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Chow Archives - Page 3 of 4 - Itch.world

A three-minute escape to Italy.

Tuscany, travel, medieval village, Italy, festivals, celebrations, customs, cooking, recipes, living in Italy, moving to Italy, visiting, visit, restaurants, language

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November 30, 2018 In Chow, Recipes By Nancy

Pasta! The Golden Tagliatella scandal

Have you ever looked down at your plate of tagliatelle bolognese and thought to yourself “The dimension of these noodles look slightly wrong?” No? Me neither. There is a very good reason for this, at least we naively believed. And with this, your pasta education continues.

Foodie friends of mine told me about their trip to Bologna, which for primarily one thing, a viewing of the Golden Tagliatella. Turns out that deep in Bologna’s Chamber of Commerce is something that I guarantee is more interesting than what’s in your neighborhood Chamber of Commerce. (Let’s just start with the building, the Palazzo della Mercanzia—Palace of Merchants— a gothic building that dates from 1382.)

What is there is the official measurement of a tagliatella (singular). It’s a noodle, in pure gold, housed in a wooden box. You need to make an appointment to see it, which judging by what my dogged friends went through, is quite difficult.

grazie al comune di Bologna per la photo

One only can wonder about what crisis of tagliatelle prompted the need for this particular measurement, which was installed on April 6, 1972, by the Italian Academy of the Kitchen. “Any other size, would make it lose its inimitable character,” says the charter.

But we had bigger questions on our minds. Does what you buy in the store actually correspond to the golden noodle? Or is all of this a marketing coup? (Even if they really don’t seem to market it and you have to make an appointment to see it?)

The specifications are eight millimeters cooked and seven millimeters uncooked. (This is precisely 12,270^th part of the height of the Asinelli Tower, a landmark in Bologna.) Length is not specified, by the some inexplicable lapse.

We purchased three different brands of tagliatelle at the local store and measured. Turns out that none of the tagliatelle we purchased logged in at seven millimeters. The reality is an average of just over five. Marketing coup it is!

In case you are not too disillusioned, here is the official recipe, notarized, copyrighted, and sealed in the Chamber of Commerce, for tagliatelle bolognese. (Sent you to a translated version for simplicity.) This ancient recipe was finally agreed upon and formalized on October 17, 1982, ten years after the golden noodle was installed at the Chamber.

Bologna is a beautiful and interesting city to visit in Italy, by the way.

November 15, 2018 In Best Of, Chow, Roam By Nancy

No tips here

After our trip to the mother of all caves we were hungry. Nearby we found a village, Pierosara, with 140 inhabitants, a monastery from the year 1,000, and a wonderful restaurant, da Maria.

We came in about 2:45, very late for lunch, even by Italian standards. A woman greeted us and I tried to tell her that we would eat quickly, but somehow it came out that we wanted to eat right away (and be done quickly). I saw her face fall and felt the temperature in the room drop suddenly. I reached deep in my Italian language warehouse to explain that I was worried about their closing time, that we were so late, and that we would keep them. Everything shifted.

We were shown to the last table—every other was packed for a lingering Sunday lunch. We had fresh, homemade ravioli with truffle sauce and a steak, and were both completely unhurried and warmly welcomed. As the restaurant emptied out, we were one of two tables left, and they began to set up for dinner.

I started to think about the difference between service in Italy and the U.S. (and elsewhere in the world.) The kind of ease and sweetness we often experience was so different from the forced “Hello, my name is Andrew and I will be your server. How are we doing tonight?” kind of greeting. Her disappointment when she thought we wanted to hurry the meal (even if our lingering resulted in their inconvenience), the absence of pressure to leave so they could “turn the table,” the lack of any pretense; it’s all fundamentally different. I’ve rarely felt a forced note here in a restaurant, unless I am in a highly-touristed center.

It often feels like you are being invited into someone’s home, with the equivalent sense of a meeting of equals. I think a small part of this is because service is always included, as a “coperto,” or cover charge, per person. In the U.S., discretionary tipping may add to the feeling that dining out is merely an economic exchange of money for food and service.

But I think it really has to do more with something core in the Italian character that has fascinated me since we moved here six years ago. Italians simply seem more secure and full of self-respect than Americans (and from what I’ve seen, of Brits) where you are only as “worthwhile” as your university, last project, round of funding closed, academic paper published, weight, brand of shoes…

This Italian ease in the world is a tonic for my soul, and something I will be studying, with mouth agape, for years.

