Recipe: Pasta fagioli (or pasta fag-e-o-lee, as my husband calls it)

Mmmmm, beans. Make all the jokes you want, but I really, really like beans. Lately, I’ve been on a kick to eat way less meat, which means beans have taken a starring role in my kitchen. Black beans and rice? Hell yes. White bean and kale soup? You know it. Pasta fagioli? HOLD THE PHONE, I WILL NEVER EAT ANYTHING ELSE EVER AGAIN.

This is my third helping, which made me feel ill. I recommend moderation when it is available to you.

(Until I get sick of it. Or when I am too embarrassed by my digestive distress to venture out in public.)

Have you ever made this? Oh, it is so easy…criminally easy. The hardest part? Remembering to soak your beans overnight. And even if you forget that step, it isn’t the end of the world. I will not, however, encourage you to use canned beans. I mean, why? They’re more expensive, they don’t taste as good, and they are mushy as all get up. Don’t bother. Instead, buy a cheap ass bag of cranberry beans (borlotti beans) and give ‘em a good soak. Pasta fagioli is a poor man’s dish, as many of the greatest Italian foods are, and is generally considered an autumn staple in the north (the Veneto and Tuscany are best known for it). I am writing this from Boston and it is cold and rainy here and it seems as if spring, much less summer, might never arrive. It might not be fall, but the comfort, good smells, and redolent steam that simmering beans produce are getting me through this joke of a spring.

Beans asoakin'

This recipe can be made with or without meat. Although it isn’t as traditional, I prefer it without and this is especially the case if I am stateside and unable to find good lardo stagionato to make it with.* If you’ve got a good parmesan rind, that’ll give you all the depth of flavor you need. I’ve written the recipe to include the lardo, but if you decide to go without, just omit it and the steps that involve it, adding perhaps a bit extra oil in which to saute your vegetables. Also, like soups and stews, pasta fagioli is way better the next day: it has just got to get its sit on.

Mutti passata is the SUPERIOR passata. Seek it out, buy a ton when you find it.

Recipe for four (or two hearty eaters who like leftovers):

2 1/2 cups dried cranberry beans picked over and soaked overnight (figure approximately 2/3 cup for each serving, or, if using a kitchen scale, about 100 grams/person)

1/2 cup finely sliced lardo (pancetta or guanciale can also be used, but well seasoned lardo is the best)

2 Tbs extra virgin olive oil (1/2 cup if not using lardo)

1 medium carrot, diced

1 medium onion, diced

1 stalk celery, diced

2 cloves garlic

1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes

1/2 tsp. finely chopped rosemary

1/2 tsp. finely chopped sage

1 bay leaf

2 tablespoons passata di pomodoro

1 large parmigiano-reggiano rind

salt and pepper to taste

2 1/2 cups ditalini pasta (if you can find it, which I usually cannot in the US. Any small pasta shape will serve–I personally like Barilla’s chifferi, which seem to be widely available stateside.)

Soak your beans overnight with enough water that they’re covered by about one inch. Beans will expand depending on their freshness and the temperature of your kitchen. You might have to add more water in the morning to keep them covered throughout the day if you’re planning on cooking in the evening.

Dice the lardo (insofar as good, creamy lardo can be diced) and, using a heavy bottomed dutch oven, saute it over medium heat in one tablespoon olive oil until fat begins to render. While lardo is rendering, dice the carrot, onion, celery, and garlic. Add carrot, onion, and celery to the pan (don’t add garlic yet). Increase heat to medium-high and saute vegetables until they are just soft, about 8 minutes. Add red pepper flakes, rosemary, sage, and garlic. Remaining tablespoon of oil can be added here if needed. Stir to coat herbs and saute until you can *just* smell the garlic in the pan. Add beans and their soaking liquid before you burn the garlic (it happens…try to avoid it). Add bay leaf, passata, and parmesan rind. Bring to a simmer, then reduce to low, cover the pot, and let her cook, stirring and checking every 20 minutes. Good, soaked beans should be ready in about an hour. This varies, however; you should taste and poke to get a feel for their doneness.

When your beans are ready, boil water for the pasta (I could give you an exact amount of water, but you’ve made pasta, I hope). When water boils, salt it generously  and toss your pasta in. I cook all pasta about 45 seconds shy of what the box recommends (yes, I’m that specific). Drain the pasta and toss it together with the beans. You’re going for about 2/3 beans and 1/3 pasta in your final mixture, but that ratio is flexible depending on taste.

Serve with a drizzle of good olive oil and freshly grated parmesan on top.

*If you can, use lardo di Colonnata, which is from the tiny village of Colonnata in Carrara, Tuscany. I write this with a smirk on my face, because there is no way in hell you’ll find this in the US outside of a select few restaurants where the proprietor knows what he/she is doing (and if you do, you must contact me immediately!). When you’re in Italy, seek it out: it is, hands down, the best lardo–and perhaps the best pork product–you’ll ever eat. If you read Italian, you can learn about how it is made here.

A Little Light Reading…

I met my current husband because I was the “plant lady” in his office. I came in, once a week, and took care of the office flora and then flitted out, performing the same task all over Manhattan. Occasionally, I would take note of someone’s desk, an office that was somewhat out of the ordinary, or notice a person worth a second glance. Not usually, though–usually, it was just a steady stream of offices that resembled each other, and me, headphones firmly in place, evading long conversations with bored secretaries and over-interested broker types.

My husband, who traveled often (and still does), was not often there, but his desk had a plant and a stack of New Yorker magazines, as well as a copy of Umberto Eco’s novel Baudolino (in translation). As someone devoted to the study of Italian literature is wont to do, I made note of this. Then, when I found him sitting at his desk one day, I was taken aback and accidentally spilled water on his computer. The next week, lo, he was there again. This time he made me stop, remove my headphones, and engage in conversation. I may have been interested in him, but I did this grudgingly. His first question was, “What else do you do?” I believe I went on a tear about Italian, literature, school, and a bunch of other inane bullshit likely of little or no interest to him. He informed me he was leaving the company, but he would like me to email him a list of my favorite Italian books in translation. I did. The rest? Ah, history.

