Barbecue, the Beautiful Game and the Azzurri

 It’s been some time since I last posted. The series of earthquakes that has rocked Emilia Romagna since May has thrown my schedule to the wind. With every earthquake I have taken flight with the children to the mountains. But that’s another story, one that doesn’t belong here and one that I have written about elsewhere – if you want to read more, visit: http://www.italia-magazine.com/blog/movers-and-shakers.

No one knows who coined the phrase ‘The Beautiful Game’, but with Euro 2012 underway in Poland and Ukraine, football is on everyone’s mind here. The Azzurri – the boys in blue – make their debut this evening against one of the tournament favourites, defending World and European champions, Spain. The feeling here is not exactly one of optimism, though that’s not surprising. Football – soccer if you prefer – in Italy has always been taken with a healthy degree of seriousness. It’s never just a game – it’s much more than that. Beppe Severgnini once wrote that ‘you cannot claim to know Italians until you have seen them at work inside a soccer stadium’.

One of the most memorable moments in my life was the day my father took me to my first football game. I was barely tall enough to see over the railings. It was the European Cup leg between the legendary Italian club Juventus and the little known Glentoran, a local Irish squad. The match was played at the Oval in Belfast. I think we were the only Juventus fans in a green sea of 25,000 Glentoran supporters. That didn’t deter my father. Football was different back then – the atmosphere was electric, spirited but good-natured. Casio scored for Juventus about 30 minutes into the first half. My brother and I broke the silence, practically exploding with joy – my father, perhaps wisely, was less vocal in his celebration. Five minutes before the end of the game Juventus conceded a penalty. Dino Zoff, the legendary Italian goalkeeper, quickly put an end to any possibility of a fairy-tale ending for the Irish when he saved Feeney’s shot. But still, the Irish did well, managing to stave off the much-anticipated slaughter, losing by only one goal. I have to point out though that they weren’t so lucky when they travelled to the Stade Communale in Turin for the return leg, where they conceded 5 goals to the Italians.    

We’ve met tonight’s opponents 29 times at international level. There’s not much in it. Italy’s won 10, drawn 11 and lost 8 times. But anyone who knows anything about football will tell you that although the Italian squad has been under-performing of late, and although the Spanish are on a high, the boys in blue are never to be discounted. They’re not considered the second most successful team in the history of the game for nothing.

Food and football have much in common in Italy. Everyone’s passionate about them and everyone has an opinion. I’m watching the first half of the game with friends around the corner in the bar. Assuming all’s going well, we’re relocating to the living room at half time. Ellie’s under instructions to keep an eye on the score line. Assuming all’s going well, she’s serving bruschetta over the second half. The post game discussions will take place around the BBQ in the garden. Hopefully when it’s over we’ll be celebrating, not commiserating. But however it turns out, football makes Italians hungry – I bought in a good supply of meat!  

P.S. Next week Italy meets the Republic of Ireland in the second leg of their group matches. Although I’m a Belfast boy, my loyalties aren’t divided, least, not quite. At the bar I’ll publicly be rooting for the Italians, but at the same time, if things don’t turn out as expected, I still remember the words of Amhrán na bhFiann – that’s “The Soldiers’ Song”, the Irish national anthem, for anyone that didn’t study Gaelic at school! I might even whip up a pot of Irish stew... just to show there’s no hard feelings. Afterall, it’s only a game!

Italian Barbecue Kebabs

Spiedini

400g Luganega sausage, cut into chunks

400g pork loin, diced

2 thickly cut slices of pancetta, cut into 2.5cm dice

1 large red pepper, seeds removed, flesh diced

1 courgette trimmed and diced into rounds

A few sprigs of thyme leaves, chopped

A sprig of rosemary, chopped

Extra-virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

To make the kebabs, thread a piece of pancetta onto the skewer, followed by a piece of pork loin, pepper, courgette and then sausage. Repeat this sequence once more, finishing the end of the kebab off with a piece of pancetta. This amount of ingredients should make about 8 kebabs. You’ll want two kebabs per person, unless extra hungry.

To cook, lightly brush the kebabs with olive oil and sprinkle generously with rosemary and thyme. Season each kebab with salt and pepper, then place on a hot griddle or over barbecue coals. Cook the kebabs for 10 to 15 minutes, turning and basting regularly. When cooked, sprinkle with a little extra thyme and a drizzle of olive oil and serve with more Mediterranean vegetables.

Goat’s cheese, dogs, pasta and the sound of music

‘Don’t get out of the car’, Roberto warned, ‘toot the horn, I’ll come and get you’.

‘Sure, I got it’ I replied, hurriedly scribbling directions. Carlo, who was standing next to me, was mumbling something in thick Piacentine dialect about being eaten by dogs and I couldn’t make out what Roberto was saying. Did he say turn left or right after the town?

‘Do you want to drive’? I asked Carlo, with a tone that said shut it old man. He didn’t take the hint.

‘Stay in the car’, Roberto repeated for the umpteenth time and put the phone down. I’m no stranger to the Cisa Pass, a winding mountain road in the Apennines that connects the provinces of Parma in Emilia Romagna with Pontremoli, a town in the province of Massa-Carrara in Tuscany. I take the pass every year on trips to Pontremoli when I go mushroom picking. That said, the farm we were going to supposedly was off the beaten path – well off!

