen utensil, indispensable in lending shape and character to everything from a simple bowl of pasta to a stuffing for a roast.

The famous gastronome, Massimo Alberini, put it much better than I ever could. He said: “[Grana] is without doubt, the most typical Italian cheese, not only for its intrinsic value but, more important, for the contribution which it makes to the flavour and nutritive value of many dishes, from minestrone to pasta, from polenta to certain vegetables. It enriches without suffocating, gives vigour without overwhelming, and, in particular, confers an Italian character to [each such dish]”. Whilst pasta has given substance to the cuisine of a nation, you could say, grana has stamped that cuisine with its own distinct identity.

Fundamental is not a word that should ever be used lightly. Yet one out of every ten items that pass through a supermarket checkout in Italy is grana. Whether it’s Parmigiano Reggiano, Grana Piacentino or some other grana is beside the point. It’s simply that fundamental. As I’m standing on the bridge, the border between two great cheese producing zones, I understand how ancient provincial rivalries can endure through cheese. In

Italy

, grana is more than just a condiment that you grate over a steaming bowl of spaghetti. It’s a cornerstone of the Italian kitchen. It’s a 1,000 year’s of tradition. It’s part of the culinary character and DNA of a nation. It’s fundamental.

Cheese with [out] borders: Part 2

2011-11-17T01:11:00.000-08:00

Both the people of Parma and Piacenza claim that their grana – cheese – was the original one. Neither claim has been proven. What is clear is that the history of grana can be traced back at least as far as AD1000. It coincided with a time when monks in the Po Valley created a system of irrigation thereby enabling intensive dairy farming and the production on a large scale of milk for cheese.

Methods of production haven’t changed much in the intervening centuries. The process stems from a method which dates back, some food historians argue, to the time of the Etruscans. A combination of science, artisan intuition and nature all play their part. The milk comes from morning and evening milking, partially skimmed of cream. Natural whey ferments are added and the milk is heated. Rennet is added and coagulation takes place. The curds are then broken manually using a spino – a long, over-sized balloon whisk - and reheated until the right consistency is achieved. They are then allowed to sink into a mass at the bottom of the vat before being manipulated manually using a large muslin draining cloth. The cheese is then placed into the distinctive cylindrical-shaped moulds and the aging process, which can take up to three years, begins.

The principal varieties of grana, defined by their districts of origin, include Grana Bagozzo, Grana Lodigiano, Grana Padano, Grana Piacentino and Grana Parmigiano (which, since 1941, has had its own separate and distinct consortium). Yet, despite the fact that they all fall under the same generic label, coupled with strong similarities in production methods, it’s safe to say that no two grana’s are the same. Indeed, even within individual zones of production, there are marked differences in taste. Parmigiano Reggiano, made in the foothills of the Apennine Mountains above Parma is going to taste very different from Parmigiano Reggiano, made along the banks of the River Po. It’s a question of territory and the same principle holds true for Grana Piacentino.

As for which grana is best, there is no definitive answer to that question. Taste is subjective. One thing that can be said with certainty though is that for Italians, grana is fundamental. There is no substitute for it and Italian cuisine would not be the same without it. There are few products that carry such weight of importance and when I next turn to this subject, I will explain why.

Cheese with[out] borders

2011-11-15T08:37:00.000-08:00

The signs on the bridge tell the whole story. It’s the point at which one province ends, another begins. It’s the story of two provinces, two cheeses. The rivalry between Parma and Piacenza dates back centuries, and it is one that still plays out over cheese. ‘Inizio zona d’origine Parmigiano Reggiano’, in other words, you are now entering Parmigiano reggiano country.

Less than 500 metres up the road from the bridge, there is a small artisan caseificio (cheese factory). I can see the factory from the border, despite the fact that a fog was beginning to form. I can see it because there’s a sign protruding onto the road – it reads: Parmigiano Reggiano, on offer here. I’m starting to get the message.

Less than 3 kilometres from the bridge, but in the opposite direction, there’s yet another factory, another sign. This time it says ‘grana padano’. Inside the factory they also make cheese, a hard, long-keeping cheese made with partially skimmed cow’s milk from morning and evening milking, just as it’s done a few kilometres down the road in Parma. It smells the same. It’s used in kitchens across the country in very much the same way. It also looks the same. Large round wheels, typically weighing between 25 and 45 kilos in weight, yellowed and with an inscription indented around the sides. What’s more, both cheeses can be bought at various stages of maturity, 12 months, 24 months, even 36 months and there isn’t such a significance difference in cost. Both cheeses are called grana because they take their name from their grainy texture. And finally, both cheeses are considered fundamental to Italian cuisine, not only because they are used daily, but because they contribute in no small way to giving Italian cuisine its distinct character.

Despite the long history of rivalry between the two provinces, indeed because of it, a closer inspection is warranted. What is it that differentiates these two great cheeses? Is it simply a division by name, or is there more to it? I live in grana padano country. Anytime I buy parmigiano reggiano, I feel like a traitor. Why? Is Italian cuisine so clearly demarcated, so rigidly divided? It occurs to me that where I’m standing is more than just a border. This is a defining geographic position in Italian culinary history, tradition and culture. Over the next few days I’m going to explore the story of grana. I’m going to visit the cheese factories on both sides of the border. I’m going to find out what sets these two cheeses apart. I’m going to find out what sets these two provinces apart and why ancient rivalries just refuse to die.

The priest’s hat

2011-11-13T08:20:00.000-08:00

When I was younger it was traditional after midnight mass on Christmas Eve to go to the bar, drink a glass of Spumante (sparkling wine) and ‘eat the priest’. The joke is a reference to prete (priest), a type of salami which owes its name to the fact that it is shaped like a hat that was worn by priests.

Prepared in the winter months, the recipe depends on the individual cook or butcher. Generally, however, it is made from a mix of pork shoulder and shin, along with pieces of rind, neck, head and other bits. The whole is mixed to a medium grind and left to marinate in spices for 10 days. The mince is then placed into a casing of rind from the shin and stitched to form a triangular purse. Afterwards, it is pressed between two pieces of wood and left to dry out and age in a temperature controlled environment for a period of between 2 and 3 weeks. It is then cooked slowly in boiling water for between 4-5 hours and served with a salsa verde.

Today, at November Porc in Polesine in the Province of Parma, the focus of celebrations was on the cooking of a gigantic prete. Normally a quiet town along the banks of the river Po, the event attracted huge crowds, so many people in fact that it was all but impossible just to get a look in. It might well have something to do with the fact that once cooked the prete was being given away for free. The idea of standing in a queue for 5 hours didn’t quite appeal to me so I contented myself with buying a regular sized prete from one of the many gastronomic stalls. Now I’m off home to put in a pot to boil.

Sirloins, roast's and mince

2011-11-12T08:29:00.000-08:00

There are certain food rituals that I’ve learned whilst living in the provinces. One of them is going out early on a Saturday morning and buying a year’s supply of beef – just under 100 kilos of it! Whatever happened to going to the supermarket and buying a steak you might ask? The answer is this: it just doesn’t make good economic sense. But more than that, you have the satisfaction that comes with choice – knowing, that is, where your meat comes from, what the animal has been fed on and how it’s been reared. And, another thing I’ve learned over the years living here, eating well doesn’t have to cost the earth (and I mean that both figuratively and literally).

This is how it works. Three or four friends get together and go visit their local cattle farmer. They say, ‘we’d like to buy some meat please’. About a month later one of said friends turns up at the door with a bag containing your share of the offal – tongue, liver, tripe etc., etc. That evening, everyone eats liver and onions. A few weeks later, having allowed the meat time to age, those same three friends meet early one morning at the local bar, drink coffee and then drive into the mountains to visit the local butcher. They each come equipped with a dozen plastic crates, 6-8 packets containing freezer bags of assorted sizes and a permanent marker. The next stage takes time and isn’t for the squeamish. It takes the butcher and his son approximately 5 hours to carve and portion the animal. The result is dozens of assorted bags containing all manner of cuts including sirloin steaks, fillet steaks, frying steak, various roasting joints, mince, braising and stewing joints and meat for making broth.