It still surprises me that this man, now my husband, was interested in Italian fiction even before he met me. Sure, the request for a list of books may have been a ploy to get me to email him, but he was already a Calvino and Eco reader. He had apparently discovered something that too many English speaking folks seem to not know about: there are really interesting books by Italian authors and about Italy that are definitely worthy of your time.

I *just* (as in LAST WEEK) successfully defended my PhD in Italian literature, so I’ve definitely been immersed in this stuff for a long time. That does not, however, mean that I intend to recommend books that will help you in discussions with over-read, theory conscious douchebags. No way. The books in the following list are highly approachable, well-translated, and will open up parts of Italy to you that may have gone otherwise unnoticed or undiscovered (shit, they might even get you a date! Or a spouse!). I’m gonna start with a list of my top five, in homage to my favorite podcast.

5. Alberto Moravia, Two Women (La ciociara)

Did you know that Italy was the staging ground for some truly horrible stuff during World War II? Yeah. Take a look at this one if you’d like to have a better sense of just how nasty things got and how women were forced to cope with it. This isn’t for the light of heart, but Moravia writes a compelling portrayal of the struggles of mother and daughter in wartime Italy, without skimping on the nuances of their relationship. The realistic details in the novel are taken right from Moravia’s own life as a war refuge with his wife Natalia Ginzburg. Read it and then watch the movie with Sophia Loren.

4. Anna Banti, Artemisia 

More war! More women! But this time with a time leaping narrative just as embedded in the seventeenth century as the twentieth! The Artemisia here is Artemisia Gentileschi, an artist known best for her graphic and lively work, Judith Slaying Holofernes (it’s in Naples…go see it!). What Banti, the author, creates is essentially a dialogue between herself, entrenched in the horrors of war, and Artemisia, the daughter of an artist, herself subject to innumerable horrors. Less a biography of the painter, this book is really a bridge across time, connecting women (or more generally, people) in disparate ages, creating a kinship with a foggy past. If you like historical fiction, strong characters, intimate details about the profane and the mundane, you’ll certainly enjoy this book. Italians live in the past in many ways–their country is nothing short of swimming in it–and Artemisia can show us foreigners the power in using cultural patrimony to form bonds with prior generations.

3. Italo Svevo, Zeno’s Conscience (La coscienza di Zeno)

Well, this is no surprise coming from me (my research is heavy on Svevo), but it is a must-read nonetheless. This is the book that would, in many ways, go on to change Western literature as a whole. And it is about a deeply flawed, seriously nutty, very funny man named Zeno, who has been compelled to keep a diary of his life by a psychologist so that he might be free from mental illness. You’ll have to decide for yourself whether or not you think Zeno is sick in the head, but his ramblings about smoking, marriage, business, and family are more Woody Allen than Dante. Zeno is a postmodern, emasculated, neurotic Jew before that type became a fixture in our Seinfeld-reference heavy culture. But this, too, is Italy. It isn’t all villas and sea and wine and pasta. I love Zeno because he represents something on the margins of Italian culture that is eminently relatable for an American like me.

2. Ennio Flaiano, The Shortcut (Tempo di uccidere)

Did you know that in 1935 Mussolini sent lots of troupes to Ethiopia in a campaign to colonize the nation and make up for the loss of the first Italo-Ethiopian war (1895-96), which gave Ethiopia the bragging rights of being the only African nation to successfully resist European colonialism? Yeah. That happened. Flaiano discusses this horrible decision from the point of view of a soldier who accidentally kills an Ethiopian woman and has to live with the consequences of his actions. When I first read this book, I thought to myself, Wow! This is like a READABLE Heart of Darkness (which I hate). I don’t want to give away too much, but the soldier’s mental anguish and reactions to the horrors of war make for some good schadenfreude AND a great lesson in history, to boot. There is also a movie, but it isn’t so great. Read the book!

1. Giorgio Bassani, The Garden of the Finzi-Contini (Il giardino dei Finzi-Contini)

So this list is a bit war-obsessed. But so is Italian fiction! I mean, if we had a war of that scale in recent history on our lands, we’d probably want to devote some page space to it, too. In my opinion, Bassani’s work is really the best there is in Italian novels. You’ve got it all: history, experimental writing, characters so real you feel as if you know them, mysterious turns. In The Garden of the Finzi-Contini, we are allowed into the waning days of an aristocratic, Jewish family in Ferrara. The entire work has a ghostly feel, which I liken to walking through an empty home–you can feel a person’s habits fill the space even in their absence. These are the years of Mussolini’s rise to power and the subsequent racial laws, made public in 1938. Everything is about to change and some seem to sense this, while others do not. It is sad and beautiful and nostalgic and very real. Read it, visit Ferrara, remember that history happens to everyone.

Eating out Italy: Trieste

Well, I have to give credit for the title of this post to my friend Raygun Robyn, maker of awesome.

Often in Italian cuisine, foods are separated by a mare or terra distinction–sea or earth, that is. Trieste, being right on the gulf, should have a load of foods to eat from the sea. And it does, but they are by-and-large copies of other famous sea-inspired dishes (mostly from Venice). From the earth, however, Trieste really shows its ability to stand out. And by this I mean there is a lot of meat to be had.

What if someone doesn’t eat meat, you say? Excuse me, but this is necessary.

You’re in Italy–what the hell is wrong with you? This isn’t Burger King. This isn’t a chicken plantation where things can’t even stand up. No one is pumping that cow full of crap to keep it alive longer in a horrific, semi-dead state. That pig you’re about to dig into? It was probably loved more than most children in this world. To end up on your plate in the perfect dish is nothing short of a heroic end for it. And eating meat in Italy is a really productive slippery slope: you start with a little bite of prosciutto here, a nibble of salume there, and the next thing you know you’re having a serious debate about donkey versus horse meat (both delectable). You’ll be looking back at your former meatless self and thinking, “Wow, I was such a douche canoe.” If you just don’t like meat, well, I’m sorry.