It doesn’t take much to coax me to go on a road trip – especially when there’s cheese involved. Good goat’s cheese is much prized in Italy, especially those made by small artisan producers and it’s generally better to buy direct from source. Plus, when Carlo offered to throw in lunch at Da Giovanni, a restaurant/ hotel just outside Pontremoli, I didn’t hesitate. The pasta, always home made, is an absolute favourite of mine. When in season they make a tagliatelle with fresh porcini mushrooms that is hard to beat. Local specialties of the Lunigiana such as testaroli (a type of pancake served with a pesto sauce) and herb pie are also excellent. On this occasion I opted for lasagnette (small ribbons of pasta) served with a meat ragù. It didn’t disappoint. The food was everything I remembered it to be. Giovanni’s food defies time.

By 2.30 we were on the road again and starting the winding 1,040 meter (3,414 feet) ascent to the top of the Cisa Pass. Records of the road date back to 109BC. In medieval times, it was one of the main thoroughfares for pilgrims on their way from northern Europe to Rome. You could say we were pilgrims of a kind – the Holy Grail of cheese.

After 10 kilometres of constantly winding road I began to regret that third… I mean second… bowl of pasta! Roberto’s directions to the farm were good but we still managed to miss our turn off. We doubled back a few miles down the road, passed it again and eventually took a left hand turn that led to nowhere. I crumpled up the useless directions, scowled at Carlo and looked for signs of life. An old lady hanging her washing told us we should have turned right.

The Mulino della Vaccarezza farm is situated at the very bottom of a steep valley. As we crept slowly down the hill I opened the passenger side window. Carlo, who has a thing about dogs, almost had a fit! Porco mariana and a string of obscenities followed. As we pulled up outside the gate I was still laughing. Immediately, out of habit more than foolish bravado, I opened the door. I couldn’t see the dog but the growl was enough. I slammed the door shut, checked my window was closed and tooted the horn. By the time Roberto arrived five very large dogs were circling our wagon. We were surrounded.

Roberto and his partner Elena make goat and sheep’s milk cheese and salami. The bulk of what he makes he sells to a couple of nearby restaurants. What’s left he sells direct to the public from the farm – to anyone able to find the place and get past the dogs that is. But once you’ve tasted his cheese, the risk of being eaten seems a small price to pay. He beckons towards the small farmhouse and we follow quickly, the dogs on our tail. I’m forty years younger than Carlo but the 80-year-old still makes it through the door two steps ahead of me. Inside it’s dim and cool – the perfect conditions for cheese. We each buy three medium-sized rounds for ourselves and Carlo buys what’s left to fill the orders from his neighbours. A few would just have to wait until our next trip.

Back outside the dogs have been joined by a crowd of goats. Several are sniffing around my car – one has its nose in the boot and is eating through Carlo’s emergency supply of sandwiches. Roberto pays it no attention. Somewhat eccentric, he starts barking orders to one of the dogs, a border collie, in heavily-accented English. Apparently the dog was trained back in England and to this day only responds to instructions in English. Despite Roberto’s less than fluent command of the language the dog understands and enthusiastically bounds off up a steep slope to retrieve the rest of the herd. Within moments the valley comes alive – not exactly with the sound of music – but goat’s bells.

Fish Soup

It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that there are more variations on zuppa di pesce (fish soup) in Italy than there are fish in the sea. Many restaurants won’t list zuppa di pesce on their menus. They will call it by its regional name, thereby differentiating it from all other, invariably inferior, fish soups. Brodetto, buridda, quadaru, guazzetto, cacciucco, ciuppin are just a handful of the more commonly used names. But, all told, it’s just fish soup!

With the sheer variety of fish on offer in the country, coupled with regional, provincial and town loyalties, everyone thinks that they hold the secret to the best fish soup. It’s a subject of much heated debate. Italians not only argue about how best a fish soup should be cooked, in places they even argue about how it’s spelled! In Livorno in northern Tuscany the local variation of fish soup, cacciucco, is spelled with 5 ‘C’s. Travel just a few miles further down the coast and it’s often spelled with just 4 ‘C’s. Some say this is a deliberate slant designed to irritate and provoke the neighbours – and it works!  

The one broad generalization that can be made about all fish soups in Italy is that they are a legacy of Italian cucina povera – poor people’s food or peasant food. In its original form, fish soup would always have been made with a variety of different fish, sometimes up to 13 types, and with fish of less commercial value. Most fish soups were the creation of fishermen who would sell the more prestigious fish and use what was leftover to make a soup.

Recipes abound. In Sicily it’s often made with capers and olives. In Liguria, herbs and pine nuts are often added. In Romagna, peas are used and it is made sometimes with tomatoes and sometimes without. Italians can and do argue passionately over who makes the best fish soup – I’ve witnessed this on more than one occasion. The fact of the matter is there is no secret ingredient and there are no hard-and-fast rules. 

My advice is simply to use the best fish available – and by that I don’t mean expensive, I mean the freshest! The key in the cooking is to add the fish, in sequence, according to cooking times. Again, depending on the type of fish used, the cooking time will vary – so it does require a little experimentation. However, although the dish may look elaborate, like all good Italian food it’s actually very simple. 

Fish Soup

Zuppa di pesce

Serves 4

Preparation time: 5 minutes

Cooking time: 15 minutes

700g fish pieces (such as sea bass, scorpion fish, shark, monkfish, sea bream)

10 prawns

6 squid

500g mussels (already cleaned)

350g clams (already cleaned)

250ml finely chopped plum tomatoes

100g fresh peas

150ml dry white wine

2 garlic cloves

6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley

For this recipe you will need a saucepan large enough to fit all the fish and shellfish with a tight fitting lid.  Begin by cleaning and preparing your fish – discarding any mussels or clams with broken shells. Cut the larger fish into pieces (not too small) and rinse under cold water.  