Italy has a 50% deficit in meat production which means that meat produced in the country comes at a premium. Italians, generally, prefer to put their faith in Italian produce and, whenever they can, they buy Italian. But doing so at the supermarket can be extremely expensive, especially if you eat a lot of beef. Hence, it’s much more economical to get together once a year and buy a whole cow – from tail to hoof to head!

The 6 main indigenous varieties of cattle raised for meat in Italy are Chianina (from which comes the famous Tuscan fiorentina), Marchigiana, Maremmana, Piemontese, Podolico and Romagnola. Among cows raised for milk production in Italy, 3 foreign breeds (Italian Freisian, Holstein and Italian Brown cattle) produce 90% of the officially controlled production, with over 20 indigenous breeds producing the remainder. There are, in addition, numerous local breeds for both milk and meat production for which there has been a surge lately of renewed interest. This can be attributed to an increased demand amongst Italian consumers to know the provenance of what they are eating and for quality. This is welcome news as many of the lesser known breeds of indigenous cattle were quite simply facing extinction.

As for my friends and I, we each pack something in the region of 85 kilos worth of beef into the boot. There are few prizes for guessing what everyone’s having for dinner tonight!

The €100 Pizza

2011-11-09T05:33:00.000-08:00

A €100 pizza?

In the centre of Naples there is a pizzeria that has two menus – one for the general public (i.e. people like you and I) and one for the political elite – deputies, senators, party leaders etc., etc, - otherwise known in Italy as the ‘Blue Car Club’ - or “uno della casta”, generally anyone who is ‘in the club’. Given the extraordinary privileges that come with being a member of the club in

Italy

(i.e. financial), someone decided it would be a good idea to create a special menu to be offered exclusively to members of said club. So, as a member of this de facto Members Only Club, rather than pay the usual 4 or 5 Euros for a pizza, they get to pay 100! If they would rather have a sandwich, then they get to pay €350. And if they want a coffee at the end of the meal, it will set them back €90.

But if you think these prices would cause havoc on the digestion, then think again. Sergio D’Antoni, Deputy of the Democratic Party, was the first to receive this five-star-treatment. He ordered the pizza with friarielli peppers and sausage which then set him back a nice round €100. Witnesses in the restaurant said he didn’t bat an eyelid when presented with the bill. In fact, “the pizza was good”, he said. “Maybe a bit precious, but good. And it isn’t true that it caused me indigestion”.

The special menu is part of an initiative proposed by the regional commissioner of the Green Party in Campania, Francesco Borrelli. A protest against the political fat cats who receive benefits far beyond their worth, the initiative has proven highly popular. Over 30 restaurants have already signed on, pledging to give any additional money earned from the inflated menu to charity. Segio D’Antoni, luckily, didn’t take being singled out to badly. “I think that campaigns of this type are good”, he said, “if they serve to lighten the climate in such difficult times”. I love friarielli peppers, and I’m also partial to a good Neapolitan pizza, but €100? That’s steep. If you agree, why not make your own.

Pizza with sausage and green peppers

Pizza con salsiccia e peperoni verdi

Serves 4

Preparation time: 15 minutes + resting

Cooking time: 15-20 minutes

For the dough (for 4 people)

500g plain flour

300ml tepid water

1 teaspoon salt

20g fresh yeast

Topping

250ml smooth tomato sauce

250g mozzarella

200g Italian sausage, chopped into pieces

2 green peppers sliced

Dried oregano

Make the dough by dissolving the yeast in the water. Place the flour and salt on a work surface, make a well in the centre and add the water and yeast. With your fingers gradually draw the flour into the liquid and mix. Do this a few times until the centre is soft and spongy (using about a quarter of the flour). Now leave the central sponge to rise for 15 minutes. Return to the dough and knead in the rest of the flour, kneading for at least 5 minutes until the dough is smooth and elastic. Cover with a clean tea towel and leave to rise for 1-1.5 hours until doubled in size. Knock down the dough and knead again for 1-2 minutes. Divide the dough into four pieces and roll out into 1/2cm thick rounds ready for the topping.

Top each base with a few spoonfuls of tomato sauce. Use the back of the spoon to coat the base evenly to within 1 cm of the edge. Divide the mozzarella cheese evenly between the four pizzas and then arrange the sausage and the peppers and a good sprinkle of dried oregano. Bake in a preheated oven at 200ºC for 15-20 minutes. Remove the pizzas from the oven and serve immediately.

The crostata

2011-11-06T03:08:00.000-08:00

Neither a cake nor a pie nor a tart, but with elements of all three, the crostata is to Italians what apple pie is to Americans. Every Italian loves crostata, every Italian has a favourite topping and every Italian has an opinion on what makes a good one. Usually that will coincide with how Mamma or Nonna made it.

In short, crostata is a pie made with a rich short crust pastry which is covered either before or after baking with jam, a patisserie cream or fresh fruit. The two main types of crostata are those with a lattice pastry topping and those that are completely covered with a sheet of pastry.

Crostata is made in homes, restaurants and bakeries the length and breadth of the country and the variations are endless. The topping or filling is dictated both by season and location. Fresh fruit pies are more commonplace in the summer whereas jam pies are generally made over the winter months. Each region has its own variants on the theme. The crostata del diavolo (devil’s crostata) is a Calabrian version in which the pastry is coated with alternate layers of orange and chilli jams and finished with an almond topping. Pumpkin crostata is popular in Veneto as is a version made with ricotta in Lazio. The most popular by far, and made throughout the country, are the pies made with plum, apricot and cherry jams.

Every Italian will tell you they hold the secret to the perfect crostata. I’m no different. If cooking the crostata with the filling on top some say it’s good practice to sprinkle breadcrumbs, crushed biscuit or very thin slices of sponge cake over the base before adding the filling. This prevents the jam bleeding into the pastry and making it soggy. That said, many cooks (myself included) would advocate allowing the filling to bleed slightly into the crust thereby adding flavour. The key is in the pastry. If you get the consistency and thickness of the pastry right, you are on the road to crostata perfection. For a good rustic country crostata, the base should be about 1cm in thickness and it should be rich, buttery and slightly crumbly.

Apricot jam crostata

Crostata con confettura di albicocche

Makes 1 24cm crostata

Preparation time: 15 minutes plus resting time

Cooking time: 35-40 minutes

400g plain flour

150g unsalted butter

1 large free range egg

125g sugar

200ml apricot jam

Allow the butter to come to room temperature. Sift the flour into a large bowl and add the butter, sugar and beaten egg. Use your fingers to quickly mix all the ingredients together and knead together to make a smooth dough. Don’t overwork the pastry but do make sure all the ingredients are well incorporated.

Divide the pastry into two parts – of ⅔ and ⅓ - and allow to rest in the fridge for 30 minutes. Dust a work surface with flour and roll out the larger piece of pastry with a rolling pin. The pastry needs to be about 1cm thick and it should rise up the side of the baking dish by about 2cms. (If you like you’re your pastry completely dry you can, at this point, sprinkle some biscuit crumb over the base.) Next, spoon the jam over the pastry. To finish the pie, rip off small walnut-sized pieces of dough and roll them out by hand into thin snakes about 1cm thick. Arrange them in a lattice formation over the top of the crostata. You don’t need to be too precise. It’s a rustic country cake.

Bake in a preheated oven at 175ºC for 35 to 40 minutes. Allow to cool before serving. You can, of course, use a different jam. Cherry, plum, blackberry or fruits of the forest jam all work well.

A roast for a rainy day

2011-11-04T09:20:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing worse than having guests staying with you when it’s raining. They’ve come all the way from sodden Belfast expecting, indeed demanding sunshine, only to get three days of relentless rain forecasted. Italy isn’t exactly a country that shines in the rain. There’s nothing to do. We can’t do the passagiata, we can’t sit outside the bar and look pretty and stylish to passers-by and we can’t walk on our beloved beaches. Italians just don’t look their best in the rain. Tans are sequestered under raincoats and designer sunglasses stay in their cases. What’s to see under the canopy of an umbrella?

In response to the changing seasons, Italians go into hibernation. We bury ourselves behind an enormous woodpile and don’t come out until the last bough is smoldering on the fire.

