Monday, May 6, 2013

Squacquerone

Piadina with squacquerone and arugula, La Tua Piadina, Bologna
It's not every day that you come across a food with a name as fun as squacquerone. So when I noticed it on a menu in Bologna, my interest was piqued.

Squacquerone is a fresh cow's milk cheese. It's eaten when it's only a few days old. It looks something like cottage cheese, with curdy bits suspended in a milky slurry. The flavor is similar to cottage cheese as well, though it's a little tangier. It's typical of the region of Emilia-Romagna, and I saw it all over the place while I was there.

The traditional way to eat squacquerone is on a piadina: an unleavened flatbread kind of like a tortilla that you fill with cheeses, cured meats, and vegetables. At the piadineria (the name for a shop that serves nothing but a few dozen kinds of piadine), you're almost sure to find a piadina with squacquerone and arugula. It's a killer combo: the peppery arugula is tempered by the tangy, creamy cheese, all wrapped up in a hot, thin, soft yet crisp wrapper. Ultimate fast food.

Saturday, May 4, 2013

Philadelphia


Everywhere I went in Italy, I saw Philadelphia cream cheese. It showed up in the refrigerated aisles of groceries in Venice and Rome. It was employed with arugula and speck in sandwiches served at rest stops along the autostrada. It even popped up amongst a dozen kinds of cured ham at a very high end food shop in Bologna (one that sells the same Roi olive oil and Carnaroli risotto rice that we do).

So what's that all about, anyway?

Friday, May 3, 2013

In pursuit of wild boar and ricotta

A bag of ricotta and the old castle: the primary attractions of San Gregorio
"Come," said Emanuele. "We are going to the wild boar festival."

So the two of us climbed into Emanuele's small white van and drove the narrow, winding, mountain roads to the nearby town of San Gregorio. "When I was a boy, my friends and I would ride our bikes to San Gregorio," he told me. "It was hard to get there, uphill the whole way. But going home again was easy."

The drive into San Gregorio was perfectly romantic. The town is precariously perched along the ridge of a mountain peak. A medieval castle still defends the entrance to the old part of town (though today it is guarded by policemen who tell you where to park). As we approached the town, passing under the branches of blossoming redbud trees and the tiny, bright green foliage of early spring, it almost felt as though we were driving into a fairy tale.

Walking the streets of the town was less romantic -- especially with Emanuele as my guide. He pointed out the tiny rooms protruding from the plain stucco facades of the houses. Originally, those rooms were the bathrooms -- or, more accurately, they were the holes in the floor where you'd squat and shit onto the street below. The stench must have been ripe in the summer.

The festival was simple. A dozen tents were set up around the perimeter of the town's main piazza. Most were selling knick knacks or local pastries. One or two were selling a handful of rough-and-ready dishes featuring the eponymous boar: pappardelle pasta with boar sauce; hunter's style boar; grilled boar sausages. The center of the piazza was filled with a few dozen large plastic picnic tables and a few hundred plastic patio chairs. A few hundred locals milled about. Every couple of minutes, Emanuele would run into some acquaintance, and we'd all greet each other, and they would chat for a minute or two.

It turned out the festival was not our primary goal. On the drive there, Emanuele told me he wanted to get me some ricotta cheese. "You have ricotta in US, but is not the same. Is not like ricotta we have here. I want you to taste."

Just off the main piazza, we entered a cramped butcher shop. Emanuele warned me it wasn't very hygienic. He wasn't kidding. The two butchers wore coats that used to be white before they were stained with blood. They did not wear anything to cover their heads -- or hands. I watched one butcher pick up an enormous slab of beef, set it down, select another cut of beef, wrap it in white butcher paper, place the package in a plastic bag, take money, open the cash box, give change, and hand off the purchase to the customer -- all without gloves, all without washing his hands.

In addition to meat, the shop sold a half dozen cheeses. Emanuele purchased a large tub of ricotta and we were on our way.

