There are so many little stories and thoughts about my Italian travels that I've been storing in my mind, but found difficult to turn into individual posts. Instead, I've prepared a few random little primi and serve them up to you as a more substantial secondi.
The 1984 Ridge
During my time cooking for the Italian chef at his restaurant during the summer of '06, he'd always serve me a proper dinner at the tables in the piazza before service. He'd make me the best dishes on the menu, and I'd sip wine and read under the protection of shade from the summer heat. On one particular evening, he told me to take anything from his wine cellar. Thrilled, I spotted a 1984 Ridge Petite Syrah. Surely I couldn't choose a Cali wine while in Florence, could I? But I loved Petite Syrah, and when would be the next chance for me to have one from the 80s? So I went for the Petite Syrah.
As the chef brought out a Chianina steak with porcini for my secondi, an Italian woman my age sitting close by in the piazza came up to me and said something in Italian. I smiled and held up the book I was reading, Heat, which was obviously in English. She smiled and said in English "Are you a chef?". I told her about the book and how I was essentially doing the same thing as the author at the restaurant we were sitting in front of. She pulled up a chair and we chatted for a while. She was impressed with my knowledge of Italian food and wine. Well, until she saw the Ridge sitting on the table. When she heard it was Californian, she became oddly skeptical of me. Why not drink something Italian...in Italy? Damn. Busted. So I grasped at the last straw. I offered her a glass, hoping this would speak for itself and somehow justify why I wasn't drinking a Brunello. She smelled, swirled, sipped....and hated it. Ciaos and air kisses followed shortly after. Damn Americans.
Goat Cheese Ricotta
Pecorino, made from sheep's milk, is the undisputed king of Tuscany. The idea of eating something like goat cheese is so foreign to Tuscans, that my guides thought I'd appreciate a meeting with the most novel cheese maker they knew - a goat cheese producer. He told me of his struggles to survive - how his friends and the locals thought he was crazy and were not very open to trying new cheeses, and the resulting plight to barely make ends meet. But his goat cheeses were pristine and phenomenal, while his passion was somehow unaffected by his lack of acceptance. The cheese was more tangy than grassy, but overall, his story was inspiring. He showed me how to make a goat cheese ricotta that was amazing...haven't had anything like it since. I wish I knew where to get my hands on some....
Pasta, Unboiled
One day, the Italian chef asks me if I've ever made dried pasta without boiling it in water. I didn't respond, just sort of laughed. I have read about cooking dried pasta in red wine, which infuses the flavor and turns the pasta a haunting purple. But this Chef was very traditional and took a lot of pride in that, so I thought he was joking. Without really speaking, he throws whole garlic in olive oil on low heat and removes it a few minutes later. He puts sliced onions in the oil, sweating them without caramelizing. In the pan goes fresh tomatoes for a simmer, then some red wine followed by a boil. He throws in dried penne, covers the lid, and serves the pasta al dente, cooked in the sauce, ten minutes later. Absolutely delicious. I need to experiment with this approach more often.
Spoiled with Porcini
I have always loved porcini. But my experiences with fresh porcini had been spotty. I had impeccable raw porcini in a salad at Babbo when I first graduated from college that sent me on a huge porcini obsession. But then, I'd find fresh porcini in the markets that were old, wet, soggy or dried out and past their prime. After dish upon dish, crate upon crate of fresh porcini inspection in the Chef's kitchen in Tuscany, it hurts me to the core to realize that those perfect, impeccably fresh porcini moments are going to be few and far between for me. Insert pouting face here.
to the bar, you'd fill your plate with a variety of treats and the bartender would count your tapas and somehow remember them later. Without a doubt, my favorites were the hot options. In this picture, you see the raw mushrooms and green peppers, aka pimentos de padron. If you ordered either of these, they'd fill up a plate and take it to the back for cooking. The black trumpet mushrooms and porcinis in this picture came out briefly sauteed with butter. The green peppers were indeed what I have been looking for in the States 
Recent Comments