As for myself, I’ve developed strategies for when the rains come. First, I light the fire. Next, and this is important, I throw a nice roast into the oven. There’s nothing quite like the aroma of a slow cooking joint of meat to lift the mood. Any roast will do, just as long as it’s slow roasted – the slower the better.

Today I opted for a tasca ripiena – literally ‘stuffed pocket’. It’s a dish that’s popular in Piacentine cuisine, particularly in parts of the province bordering with Liguria. Like so many of

Italy

’s better dishes, it’s one that has its origins in cucina povera - or, food of the poor. In order to make a piece of meat stretch further, the idea was to cut a hole in the joint and stuff it. The joint most commonly used here is known as the spinacino cut of meat, also known as the fiocco. It is traditionally made with veal but beef can also be used. It’s a joint that comes from the hind of the animal.

In Piacenza the tasca, or pocket, is usually stuffed with a mixture of chard, egg, parmesan and spices. The meat is then sown closed and slow cooked – either boiled or roasted. It’s important to cook it slowly so that the meat does not split. Once cooked, it’s allowed to go cold and then sliced and served with a parsley sauce. This dish is very similar to Cima alla Genovese, the Ligurian version. In another variant of the dish, also made in Liguria, the pocket is stuffed with a mix of veal mince, offal and brains, peas, parmesan and eggs. A richer dish by far, I think it’s best saving for those even rainier days!

Stuffed slow-cooked roast beef

Tasca ripiena

Serves 6

Preparation time: 25 minutes

Cooking time: 2- 2.5 hours

1-1.2kg piece of beef

500g chard

100g parmesan cheese

30g fine breadcrumbs

1 egg

Nutmeg

2 garlic cloves

2-3 tablespoons olive oil

Salt & pepper

Chop the chard into 2-3cm pieces. Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil and add the chard stalks. Boil for 5 minutes and then add the leaves and continue boiling for another 5 minutes. Drain the chard very well, removing as much excess water as possible and chop finely. Place the chard in a large bowl and add the grated parmesan cheese, breadcrumbs, beaten egg, freshly ground black pepper and nutmeg. Mix everything together well. The stuffing should be quite firm. If it is sticky and wet add a few more tablespoons of cheese or breadcrumbs.

Next, take the piece of beef and with a very sharp knife make an incision in the middle of the beef about 4-5cm wide and make a cut that is 2-3cm from the bottom and sides of the piece of beef to make a ‘pocket’. (If you prefer, ask your butcher to do this for you.) Season the inside of the pocket with salt and pepper and then fill with the stuffing. Press the stuffing down into the pocket and then carefully stitch up the opening with kitchen string to prevent the filling falling out during cooking.

Place a few tablespoons of olive oil in a heavy-based frying pan and add the garlic cloves. When hot, add the beef and brown on all sides for 2-3 minutes. Transfer the meat to an oven dish and place in a preheated oven at 150ºC. Cover and cook for about 2 - 2.5 hours. The meat requires a slow gentle cooking to ensure that the meat is tender and the filling does not spilt out. Once cooked, allow the meat to rest for at least 20 minutes. It can also be eaten cold. Serve thinly sliced with a parsley sauce and boiled potatoes.

Persimmons and fog

2011-11-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

Persimmons and fog, two sure signs that the autumn is waning and winter is just around the corner. My home town of Castell’Arquato is on the fringes of the bassa padana, or Po Basin, otherwise known as Europe’s biggest natural fog trap.

The fog here is relentless. It can lie for days on end. Luckily, as I said, I live on the very edge of the basin and from time to time we get a break in the weather – not always, just from time to time. I’m not complaining because travel just a few miles down the road to the neighbouring market town of Fiorenzuola and it’s not unusual for the fog to make camp for 10 days at a time. I feel sorry for my neighbours. Indeed, just a few more miles further down the road, along the banks of the River Po, the fog’s so dense that it only takes minutes to soak to the skin.

But then again, if we didn’t have to suffer these unique climatic conditions, our local cured meats would be much the worse for it. The humidity in the air, they say, contributes as much to the local cuisine as does the pig.

As if by way of compensation, once the fog settles down, it means that the persimmons are just about ready to eat. Persimmon, or kaki trees, are grown throughout the region. How they got here, I can’t say for sure. The tree didn’t arrive in Europe until quite recently – some time in the mid-19^th century. Yet despite their late arrival, they are hugely popular. On the other side of the Po, in Romagna and in Campania, kaki are cultivated commercially.

Here everyone seems to have a persimmon tree or two in their garden. They yield a lot of fruit and require minimal maintenance. We tend to pick the fruit just before it fully matures, allowing the kaki to ripen slowly in the cantina. They are ready to eat when bright orange, meltingly soft to the touch and deliciously sweet. They can be eaten in ice cream, as a preserve or simply on its own, as a dessert fruit (if anyone’s interested, I’ll post a recipe for the preserve early next week once the kaki are ripe enough). As I walk out the door, a whicker basket and step ladder underarm, it occurs to me that in the fog persimmons remind me of oversized Christmas decorations. Unfortunately, however, these decorations have to come down early!

November Porc - the movie

2011-10-31T09:16:00.000-07:00

November Porc

2011-10-31T08:44:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the year again when the fog descends on the Bassa Padana (literally the ‘low Padana’ or put another way, the Po Basin), the locals brace themselves for the oncoming winter and pork mania takes hold. November Porc, a month of festivity dedicated to everything pork related, is held in the land of Giuseppe Verdi in the towns of Busseto, Sissa, Polesine, Zibello and Roccabianca, an area known throughout Italy for the outstanding quality of its cured meats. The festival was first held in 2002. It originated as a bet after a group of local salami makers returning from the October beer festival in Germany decided it would be a good idea to hold a festival of their own in November – hence, November Porc.

The challenge for the organizers was how to sell a festival in November in an area that was renowned for its dense fog. Fog and cured meat products go hand-in-hand in the Bassa Padana. Local environmental, ecological and climatic conditions are considered paramount to developing the distinctive tastes and flavours of the area’s cured meats. Among the most renowned types of cured meat produced in the area are culatello – which many consider the King of Italian cured meats – various types of salami including strolghino (a type of thin salami made from the off cuts of the culatello), spalla cotta (a cooked ham), spalla cruda (a cured ham) and mariola (a cooked sausage).

Amongst the highlights of this year’s planned festivities are a Mc Porc American-style sandwich van, several master classes in salami and Parmesan cheese making, the making of a gigantic mariolone – cooked salami – in addition to a world record attempt at making the longest salami strolghino – a title the would-be world record breakers held back in 2003. Other regular features will include street artists, live music and gastronomic stands. The official game of the festivities is the Tiro al Salame (throw the hoop around the salami), which was selected by a local youth cultural club known as The Connoisseurs of the Pig!

Yesterday’s inaugural ceremony was held in the town of Busseto in the Province of Parma. The streets were crowded, the air filled with the aroma of pork BBQ’s and in the early evening a dense, impenetrable fog made a dutiful appearance. I’ll be following future events throughout the month and reporting back every week. However, should you want to make a personal visit entry if free and the festivals are being held at the following locations:

5^th and 6^th November 2011 – Sissa, Parma

12^th and 13^th November 2011, Polesine, Parma

19^th and 20^th November 2011, Zibello, Parma

26^th and 27^th November 2011, Roccabianca, Parma

Espresso and cake

2011-10-28T06:03:00.000-07:00

I drink 4 cups of espresso in the bar every day. A caffè macchiato in the very early morning followed by an espresso at around 10 a.m. I always go to the bar for a coffee after lunch and a final shot just after dinner. That’s my coffee regime and I’ve stuck to it religiously for 5 years.

Italians drink a lot of coffee – estimated between 70-100 million cups per day. They rank first in the world for consumption, averaging 600 cups per person per year. I figure I’m doing more than my fare share for the national squad. With 28 cups a week, I’m averaging in the region of 1,400 cups per year.

Italian coffee, as the world knows it today, dates back to the early 1900s when Pavoni began manufacturing coffee machines in Milan. Contrary to popular belief ‘espresso’ does not mean fast, but rather a drink prepared ‘expressly’ for the individual, deriving from the steam used to ‘express’ hot water through the coffee. The milestone came in 1948 with the introduction of the Gaggia Classic machine. The Gaggia used a hand operated piston to drive the water through the coffee under nine atmospheres of pressure resulting in a shorter beverage with a cream of essential oils – the Crema.

