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!!!

The Italian Shopping Basket

Food shopping is one of my favourite pastimes. Browsing the stalls of a local artisan food market, visiting traditional alimentari (grocery stores) bursting at the seams with regional specialties, tasting what’s on offer in the makeshift store of a local producer, even scanning the shelves of the supermarket, food shopping for me is a perpetual quest for the best ingredients. Eating has to be about more than just the finished dish and food shopping is part of the experience.

For all of us, it’s a balancing act. Italy is an expensive country and the issue of cost always, unfortunately, has to be taken into consideration. Quality standards, such as the EU’s food classification scheme, help us to make informed decisions, yet often with the unwanted consequence of driving up price. But without some system of standards, the unwary shopper shops blind.

Trite though it may sound, the first rule of shopping today is ‘Always Read the Label’. Appearances can be deceptive. I’ve been stung on numerous occasions, returning home with products that frankly were not what they seemed and not what I wanted.

This new addition to my blog is a shopper’s companion. Whether you are here in Italy or abroad, whether you are shopping at the local supermarket or in an Italian specialty store, I’m going to take you through the best the country has to offer. From what to buy (what not to buy), when to buy it (when not to buy it), where to buy it (and where not) and what to do with it when you buy it, this is a no-holds, honest and candid guide for the Italian food shopper. Welcome to the Italian Shopping Basket!

To view today's shopping basket, white asparagus, click on the shopper's icon to the right.  

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.

Imbottigliare – Bottle up

As I make our way down along the long narrow, poorly illuminated corridor I can hear bottles clanking. I turn the corner and immediately I’m hit with the distinctive smell of musty grapes. Carlo’s already at work. We have over a dozen demijohns to siphon and bottle – a few bottles shy of a thousand – so there’s no time to waste.

Everyone that lives in the provinces bottles their own wine. Whether you make it yourself or buy it from one of the dozens of small cantine within a 10-minute drive from home, bottling is an annual ritual. Two makes bottling light work. Like a conveyor belt, one to act like a pump attendant -filling bottles, from one to the next, using a spotlight so that each bottle is filled to just the right level – the other to place and secure caps, crate up and make space for the next demijohn.

Assuming no spillage, a 28 liter demijohn yields approximately 36 bottles of wine, plus a couple of glasses. Carlo never spills a drop. And the two extra glasses are essential for quality control. Least that’s what Carlo keeps telling me. Having controlled the quality on six demijohns we stop for lunch – everything stops for lunch in Italy.

A bowl of anolini (small stuffed pasta cooked in chicken broth), a pork chop with green salad and another bottle of wine later, we resume. The shelves now full, I start filling empty wine crates. By mid afternoon we move on to the white wine – more bottles and more quality control. The wines in Piacenza seldom ever receive more than a passing reference in international wine circles. Guttornio, a dry local red, is more often than not served slightly fizzy and chilled. The predominant local white, ortrugo, is also dry and sparkling. Few of the wines produced in the province ever travel beyond its border. Wines more suited to ‘quaffing’ than serious consideration, is the standard response from the wine elite.

There may be an element of truth in that, although times have changed and under the radar some seriously good wines are now being produced in the province. But that’s another story and one that, no doubt, I’ll come back to at a later date. However, for now, it is probably fair to say that for many locals wine is seen as lubrication (albeit a very pleasing lubrication) for the not so humble food that is served on a daily basis. But it’s lubrication not without purpose. It’s lubrication that feeds a tradition. There was a time when it would have been inconceivable to imagine a meal in Italy without wine on the table. For the most part that wine would seldom have cost more than the time and effort required to tend to a vine, crush grapes and siphon the product into a bottle. And for the most part it would probably have been bottled within shouting distance of the table. What makes that wine special is not the label – should someone ever have bothered to attach one – but what it has always represented: a way of life.