November 15, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

Bringoli: in praise of fat spaghetti

In Italy, it seems as if nearly anything is a possible subject for a celebration—I think it’s part of what makes the culture so joyful. One of the key celebrations around these parts is to honor a really fat spaghetti, called bringoli. And because I am dedicated to deepening your knowledge of pasta, you get to celebrate bringoli too.

I wouldn’t have guessed that fat spaghetti would be highly seasonal, but apparently it is, and late autumn is its moment. November 11, specifically, La Festa di San Martino. Apparently Martin, a Roman soldier, was standing guard one bitterly-cold night in 335 CE, and gave half his cloak to a very underdressed merchant. He spent the rest of the night freezing and hallucinating. In the morning, he promptly converted to Christianity.

I think he’s one of the better saints because there are great feasts in his honor all over Italy, celebrating the new wine, various local cookies, meatballs, and even one for radicchio, up near Venice. But here in the Valtiberina (Valley of the Little Tiber—the headwaters of the famous river), La Festa di San Martino means it’s the time for bringoli.

It’s an unassuming little festival, with several volunteers in one tent cooking bringoli with either a meat or a mushroom sauce, served up in a little plastic bowl. The actual cooking happens behind a kind of screen, which is mysterious. Perhaps it is to protect proprietary village secrets. The volunteers served our two portions with ragu, and were running behind on making the mushroom sauce for our third serving. By the time the mushroom bringoli was ready they decided to replace our original two with hot ones, as pasta is not something you eat cold.

This being Tuscany, there are plenty of open fires—when they grill something, the Tuscans do it over a fire that they’ve burnt down to embers, rather than using charcoal briquettes, and there are elaborate grilling carts to make it possible to keep a fire producing usable coals all evening. Over the flames volunteers roast sausages and toast bread that is rubbed in garlic and drenched in olive oil. (If you take hard, white Tuscan bread and toast it until it gets a little charred over coals, the bread not only gets slightly infused with smoke, but gets a texture not unlike sandpaper, which lets you grate down a half a clove of raw garlic when you rub it into the bread.) Other fire tenders roast chestnuts.

As you sit outside in the cold, huddled over your fat noodles and drinking Vino Novello (Italy’s answer to Beaujolais Nouveau) in an arcade under glowing, buzzing fluorescent lights, Italian village magic happens. Everybody is out and socializing, from a couple of four-year old girls twirling in the middle of the street, who clearly believe they are in charge of the whole event, to the packs of teens aware of every micro-movement of their peers, through to the old men and women, laughing with people they’ve known since childhood.

It’s my daughter’s favorite festival of the year, topping even the polenta and fried bread ones. Her friend, who is now studying in Venice (a good four-hour train ride away), came down for the weekend just for it. “He gets it,” she said. It is a unique time when everyone who appreciates anything good in life gathers together to enjoy local food at its simplest and best. It is also a celebration of community and the heart of our town. It’s rare to see anyone from outside town, but you’re almost guaranteed to see everyone from within.

To make your own, feel free to substitute pici, although they are in no way similar, the locals tell me. Top with a lovely ragu or a porcini mushroom sauce.

November 2, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

Raining olives

We just pressed the olive oil from our trees. The days of picking are all-consuming: spreading nets under the trees, raking the olives off the branches by hand with small plastic rakes, pouring the olives caught by the nets into plastic crates, and moving the crates to safe storage until the olive oil can be pressed, which should happen no longer than 48 hours from picking. Thankfully, this year we had help, two Americans, a friend and her 19-year old son, coming to Italy for the first time.

The culmination of all of this work is going to the olive oil press, or “frantoio”.

The crates of olives are unloaded and weighed with great import, carefully watched by the others in line for the press. It’s a competitive “I have more olives than you” moment. We do respectably well, olives weighing in at over 500 kilos (over half a ton), in 25 crates. But soon we are put in our place by three very scruffy 40-something guys who came in after us, unloading about 75 crates. “Smug devils,” I think to myself. We eye them. They eye us. No smiles.

We settle in for a long wait. Turns out everybody showed up with twice the amount of olives they’d predicted, slowing down the process from an hour or so to about five. No English is spoken here, so my friends amuse themselves by watching the scene and playing with the various dogs on hand for the press. The guy who runs the press runs around in his black tracksuit, overseeing all.

He decides that our friends’ lack of Italian, and John and my limited understanding, does not hinder communication in the slightest when it comes to the important topics of life. He pulls us over to look at the olives unloaded by the three guys. “Idiota!,” he tells them, encouraging John and our 19-year old visitor to chime in with their opinion of the three. Turns out they had used mechanized rakes, getting a great yield, but bruising the olives in the process, and mixing in a lot more twigs and leaves than is desired. The guys didn’t blink, complimenting our smaller yield on the lack of leaves, twigs, and bruises. All are laughing and chatting away now. These guys remind me that Tuscan men seem to have a lot more fun than men in other countries.