Espresso Cake

Torta di Caffé

Makes 1 loaf

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 35 minutes

80g butter (softened)

120g caster sugar

2 eggs separated

100ml strong espresso coffee (cold)

175g self raising flour

Preheat oven to 180ºC.

Make 100ml of espresso coffee and allow it to go cold. Mix together the butter and 80g of caster sugar until light and fluffy. Next, as you mix, add the egg yolks one at a time. Now, pour the chilled espresso into the mixture, stirring as you do so. Finally, add the sifted self raising flour.

In a separate bowl whisk the egg whites with the remaining caster sugar until they are stiff. Gently fold the egg whites into the cake mixture and then pour into a greased lined loaf tin. Bake the cake for 35 minutes and check if cooked (you might have to give it an extra few minutes). Once cooked, remove from the tin and allow the cake to cool on a wire baking rack.

Sliced bread and espresso

2011-10-27T05:15:00.000-07:00

I went to Heidi land yesterday to do some food shopping. Anytime I have a craving or a need for something exotic – i.e. not Italian – I take a 90 minute drive north. I skirt around Milan on the always hectic and stressful tangenziale (ring road), past Como (with just a two-second view of the lake from up high on the motorway), down into the not so beautiful border town of Chiasso and, finally, into

Switzerland

, the land of good cheeses, chocolate, clocks and very bad coffee.

What brought me here, you might wonder? In just a few words, white sliced loaf.

Before you ask, and for those who are now thinking I’ve taken leave of my senses, good bread of the sliced variety in Italy is notable for its absence. What does come sliced is usually treated in alcohol and lasts for up to 3 months - not exactly fresh and certainly not something you want to put your Parma ham between! But hey, Italians don’t have a problem with that because they rarely eat sliced bread. I, on the other hand, can’t imagine life without the occasional BLT or little toasted soldiers to dip into my egg or a few slices of retro Melba toast to go with my thick autumnal soups. So, once a month, I visit the very Swiss Sermonata shopping centre in the border town of Mendrisio and stuff my boot with all manner of things I can’t get a few miles down the road in Bell’ Italia!

A leisurely stroll around both the Co-op and Migros supermarkets resulted in a bill of just over CHF300. The exchange rate is awful at the moment so the bread wasn’t coming cheap! But needless to say, I didn’t just buy sliced bread! When in Switzerland, I like to take advantage of the very international shopping experience that

Switzerland

offers. You see, in my opinion, there’s no country in the world like Italy when you want a good restaurant. And there’s no country in the world like Italy when you want to do some Italian food shopping (as you’d expect). But, if truth be told, when it comes to buying anything let’s say, not Italian, well, suffice to say that I get into the car and drive to Switzerland.

Exhausted and with a pocket full of Swiss change and a boot loaded to the max with eight loaves of sliced bread, bagels, shortbread, assorted Chinese food stuffs, sweet potatoes, Swiss cheese and a basket of French cheese, pâté, madeleines and wine, I went into a coffee shop within eyeshot of the border checkpoint. I ordered a large café crème (coffee with cream), took a deep swig and almost choked.

As it happens I was standing next to a Swiss border guard who couldn’t help but notice the expression of disgust and incomprehension on my face.

“The coffee’s better there”, he said gesturing to the other side of the border. “I can’t”, he added by way of explanation, “we’re not allowed, not in the uniform”. I looked down at his cappuccino and immediately felt sorry for him. To work so close to the best coffee in the world and have to endure this every day: that’s some kind of punishment. I thanked him for the advice and left my drink unfinished. Life’s too short for bad coffee… besides, from where I was standing I could see a coffee bar in Italy that had a cup of espresso with my name on it!

True coffee lovers, try out the following liqueur. It’s simple and I can guarantee you, it’s absolutely delicious!

Espresso Liqueur

Liquore al caffé

Makes 1 litre

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: N/A

500ml strong espresso coffee

500g caster sugar

5cm piece of orange zest

1 cinnamon stick

1/2 vanilla pod

200ml alcohol (a strong clear grappa or vodka will work just as well)

In a heatproof bowl add the caster sugar and the freshly made (very hot) espresso coffee. Stir the mixture until all the sugar has dissolved and then add the spices and orange peel. Leave the mix to cool (this is very important). Once cold, add the alcohol (or grappa/ vodka) and stir. Pour the mixture into a demijohn/ bottle with at least a 1.5 litre capacity. Seal and set aside for 3-4 days in a cool dark place.

To finish, pour the liqueur through a fine sieve into a bottle, discarding the spices and peel. Although it can be drunk immediately, the liqueur will improve if you allow the flavour to develop for between 1 and 3 months.

TIP: Serve chilled after dinner or, alternatively, pour a shot of the liqueur over vanilla ice-cream for a delicious and simple adult dessert!

The artisan baker

2011-10-25T06:21:00.000-07:00

Back in the Balham neighbourhood where I once lived, the demand for housing barely faltered throughout the recent recession. I heard from former neighbours that this was, in large part, down to the reputation of the local school – people wanted to live in the area because their children were guaranteed a place. I can understand this. I chose my home town here in

Italy

because it has a great bakery!

It’s no longer straightforward finding a good bakery in Italy. There was a time, I remember, when you could walk into any town and buy freshly baked local artisan breads. Most popular were the huge country loaves – pagnotta - dark crusty wheels, crispy to the touch, chewy and full of flavour - baked in wood burning ovens throughout the country. You could buy a piece, wrap it in a paper bag, place it in the credenza [sideboard] and it would last a week.

These breads originated from a time when people would take their dough once a week to the local fornaio – baker. Each loaf would be marked with the family’s personal signature – usually a wooden stamp - and it would be baked for a small charge. The loaves were large and made to last. The forno was a communal hub.

Thankfully, you can still find a pagnotta in Italy, but you will have to make the effort to find it. Alternatively, a recent survey estimated there are something in the region of 1,500 varieties of bread made in

Italy

which, taking into account regional dialects and shapes, can be broken down into 200 main types. So, if you take into consideration the ones we all know - the ciabatti, focacce, pane di Altamura, pane pugliese and panini all’olio etc of this world – it means there are still a good 190 waiting to be discovered.

Back in my home town Franco, an experienced artisan baker, makes 20 varieties of bread daily – and they’re all worth discovering. Needless to say he starts work early – about 3 a.m., every morning, 7 days a week. And he’s been going steadily since he was 13 years old. He’s now over 50! Hardly surprising, it’s a regime that not many of the younger generation are willing to endure. Luckily Franco reassures me that he has no plans to call it a day. “Baking’s a game I still love to play,” he tells me. Some neighbourhoods might well revolve around the school. Mine revolves around the bakery.

Chestnuts and mulled wine

2011-10-22T07:49:00.000-07:00

There are 3 ways in Italy to tell that chestnut season has started:

1. Bakeries start selling a cake called castagnaccio – a Tuscan specialty, although it is made throughout the Apennines wherever chestnut trees abound.

2. The local newspaper devotes an entire page to the whereabouts of the countless chestnut festivals that will invariably be taking place throughout the month of October.

3. Chestnuts dominate seasonal restaurant menus.

The small osteria where we had lunch was offering specials of creamy mushroom and chestnut soup, handmade pasta with a chestnut stuffing served in a sage and butter sauce and escallops cooked in a brandy and chestnut butter. Desserts included a sweet fried tortelli stuffed with, yes, of course, more chestnuts.

The Italian culinary calendar is a cyclical pastiche of frenzied seasonal outbreaks. In-season bingeing is the norm and, as if to prove the point, after lunch we walked 2 kilometers from the restaurant to the stone hamlet of Scaria, deep in the heart of the Val d’Intelvi, in the mountains above Lake Como. I could smell the chestnuts roasting on the fire long before I reached the festival. We’d parked some distance from town as we knew the event would attract a good crowd (plus I wanted to try and walk off lunch!). Chestnut festivals – or castagnata, as it’s known – are always popular in

Italy

. Nothing draws crowds quite like nostalgia and chestnuts are one of those special seasonal foods that are always served with a generous dollop of the stuff. As the aroma grew stronger I was already envisaging the open log fire, the flames towering around and through the pan, fingers and hands blackened, chestnuts hot to the touch.