Heat the olive oil gently in the pan and infuse with the garlic (either left whole or crushed depending on taste).  Next add the fish pieces and the squid, which has been roughly chopped.  Cook these for a few minutes until just turning brown. Next add the white wine and allow this to evaporate for a minute.  Then add the tomatoes and peas and continue to simmer for about five minutes. Finally add the mussels, clams and prawns, cover with the lid and cook for 2-3 minutes. When all the shells have opened the fish is cooked. Finish by adding the chopped parsley.  Serve immediately with bruschetta or crusty ciabatta bread.

Under The Spaghetti Tree: Part 2

Sophia Loren once said that “everything you see, I owe to spaghetti”. It’s a maxim that could well apply to a nation. Virtually every person in the country, whatever their generation, whatever their background, has grown up with spaghetti. A collective memory, spaghetti is intrinsic to the national psyche. It is one of the few great unifying forces in a country of regional dialects.

A few miles from where I live, just outside Parma, there’s a huge Barilla pasta factory. As we return from a long journey, it looms up from the side of the road like a beacon and I know we are minutes from home. A few years back Barilla launched an advertising campaign with the catchphrase ‘Dové C’é Barilla, C’è Casa’ – where there is Barilla, there’s home. Like all good advertising campaigns it bore more than a modicum of truth. The sentimental chord struck by the advertisement was the notion that pasta and home are somehow synonymous.

I never did eat spaghetti freshly picked from the spaghetti tree (see my last post) – I just assumed it wasn’t in season.  But that never stopped my mother. On the annual family pilgrimage from the north of Ireland down to the south of Italy my mother would always pack a few packets of spaghetti in the boot of the car for the trip – enough to get us from Belfast to the outskirts of Naples. At the time it never occurred to me how odd we must have looked to other motorists passing by: three children sitting around a fold-up table in a lay-by somewhere on the other side of Dublin watching as my mother, stooped over a camper’s stove,  ladled spaghetti onto plastic plates while my father grated pecorino cheese directly over the top. We were eating spaghetti cacio e pepe (the classic spaghetti with pecorino and pepper), but to my brother, sister and I at the time, it was just ‘spaghetti cheese’.  

Spaghetti was just as much a part of my childhood as bedtime stories, the school playground and Saturday night baths. We must have looked every bit the mangiamaccheroni – macaroni eaters – who used to eat spaghetti with their hands on the streets of Naples (we used forks, of course!). The invention of the mechanised press in the latter part of the 18^th century meant that dried pasta, for the first time, could be produced in large quantities and at lower cost. The population of Naples was rising rapidly and the people were hungry. In a few short years, pasta secca (dried pasta) became the symbol of the city. It was cucina povera (poor people’s food) for the masses. In 1840 the first industrial pasta plant opened in Torre Annunziata, just south of Naples. A few years later, in 1844, the first recipe for pasta with a tomato sauce appeared in a Neapolitan cookbook.

Versatile, inexpensive and nutritious, the craze that defined a city quickly engulfed a nation. Large industrial dried pasta factories in Liguria and Sicily shipped pasta to every port in the country. A string of others were soon established in and around Naples. And Italians, a nation of emigrants, carried it with them in their suitcases to every corner of the globe. I like to think of my grandparents, years ago when they first came to Ireland, disembarking from a ship onto Belfast docks, a strange and unfamiliar city, with nothing but the clothes they owned and a few packets of spaghetti – a taste of home.

Spaghetti with Pecorino Cheese and Ground Black Pepper

Spaghetti cacio e pepe

The origins of this classic dish are disputed. It is popularly considered of Roman origin but both the Sicilians and the Neapolitans claim that it was in fact invented either on the streets of Palermo or Naples. There may be some truth in the claims. The mangiamaccheroni of Naples would have eaten their pasta simply, straight from the cauldron and certainly without the addition of tomato sauce (which came later). Pecorino cheese was common to the city and it may well have been added to the pasta as a dressing for flavour, as might pepper.

Wherever it came from, this dish is as simple as dried pasta gets (so easy, in fact, it can hardly be called a recipe!). There are variations on the dish. Some advocate not using any extra virgin olive oil. Others suggest using an equal mix of pecorino cheese and parmesan. In the north of Italy a similar dish is made using butter instead of oil and just parmesan cheese. Personally I prefer the following recipe but that’s just a question of taste.

Serves 4

Preparation time:  5 minutes

Cooking time: 10 minutes

320g spaghetti

250g semi-mature pecorino cheese, grated

3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

Freshly ground black pepper

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil. Add the pasta and cook until just al dente. Once the pasta is cooked, drain, reserving a small amount (a few tablespoons) of the cooking water. Place the pasta back in the pot and add the water, the olive oil, the cheese and plenty of black pepper. Toss well and serve immediately (for a truly authentic Neapolitan experience, try eating with your hands!).

Under The Spaghetti Tree: Part I

As a child I used to believe that spaghetti grew on trees and that Marco Polo brought it to Italy from China. As we drove through the Italian countryside during our summer holidays, I remember the excitement in the backseat as my brother, sister and I searched for the first sighting of the supposedly ubiquitous spaghetti tree. My father, something of a practical joker, had something I’m sure to do with perpetuating the myth. I had visions of playing beneath a chandelier of spaghetti as my mother picked the choicest strands and threw them directly into a pot of boiling water. For obvious reasons, the proverbial tree proved illusive - we had to settle for olive groves - but it was great fun nonetheless!