The woman of the mill shows up with plates of freshly baked cookies, crackers, and bread, drizzled with just-pressed oil and salt, which she enthusiastically passes. Mr. Mill decides it’s time to get out the wine just as we are starting to pour our boxes of olives into the press, which is the last chance to pick out sticks, leaves, and any olives that don’t look worthy. We are all trying to do final quality control, leaning over the large open funnel leading to the grinder, while balancing our never-empty plastic cups of wine and a constantly replenished supply of bread with olive oil, crackers, and cookies that the owners watch carefully that we finish.

Our new press buddies in the background.

Finally the oil comes streaming out. It is a record harvest for us—more than 100 liters when we are finished with all the trees. Dark green and very peppery.

And to celebrate the owners decide that it is time to bring out the special grappa.

October 26, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

A one-table restaurant, Tuscan style

There’s a farm stand I love. It’s a big shed and they sell things from their land, including eggs from the chickens who are underfoot. I asked if they had any broccoli rabe and they sent their son into the field to cut some. He returned with an armful, stems dripping.

They have created a fabulous font.

John and I happened to be there around lunch time and I noticed two construction workers sitting at the one tiny table in the place. Minutes later I saw two bowls of spaghetti aglio e olio go by, one of my favorite things to eat. I asked a crazy question—”do you serve lunch here?” The answer was yes, cooked in their kitchen next door. The workers finished eating, explaining that they come here nearly every day, and left the table so that we could sit down, taking their coffee elsewhere.

And we had this wickedly good lunch—grilled vegetables from the garden followed by pasta, and wine. Served with such pride and pleasure. All for €9 each.

My 15-minute errand turned into a 90-minute lunch, making me late for everything else that day, but sometimes when Tuscany grabs you by the collar you can’t say no.

October 20, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

Finding chestnuts. Bravery. And humanity.

I had this article about chestnuts completely written. Some very nice discoveries that I thought you would find interesting. Then I decided on Friday that I needed to double check a couple of things, and to get some video of the almost-worthy-of-an-amusement park four-wheel drive up a stream bed to get to my friend’s grove of chestnuts in the middle of the forest. I asked him if I could tag along the next time he gathered chestnuts, he agreed, then mentioned that it was his birthday and that a few other friends were coming to have a lunch in the woods.

Simple, right? These things sound so much easier in retrospect, and in print, then they are for me to do. I’m shy, I hate to impose, and am very sensitive that I can’t communicate in Italian with any measure of fluidity or nuance. My Italian is very much in the sledge hammer stage, and I knew I’d be in for an all-day Italian-speaking extravaganza. My heart was pounding with anxiety when I joined friends in the piazza to drive up the hill.

Chestnut Grove from Itch.world on Vimeo.

I also know that this is why I am doing Itch. Every week I am pushed to do more than I am comfortable with, more than I actually want to do, both in my Italian community, and in my creative life. I am creative, every day, for clients, but this is different. This is for me—I’ve never written, at all, before now. But have wanted to, my whole life. Every week is a new frontier, rough edges all around.

And my relationships in the village had reached a comfortable point. I now know hundreds of people, engage in short conversations, goodwill flowing in both directions, but it’s difficult for me to get deeper, for all the reasons above. Itch is a wonderful forcing mechanism.

So I found myself in the middle of the woods, at a long table surrounded by stumps, eating roasted pig parts rejected by the rest of the world but revered by the “real” Tuscans, debating whether truffles found locally actually count as authentic Tuscan food, and singing, yes, singing, helping friends learn the English words to “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” while a guitar was played. And with these sweet, kind, generous, secure, happy people it didn’t matter a bit if my conditional tenses are garbage, or that business development is taking longer than I would like, or that I didn’t know these people profoundly. I was at peace—accepted, included, encouraged, supported. At that moment on a Friday afternoon it was hard to imagine a similar scene unfolding anywhere else but this Tuscan woods. And I knew that this was the point of this post.

Here’s the original article about chestnuts, for your edification.

October 20, 2018 In Chow, Recipes, Roam By Nancy

Marrone chestnuts of Caprese Michelangelo

The village of Caprese Michelangelo is famous for two things: Michelangelo’s birthplace, and some of the finest chestnuts in the world. Not two terrible things to be known by, in my book. And the chestnut fame is not a recent thing—the Romans, and before them, the Etruscans (after which Tuscany is named), both loved these nuts from Caprese Michelangelo.