We passed the church and joined the crowd in excited procession up to the playground above town. In the center of the car park three castagnoli – chestnut roasters, for want of a better translation! – were sitting in front of an open fire shaking blackened long-handled pans over the flames. Every town in Italy has a different contraption for cooking chestnuts. This was not entirely dissimilar to the domestic version. The handles had been elongated to create safe workable distance from the fire and they were hanging from chains attached to a scaffold to take the strain out of shaking. But other than that it was very much as anyone fortunate enough to have an open fire in their home would go about roasting chestnuts.

Everywhere, people were standing, a bag of chestnuts in one hand, a cup of mulled wine in the other. It was chilly, as you’d expect in the Alps this time of the year and so the hot wine was particularly welcome. It also worked wonders with my appetite. Before long I’d finished one bag of chestnuts and was queuing for a second. After all, the season would be over soon. Better to eat them while you still can!

Chestnuts ‘alla vampa’

Castagne alla vampa

Serves 4

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 20 minutes

500g fresh chestnuts

50g caster sugar

100ml grappa or brandy

Make a small incision with a sharp knife on the flat side of the chestnut. Don’t worry if you don’t have an open fire for roasting your chestnuts, they can be cooked in the oven. Simply place them on a baking tray and roast in a preheated oven at 180ºC for about 15-20 minutes. Give them a squeeze to see if they are cooked. If they feel soft they are done. Once cooked, peel the chestnuts and arrange in serving glasses/bowls.

Make a caramel by placing the caster sugar in a heavy-based saucepan and add a teaspoon of water. Cook over a medium flame. The caramel won’t take long to make so keep your eyes on the pan. When it turns a golden colour it is ready. Pour a small amount of caramel over the chestnuts.

Finally pour a shot of your chosen alcohol, gently warmed in a saucepan, over the chestnuts and set alight!

TIP: The caramel is very hot when you pour it over the chestnuts, so make sure your serving dishes are heat proof.

Turnip tops and veggies!

2011-10-20T07:14:00.000-07:00

My sister’s in town. When she visits it’s always a trying time for me…because she’s a veggie. She turned green about 15 years ago, after a bet.

It’s a trying time because I live in a land where vegetarians are a rare breed and often misunderstood! A few years back when I was organizing my son’s christening party I specifically told the restaurant that there would be one vegetarian in the party. ‘No problem’, they said. ‘We’ll do a torta salata (a quiche) with the antipasto, mixed grilled vegetables and fish for her main and, of course, there’s the classic anolini (ravioli) with a cheese stuffing for the pasta’. All sorted, or so I thought.

On the day, however, the menu wasn’t quite as green as she would have liked. The torta salata was studded with pieces of ham. ‘But it’s only a little ham’, the waitress pointed out ‘to give the quiche some flavour’. She actually suggested my sister pick it out! And as for the pasta, the fact that it was swimming in chicken broth didn’t appear to phase our host either – ‘that’s how we serve them’, she pointed out. Even the grissini sticks were fried in lard!

This is why, no doubt, my little sister likes to spend most of her time down south, in Puglia in particular. “The garden of Italy”, as it is known, owes its green reputation to fertile soils, hot summers and mild winters. A region that is segregated from the rest of the country by natural land boundaries, the Pugliese have developed their own distinct culinary culture, one that shares as much in common with Greece as it does with its regional neighbours.

For vegetarians, Puglia is a ‘garden of Eden’. Broad beans, pulses, artichokes, olives, tomatoes, aubergines, turnip tops, various kinds of chicory, wild and cultivated herbs are just a few of the local highlights. And they all work perfectly with the local varieties of pasta of which the most famous is orecchiette – literally, little ears. If you prefer ‘big ears’ you could always ask for pociacche or for little, little ears ask for chiancarelle. In fact, whatever variant of the local dialect you use to ask for your plate of orecchiette (and there are many), the one dish that best symbolizes the region’s cuisine is, of course, orecchiette con le cime di rapa – orecchiette with turnip tops. It’s one of those ritual dishes that I make every year to celebrate the arrival of turnip tops. Traditionally a couple of anchovies are added to the sauce along with the garlic but personally I prefer to leave them out.

Orecchiette pasta with turnip tops

Orecchiette con le cime di rapa

Serves 4

Preparation time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 20 minutes

1kg turnip tops

300g orecchiette pasta

1 or 2 fresh red chili peppers

4-5 sun dried tomatoes

2 garlic cloves

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt & pepper

Wash the turnip tops. Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil and add the turnip tops. Boil for 5-6 minutes until tender. Drain the turnip tops, but retain the cooking water. Bring the cooking water back to the boil and add the orecchiette pasta. Boil the orecchiette for 10-12 minutes until al dente (check packet for exact cooking times). In the meantime, place 3-4 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil in a large heavy-based frying pan and add the garlic cloves which have been finely sliced. Cook the garlic for a few minutes. Roughly chop the turnip tops and add these to the pan along with the chopped sun dried tomatoes and chili. Fry over a gentle heat until the pasta is cooked. When the pasta is cooked, drain and add to the pan with the turnip tops. Stir everything together well and taste for seasoning. Serve immediately with a good sprinkling of aged pecorino cheese and a drizzle of olive oil.

Tuscan street food

2011-10-17T23:51:00.000-07:00

A ‘five and five’. If there is a better name for a street food, right now I can’t think of it. The ‘cinque e cinque’, more commonly known as cecina or torta di ceci [chickpea cake], is a specialty of the Livorno region in Tuscany. It is also made in Liguria where it is known as farinata.

Cecina consists of a very liquid batter of chickpea flour and water which is allowed to sit for up to four hours. A thin layer, like a pancake, is poured into a large round shallow baking pan which is preheated with plenty of oil and cooked quickly in a very hot oven. Originally it was made by local pizza makers and the best ‘five and five’ is still that which is made in wood burning ovens. The ‘five and five’ got its name from the practice of buying 5 cents worth of chickpea cake and five cents worth of bread. The cake was eaten between the bread like a sandwich, hot with plenty of freshly ground black pepper.

Other types of street food made from chickpeas include panissa (or paniccia or panizza), a polenta made with chickpea flour which is allowed to cool, then sliced and fried. It’s especially popular in and around La Spezia. In Sicily, a delicious version is made called panelle. Slices of the chickpea polenta, flavoured with fresh parsley, are deep fried and served between pieces of bread, with a good squeeze of lemon juice.

Cibo di strada, or street food in Italy, should not be conflated or mistaken as fast food. There are important differences. To begin with, Italian street food specialties tend to be grounded in the local culture. The ‘five and five’, for example, may well be a Tuscan specialty, but it is only made in a small geographic area of the region. Also, good Italian street food, unlike fast food, is seldom mass produced. It tends to be the reserve of small groups of skilled artisans. And, finally, all good Italian street foods are served with a generous dose of tradition and a good story. Next time you are in Livorno look out for the little wooden plaques placed outside bakeries and pizza shops saying “‘5 and 5’, sold here today”! Alternatively, try the following recipe for yourself.

Chickpea cake

Cecina

Serves 4

Preparation time: 5 minutes + 30 minutes resting

Cooking time: 15 minutes

500g chickpea flour

350g water

5 tablespoons olive oil

Salt & freshly ground black pepper

Place the chickpea flour in a bowl, add the water and a teaspoon of salt. Whisk together well and set aside. Allow the batter to rest for at least 30 minutes. Preheat the oven to 250ºC. Place the oil in a 30cm round baking tin and place in the oven until smoking hot. Remove from the oven carefully and pour in the batter. Place the pan back in the oven for 10-15 minutes until cooked. Remove from the oven and top with plenty of freshly ground black pepper. Cut into pieces and serve in a bread roll. Not strictly traditional, but I like to eat it hot with a couple of thick slices of tomato, mozarella and a generous spoonful of pesto sauce.

Stuff the pasta!

2011-10-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

Sunday lunch in Italy is always an occasion. This week, in particular, I’ve had to make the effort – otherwise people will start talking.