The fact is, no one can say for certain where spaghetti originated or how long a history it has (maybe it does grow on trees!). Children today are more food savvy. My eldest son Massimo, who’s 8 now, knew almost immediately that I was pulling his leg when I resurrected the myth on a drive down to Naples last summer. He said: “Daddy you’re joking, right? Spaghetti doesn’t grow on trees, it comes from Barilla”. From the corner of my eye I did, however, catch my younger son Giuliano, sneaking an exploratory peek out the window.

Of course, the popular myth that Marco Polo brought it home from his travels was debunked many years ago (at about the same time someone also discounted the notion that it grows on trees). Since then, theories have abounded but the fact is that no one knows how long the history of spaghetti spans. Its origins are intertwined with the history of pasta which is lost in time. Part of the problem is one of terminology. The word ‘spaghetti’, if not the product, is of relatively recent origin. It was only in the early 1800s that it came into popular usage. The word most used in the Middle Ages, in generic fashion for all forms of pasta, was maccheroni – spelt in as many different ways probably as it was cooked. The earliest record found thus far of the word spaghetti is in a dictionary of Italian dialect, coincidentally here in my home province of Piacenza, which was published in 1836. It wasn’t until 10 years later, in 1846, that the word spaghetti was first recorded in a mainstream dictionary, where it was equated with vermicelli. Even today, in parts of Italy, particularly in the south, the words vermicelli and spaghetti are used to describe the same thing.

Myths, origins and etymological considerations aside, spaghetti as a staple of the masses didn’t become popular until the latter part of the 19^th century. Its rise coincided with the introduction of the extrusion press and subsequent technological developments which simplified the laborious process of producing the long thin strands. Today some estimates suggest that spaghetti accounts for something in the region of two-thirds of the world’s consumption of pasta. Dishes such as spaghetti alla carbonara, spaghetti alle vongole (spaghetti with clams), spaghetti al pomodoro (spaghetti with tomto sauce), spaghetti, aglio, olio e peperoncino (spaghetti with garlic, oil and chilli peppers) have gained world renown and come to symbolise a nation, a people and its food.

As for myself, I’m going to go out and pick some spaghetti for lunch – I’ll take a look under the tree in the garden and if that fails, I suppose I’ll go to the shops.

Spaghetti with garlic, olive oil and chilli pepper

Spaghetti, aglio, olio e peperoncino

Serves 4

Preparation time:  5 minutes

Cooking time: 10 minutes

320g spaghetti

2 cloves garlic (or more, to taste)

1 fresh chilli or 1 tsp dried chilli flakes (again, more or less to taste)

6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

A handful chopped fresh parsley

Place the oil in a deep-sided frying pan. Heat gently and add the garlic finely sliced and the chopped chilli. Allow it to warm through and infuse very gently until the pasta is cooked. Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil and add the spaghetti. Cook until just al dente. Drain the pasta and throw it into the frying pan. Turn up the heat for just a few seconds while you thoroughly toss the pasta. Sprinkle over freshly chopped parsley and serve immediately.

Knowing Your Porcini Mushrooms

Today’s shopping basket is filled with porcini mushrooms. Admittedly, it’s not mushroom season yet but since dried porcini means that we never have to go without, I thought I’d jump the gun and raise a subject that’s very close to my heart. It’s a cautionary tale. Not all dried porcini are equal and it helps to know what you are looking for. So, for a few tips on finding the best, click on the shopping basket to your right.

While I'm here, if there are any Italian food products you’d particularly like to hear about, please feel free to let me know. Also, if you have any shopping stories to tell, pictures you might like to show or tips you want offer, again feel free to send them in my direction. I’m always shopping for new ideas!!!

Gnocchi – the other pasta

An editor in the UK once advised me that English readers were not particularly fond of gnocchi and that I should consider carefully before including a recipe in a book proposal I was preparing. She never explained why she thought so.

The conversation stuck in my mind. How could someone object to gnocchi? On what grounds did she base her claim? I came to the conclusion that perhaps she’d suffered what’s termed a ‘gnocchi meltdown’ – one of those moments when gnocchi magically disappear once plunged into boiling water, the result of having added too little flour to the mix. It can be frustrating (not to mention embarrassing), particularly if you have four hungry guests waiting in the next room for their first course! Not that that’s ever happened to me - I’m not the one with a grudge against gnocchi. 

Gnocchi are essentially a kind of dumpling and are closely linked to pasta. Most commonly made with potato and flour, they can also be made from a mixture of breadcrumbs or cornmeal with or without flour, or semolina or polenta. Often herbs or vegetables or cheeses comprise part of the mix. They can take different forms but generally they are about the size of a thimble, and are usually given a characteristic shape by rolling the dough briefly against the back of a fork or a grater or other such means. This helps the gnocchi to hold the sauce better.

The dumplings are cooked in boiling salted water and then dressed with a sauce in more or less the same manner as pasta. In some areas they are then baked for a short period in the oven – as in gnocchi alla romana. The most simple of sauces is butter and grated cheese, usually parmesan, sometimes with sage added. Other popular sauces include the ubiquitous tomato sauce, gorgonzola cheese sauce or a basil pesto but the variations are virtually endless.

Despite their popularity throughout the whole of Italy, there’s very little known about the origins of gnocchi except that they were probably linked with the history of pasta. This is due to the fact that many old cookery books referred to both as ‘m’caroni’ – as in ‘macaroni’ - coupled with the fact that similar ingredients and methods were used to make both. Older versions of gnocchi were made from a simple mixture of flour and water. One of the first mentions of the use of potatoes in the mix dates to the 1860s.