In Italy there is a DOC appellation (Denominazione di Origine Controllata, like the French DOC) and these Caprese chestnuts (a particular, fussy subset of chestnuts, called marrone, from grafted trees) have earned this rating.

Harvesting chestnuts involves going into the forest and picking up the spiky pods, with chestnuts inside. The very prickly pods often break open upon impact, making the task easier. (Love that the pods are called “ricci” the same word as for hedgehogs, and curly hair.) Attention is needed to differentiate between the sweeter and more valuable chestnuts from grafted trees, and wild chestnuts, which are used for chestnut flour.

Chestnut forests are glorious, primeval things. Huge, old trees grow in just the right elevation on the sides of mountains. Locals often lease a plot of forest so they can gather chestnuts, and these plots are closely guarded (though not as closely guarded as where truffles and porcini mushrooms are found. Tuscan life has its dark sides, like the poisoned meatballs left as a trap for dogs with truffle and mushroom hunters who go into another’s territory.)

This chestnut is known to be one of the oldest in the forest, over 1,000 years old.

I am a person who appreciates eating, and a good fire, so I love that chestnut plots tend to have small huts, often quite ramshackle, with just enough room for gallons of olive oil, some cooking gear, and much red wine. Chestnut gathering often ends with a big bonfire in the middle of the woods over which a variety of meat and vegetables are roasted, and bread is toasted, all accompanied by wine and olive oil. Often it’s all served at a long table with tree stump as chairs. The Italians haven’t elevated the “picnic” to a fine art form, like the French, but they shine when cooking meat outside over fire, the act of which is called “ciccia.” This word also means “fat or meat” and is sometimes an abbreviation for “salsiccia”, or sausage. But most often you hear it used as an endearment.

Moving here, one of the things I was most surprised by is how grindingly poor the area was for centuries. The first house we rented had a big attic that had racks custom-built for storing chestnuts, sometimes the only food source for the winter. These racks are quite common in old farmhouses.

Chestnuts are also ground into flour, which is made into a local delicacy, castagnaccio. I believe that this is the worst dessert ever invented, containing only chestnut flour, olive oil, rosemary, pine nuts, and raisins. Apparently after about 10 years of steady exposure you can acquire a taste for it. I have been fooled twice by the look of them into thinking I was biting into a brownie. Nope.

In case you have never roasted your own, over an open fire or not, they are easy and delicious. Choose chestnuts that are firm, and heavy. If they’re light, they’ve dried out and will be bad. Cut the shell horizontally, almost all the way across one side slightly into the inner nut, to give it room to expand when heated…otherwise they explode. (A serrated knife works well for this.) Then cook in a preheated oven at 200°C/400°F for 15-20 minutes. If over a fire, there are some cheap metal pans with holes in the bottom for this. Just roast over hot embers. It’s OK if they char a bit. Peel and enjoy.

October 13, 2018 In Chow, Recipes, Roam By Nancy

Caramelized red onion jam

I find it really hard to find a restaurant I like in Florence. Most are completely geared towards tourists who will only come once, with food, prices, and service to ensure that the one visit expectation will be fulfilled. I’ve found a couple of places that are exceptions: Il Santo Bevitore restaurant, and its two spin-offs, the little wine bar next door, Il Santino, and a bread shop, S.forno. They are across the river from the Duomo in my favorite neighborhood which is filled with actual Florentines, and small shops and restaurants.

The restaurant is lovely, but the wine bar, Il Santino, has stolen my heart. It’s tiny, a gorgeous mix of ancient walls, an antique bar, and more modern design elements. It has an atmosphere that’s both warm and hip. The staff has been a delight every time I’ve been there, and even sold me bulk cheeses when I’ve been stuck before a party.

I recently went with friends for a glass of wine and some snacks and alongside the great selection of cheeses was a little jar of nearly-black goop. We started eating it with everything, kept asking for more, and then asked for the recipe. It’s a great mix of savory and sweet, with a little extra kick from cinnamon. My friend made it the next day and it turned out wonderfully. It’s super easy too.

Caramelized Red Onion jam:

6 red onions

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

dash of olive oil to coat the pan

Slice the red onions, then saute with a little oil, over medium-low heat for about 30 minutes or longer—until completely they are soft and caramelized. Add sugar and cinnamon, then put into a food mill and process until it reaches a smooth consistency. Taste and add more sugar and/or cinnamon as desired.