Last week I was in a hurry. I had a lunch date with a couple of mushroom picking buddies. We’d planned to share a platter of beef carpaccio with fresh porcini mushrooms, a simple bowl of green salad, crusty bread and lots of red wine. It was clearly a boy’s day out – raw meat, garlic, raw mushrooms, wine - not one for the kids. So in advance I made a quick dash to the local supermarket. Normally I’d drop into the local deli and buy some locally made fresh anolini – a local specialty, pasta stuffed with cheese, fatto a mano (made by hand). But I’d left it too late, the fresh pasta was sold out and I had to settle for a (well respected) supermarket brand of stuffed pasta. Forgive me!

As it turns out, there was no forgiving. Stuffed pasta in Emilia Romagna, as my dining companions went to pains to lecture to me over lunch, isn’t just about feeding the belly – it’s about feeding the soul! It’s about keeping alive a tradition and a culture. If we all begin to buy packet pasta, they said, those traditions will be lost. The genuine article has to be handmade – not by a machine, however cleverly it’s marketed - but handmade. In Emilia Romagna – the birthplace of fresh egg stuffed pasta - it’s as much about the skill of the people who make it. Stuffed pasta was originally designed as a food made for celebration – in one hand because it is time consuming and, in the other, because it requires a certain level of skill. And Sunday is, and always has been, considered a day of celebration. It’s not a day for fast food or quick fixes!

So I woke early this Sunday as a man on a mission. Having invited a couple of local gossips to Sunday lunch (I figured that would be sufficient to repair my reputation), I hit the market stalls early for fresh chard and ricotta which I’d use to stuff my pasta.

Pasta ripiena, stuffed pasta, ravioli, tortellini, tortelli, agnolini, capellini, whatever you want to call them, whatever shape they happen to be – square, rectangular, triangular, round, half-moon shaped, parcels, sweets, shaped as hats, – and whatever you happen to stuff them with – boiled or roast meats, cured meats, fresh cheese, parmesan, wild mushrooms, greens or herbs, cultivated vegetables such as potatoes, pumpkin, spinach, chard [the list, frankly, is endless] - the principle’s always the same. Stuff some freshly made pasta with whatever’s seasonal, boil it in salted water, dress with whatever sauce is deemed most fitting and enjoy!

But it’s only after you go to the trouble of making fresh stuffed pasta that you begin to appreciate the difference. It’s silky smooth, fresh tasting and utterly unctuous! And, every time you make it, you have the satisfaction of knowing you are keeping a tradition alive. That’s what it’s all about!

Chard and ricotta stuffed pasta

Tortelloni con ricotta e bietola

For the pasta

300g plain flour

3 large free-range eggs

For the filling

250g fresh ricotta

200g freshly grated parmesan cheese

500g chard leaves (alternatively, you could use spinach or wild greens)

Freshly grated nutmeg

Salt & freshly ground black pepper

Make the filling first. This can be made the night before and left overnight in the fridge to allow the flavours to develop and to save time on the day. Wash the greens and place in a large pan. Place the pan over a medium heat, cover and allow the greens to wilt for 5-6 minutes. The water on the leaves should be enough. Just keep an eye and turn the greens over occasionally. When the greens are cooked, remove them from the pot and place in a sieve. With the back of a spoon, press down very firmly to remove as much water as possible. Once drained, place the greens on a chopping board and chop finely. Place the greens in a bowl, add the ricotta which has been passed through a sieve, the grated parmesan, salt (not too much as the cheese provides salt as well) freshly ground pepper and a grating of nutmeg. Mix everything together well. Set the filling aside until needed.

To make the pasta, place the flour on a large work surface, make a well in the centre and break the eggs into the middle. Starting from the centre, with the tips of your fingers, beat the eggs gradually drawing in a little of the flour. Keep adding a little more flour to the centre, until it comes together and you can knead the dough.

Knead the dough for a few minutes until smooth. Set the dough aside, cover with a tea towel and let rest for 30 minutes. If you have a pasta maker the next step will be easier, but if not just roll the dough out by hand. Make sure you have a large enough work surface. Rip off a piece of dough about the size of a clementine and pass through the widest setting on the pasta maker. Do this a few times, folding the dough over on itself until the dough is smooth and silky. Reduce the thickness on the machine and pass the pasta through. Keep reducing the thickness and passing the pasta through the machine until you reach the last setting, dusting with flour along the way so that it does not stick. If you are a new to making pasta, I suggest you roll the pasta to the second-to-last setting (it results in a slightly thicker pasta that will take longer to cook but it will be much easier to work).

Place the sheet of pasta on a work surface and place teaspoons of the filling in the centre about 4-5cm apart. Once done, place another sheet of pasta over the top and with the side of your hand gently squeeze the pasta around the filling to remove any pockets of air and stick the two sheets together. If you do not have a pasta cutter, simply use a small glass to cut round each shape. Continue rolling, filling and cutting until all the pasta and filling is used up.

To cook, bring a large pan of salted water to the boil and then add the pasta. Boil for between 3-5 minutes (depending on thickness of pasta) and serve with a sauce of melted unsalted butter flavoured with a handful of sage leaves and plenty of freshly grated parmesan cheese.

Leftover bread, pasta and beans

2011-10-13T07:24:00.000-07:00

Diversity is undoubtedly one of the joys of Italian food culture. Every region, every province and every town has its own particular twist on the national preoccupation – which is food. At provincial level there’s always a dish that has the last word, the one that speaks for the people. In my home province of Piacenza, that dish is pisareï e fasò. There is no adequate translation but to give a rough idea that’s pasta, or little gnocchi, made with breadcrumbs and served in a sauce of beans.

Pisareï e fasò is to the gastronomy of Piacenza what ragù alla bolognese is to the gastronomy of Bologna or risotto alla milanese to Milan. It’s a defining dish, a local heritage, one that is admired and protected just as one admires and protects a masterpiece.

Like all good Italian signature dishes, pisareï brings together all the characteristics of the local gastronomy. It’s a dish that was created by farmers and in which is reflected both the times and the territory. Small gnocchi-like pasta (gnocchetti) made with a mix of flour and breadcrumbs made from leftover bread – a clear indication that it originated as a dish of the poor – dressed in a robust sauce of borlotti beans and tomatoes, flavored with lardo or cotenna, again a clear sign that the dish has its roots in cucina povera.

Also like all good Italian dishes, it is served with a generous helping of legend! Local folklore has it that many years back, when a young man brought home his bride-to-be, his mother would only approve the union if the prospective bride’s right thumb had evidence of calluses. This, it was claimed, was considered irrefutable evidence of the bride’s ability to make pisareï and, by default, of her suitability as a housewife.

Today, nothing much has changed (although young women, I suspect, are no longer subjected to hand inspections when they meet-the-parents). Every restaurant in the province still makes pisareï e fasò and, truth be told, it is the dish, above all others, by which every restaurant is judged. And whether it’s a Michelin starred restaurant in the heart of the city or a local trattoria in the depths of the countryside, they are all gauged by the same preconceived notion of quality.

Pisareï e fasò is also still made in homes throughout the province with every family adding their personal touch. A little more breadcrumb than flour in the mix for a more rustic version; using water as opposed to broth to soak the breadcrumbs to help balance the richness of the sauce; mashing some of the borlotti beans to thicken the sauce, the tricks and variations are endless. Yet, differences aside, there remains a consensus as to what makes a good plate of pisareï. It is not something that can easily be verbalized. It’s instinctive – you simply know it when you taste it.

Recipe

Pisareï e Fasò

Ingredients

For the pisareï

300g flour

100g finely grated breadcrumbs

Chicken or vegetable broth

For the sauce

1 small onion

40g lardo

250g borlotti beans

375ml chunky tomato sauce

1 garlic clove

Handful of parsley

Olive oil

To make the sauce

Place the lardo, parsley and garlic clove on a chopping board. With a sharp knife, chop all the ingredients well. It should almost form a smooth paste. Place the lardo in a heavy-based deep-sided frying pan and add a few tablespoons of oil. Heat gently and then add the finely chopped onion. Cook the onion until soft and then add the borlotti beans and tomato sauce. Season with salt and pepper and simmer gently for 30 minutes. Take the pan off the heat and using a masher, roughly mash some of the beans until you achieve a thicker consistency in the sauce. Give everything a good stir and the sauce is now ready.