I wish I could tell you how gamey the boar tasted, or how luscious the ricotta was, but I can't. I didn't taste either of them. Shortly after getting the ricotta we left San Gregorio. As the sun set we drove back down the mountain to Tivoli to get a pizza. After dinner we forgot about the cheese. First thing the next morning, I took the train back to Rome and then a plane back to the US. Perhaps, remembering the dried blood caked under the fingernails of the young butcher who handed the ricotta to Emanuele, I'm just as glad I didn't try it.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Asparagini selvatici




“Let’s discuss the program for today,” said Emanuele on Saturday morning, just after we had deposited my baggage at his son’s agriturismo but just before he drove me out to visit his olive groves and oil mill. “This afternoon, my friend invite me to hunt for wild asparagus. You like to go?”

A wild asparagus hunt. It sounds terribly romantic, doesn’t it? And in some ways, it is terribly romantic. You drive out into the countryside with your friend Maurizio. You park your car on the side of the road, and then you put on Emanuele’s wife’s rainboots (luckily you happen to have the same size feet). You climb over a pair of rickety wooden fences while Emanuele hums “I don’t know but I been told.” Then you tromp across a rocky hillside strewn with wildflowers and you catch your breath soaking in the incredible beauty of the valley below and the misty mountains in the distance.

Some may say it’s a little less romantic once your pants and hands and even your face are smudged with ashy soot (the landscape bears the black evidence of a recent wildfire), or when you’re leaning heavily on your walking stick to keep your balance as you try to avoid twisting your ankle or tumbling down the steep incline. But for serious asparagus hunters, that’s all just part of the charm.

Can you spot the asparagus?
The asparagus, too, is a tricky business. It’s shy and solitary, generally preferring to grow alone or with a very few close friends, nestled amidst pricker bushes at the feet of the trees and scrubby bushes that dot the landscape. Maurizio is an expert at spotting asparagus a few meters away and then scrambling up or down a shaky incline to pluck it. You, on your first Great Wild Asparagus Hunt, are lucky if you can see it right in front of your face.

Finding the asparagus is only half the battle (luckily, Maurizio points out plenty of it to you). Once found, it is not generally inclined to be picked. Maurizio shows you the proper method, using the thumb and first two fingers to bend and break the pencil-sized stalks, but sometimes they require considerable tugging to come loose. He also demonstrates how to bite off and discard the tough ends of the stalks that are too long; that way, you can assemble a tidy handful of asparagus.

After an hour and a half, your legs are shaky and your fingers are sore where you’ve been snapping stalks, but you’ve amassed a bulging plastic bagful of skinny wild asparagus. Though the whole venture was Maurizio’s idea and though he collected the lion’s share of the haul, he won’t keep a single stalk for himself. Once at home, it is to be cut in inch-long bits and frozen for year-round use. You can only find wild asparagus from late March to mid-May, so you must take advantage of it now during the season.

On the way back to the agriturismo for the evening, Emanuele buys you a gelato. Asparagus hunting is hungry work.




Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Hello, Goodbye


In France, every interaction starts with a "bonjour" (or, if it's past about 5 PM, a "bon soir"). It doesn't matter how small the interaction is: buying a baguette from the boulangerie or asking for directions, you start every conversation with a hello. To not say hello is very rude; I suspect that, when people talk about how rude the French are, it's partly because they don't know this basic facet of the culture.

In Italy, you don't necessarily say "buongiorno" when you greet someone. In fact, on the phone, you don't start with "hello" at all, but "pronto" - essentially, "I am ready, speak to me." But if what I have seen in the past few weeks is typical, you always say goodbye. When you leave a restaurant or shop, you are sure to hear "arrivederci." And, just for good measure, you'll probably also hear "grazie," "buona giornata" or "buona serata" (have a good day/evening), and "ciao." You may hear each of these goodbyes from every person you pass as you leave.