And I will step off my soapbox now and get to the MEAT of this post.

Trieste, as I’ve said before, is a world unto itself and quite unlike much of Italy. The German/Austrian influence here runs strong and deep. The best advice I can give to intrepid eaters visiting the city is to avoid traditional Italian fare (pizzerias, for example) at all costs. It is just truly subpar. If, however, you tend toward the places with Buffet written on their signs, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Perhaps one of the most interesting food and wine related things people visiting Trieste can do is tour the Strada del vino Terrano. Terrano is a dry red wine produced from the Refosco grape and has a relatively low alcohol content, which has given it a reputation, around Trieste anyway, as a wine with beneficial medical properties. Actually, wine from this region was noted even by Pliny as being quite good, and even today, traveling about Italy, one of the first things that comes to peoples’ minds when they think of Trieste and the Karst is the quality of the wines, Terrano in particular. Terrano wines, as well as other wines from the Carso region, are not your typical reds. They are not full-bodied, they’ve got a lot of acidity, and they can be hard on an American palate used to being coddled by big Californians and super Tuscans not worth their prices. Try them. Keep an open mind. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. (David Lynch, Babbo’s wine dude, writes about these wines here with a few of his picks. He mentions Zidarich, perhaps the most famous vintner from the Carso, which is worth a visit. Details here.)

Oh, hell yes.

The Strada del vino Terrano is a series 18 trattorie (often part of reasonably priced hotels), which begins in Opicina and ends in Visogliano. Inaugurated in 1986, this strada of locales represents the most typical Triestine cuisine and they all serve Terrano wine. Typical dishes include jota, a hearty soup made from sauerkraut, beans, and potatoes; polenta with mushrooms (porcini or truffles, depending on availability and/or season) or with meat (often venison, or capriolo–roe deer); wild game, including boar, in stews, roasts, or prosciutti; gnocchi with a variety of meat or cheese based sauces; and, of course, strudel. The list of restaurants along this strada can be found here, along with a somewhat crude map, addresses, and general pricing for each.

Within the city typical dishes can be had at a variety of places. For lunch, I’d recommend the Buffet da Pepi (Via Cassa di Risparmio, 3; closed Sundays). It is smack in the center of town, on a pedestrian way, and it serves gigantic portions of a wide variety of pork creations (called bollito). This place has been around for more than a century and time has pretty much stopped inside. We are talking the same foods (sausages, piglet, tongue) that have been consumed in the city for decades. Eat standing up (sandwiches are the go-t0 for locals) or sit down inside or out to enjoy the crowds that invariably pour in during the day. The prices are good, to boot!

Mixed plate of boiled offerings at Da Pepi, conveniently served on a pig-shaped dish lest we forget the origin of these delights

Perhaps the most well-respected restaurant dishing out typical Triestine fare is Suban (Via Comici, 2D; closed Tuesdays; no credit cards), which is a bit more expensive, but deserving of a visit. Again, this place is old–almost 150 years–and tradition is what comes out on its plates. Classic dishes include prosciutto cotto (cooked, as opposed to the cured crudo variety known to most Americans) served with fresh horseradish (YUM!). Again, you’ll find jota among other traditional primi, including fusi (a handmade penne-like pasta) served with chicken (a rarity in most of Italy). At the end of your meal, you really should try some strudel. It is the perfect end to this meat-filled meal.

Speaking of sweets, Trieste is well-known for its desserts like presnitz, a circular cake filled with walnuts, almonds, pine nuts, and a variety of dried fruits. La Bomboniera (Via XXX ottobre, 3; closed Mondays), perhaps Trieste’s oldest pasticceria, is a great place to try this dessert along with many, many others. It, again, is super duper old and makes for a great destination to buy gifts to bring home and/or gorge yourself.

If all of this meat has you hankering for a break from the terra, and you’re gazing out at the gulf craving a dish from its depths, know that you also have options. Like I said, this isn’t “typical” Triestine fare, but there is certainly good seafood to be had. My favorite spot is a bit outside of the city center, but makes for a nice walk down the coast or a short bus ride from the train station (numbers 36 or 6 will get you there). It is called Ristorante tre merli (Viale Miramare, 42) and the antipasto buffet is reason enough to have a meal here. All the fish is extremely fresh, each dish is prepared with care, and the service is also quite good. Not to mention the very picturesque location on the gulf. Lunch or dinner, you won’t be disappointed. I’d tell you what to eat, but if you’ve eaten seafood in Italy, you know the drill (I always order spaghetti alle vongole, which in Trieste includes a sprinkle of paprika and the ubiquitous fritto misto).

Trieste will expand your culinary understanding of Italy and just might get that good old cholesterol put a few notches! Score!

A Sweet Perfume of Meat and Diesel

It used to be overwhelmingly cigarette related when I tried to conjure the smell of Italy. That has subsided, though, and now, left in its wake, I find a host of smells that I associate only with this country. They are the building blocks of my sensory experience here, just as they are when I go to my parents’ house in Michigan (mildew, the lake, my mom’s cooking–she loves tarragon!), or when I enter a good bakery, or when I saute garlic and onions for an evening meal. I don’t need to tell you that scent can change a mood, conjure a memory, whet an appetite, or make a stomach roil. If I catch someone wearing the perfume, Amarige, I am immediately transported back to high school and a very dissatisfied, very hormonal adolescence.