To make the pisareï

Place the breadcrumbs in a bowl and pour over enough hot broth so that the breadcrumbs are soaked but not swimming in liquid. You will need to do this by eye as different breadcrumbs will soak up different amounts of liquid. Next place the flour on a board and add the breadcrumbs. Knead everything together well. When a smooth dough is formed, tear off walnut sized lumps from the dough and roll into 30cm lengths. Cut each length into 1/2 cm pieces and with the side of your thumb make an indentation.

To cook the pisareï, bring a large pot of salted water to the boil and then add the pisareï. When they float to the surface scoop them out with a slotted spoon and add them to the pan with the sauce. Mix together gently until the pisareï are evenly coated in the sauce.

Serve with plenty of freshly grated parmesan cheese.

Beans on toast

2011-10-11T07:31:00.000-07:00

Fett'unta

Late last night, in between two back-to-back episodes of Spielberg’s Pacific, I got an inexplicable hankering for something I haven’t eaten in over a decade – beans on toast. Needless to say, I didn’t have a tin of Heinz baked beans to hand – I can get them from the local supermarket but I refuse, out of principle, to pay €2.50 for the privilege (anyone travelling through these parts from the UK any time soon please bear this in mind).

There was only one thing to do when faced with such a situation. Adapt. Because although it might seem that beans on toast was invented in the UK, I’d hazard a guess the idea actually originated closer to home (least, home as it is today). They just call it by a different name.

Bruschetta, crostini or crostoni are Italy’s answer to toast with a topping. The are minor semantic differences between the three, if you really want to be pedantic, but generally speaking they are treated synonymously. At it’s simplest bruschetta is made by rubbing a clove of garlic over a piece of toasted bread, drizziling liberally with good quality extra virgin olive oil and finishing with a generous sprinkling of salt. It’s known in Tuscany as fett’unta (literally an ‘oiled slice’) and although the Tuscans would probably like to lay claim, it is just as likely to have originated in Lazio or Umbria or any other Italian region for that matter. Furthermore, a bruschetta can then be topped with any number of toppings – fresh tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, roasted peppers, cheese, the variations are literally endless.

Wherever it comes from, the principles are always the same. Good bruschetta relies on the quality of the bread and the quality of the topping. The rustic country loaves, once ubiquitous throughout Italy, are in my mind best suited to the job. Cut thickly, the bread can develop a satisfying crunch on the outside whilst remaining soft on the inside. I carved out two hefty wedges, brushed a little olive oil on either side and threw them on top of a smoking griddle.

While I was waiting I sliced half a red onion and threw it into a bowl along with a tin of cannellini beans. I added a tablespoon of fresh chopped chives, a good glug of olive oil and gave everything a quick mix. By the time I’d done this my toast was perfectly browned on either side. To finish, I rubbed the toast with garlic for some underlying flavour and topped with the beans and onions. To finish, another drizzle of extra virgin and a generous grinding of salt and pepper. So, with a plate of beans on toast in hand, I went back to Pacific, episode 2!

Porcini mushroom, Taleggio and potato lasagna - Lasagna con porcini, taleggio e patate

2011-10-10T05:39:00.000-07:00

To serve four you will need:

300g fresh porcini mushrooms
3 large potatoes
200g taleggio cheese
200ml single cream
30g grated parmesan cheese
2 cloves of garlic
handful of fresh parsley
Extra virgin olive oil
Unsalted butter
Salt & freshly ground black pepper

Clean your mushrooms with a brush. Do not use water unless you have to. Slice the mushrooms and potatoes into slices approximately 3mm thick. Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil and when boiling add the sliced potatoes and boil for 2-3 minutes. Drain and set the potatoes aside until needed.

Place a generous knob of butter into a large frying pan with a few tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil. Add the porcini mushrooms and fry over a medium high heat for a few minutes. Next add the crushed garlic and continue cooking for 5 minutes. To finish, sprinkle over a generous handful of finely chopped parsley.

To assemble the dish place a layer of potatoes at the bottom of a greased or lined baking tin. Place a layer of cooked mushrooms over the top.

Next dot cubes of taleggio over the mushrooms.

Mix the cream with the grated parmesan cheese and spoon this over the mushrooms and taleggio cheese. Continue by adding another two layers of potatoes, mushrooms, cheese and cream.

Cover the baking tin with foil and bake in a preheated oven at 180ºC for 15 minutes. Remove the foil and bake for a further 10 minutes until golden and bubbling. Serve hot with crusty bread to mop up the sauce. Delicious!

Thanksgiving, tractors and turkey

2011-10-09T05:29:00.000-07:00

In Canada, thanksgiving is celebrated on the second Monday in October. In the United States, it’s the third Thursday in November. In Vigolo Marchese in the province of Piacenza in Emilia Romagna, it’s the second Sunday in October (this year).

Thanksgiving in the town of Vigolo is not quite Thanksgiving as we know it, although there is turkey and chestnuts! The main event focuses on the blessing of the tractors. The blessing has been bestowed by the local parish priest every year for as long as anyone can remember. One of the local farmers, a cheerful, burly hulk of a man who was waiting next to his John Deer along with his two equally solid-looking sons told me that he still remembers driving on the back of his grandfather’s tractor to Vigolo for the annual blessing. That was over 50 years ago!

The likelihood is that today’s mechanized blessing is an evolution of the longstanding tradition of a formal thanksgiving for the annual harvest. It therefore has parallels with Thanksgiving in the American sense which owes its origins to the time when Europeans first started arriving in the

Americas

, bringing with them their own harvest festival traditions.

Agricultural harvests have always been occasions of celebration in Italy and, like all celebrations in Italy, they always involve food. Just a couple of weeks back the vendemmia, or grape harvest, was celebrated with an uphill barrel-rolling competition followed by grape pudding (known locally as mosto cotto) and a delicious sweet bread, made with dried grapes from the previous year’s harvest, served with a selection of local cheeses. A week later the chestnut harvest was celebrated through a myriad of chestnut festivals in towns throughout the region. In Vigolo, local farmers are simply celebrating the end of the summer harvest, a time to give thanks, relax and enjoy the fruits of their labour.

The main event takes place in the small piazza facing the medieval church and baptistery in the centre of town. It begins without warning, mid afternoon, with a loud rumbling sound like distant thunder. There’s a dull trembling in the ground, faint at first, but gradually building. Then they appear, a solid line of tractors, hundreds of them, every make, every model, every colour, slowly descending like a line of liberating tanks. The air fills with the smell of diesel as the tractors circle the small piazza. The noise is deafening and exhilarating at the same time. Then, as suddenly as the noise started, it ends. Engines turn silent and, perfectly on cue, the priest emerges, a bible in one hand and a vial of holy water in the other. All heads lower as a short benediction is read, his right hand is raised to the sky and the blessing is bestowed. A sprinkling of holy water, each tractor in turn and then it’s time for turkey.

It arrives, of course, on the back of a tractor. Five birds in all, roasted to a golden, crisp brown perfection. The aroma is heavenly, mixed with the smell of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Wine bottles are opened and glasses are filled. A local butcher arrives with an armful of homemade salami. Thick wedges are cut and served on top of chunks of rustic country bread. There may well be turkey and chestnuts but ultimately, it’s a very Italian thanksgiving.

Left over bread cake - Torta di pane avanzato

2011-10-08T09:31:00.000-07:00

Italians are big sticklers for never throwing away leftovers and this is one of many ways to use up leftover bread and anything lying around the cupboard. I bake this cake whenever I get an urge for something sweet on a saturday afternoon and it's also a great way to bring some order to the kitchen storecupboard. I hate all those half empty bags sitting around!

For this recipe you will need:
250g left over bread
about 750ml whole milk
2 free-range eggs
100g caster sugar
a handful of almonds
a handful of chocolate drops
a handful of dried cranberries

Rip up the bread into chunks and place it into a bowl. Pour over the milk and allow to soak for 30 minutes, stirring the bread around from time to time. You may need a little more milk if the bread is particularly dry.