The family pantheon


Last week I visited Vecchia Dispensa, an acetaia [balsamic vinegar maker] in the province of Modena in northern Italy. Like most Modenese families, the family behind Vecchia Dispensa has been making balsamic vinegar for generations. In the past, every family kept a batteria, or set of barrels for making balsamic, in the attic. The production was small - just enough for the family to use the balsamic to cure occasional headaches or indigestion. 

(As a side note, I stayed in an agriturismo in Modena one night last week. We got to talking about food with the owners, one of whom then led me over to the attic closet to show me their own family's balsamic batteria. Even as balsamic becomes a known entity around the world, the small family production tucked away in the attic remains a part of Modenese culture today.)

Today Vecchia Dispensa produces a little more balsamic than the family requires; we sell hundreds of bottles of their vinegar every year. The tradizionale vinegar - the stuff that's made the way it always was, aged for decades in small batterie - is kept in a five-hundred year old tower that used to be a prison. You get to the top via a stone spiral staircase that's only about eight inches wider than I am. In each room along the way up, you find sets of batterie filled with balsamic.

Most of the barrels are decades old. They don't create new sets all that often - only when a new daughter is born into the family. The new batteria is named for the new baby, and when that baby becomes a woman, the barrels belong to her. Over the decades, batterie will develop personalities: each will produce a balsamic with slightly different characteristics.

In the top room of the tower, the views over the charming town of Castelvetro in Modena and the surrounding countryside are stunning. But what's even better, I think, are the photographs on the walls. They show the family - especially the daughters - and are surrounded by the barrels that bear their names. It's a beautiful way to map the family tree. It's also a very pleasantly aromatic way to showcase the family pantheon.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Rest stop theory

I'm working on this theory. It goes like this: you can learn all you really need to know about how a country eats by visiting one of its highway rest stops.

In the US, at an interstate rest stop, you find Starbucks and shitty burgers and pizza. In Belgium, you can chow down on mussels, fries, and beer when you stop along the road. And what did I find at a rest stop along the Italian autostrada last week?

An espresso bar.


Sandwiches (fairly decent ones, I might add), served hot. Buttery pastries filled with creams.


A buffet with four courses (antipasti (hot and cold), primi, secondi, dolci), plus wine to drink and an oil and vinegar station for dressing your food to your taste.


Bags of pasta and bottles of wine to take on the road.


I don't think I could design a more perfect microcosm of Italian food culture if I tried. The only thing that's missing is the gelato case.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

The exploits of Ugo

Monday through Thursday of this week, I was on the road in Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany visiting some of the folks who produce foods we sell. Foods like balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and pasta. (More on those soon.) To reach the small towns where those producers are located, I rented a car.

Before I left the US, I made a reservation to rent a cute little Smart Car. I chose it because it was small, and cheap, and, most importantly, it has an automatic transmission. I can't drive a stick shift.

When we got to the car rental agency on Monday morning, the man at the counter told me that they had made a mistake. They didn't have any Smart cars.

"You drive a manual?" he asked, hopefully.

"No," was my emphatic reply.

After a few minutes of searching his computer, he told me, "the only automatic we have is a Mercedes Vito." With a chuckle, he asked, "you know what it is?"

Again, my reply was, "no." I know approximately nothing about cars.

But in the end, it didn't matter what it was. It was an automatic, and I'd get it at the same price as the smart car, so unless I wanted to return another day to switch for a Smart car, it was the Mercedes or nothing.

Enter Ugo.

Ugo surveys the countryside in the hilltop town of Castelvetro in Modena
Turns out a Mercedes Vito is a nine-seat van. I named him Ugo. He would have been called Hugo, because he is huge, but he is Italian and therefore called Ugo. He has a long scrape over each of his rear wheels and a dent in the front and back bumpers. He is perfect.