Italy is a web of smells that never fail to bring me back to my first experiences with the country, when I was all of 19 years old and basically in my infancy here. I knew nothing of the language, the culture, the people, or even how to find where I was on a map. When I smell sapone di Marsiglia (Italian soap purportedly from Marseilles) mixed with bleach, I think of Saturdays in the first village I lived in, when all the women would crack open their windows and shutters to let the air in and clean the living hell out of their homes. The whole village seemed to scrub itself on Saturday mornings; many people reserved this day for their weekly bath, and others would make their weekly trip to the hair dresser after their homes were clean. I was never allowed to help with cleaning (and very infrequently did I make it to the hair dresser), but was put in charge of children and often sent to the market for staples for the lunch that would follow the disinfection of the homes. Because of all the cleaning, it would invariably be a light lunch of vegetables, meats, cheeses, and bread (there is only so much one woman can do). Of course, I would get prosciutto crudo and sometimes even cotto or speck to bring back, and the smell of freshly sliced cured meat mixed with the sent of cleaning fluid to scream “WEEKEND!” at me.

Cured meat is big in Italy, and boy oh boy, it certainly has a distinct scent. This is the first thing I smell when I walk into a small alimentari store, but also the scent at the forefront of any supermarket experience as well. Heck, anywhere someone has a hock hanging, it can be smelled. It is not an obvious odor and it does not immediately conjure hanging ham, or logs of salumi. Rather, it is sweet and pungent and earthy all together and it lingers as a second or third note behind most other, more aggressive smells throughout Italy. But it’s there. Once you realize what it is hanging out there in the background of Italy’s scent landscape, you’ll smell it everywhere. It has permeated the air thoroughly, especially in Northern Italy (in the South it is just as often replaced with fish or stewing tomatoes). For me, it can be, at times, appetizing and at other times nauseating. Knowing that the smell of a particular food–a cured meat food–is constantly in the midst can be trying for a person raised in relatively sterile America.

That and diesel fuel. Diesel is some dirrrrty stuff, in case you didn’t know. I realize there are scads of arguments in its favor (nope, I don’t know enough about cars to get into them), but it is stinky! Many other countries, European and otherwise, feature this scent, too, but maybe because I currently live on a Very Busy Road in Italy, it seems that this country has made special use of the perfume in its scent library. I think this has to do with the motorini (mopeds) that are rife here. Both their sound and the exhaust they emit is more striking than that of your average car. The buzzzzz of a motorino and the ubiquitous cloud of diesel exhaust–well, if that isn’t Italy, then I don’t know what it.

And wood smoke! Even in the city, wood smoke is a prevalent feature, spring, winter, summer, fall alike. I got off a plane the other day, here in Trieste in the dead of night exiting onto the tarmac, and a cloud of wood smoke hit me like a wall. For me, in the US, this is an autumn smell, bringing to mind leaves, and chilly temperatures, and pumpkins. But here, with the cities’ proximity to agriculture and in the absence of stringent laws banning the burning of organic matter, wood smoke is the herald of a working plot of land. In Sicily, in the late summer, the landscape is dotted with black spots, where scrub has been prematurely burned off to avoid rampant, uncontrollable fire. In some northern areas, where land tends towards the very expensive, locals will burn plots held by the government in the hope that a slight char might inspire the powers-that-be to sell it on the cheap. Fire, and the subsequent smoke, are the tangible manifestations politics, culture, appetite–three things Italy does not want for.

Of course there are other smells, too: coffee and steamed milk in the morning (walk by any bar and you’ll be hit with a wall of this before 10am); savory, long-cooking dishes riddle the air on Sunday afternoons; urine baking in the hellish sun; rosemary, sage, and thyme kicked up as you walk through a field; grapes left to ferment on the vine in the absence of anyone to pick them (or because there are just too many damn grapes to deal with in September). And other smells that are more human–unwashed hair, body odor–that in the US, where we do our best to cover up our natural scents, are conspicuously absent.

Sometimes I try to bring something home with a scent that will bring me back here. That marsiglia soap, for example. It works, for a second, but really, you need the whole symphony of smells to be here. One note, it isn’t enough.

Recipe(s): Gli spaghetti alla carbonara and its meatless friend

Spaghetti carbonara is really a bitch. Not only do many places (in the US) completely reinterpret the dish to serve whatever ends they deem important, but when you try to make it at home, it can be elusive at best (read: a big, sticky mess). When I lived in Florence some years back, a good friend and very accomplished cook attempted to show me how to make it. I drank too much wine during the demonstration/lesson and as a result the notes that I took looked as if they’d been scrawled by some alien with only a basic understanding of food in general and who favored an incoherent mix of Italian and English. Anyway! What is someone who is craving eggs, guanciale (or bacon…that is ok too, I guess), and spaghetti to do? Well, that person should buck up and make carbonara and do it well. Here’s how and a bit of (perhaps unnecessary) history of the dish to boot.

No one can come to any good consensus over the dish’s origins. I’ve heard it said that it originated in Umbria and was then co-opted by the Romans sometime in the nineteenth century. Another version has it that it is actually Neapolitan and invented by Ippolito Cavalcanti. And yet another story says that it was actually the Americans who inspired this dish when they arrived during World War II, bringing with them enormous quantities of powdered eggs and bacon in their rations. Roman cooks improved on the American combination and the dish we know today was born. You choose the version you want to believe in!

I think that it goes without saying that getting the best ingredients possible is really f-ing important (try to forget about the powdered American eggs and channel a Roman’s disgust and subsequent innovations). A dish this simple really requires more skill in marketing than it does over the actual stove. This can be tricky in the United States, but I like to think of it as an added challenge. Beppe Severgnini, the prolific Italian author and columnist (who has been translated into English…so read him!), once said that shopping in Italy, due to the irregular hours of the stores–which depend on the town, the day, and the whims of the owner–is truly an art. I try to keep this in mind when I’m shopping for ingredients to make an Italian dish in the United States. It is an art to be able to source the right things depending on where you live. Those who are fortunate enough to find themselves in a city center are just lucky and more well-equipped, but everyone else has gotta work for it. (Yes, I usually live in cities in the US, but when I visit my parents in Michigan it is always a challenge!)