Once the bread has absorbed all the milk, use your hands or a spoon to mash the bread and milk together. Next, lightly beat the the eggs and add these to the bread mix.

Next comes the fun part. Add all the other ingredients and in doing so, bring some order to your storecupboard. I used open packets of almonds, chocolate drops and dried carnberries, but there are any number of ingredients you could use. Substitute the cranberries for dried fruits such raisins or chopped apricots. Add a few tablespoons of cocoa powder to make a chocolate version. Use different nuts...you get the idea.

Pour the batter into a lined baking tin and bake in a preheated oven at 180ºC for 40-45 minutes. You'll know when the cake is done as it will brown and puff up. Remove from the oven and serve warm with plenty of pouring cream. Alternatively, allow to cool and serve in slices.

The Old Chestnut Shed

2011-10-06T19:26:00.000-07:00

The town of Pontremoli

In a non-descript shed a few kilometers above the small town of Pontremoli in the far northern reaches of Tuscany, Alberto Bellotti throws another jagged bough on the fire pit. Flames immediately engulf the well seasoned chestnut wood. With a metal hook he reaches over and roughly drags a large, blackened cast iron pan into the centre of the inferno. With the same hook, he lifts a domed lid and drops it into place with the effortless precision of a man who’s done this a thousand times over. To the outsider it might seem like a lot of effort to make a few pancakes. But to Alberto it’s more than that; it’s about keeping a tradition alive.

I’m in an area of Tuscany called the Lunigiana – literally, the ‘land of the moon’. This is not the Tuscany of rolling hills, cypress trees and olive groves. In fact, such is the contrast with the tourist stereotype that whenever locals leave the area on a day trip, they still speak about ‘going to Tuscany’. The landscape here is a breathtaking, fairytale land of castles, ancient mountain villages, Romanesque churches, towering mountains, forests and old stone bridges. The cuisine is different too. To begin with, the culinary influence of regional neighbors, Liguria and Emilia-Romagna, speaks out in many local dishes. But more importantly, the seasons and the mountainous habitat dictate the diet, most noticeable in the dependence upon lamb which graze in high pastures, cheeses made from the milk of sheep and goats, foraged foods, wild herbs and greens, mushrooms and, not forgetting, the ubiquitous chestnut.

As it happens, the shed we are standing in is an old chestnut drying shed. From the outside it looks like an inverted ice-cream cone, slightly cylindrical at the base tapering off into a tall funnel-shaped roof with a hole at the top. The centre-piece of the room is a cavernous fire pit. In the old days, as the name implies, the hut would have been used to dry chestnuts. Throughout the fall, sacks of nuts would have been suspended from a rafter high above the fire. Once dry, the nuts would have been ground to make flour which in turn would have been used to make everything from local breads to a version of fresh pasta to polenta to castagnaccio, otherwise known as the ‘poor man’s cake’.

The Tuscans were masters in frugality. They made a virtue of it. In the same way that no self-respecting Tuscan would ever countenance throwing away good bread – or any leftover food for that matter – so too, even the flames of a fire would have been put to multiple use. In Pontremoli, along Tuscany’s mountainous northern border, one of those uses would have been making testaroli, the area’s most popular answer to pasta. After all, why waste a perfectly good fire? Alberto Bellotti is one of only three artisans left in the world who still make testaroli in the time honored fashion.

To the uninitiated eye, the testarolo looks like a supersized pancake. Made from a batter of flour, water and salt, the testarolo is approximately 40-45 centimeters in diameter and a few millimeters thick. Whilst it might well look like a pancake, there the similarities end. To begin with you can’t flip a testarolo as you would a pancake in your home kitchen. That’s because they are traditionally cooked in a testo, a cast-iron pan which weighs a hefty 25 kilos. Try flipping that!

The testo is most likely a Roman invention, with earlier versions been made from terracotta. It’s a piece of culinary engineering that was, you could argue, ahead of its time. Along with its dome-shaped lid, the pan was used not so much like a frying pan, but as you would an oven. To demonstrate, Alberto places the testo directly over the flames where it remains until it becomes smoking hot. He then drags it to the side, adds a ladleful of batter and replaces the lid. The residual heat inside the covered pan and time are left to do the rest. After about 90 seconds he lifts the lid, scoops out a perfectly cooked pancake and adds it to a growing stack.

Albert Bellotti

The Irish, the Welsh and the Scottish once used a similar device known as the griddle (in

Scotland

it was called a ‘girdle’). More a hotplate, however, it would have been placed directly over the flames and used to cook breads such as Irish soda and potato breads, Welsh pancakes known as drop scones and Scottish oatcakes. The precursor to this method of cooking would most likely have been cooking over a hot stone.

Traditionally a testo could be found in every household in Pontremoli and indeed such was its importance that in 1391 the city levied a tax on them. They would have been used for everything from roasting meats to baking savory vegetable tarts. Today, you’ll still find a testo in many homes in the area but they’re generally assigned a decorative function.

A couple of things that haven’t changed in the Lunigiana are the appetite for testaroli and the preferred method of cooking. Testaroli can still be found on the menu of practically every restaurant in the region and they’re still habitually cooked at home. The method is simple. Once the pancake has cooled, the testarolo is cut into small diamonds, boiled and served hot, most often dressed in a basil pesto sauce made with a generous measure of the finest Tuscan extra virgin olive oil. Occasionally, in the fall, when local porcini mushrooms are in season, they are served with a creamy mushroom sauce.

Making testaroli in a chestnut drying shed is a dying tradition. Today Alberto only lights the fire when he has accumulated sufficient orders. After all, there’s no point in wasting good wood for a handful of pancakes. Frugality, truly another Tuscan tradition, is a hard habit to break.

If you want to read more about Tuscan food traditions and perhaps try a few authentic recipes from the editors of the Silver Spoon Kitchen, take a look at the book I authored, Tuscany, which was published by Phaidon in early 2011. Taking each of Tuscany’s 10 regions in turn, the book details the history and traditions behind the region’s cuisine, covering household staples such as Tuscan ribollita soup, pappa col pomodoro and the fiorentina steak, as well as favourites such as Tuscany’s cantucci biscuits.

Late summer peppers

2011-10-06T04:13:00.000-07:00

Peppers, cooked over an open fire

The summer just doesn’t seem to want to end here this year. It’s early October and we are still reaching temperatures of nearly 30 degrees. As such, there’s been a late glut of peppers and the market stalls are still packing large multi-coloured red, green and yellow displays.

From late summer through to early autumn Italians buy peppers like they are going out of fashion (or, to put it another way, out-of-season). There follows a nationwide bout of preserving – be it peppers left whole and pickled in vats brimming with vinegar or grilled, sliced into strips and bottled in oil, garlic and fresh herbs. It’s occurred to me that perhaps Italians believe that by preserving the last of the season’s bounty, they can somehow retain just a taste of the last summer rays, a tonic against the dark winter months that lie ahead. Or maybe it’s just because we love our peppers so much!

Sweet or bell peppers first arrived in Italy some time in the second half of the 16^th century. For some time they were used exclusively for decorative purposes, being treated with suspicion as they were considered probably poisonous. It wasn’t actually until the early 19^th century that they became main stream in Italian kitchens. Today they are cultivated in many parts of the country and widely used.

In fact, they’re so widely used that every Italian family has their own recipe for peperonata. In fact, it seems that today grandmother’s ‘secret’ recipe for peperonata is de rigueur for every newly published Italian cookbook. My own grandmother used to cook them over an open fire and serve them with sausage, occasionally an egg. The slightly smoked taste of the peppers was distinctive and despite the passing of many years, the taste and smell still linger in my imagination.

One of my personal favourites this time of the year are friarielli peppers. These small green peppers are sweet and the skin is so thin that they do not require peeling. In fact, they are eaten whole, seeds, skin, flesh, everything but the stalk. If you can get hold of them, they are well worth buying. Alternatively, if you have a small plot of lawn, I recommend digging it up and growing your own. The seeds are available on line. Like all peppers they are versatile and suited to any number of cooking methods. The locals here like to preserve them whole in oil or vinegar. They’re also excellent with pasta (see the recipe for friarielli peppers with quartirolo cheese and mint) or simply pan fried until soft with lots of chopped garlic, salt and freshly ground black pepper.