I’ve tried various supermarket varieties of gnocchi but they just aren’t the same. Often a potato flour is used which, as anyone who has eaten the home made version will likely tell you, just doesn’t achieve the same texture or taste as real potatoes. Making good gnocchi at home is simple and once you’ve mastered the knack, it makes for a very quick and economical dish. The key is finding a good quality floury potato. It’s also best to steam the potatoes as the last thing you want is a watery potato! Although recipe books will advise as to how much flour should be added, it’s best not to be too prescriptive. The type of potato used – as in how much water it absorbs in the cooking process – will affect the amount of flour required. With practice, gnocchi can easily be made without scales or measurements – it’s simply a question of adding flour until you have achieved the desired consistency. The following recipe, my grandmother’s, has proven a faithful companion for years and is a good basis to start from.

Gnocchi with a basil red sauce

Serves 4-6

Preparation time: 30 minutes

Cooking time: 1 hour

For the gnocchi

1kg floury potatoes

400g plain white flour

50g parmesan cheese

For the sauce

1 small onion

2 cloves garlic

500ml tomato passata

1 teaspoon sugar

A good handful of fresh basil leaves

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt & freshly ground black pepper

To make the sauce, finely chop the onion and add to a heavy-based pot with the garlic cloves and 3 or 4 tablespoons of olive oil.  Soften for 5 minutes and then add the tomato passata and a teaspoon of sugar.  Season with salt and pepper and simmer over a very gentle heat for about one hour. Do not stir. Add plenty of roughly torn basil leaves just before serving.

To make the gnocchi, boil the potatoes in a large pot of salted water.  When cooked, drain well and mash by passing through a potato ricer. Let the potatoes cool for a few minutes before continuing.  Place the flour on a large board or work surface, make a well in the centre and add the potato and finely grated parmesan cheese.  Gently work the flour and potatoes together with your fingertips and quickly knead together to form a smooth dough.  Rip off pieces of dough, roughly the size of a tangerine and roll with your hands into a long ‘snake’ about 1cm thick.  Don’t be afraid to dust the dough with additional flour as you work to stop it from sticking.  Cut the snake into 2cm pieces and roll each of the gnocchi over the back of a fork, pressing down gently with your thumb to create a small indentation.  To cook the gnocchi bring a large pot of salted water to the boil and add the gnocchi. When the gnocchi float to the surface they are ready (this will only take a couple of minutes, so have your sauce ready). Remove with a slotted spoon into a large serving bowl and add the tomato sauce.  Serve with extra freshly grated parmesan cheese.

Pasquetta - The ‘Little Easter’ picnic

On Easter Monday – known as Pasquetta, or ‘little Easter’ – the tradition in Italy is to go on a picnic. When the weather permits, the long queues at the motorway tolls are a sure sign that that it’s a tradition still very much in vogue.  It’s not unusual for entire city’s to empty, venturing towards the mountains, the countryside or the sea.

Picnic-watching is a favourite pastime of mine. Italians take their picnics very seriously. Easter Monday lunch is an important meal in the Italian festive culinary calendar and just because it happens to be outdoors doesn’t mean it has to equate to anything less than would be eaten at home. It’s quite a spectacle watching families arguing over how to light the fire or standing anxiously over a huge pot of boiling spaghetti.

Personally I like to keep things simple. Leftover roasted lamb from the day before is always an easy option. Add some sliced griddled artichokes, dress with homemade peperoncino oil and a sprinkling of coarse salt and you have the perfect main for eating alfresco. I always bring a large bowl of rice salad. In the 15 minutes it takes to boil the rice, I dice some cooked seasonal vegetables (again, leftovers from Sunday lunch), add some mozzarella, chopped sun-dried tomatoes and ham. A good drizzle of olive oil, some chopped herbs, salt and pepper and the only problem is finding the lid for the large Tupperware bowl.

Eggs, symbolising fertility and rebirth, are an important addition to any meal over the Easter holidays. The tradition dates all the way back to the 4^th century, when Christianity became the state religion in Italy and believers would exchange eggs as a gesture of hope and faith.  They are used for both savoury and sweet dishes. One dish that I’m particularly fond of is the torta pasqualina, a savoury tart highly popular in Ligura which is made with seasonal vegetables, a tangy cream cheese and eggs. It was traditionally made with either 33 ingredients or 33 layers of filo-like pastry, one for every year in the life of Jesus. Today it’s made all year round, though the recipe is generally somewhat abbreviated.

It is, however, a great dish for a picnic. It can be made the evening before, wrapped in foil and refrigerated. The recipe that follows is my own take on the dish. In Liguria it is often made with beet greens and quagliata, a tangy curd cheese. However, I prefer to use a mix of seasonal greens such as chard, spinach and beet and a fresh sheep’s milk ricotta (although cow’s milk ricotta works equally well). All that’s left is to throw the blanket, the picnic basket, the painted eggs and a bottle of sparkling white ortrugo in the boot, muster the children and it’s time for a picnic. Buona Pasqua -  Happy Easter!            