The ingredients that make carbonara special and worth eating are eggs, guanciale, and cheese. Let’s start with the eggs. In colloquial Italian the yolk is called il rosso, “the red.” This should tell you that the yellow-ish yolks you find in the supermarkets in America are NOT what you’re looking for. Even the good supermarkets (think Whole Foods) cannot provide consistently fresh eggs that can be the centerpiece of any dish. And that’s what this dish does: it puts a big spotlight on the quality of the eggs you use. What should you do? Find a farmer who is raising chickens to lay eggs that have yolks the color of autumn leaves: super duper orange. Or raise chickens yourself (heh…yeah, right). That works, too. The yolks you want should also have some integrity to them–they need to stand up a bit when you crack them. If you can’t find eggs like this, or don’t have the time or inclination, maybe you should make something else. Just sayin’. (Yes, it can be hard. But that’s the point!)

Now, for the guanciale. This is actually the cheek (guancia) of the pig. It is part muscle and part very delicate fat and it is not normally smoked. It is aged for a number of weeks, depending on the recipe and region, until it is quite well cured, but not aggressively so. Compared to pancetta, guanciale is slightly tougher and it has a very different, more subtle flavor. I would like to hope you can find it. I know that this is not often the case (maybe online?). What to do? Pancetta is just fine when in the US, I say. Though, I really, really do not like La Quercia’s pancetta (or products in general), which are out of Iowa and sustainably produced. This is stuff for another post, but suffice it to say their pigs are eating something that is NOT curing well in the meat. And what if you cannot find pancetta? Wow. I’m sorry. Can you find prosciutto? (Italians are rolling their eyes and getting all kinds of pissy right now) No prosciutto? Well, YES you CAN use bacon (please, for the love of all that is holy, make it local, sustainable, and LIGHTLY smoked), but it isn’t ideal. That said, if you have to give on the eggs OR the bacon, do not give on the eggs. Go light on the bacon if need be, but make sure your eggs are pristine. Please.

That leaves us with one more haunting ingredient: cheese. This is a Roman dish (adopted, perhaps) and its true version calls for pecorino romano* (known as “romano” in the US; Whole Foods’ product is decent), but some versions will allow a bit of parmesan added in (it seems the consensus is with Grano Padano and NOT Parmigiano Reggiano). If you go this route, do not exceed one third of total cheese as parmesan. I mean, you can…but it isn’t carbonara…sooooo…

Once you’ve got all of your ingredients collected, including good olive oil, fresh cracked black pepper, and spaghetti, you’re good to go. The following recipe is for two, but it can be increased or decreased accordingly (a word, though: I eat a lot. Really. But this dish defeats me; it is just very filling). The general rule on the eggs is one yolk per person, plus one whole egg regardless. So if you’re making it for one: one yolk, one egg. Two: two yolks, one egg. Got it? Also you’ll notice that there is no garlic or onion in this recipe. That is the traditional way and I find they can make a dish that is already a bit heavy far too rich. The one thing you can do is deglaze the pan you saute the guanciale in with about a quarter cup of dry white wine (note: only cook with wine you would actually drink).

Recipe:

–1/3 cup guanciale cut into small cubes

–1 TBS extra virgin olive oil

–Two egg yolks, plus one whole egg

–1/2 cup finely grated pecorino romano, plus some for sprinkling atop at serving

–Fresh cracked black pepper to taste (I use at least 1/2 tsp)

–1/2 lb spaghetti

In a large pot, bring abundant water to boil (salt it only after it has begun to boil). In the meantime, in a small skillet, heat the olive oil until almost smoking and add the guanciale.

Oh hiiii, guanciale. Ignore the germ-ridden cutting board and less than desirable knife: this apartment, it is furnished and that is all that matters.

Brown the guanciale on all sides until quite crispy (deglaze pan, if desired). Mix eggs, cheese, and pepper in a separate bowl.

Aw, would you look at those beauties? The old man who sold them to me said that his wife was a hen. I still don't know what to do with that info.

When water boils add salt and cook spaghetti (I will often use the box instructions and then subtract 45 seconds or so…but I like it really to the teeth!). Drain pasta and reserve three tablespoons of pasta water. Return the spaghetti to the same pot you boiled it in, add the guanciale, and continuously stirring, add the egg/cheese mixture and the pasta water. The stirring is important, as you want the mixture to coat each strand lightly and not to clump up. The reserved pasta water will help you with this. Serve immediately, with a light sprinkling of cheese.

While I love this dish, no one is denying the fact that it is pretty darn heavy. I think of it as a treat. That said, I love eggs in pasta. I eat meat, obviously, but I often take long breaks from it. I really, really like eggs though, and they are an easy way to enhance your pasta. Following is a recipe for what I think of as a “friend” of carbonara (or a friend of spaghetti aglio e olio). A delicious friend without a hot meat injection. Let’s call it: “Pasta alla I’m too lazy to find guanciale, I’ve got eggs, and I want pasta so I’m making this and it’s good.”

Recipe (serves two again, but can be cut down to serve one, or increased for more. Rule: one egg/person):

3 TBS extra virgin olive oil

1/4 tsp red pepper flakes or peperoncino (or more, if you wanna DO IT RIGHT)

3 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed a bit, but not chopped or minced

2 eggs

1/2 to 3/4 lb of spaghetti

Optional: fresh tomatoes if they’re in season

Heat up that water! Don’t salt it. In a medium saucepan heat olive oil, garlic cloves, and red pepper until the garlic is slightly browned (don’t over do it!). If using tomatoes, chop them and put them in at the beginning of this process, with a pinch of salt. Once garlic is a bit toasted, remove cloves and turn off the heat. Let the oil cool down for a few minutes and then crack the eggs in it, side by side, and let them sit until you’re ready. They will cook a bit at the bottom, but stay mostly raw. They are marrying with the flavor of your yummy, garlicy, spicy oil. Dump the spaghetti in the now boiling water and cook it. Drain, reserving one or two tablespoons of water. Return whole deal to the boiling water pot and stirring constantly with a fork, dump your eggs and oil in. Add reserved pasta water too. Serve immediately with parmigiano reggiano atop. YUM.