Together with Ugo, we drove along narrow paths clinging to mountainsides, we wended our way across centuries-old villages, and we passed through fields of olive trees and grape vines and fruit trees erupting in white and pink blossoms. It was a pretty remarkable trip, and Ugo made it possible for to visit all of the beautiful people and places we saw on the way. It felt a little silly to have such a large vehicle for just two people, but I think it worked out much better (and probably much safer) than if we'd had the little Smart car, after all.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Bologna pasta primer


All over Bologna, you see pasta. The serious food shops with bountiful cheese counters and a dozen kinds of cured hams hanging from the ceilings have displays full of fresh pastas. Most bakeries have a selection of bagged dried pastas behind the counter - and not necessarily the fancy stuff. Down the street from my apartment there's a little shop that sells nothing but homemade fresh (uncooked) pasta.

Pasta here is usually made with egg, so it is very yellow in color. (Sometimes it's made with spinach too, so you see a few green pastas as well.) All pastas start with the same dough. If you just cut the dough into long, thin strips, you've got tagliatelle. If you leave the strips fatter, you've got lasagna. If you decide to stuff your pasta, you can make little navel-shaped tortellini, or large navel-shaped tortelloni, or occasionally triangular ravioli. Most displays include several varieties of tortellini and tortelloni with different stuffings: ricotta, truffle, speck, pumpkin. Waverley Root writes of a report that lists more than 600 varieties of pasta; the choices are endless.

Choosing your pasta is only the first step. Each kind is traditionally served with a particular sauce, too.  Here's a quick primer of Bolognese pasta and sauce pairings:

Tortellini: this most famous of Bolognese pastas is classically stuffed with a mix of prosciutto, mortadella, veal, parmesan cheese, and perhaps a dash of nutmeg. It is served in chicken broth (tortellini in brodo) for a delicate yet rich soup.

Tortelloni: a common stuffing for tortelloni is ricotta and spinach. This is typically served with a simple sauce of butter and sage.

Tagliatelle: these long, thin strands of pasta are the classic pair for ragù (tagliatelle al ragù) - what the rest of the world would call a Bolognese sauce. This is a rich sauce made from finely chopped veal, pork, butter, onions, carrots, and just a tiny bit of tomato.

Friday, April 5, 2013

How to make French toast in your apartment in Bologna: an illustrated guide



1. Buy bread at Atti.  Discover that it is delicious but that you have way too much. Decide to make French toast.


2. Buy milk and eggs at the grocery.


3. Remember that your apartment is not equipped with a bread knife. Buy one at the 99 Cent store.


4. Dig through all the cupboards in search of a bowl large enough for beating eggs. Above the stove, find a large tupperware that will suit this purpose. Also find a large frying pan. Consider this a major success, given that your previous inventory of pans consisted of one large pan for pasta and one metal cup for boiling water.


5. Turn on some music (preferably Beethoven piano sonatas). Slice up some strawberries, sprinkle them with sugar. (You did remember to buy strawberries this morning at the Ugo Bassi market, didn't you?)


6. Assemble all your ingredients and tools. Now you are ready to begin making French toast.


7. Slice the bread. Mix together the milk and eggs; one recipe I found online suggests 1 cup of milk to 4 eggs, but just guesstimate it. Soak the slices of bread in the egg mixture for at least 5 minutes - after all, this is crusty bread, and longer soaking means more custardy toast. During this time, heat the frying pan. Use a paper towel to grease the pan with some of the sunflower seed oil you found on top of the fridge.


8. When the pan is sufficiently hot, cook the French toast. Flip it when it is ready. It is ready to flip when the underside looks like the piece in the lower half of this photo.


9. When the French toast is cooked, carefully arrange it on your plate to look like Australia. Top with strawberries. Eat.

Repeat steps 7 (from the part about soaking the bread in the egg mixture) through 9 as necessary.


10. Realize you still have most of half a loaf of bread remaining. Wonder what to make next.