Savoury Easter Tart

Torta pasqualina

Makes one 20 x 30cm tart

Preparation time: 15 minutes

Cooking time: 1 hour

2 sheets rectangular shaped ready rolled puff pastry

1kg mixed fresh greens (spinach, chard leaves)

250g fresh ricotta cheese

4 eggs

Extra virgin olive oil

1 clove of garlic

30g grated parmesan cheese

Salt & pepper

Hard boil 3 eggs for 8 minutes.  When cooked remove from the pan and rinse under plenty of cold water. Whilst the eggs are cooking wash the greens well and place them in a pot with a tight fitting lid.  Place the pan over a medium heat and allow to wilt (this will take about 5 minutes).  When cooked, drain the greens well, removing as much excess water as possible.  Place 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a frying pan and add the greens with the garlic clove.  Season well and sauté for 5 minutes until all the moisture from the greens has been absorbed. Allow to cool and then mix in the ricotta cheese.

Place one sheet of the ready rolled puff pastry on a lined baking sheet and place the greens and ricotta mixture on top (allowing 2-3cm of a border).  Peel the boiled eggs and cut in half.  Arrange the boiled eggs over the pie and place another sheet of ready rolled puff pastry over the top.  Fold over the edges of the pie and crimp to seal well.  Beat the remaining egg and brush the top of the pie with the egg wash.  Cut a few slits in the top of the pie to allow the steam to escape and bake in a preheated oven at 180°C for approximately 40 minutes. Allow to cool before serving.

A Spring Pasta Salad

Spring has arrived. All the signs are here. The market stalls are filled with spring vegetables, the trees are budding and the sun is beaming. Carlo, my neighbour, said it’s time to get to work in the orto – vegetable patch. I dusted down my old boots and went to the consorzio this morning and bought seeds. And if you need further evidence of the changing season, the odd Italian is even braving the outdoors without a jacket – although not before midday.  

Yesterday at the market the asparagus, peas, spring onions and fine green beans were stacked alongside the last of the winter vegetables. The first spring vegetables are always popular and trade was brisk. The lady in front of me was buying long thin asparagus shoots. She had a fistful of asparagus in one hand, a bunch of spring onions in the other, and was waving her arms excitedly trying to catch the farmer’s attention – I figured she was planning a risotto. Peas were selling well too. With a nod of approval from the farmer, I opened a pod. They were small, sweet and tender – perfect for what I had in mind.

Pasta salad is hugely popular in Italy, especially in the late spring and summer. It’s a versatile dish, inexpensive and simple to make and perfect for a refreshing lunch on a hot sunny day, a lunchbox filler or a picnic. There are infinite versions of this dish with practically every family having their own favourites. The key is to choose the freshest seasonal ingredients available.

The only real sticking point – and, believe it or not, a matter of some considerable debate among Italians – is how to cool the pasta after cooking without destroying its texture. The traditional method is to pour a glass of cold water into the pot once the pasta is al dente to stop it cooking and then drain and rinse under cold water. However, many Italians will tell you that by stopping the cooking in this way the pasta absorbs too much water and can become gluey (or soggy). They have a point. A better way, it is claimed, is to begin by rinsing the uncooked pasta under water to remove some of the starch. It should then be boiled in plenty of salted water and drained when just al dente. To finish, the pasta should be tossed in a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil and laid out onto a cold steel or aluminium tray or surface. As the pasta cools it should be moved every so often to prevent sticking and to speed up the cooling process. Admittedly, this is a somewhat laborious procedure but, take my word for it, it does help to improve the quality of the finished dish. 

Recipe

Spring Vegetable Pasta Salad

Insalata di pasta con verdure primaverile

Serves 4

Preparation time: 15 minutes

Cooking time: 30 minutes

300g short pasta such as fusilli or penne

200g shelled fresh peas

150g fine green beans

200g scamorza cheese, cut into cubes

150g black olives

250g baby cherry tomatoes

Extra virgin olive oil

Bunch of fresh basil

1 Tablespoon finely chopped parsley

Salt & freshly ground black pepper

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil and add the pasta.  Cook the pasta until just al dente and drain.  Place the pasta back into the pot and add a few tablespoons of extra virgin oil.  Tip the pasta onto a metal tray and allow to cool.  Whilst the pasta is cooling, cook the green beans in salted water until tender.  Two minutes before they are cooked add the peas.  Drain and cool. 

To assemble the salad, place the pasta in a large bowl.  Add the tomatoes, cut into quarters, the olives, peas, chopped green beans and the scamorza cheese.  Season generously with salt and pepper and dress with a few tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, chopped parsley and basil leaves.   

Pasta and Potatoes (alla Napoletana)

The combination of pasta and potatoes is too often overlooked. A dish rich in carbohydrates and starch, the combination doesn’t fit into the modern day conception of eating light. As for myself, pasta and potatoes are a match made in heaven. It’s hard to imagine a more perfectly conceived duo for someone with mixed Italian and Irish heritage.

In Ireland the potato was for long what pasta was to the Italians – a cheap, widely available staple well suited to filling the hungry bellies of a large family. It is still considered a staple in Ireland, just as pasta is in Italy. The history of the potato in the Italian kitchen, however, charts a slightly different trajectory. It did become popular in the countryside, particularly from the late 18^th century, but never as a staple food.  It was never either considered or treated as a simple accompaniment to everything, the Italians having always seen the potato as an ingredient in its own right.

Pasta and potatoes feature together in Italy on a regular basis. Liguria has trenette al pesto, thin strands of pasta cooked along with green beans and cubes of potato, served with a basil pesto. In Lombardia, buckwheat pasta is served with boiled potatoes and cabbage and finished with melted taleggio cheese. Throughout the country, diced potatoes are often added to the evening’s bowl of minestrone along with other vegetables.