So, there you have it: tradition and my interpretation for a meatless version. Cooking is so sensitive in Italy. On recipe sites that feature carbonara the comments sections can be vicious with competing opinions for preparations (the use of cooking cream–panna–is a hot topic; I don’t think the dish needs it at all). I like tradition, and I certainly respect it, but sometimes you gotta take it where you want it to go. That is basically to say: Please mess with these recipes and make them to your liking, but try it out once the “right” way!

A wine suggestion? Yeah, I drink red when it's cold and white when it isn't. You should drink wine that doesn't make you feel like an angry beast the next morning. FACT.

* I was teaching Intermediate Italian II last year and there was a unit on Sardegna, the island off Italy’s west coast. Pecorino sardo is a famous sheep’s milk cheese from the island, just like pecorino romano is a famous sheep’s milk cheese from Rome. A student, of Italian origin, asked me what “pecorino” meant and I told her that it meant “sheep.” She gasps and says, “You mean the cheese I eat with my parents at home is from a SHEEP?” Um, yes? I was so taken aback by her disgust at something that is so normal (and delicious) and that she’d been eating for a long time, that I brought in a sampling of sheep’s milk cheeses at the end of the semester for the students to taste. You know what? I didn’t have to bring any cheese home! They ate it all! Viva la pecora!

Trentino-Alto Adige: Part the Second

As promised, I really want to go into a bit of detail about the wineries of Castel Noarna, Eugenio Rosi, and Gino Pedrotti, all of which are in the Trentino area and run by absolutely wonderful people.

Castel Noarna is actually based out of a bona fide castle, the oldest part of which is dated to the eleventh century and was built atop the ruins of a Roman fort. At the end of the thirteenth century the castle was the seat of a feudal lord who oversaw the towns of Noarna, Castellano, and Pomarolo, but it was in decline and was passed to the Castelbarco family, an important presence in Trento and in possession of much land and power. In 1486 the castle went to the Ladron family, whose seat was secured by their ties to the Republic of Venice. The castle, as it stands for the most part today, was realized by Nicolò of the Ladron family. He added the residential quarters, as well as frescoes in the main stair and in the winter garden. Paride, Nicolò’s son, went on to become the Bishop of Salzburg. All of this and more can be read about in greater detail on the castle’s website (if you read Italian; if you don’t there is a great selection of pictures to look at).

What is truly exciting about this structure is the sense of history all about you. Marco Zani uses it as his main winemaking facility and tasting rooms. It is surrounded by his vineyards. All that is to say that it is still a part of history, and integrally so. As we toured the castle and Marco gave us a thorough and thoroughly enjoyable tour, we were able to closely examine the frescoes in the winter garden which have all manner of etched writings added to them over the years. Marco pointed out important inscriptions by what were likely visiting guests deemed worthy enough to etch into the frescoes their coats of arms, names, quotes, etc. This makes the frescoes (which depict scenes from Apollo’s life) just one piece of the historical puzzle. The “graffiti” continues, too, in the wooden box installed over the castle’s chapel for the nobles to sit in during services, to which all of the village would have been invited (as evidenced by the large wooden door leading to outside the castle walls in the chapel). In the box, many people over the centuries have carved their names. Looking at the dates alone is enough for your internal timeline to be overwhelmed. 1845. 1615. 1923. I just imagine the world based on my (sometimes limited) historical knowledge of the various dates and get swept away in the fantasy of it all. Then I start thinking about time travel and how those Japanese scientists recently claimed it is impossible and now that isn’t fair… Anyway! It is a black hole of thought.

Marco explaining the frescoes to me.

After touring the castle, we got to see Marco’s production rooms and taste wine in various stages of production and the finished products. Logistically, it seem to have been more than a little difficult getting all of the equipment one needs to run a fairly sizable winemaking operation in an old castle, but somehow Marco has done it and the results are quite a sight (huge wine vats in an old castle? Yes, this is worth visiting). He showed us his first experiments with Spumante (ready to be uncorked soon!) and his newest innovation of fermenting both Riesling and Gewürtztraminer together for a blend. He also let us taste some pre-racked wine, which showed us how drinkable his wines can be so early into the process. Marco uses no added yeast or sulfides and is working intently on increasing biodiversity in his vineyards, even going as far as to invite researchers from the local university to come out and test soil samples and count grasses growing amongst his vines. He has been so successful in bringing microorganisms into the vineyard, that he can now boast the presence of life forms in his soil that usually only exist in diverse forest settings. He explained that while he has been making wine for 15 years, it has been in the last seven that he has had a change of philosophy and decided to take Castel Noarna in a new, biodiverse, organic direction. The proof of his success in making this change is in his wines. All speak to the unique climate of the valley and they represent a natural, informed way of wine production. His 2004 Romeo makes me weak in the knees!

After we left Marco and castle, we headed down the road to see Eugenio Rosi whose wines are grown throughout the valley and mountains and merit every bit of attention he has received. He doesn’t have a website (and in fact told me how much he abhors technology), but a simple Google search of his name will tell you much and more about him. Eugenio rents a cantina in Volano, outside of Rovereto, where he does his tastings and a lot of his production.

This man is sincerely passionate about his work. He is a first generation producer and in a consortium, which includes Marco Zani and the Pedrottis, focused on organic, biologically sustainable production of wine. He talked to me at length of the challenges of creating wine that represents his region, and his work in a variety of different vineyards throughout the area. Eugenio is also novel in that he is moving away from aging his wines in French barriques made of oak. Instead he has linked up with some young guys who are making Italian botti (literally barrels) out of native woods, like cherry. When Eugenio found out about this, he chopped one of his own cherry trees down and brought it to them to make a barrel from. The results are quite interesting and promising. He is now planning on making more and using the ubiquitous chestnut, too.