Great served at room temperature with cheese and bread. Also fantastic with cheese and bread are the preserved figs.

October 7, 2018 In Chow By Nancy

From the mouth of frogs

Many pastas come from very ancient traditions, but I recently discovered a pasta that is far more recent in origin. I’ve been intrigued by it since I spotted it on the shelf in a workers’ restaurant—the one with chef who rolls cheese for sport. The label reads “Bocche di rana”—”frogs’ mouths.” I thought I must be mistranslating until I bought a package and started looking closely at the pasta inside.

Frogs’ mouths pasta vs. its more boring cousin, the paccheri

The small, ribbed tubes of pasta are shaped a bit like a big rigatoni, or a paccheri, but the end of each pasta droops in a unique way that looks remarkably like how I could imagine a frog’s mouth moving when expressing a range of sounds and feelings.

I took it home and played with the pasta for an embarrassingly long amount of time, imagining them as frogs. I mean I didn’t make up voices or anything, but did look through most of the package finding the most amusing ones. It was an excellent break from thinking about politics.

I tried to find out more about this shape of pasta, but came up empty handed. (With the exception of a frog’s mouth being a kind of helmet in a suit of armor. Can you imagine going to war and asking your squire “Hand me the frog’s mouth and I will be ready for battle!”)

I drove over to the restaurant to talk with the chef’s son, who I had heard is friends with the people who started the small, local pasta company, called Toscodoro. He told me that he occasionally helps out with the pasta creation. One day they were trying to make paccheri, and kept failing because one side collapsed in unpredictable ways. And the frogs’ mouths pasta was born.

We love it—and its more more-predictably shaped cousin, paccheri—with any kind of meaty, chunky ragu sauce. The New York Times recently had a seafood recipe perfect for pastas shaped like paccheri, rigatoni or our frogs mouths, which sounds interesting to try.

September 29, 2018 In Chow, Recipes, Roam By Nancy

I love the Castle of Love

I avoided going to Castello di Ama for years. Friends would say “It’s the most amazing winery with this incredible contemporary art collection.” Instantly all the warning bells in my head would go off. This particular collection of words was a microcosm of why I left California. The last thing I wanted to find in my beloved, genuine, unpredictable, slightly-disheveled Italy was a pretentious, wrapped-with-bow-for-the-tourists, cold, and anonymous winery/contemporary art extravaganza.

But eventually, we took the plunge and went for lunch. And I was shocked out of all my preconceptions. It felt like coming to someone’s home.

Beautiful views, gorgeous old buildings, and damn good food and wine are all a given in Italy, but this experience had something more—a true warmth and grace—largely due to the staff who all seem passionately attached to this place. Our waiter, Federico, whom I’ve gotten to know over about the dozen times I’ve now visited, has that magical balance of heart, knowledge, and self-respect that is the hallmark of staff in a three-star restaurant in Paris. But here, everything happens in Italian, which is even more delightful. The food is inspired Tuscan classics, and the wine pairings spot on.

I am working on the recipe for their carrot-zucchini souffle and will post when I manage to make it as well at home as I’ve had at Ama. (I got the recipe from them, but it’s for 40 so takes a little adaptation.)

Ama is not really a castle, but rather a small hamlet which dates to the 1100s. The cluster of buildings was divided between two wealthy families, which resulted in two manor houses and two churches. In the 1970s, four Roman families decided to buy the hamlet and restore the vineyards. The current owner, Lorenza Sebasti (daughter of one of the Roman families), and her winemaker husband, Marco Pallanti, have had Ama since 1982, and oversaw one of the greatest upsets in wine history.

According to Decanter Magazine “Ama had a ‘Judgement of Paris’ moment on 8 February 1992 when the L’Apparita 1987 vintage beat Pétrus 1988, Le Pin and 16 other world-class Merlot wines at a tasting hosted by the Académie du Vin in Switzerland, with a jury comprised of renowned winemaking consultant Michel Rolland.” (And sometimes bottles of L’Apparita are open and available for tasting.)

The contemporary art is equally inspired. Ama has had an artist-in-residence program with artists such as Louise Bourgeois, Anish Kapoor, Hiroshi Sugimoto, and Daniel Buren creating site-specific works. I love how Nedko Solakov’s doodles play with everything from power outlets to small cracks in the wall in one large room. Jenny Holzer was having lunch when we were there —she’s the next artist to add to the collection.

There are also villas for overnight stays on the property. I’ve had a chance to peek into some of the suites. Sigh. Hopefully at some point.

If you visit, Siena is only 25 kilometers away, and also nearby is the wonderful Terme San Giovanni.