One of the best, in my opinion is a dish that originated in Naples in Campania. My family is from the area and it is a dish that I grew up with. Paste e patate alla Napoletana (pasta and potatoes Neapolitan-style) is a tasty and nutritious dish that most likely originated in the countryside around Naples. The Neapolitans traditionally made it using a variety of kitchen leftovers – such as mixed pasta and the chopped rind of parmesan - so it was almost certainly a dish associated with the local cucina povera.  Today there are numerous variations on the dish and what follows is my personal take on it. It’s quick and simple to make, highly flavoursome and makes for the perfect evening meal.

Pasta and potatoes Neapolitan-style

Pasta e patate alla Napoletana

For 4 people

Cooking time 15 minutes

Ingredients

320gr mixed dried pasta

600gr potatoes, diced small

100gr sweet cherry tomatoes

70gr pancetta chopped small

1 medium onion

1 stalk of celery

A spoonful of chopped celery leaves

Parmesan cheese for grating

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

Chop the onion and the celery and add to a heavy-based frying pan along with the olive oil. Add the pancetta and fry gently until the vegetables begin to soften. Roughly chop the cherry tomatoes and add these to the pan along with the diced potatoes. Stir well and continue to simmer on a gentle heat.

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil and add the pasta. If you are cleaning out your cupboards and using different shapes of pasta, make sure to add them according to cooking time. Cook until al dente.

A couple of minutes before the pasta is cooked turn up the heat on the frying pan to reduce the cooking liquid. Do not let it dry out completely. Check for seasoning. Once the pasta is ready, drain and add this to the pan. Mix together well and throw in a couple of tablespoons of freshly grated parmesan cheese. Finish with a sprinkling of chopped celery leaves.

Two slices of bread packed with jargon – the sandwich

A couple of days back, in an online conversation with one of my favourite blogger’s (AKA Jane Random: http://akajanerandom.blogspot.com/), I was reminded of the subtle differences in the English language posed by the Atlantic divide. The specific topic of conversation, on this occasion, was sugar – specifically, caster sugar. My fellow blogger, Jane, was momentarily baffled. After a little research I discovered that the equivalent, for anyone that lives State side, is Superfine Sugar – but not powdered, which, incidentally, we call ‘icing’ sugar.

This brief bi-lingual tête-à-tête got me thinking of the days when I worked as a short order cook on New Jersey’s boardwalks and, a couple of years later, as a grill man in the city of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia. At the time, as it happens, I was sitting by my computer working my way through a double-decker sarnie – put another way, I was eating a sandwich. It brought to mind an occasion back in Philly. I was standing behind the counter in the early afternoon daydreaming when one of the regulars came in and asked me for his usual ‘chompie’ with extra everything. It took a few seconds before reality dawned and I managed mentally to translate the request. He was in fact asking for a hoagie, extra mushrooms, extra onions and extra cheese.

The lexicon that has developed around what is essentially two pieces of bread stuffed with some form of filling is amazing. The sandwich goes by many names. Years back in Belfast, when I was younger, if my mother asked if I wanted a sanger, a sarnie, a toastie or a butty, I had a fairly clear idea what was being offered. This colloquialism would likely be lost in translation if I crossed the Atlantic. And likewise, newcomers to the States require a little orientation before they can capably navigate the subtle differences between, among many others, a hoagie, a sub, a submarine, a torpedo, a po’boy, a grinder, a Dagwood, a club and a Hero – let alone the range of each on offer.         

What we are talking about is essentially two (or more) pieces of bread either side of a filling – barring, of course, the open sandwich which, in my opinion, is missing the point! Reading up on this subject I discovered that the origin of the ‘sandwich’ is attributed to John Montagu, the 4^th Earl of Sandwich, who, back in the 1760s is said to have asked for cold meats between bread to avoid having to leave the gaming table. Others noticed and would subsequently say ‘I’ll have the same as Sandwich’.  

What does all this have to do with Mario’s Italian Kitchen, you might well ask? I love sandwiches and having lived in both the UK and the U.S, two countries that afford the sandwich its due respect, I’ve been forever spoiled. The problem is that the Italians are not nearly as enamoured as I am by Montagu’s ground breaking invention. As far as sandwiches are concerned, in Italy, more often than not, you are faced with a somewhat derisory and unexciting choice between either a panino (denoting all kinds of bread roll stuffed) or a tramezzo (sliced bread, again stuffed and most often toasted). The natural evolution of the sandwich seems to have stagnated here and, in comparison to English speaking countries, we remain fixed somewhere in the dark ages.

This has much to do with the fact that a fast lunch at the bar was traditionally eschewed by Italians in preference for a long, leisurely lunch in a local trattoria or back at home with the family. In the province’s this is still very much the case. The choice of sandwich on offer in the local bars seldom extends beyond a panino stuffed begrudgingly with a slice or two of mortadella or a panino stuffed with a slice of cheese (for the vegetarian). And if you want mayonnaise, let alone any other condiment, more likely you will have to ask. But asking doesn’t necessarily mean you will get. Of course, I’m not knocking the simple panino. It has its place and, made with one of the country’s many wonderful cured meats, it is, no question, a great snack. But sometimes less is not more, it’s just that, less.