Of late, the conversation about aging Italian varietals in French barriques has reached a fever pitch, at least in the US. It has been popularized stateside by Mario Batali’s flaunting of Bartolo Mascarello’s clever label for his Barolo wine which depicted a scrawl of “No barrique, no Berlusconi” against a brick wall alla Pink Floyd. In short, the discourse centers around the use of French technique and equipment in the production of traditional Italian varietals in order to make them 1. More like French wine and 2. Presumably more palatable to a world market. I cannot briefly enter into this debate, but if you’re interested I suggest you read Passion on the Vine by the transplanted Neopolitan Sergio Esposito. What I can add to Esposito’s words, and others’, is that from what I saw in Trentino, the barrique has a place in Italian wine production. All of Marco’s wines go into wood and you’d be hard pressed to find a more traditional winemaker. The important thing to keep in mind here is that when you are working closely with a quality product, using natural methods, bringing a French barrique into the picture is just one note in the symphony that makes a good wine good. What Eugenio is doing–tending towards native woods, familiar to Italian culture and palates, and away from French oak–is ultimately the most exciting thing all of this could lead to. I, for one, cannot wait to behold the results.

Never tiring of driving, losing the way, and tasting more wine, after Eugenio’s we headed over the mountains to Gino Pedrotti in Lago di Cavedine. A three generation winemaking family, the Pedrottis see a lot of German tourists come through to stop for a drink or snack at their osteria. The youngest generation, the brother and sister Giuseppe and Clara, were our hosts and Giuseppe gave a great tour of their operation. The Pedrottis are esteemed for their production of Vino Santo, a passito wine, not to be confused with the fortified wine Vin Santo from Tuscany. The family started to make Vino Santo in the 1960s, after it had become a tourist treat neglected by locals and mass produced for far too long. What makes Vino Santo so special is the long fermentation process it must go through. We saw the recent harvest of the grapes for the 2011 vintage, which were sitting in the attic of their cantina. There they will stay until Easter, growing an important mold called la botrite in Italian, when they will finally be pressed. Their name comes from this age old tradition of using Easter as the appropriate date (it is said that the Tuscan name is actually taken from a Greek wine).

Giuseppe Pedrotti showing us his nosiola grapes for Vino Santo. Thanks to Lindsay Cohen for the photo!

In addition to hearing about, and tasting (!), this sweet (pun!) wine, Giuseppe told us about the hard climate they’ve had to endure the past few years and the successive hail storms this year that wiped out so many crops in the valley. Like the previous two producers, Giuseppe and his family are committed to using traditional practices in natural ways to make the best product possible. Their Nosiola was amazing. The Schiava Nera mouthwatering. Ugh. I don’t even have words for the Vino Santo. Probably the best dessert wine I’ve ever had. I scored a bottle of their 1999 vintage, the current vintage on the market (yes, they hang onto it for that long!). I am not a wine expert, I have to remind you again, so my vocabulary around the subject is seriously deficient, but suffice it to say these wines are very, very special.

And that’s the thing: you don’t have to be an expert to get something important out of these experiences. Just listening to these people talk about their vineyards and their heritage is like reading a historical novel. Seeing what climate change is doing to their crops, and what they’re doing to work with what they have, is a science lesson. Listening to those winemakers who have children muse about future generations and carrying on tradition makes me wonder about the world at large. The wines and how they taste? It is a bonus to try to keep all of these details in mind as you sip it, nevermind trying to taste leather, grass, or fruit. It is drinkable art and history. Damn, I think I should probably have a glass right now!

I’m posting this from a train as I’m headed to Florence to see a dear friend. Later next week I’ll be headed out to Versilia to see more old friends. Have you been to Versilia? I’ve heard it called the Jersey Shore of Italy. That is probably why I love it so much. Look forward to more info about it!

Trentino-Alto Adige: Part the First

Well, it really is a damn shame that I had never made it up to Trentino before just a few weeks ago. But sometimes things take a while and I am sort of slow. The trip couldn’t have come at a more welcome time: Living in Trieste presents a unique set of challenges (i.e. abundant melancholy) and I was certainly ready for a change of scenery when my sister-in-law, Lindsay, decided to pay me a visit. She works in wine and, with the help of one seemingly incredible colleague, she was able to set up a number of vineyard tours for us to do together. The vineyard tours I’ve been on in the past have all been in Tuscany and Umbria and they’ve been pretty run-of-the-mill: find vineyard, go into tasting room, have wine, find next vineyard. Maybe you buy some wine, maybe not. Someone tries to stay pretty sober so you don’t die or get forever lost on winding back roads. The product can be quite good and the owners of these places and their staff are certainly gracious, but they’re used to lots of folks coming through and they have a routine they like to stick to–presumably to make their lives easier. Tuscany, we can’t forget, is overrun with tourists. I really feel for the producers there (until I remember that they’re making oodles of cash…).

Rolling hills leading up a mountain in the Adige Valley.

This was not like that at all. Welcome to Trentino-Alto-Adige where time stops, everyone is excited to see you, and the wine is complex, evolving with tradition, and really important.

On our way out to Rovereto, before launching into our Adige tour, we stopped in Capriva del Friuli to see the folks at Mario Schiopetto. Thanks to a major semi-truck accident on the autostrada out of Trieste, we were about an hour behind, but we were received with open arms nevertheless (being chronically late as a culture greased the wheel a bit, I’m sure). Their operation is truly state-of-the-art and they’ve recently renovated their tasting room and entrance, as befitting a producer of their ilk. Among the innovations these folks are engaged in is the production of their very own yeast strands. If you’re gonna use it, make it yourself! We tasted at least ten different wines ranging from their Blumeri to their Pinot Bianco. They are pretty well represented by importers in the US and, in fact, we weren’t the only ones who had stopped by that afternoon to have a look at the operation.

I get the lowdown in the amazingly beautiful tasting room at Schiopetto. Thanks to Lindsay Cohen for the photo!

I’ll admit it, though: I don’t know a lot about wine and this is all an education for me. From my perspective as translator, I was most geeked about hearing about how hard the weather had been this year (too hot; super early harvest), how long the family has been in the business (a long time–check out their site), and getting a rudimentary understanding of the use of wood in Italian wines and additives like yeast and sulfides. Oh, and hearing about everyone’s lives, families, political opinions, etc. Really, it is always a pleasure to talk!

Unfortunately, we couldn’t buy wine because we had lingered too long tasting and getting a tour and the offices had been closed. It is probably a good thing, though: I somehow managed to bring thirteen bottles of wine back to Trieste, making a suitcase so heavy the wheels actually fell off within a block of the train station. I really don’t want to be forced to drink all of this before I head back stateside in November (I tend to drink vino sfuso when I’m here anyway), but I just might have to thin the herd a bit…

Bell tower in a hamlet above Rovereto

After Schiopetto we made the somewhat long haul over to Rovereto in Trentino (long haul by Italian standards = anything over 2.5 hours). Why the hell have I never been to Rovereto before? It is a cute little artist community sandwiched between amazing mountains in the Adige valley, called the Vallagarina. The scenery is enough to make you forget about everything else you’ve ever seen in Italy and it might even bring a tear of appreciation to your eyes (I would have wept with appreciation had I not been driving like a maniac to keep our next appointment. Weeeeee! It is fun to drive with me!). I kept on saying, “This is, like, the platonic ideal of a valley!”

We stayed at Hotel Rovereto, which is owned by Susanna and Marco Zani, who also own Castel Noarna (more on that later). Marco’s father purchased and renovated the hotel in the 1970s and Marco has taken ownership of it and the adjacent restaurant, in which his mother, near 90 years old, still works to prepare the dishes. She is from Mantova, while Marco’s father is from Trentino, so the menu at the restaurant, called Ristorante 900, reflects these different culinary traditions. The hotel is charming and elegant without being stuffy. I think this is due to the eccentric and whimsical artwork about the place, most of which is done by Susanna herself.

I really have to tell you what I ate, though. Reliving it is going to make me hanker to get back there again, which I just might have to do really soon. I finally had a dish that I’ve heard of for some time, but have never had the opportunity to try: carne salada, which is similar to carpaccio, but the beef is aged in a mixture of salt, herbs and spices, and white wine, which all preserve it, but don’t allow it to dry out (think bresaola). This dish is typical of southern Trentino and it can be served raw, like carpaccio,  or grilled. Unlike carpaccio, however, carne salada has a very distinct, earthy taste and the use of wine as a preservative allows a range of flavor to develop usually absent in carpaccio.

In addition to this antipasto, Marco suggested a combination of pastas, which would represent both the Adige valley and his mother’s Mantovan roots: strangolapreti and tortelli di zucca. The former are spinach dumplings (like large gnocchi) with grano cheese and sage, and the name literally translates to “priest chokers.” They were both rich and light and the butter in them tasted of the valley itself. Seriously. Whoa. The tortelli were ethereal and sweet with squash, also redolent of amazing butter (the dairy products in the Adige valley are well-known throughout Italy).

The other great part about Ristorante 900 was the clientele: I love it when I see families, couples, singles, and a smattering of tourists eating together. It is not a rustic osteria, or even a trattoria, but a true ristorante and the food reflected that (higher end, nicer setting). Italians can shy away from places like this, preferring to cook at home and avoid high costs and unnecessary hassle (and subpar food). None of that here. Everything is reasonably priced, the food is of the highest quality, and the locals know as much. We were sat between two older men, one on each side of us, eating alone. One started a conversation with me for a moment, but was clearly too shy to sustain the effort throughout the course of his meal. The whole experience was quite charming and heartening to see some many people enjoying such great food on a chilly weekday night.

Ultimately, what I took from the meal, the conversation with Marco and Susanna, and the experience of wandering around Rovereto, which is a far cry from a tourist center, is that there are important things happening in this pocket of the world that don’t scream for attention, but are worthy of it nonetheless. An example/digression: I met a boutique owner, an Italian, who happened to live in Park Slope, Brooklyn during the same years I did (2002-2003) just one block over from my old apartment. We even both had shifts at the Food Coop there and frequented the Peruvian place on 5th Avenue. I’m sure our paths crossed unknowingly dozens of times. He struck up a conversation with me when he recognized the brand of shoes I was wearing (he would like to carry them in his store. Check ‘em out, they’re called Cydwoq) and we discovered our shared history. His store, adami sciuss, looks like it belongs in Brooklyn more than Rovereto, a town which tends towards the medieval rather than mid-century. And yet the place was filled with locals coming in to chat, try on clothes, bring their dogs in to meet with the owners’ dogs, etc. The clothes are presented minimally, and are all of the highest quality. This coupled with the natural Italian desire to help the customer (yes, that DOES exist), makes for a really wonderful experience. If you’re in Rovereto and want to shop, this is a must-do.

Old store fronts in Rovereto. Again, I gotta thank Lindsay Cohen for the photo. She was an amazingly diligent photog, something I've never quite mastered.

Kind of like Ristorante 900′s blending of cuisine from Mantova and Adige, the success of adami sciuss is built on a modern design aesthetic presented in a traditional Italian village. Sometimes when people think of Italy, they picture a homogeneity of architecture, cuisine, people, etc. that simply doesn’t exist, even in far flung places and tiny villages. For me, the true pleasure in discovering places like Rovereto is understanding the different, combined elements within and learning to take advantage of these diversities saves me from expecting one kind of Italy and being disappointed when I find another one. There isn’t one Italy–from the food to the language, it is all local interpretation, combination, and reinvention of tradition!

Think of the history of the Trentino region, for example: part of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire until 1919, it is not culturally homogenous. The German/Austrian influence is strong even today: the food, the love of hiking and outdoor sports not seen in much of Southern Italy, and the delightful use of dairy products are all testament to this. These tendencies are all reinforced by the steady influx of German tourists in the region. They make up the majority of tourism there and I think they’re on to something.

The wines, to get back to the initial point of this post, reflect these elements, too… I’ll save that for my next post on Trentino-Alto Adige, in which I’ll cover the vineyards of Castel Noarna, Eugenio Rosi, and Gino Pedrotti, who are all doing simply amazing, and amazingly important, things with wine, tradition, and biodiversity.