Of course there are sandwich hotspots scattered throughout the country that break the rule – particularly in the cities where bars cater to new and developing work ethics along with tourists. But back here in the province’s, for someone who dreams of Philly cheese steaks with caramelised (that’s caramelized if you are American) onions, a double-decker club with extra bacon, turkey and crisp lettuce or a Reubens packed high with corned beef and extra kraut on sourdough, the choice here, I have to say, remains most unsatisfactory. It shouldn’t be so. In fact, given the combination of Italian culinary inventiveness and the superb choice of fresh ingredients on our doorstep, Italy should lead the world in the sandwich stakes. The problem is one of culture. Italians will without hesitation sit down to an enviable antipasto of mixed cured meats, local cheeses and fresh or preserved vegetables, but the bread will remain on the sideline, eaten apart. Few dare imagine, let alone take the next step – cut that panino in half and shove the antipasto in between. So, for the time being, I’m forced to make my own sandwich, wrap it to go and carry it around the corner to the bar with me. Here’s one of my personal favourites – and I’ve even invented a new name for it!

Mario’s Mediterranean Ciabatta ‘sandwichino’

Serves 2

2 ciabatta bread rolls

100g thinly sliced chicken breast

100g Parma ham

2 boiled eggs, sliced

1 small red onion, thinly sliced

A handful of leaves of red radicchio, shredded

2 artichoke hearts, thinly sliced

1 roasted sweet red pepper, peeled and cut into strips

A few sundried tomatoes in olive oil, chopped into small pieces

75g quartirolo cheese or feta

Mayonnaise

Extra virgin olive oil

Dried oregano

Freshly ground black pepper

Cut the ciabatta rolls in half lengthways. If preferred, you can toast the bread. I generally only do so if the bread is not at its freshest. Butter the base with a thin layer of mayonnaise and then add a few slices of Parma ham and chicken breast. Arrange a bed of red onion and some red radicchio. Top with the sliced egg, artichoke hearts, red pepper and sundried tomatoes. Crumble the quartirolo or feta cheese over the top. Drizzle with plenty of extra virgin olive oil and then sprinkle over the oregano and ground black pepper. (I don’t add any additional salt as the cheese is already salty. However this is just a question of taste.) Place the top of the bread roll over the sandwich stuffing and press down gently. The sandwich is ready to eat at this point. However, I find that it improves when wrapped tightly in aluminium foil and allowed to rest in the fridge for a couple of hours. In this way the juices from the sundried tomatoes and peppers mix through the ingredients and the sandwich binds together. This is a great sandwich to take on a long drive or on a picnic.  

all’ Amatriciana

Italians love talking about food. It’s a national preoccupation. If they’re not talking about football or politics, more likely than not the subject is food. Last night I went to the bar to eat a plate of pasta with Gigi, the owner, and a few of the regulars. It’s a ritual we take to over the winter months when the weather’s too cold and the night’s too short for doing much else. We take turns cooking in the back kitchen, nothing too strenuous, usually just a simple plate of pasta with salad and cheese or mixed cured meats to follow. It’s informal but yet I’ve had some great meals there.

Last night it was Gigi’s turn to cook and he made bucatini all’ Amatriciana. It’s a dish I make often myself at home, a personal favourite. My family’s originally from Lazio where it’s considered something of a regional specialty. In fact, such is its popularity in Rome that many people (our host last night included) mistakenly assume it originated in the city or region. However, all’ Amatriciana is in fact a sauce for pasta that took its name from the town of Amatrice, in the province of Rieti in Abruzzo. Gigi, of course, disagreed and the argument was only resolved (an hour later) after sending his son upstairs to his apartment for a copy of his Cucina Nazionale encyclopedia. Like politics and football, food talk always degenerates into heated argument in Italy. It’s part of the main course!

The misconception around the dish in large part no doubt stems from its popularity. It’s a sauce served over pasta that you can find in pretty much every restaurant in Rome. The Romans, cheekily, even have their own name for it – alla matriciana – as if by calling it so they can claim it as their own. Like most of the Italian classics, it’s fairly straightforward, resting its status not so much on technique as in the favourable combination and quality of the ingredients used. There are variants on the dish but normally it is made with diced guanciale (cured pigs cheek), cooked with chopped onion in oil, with a colouring of pelati (peeled plum tomatoes), pecorino cheese and red hot chilli. The tomatoes should not be used to such an extent that they overwhelm the dish. The sauce is more often than not served over either bucatini or perciatelli (both hollow spaghetti-like pasta), although some restaurants use rigatoni or spaghetti.

The predecessor to Amatriciana was the Gricia (or Griscia), a sauce which predated the arrival and use of tomatoes in the kitchen.  Acceptable variants on the dish include the use of pancetta instead of guanciale, lard instead of olive oil or adding a couple of cloves of garlic before frying off the guanciale. However, using parmesan as an alternative to pecorino cheese is generally disdained as it changes the character of the dish.   

Recipe

Serves 4

Preparation time: 5 minutes

Cooking time: 10-12 minutes

Ingredients

320g bucatini pasta

150g diced guanciale (or pancetta)

1 medium onion finely sliced

6 ripe plum tomatoes (if in season) or a tin of roughly chopped tinned tomatoes

4 heaped tablespoons of freshly grated pecorino cheese

1 small fresh or dried chili finely chopped with seeds

A few tablespoons of olive oil

Salt/pepper

Method

Begin by bringing a large saucepan of salted water to the boil.  While you are waiting, gently fry the onion in a few tablespoons of olive oil.  The water should be boiling at this point, so throw in your pasta.  Whilst the pasta is cooking add the pancetta to the onions and cook until browned.  Next, add the tomatoes. If they are in season, use fresh tomatoes that have been roughly chopped - alternatively use tinned. Add the chili and check for seasoning.  Allow the sauce to simmer until the pasta is cooked.  Once the pasta is cooked, drain and add to the pan, stirring well to combine all the ingredients.  Top with plenty of freshly grated pecorino cheese and serve immediately.