Autumn Days

Glorious days of golden sunshine, still warm enough to sit on the terrace for morning coffee, and to work in shirt-sleeves in the garden...but definitely cold enough at night that all the doors and windows are closed after sundown, and the four-footeds find the floor tiles too cold for them to sleep on in comfort. Which has led to some confused incidents when both of them have decided to jump onto the bed in the middle of the night at the same time, and then become noisily territorial as they both tell the other one to eff off, at two in the morning. Now sorted, as the older one has his own bed to sleep on, and the younger one has nobody to fight with.

The Booker Prize is announced today. My vote goes clearly to Emma Donoghue for 'Room' - excellent writing. I was dismayed to see that the favourite is Tom McCarthy's 'C', which I confess I struggled to finish. Derivative, clumsy, self-consciously 'clever', inconsistent, and in places just silly...I found myself sighing from time to time as I pushed myself to plough on with the thing. I do hope it doesn't win, although this year's shortlist was so thin in general that I don't trust the judges' judgement at all - not least since they didn't include such gems as the offerings by Helen Dunmore and David Mitchell, both of which I would recommend highly.

This week's major discovery has been Baldo rice - I'd never heard of it before, but the Tecchnical Department came across it recently, and ordered a year's supply online. I think it comes from somewhere in the Po Valley and fortunately, given how much of it is now on the pantry shelves, is superb. Light, with loads of starch, and a character that means that the grains remain quite distinct even once cooked. I've now tried it twice, once in a risotto with limoncino leaves, and then again a couple of days ago in risotto with some chanterelles which we found at the amantea man's shop in San Francesco. Both times, delicious - the second time, even more so, as the risotto was made with a sofritto using fat from the partridges we were given in London a couple of weeks ago (and which the TD plucked and drew, before we put them in our luggage to bring back to Pisa), as well as stock from a spit-roast guinea fowl, which we had on the evening we got back.

Otherwise, a good apricot and cinnamon cake, decorated with crystallised limoncino leaves (yes, a theme emerges - but prompted mostly by my need to give the limoncino bush a haircut, rather than culinary necessity), and a fairly delicious walnut baklava, which I'd never tried to make during all the years actually living in Greece. Pretty delicious, and in fact indistinguishable from that made by the baker who's oven used to back onto the house we lived in back in the seventies.

I think it must be instinctive - as the evenings draw in, the home-and-hearth impulse kicks in, and baking comes to the fore!
Tonight's dinner:

Asparagus & Gruyère bundles in Parma Ham, roast and then served with a Balsamic dressing.

Roast rabbit, boned and stuffed with Celery; braised Broccoli stalks.

Plum Tarts.

Testaroli

Food through history, I find fascinating (which is probably why I found Rheay Tannahill's book on the subject so disappointing - the title promised so much and the prose delivered oh so little). What more effective time travel can there be than having the identical sensory responses as somebody who delighted centuries ago in a particularly delicious tyropita, or daube, or mortadella?

Often, though, much guesswork is involved in identifying 'ancient' foodstuffs, since something as prosaic as what one has for dinner has rarely made it into the pages of venerable chroniclers over the aeons. Apicius and Archestratus are the notable exceptions - except that even their works can be misleading, since no mention of anything like pasta appears anywhere in Apicius, even though something approximating to the stuff has been identified from images on much earlier etruscan tombs. Presumably, Apicius just didn't think it worth recording.
And so, in practice, it's often a matter of detective work on the basis of the ingredients used (honey, anchovies, cinammon, cloves, bitter orange...are all redolent of antique kitchens) and sometimes of the techniques involved.

Testaroli is one such dish. These are large flour-and-water pancakes, which are cut into diamond shapes, approximately 2" across, heated briefly in hot water and then served, normally with a basil pesto. Apparently, if cut small, testaroli are called panigacci...but I have no idea how small they have to be in order to merit the name change. They seem - these days anyway - only to come from a place called Lunigiana, which is about an hour's drive north of here. Occasionally, I find them for sale, wrapped in plastic, in the bakers in Via San Francesco - but for Testaroli afficionados, I'm told, the only real ones come from one specific supplier in Lunigiana, who makes them fresh every morning. Which is where Paola's mother got a supply, several weeks ago, and we waded through dishes of them for dinner later that same day.

It's definitely sticks-to-tiny-ribs stuff, and everything about testaroli suggests they were a very early forerunner to both pasta and gnocchi - much simpler to make than pasta, but probably the latter became more valued, once somebody had worked out how to make it, on the basis of having a greater shelf-life.

The locals here regard them as something of a delicacy - but, then, that may be a reaction to having been served pasta every day of their lives, and simply relishing a change. I find them a bit stodgy, and definitely lacking the unctuousness of a well-made fresh pasta. They might have been just the thing to set up an etruscan for a good day's toiling in the fields, but personally I find they sit quite heavy on the stomach. Good to remember as an alternative, if I want to make pasta, but realise at the last minute that I've run out of eggs...but not something that generally has more than curiosity value, if truth be told.

To make them - and they are worth trying - simply blend 600g of flour with half a litre of water, plus salt to taste. This produces quite a thick batter, which in turn produces quite thick pancakes - about a quarter inch thick, cooked for three or four minutes on each side in a heavy frying pan which has previously been thoroughly oiled. When made professionally, special pans are used, which produce testaroli about 18" in diameter, although I suspect this is merely traditional, rather than fundamentally relevant to the finished dish. Serve them with any 'coating' pasta sauce you feel like - although, if you're being a purist, then it should really be genovese pesto, and nothing else.

Tonight's dinner:

Fennel sformatino with gorgonzola sauce.

Quails, roast and served with a rich sauce, on a bed of walnut and potato purée.

Pear and frangipane tart.

John Eliot Gardiner's bottom...

...is not a thing of great beauty. Possibly, it was in greater shape than it is now when he first started wearing his trademark bum-freezer Nehru jackets - probably in the early eighties, since that was when they were fashionable enough to be the uniform for the waiters in the Armani café in Knightsbridge. The years, however, have not been kind. And from the vantage point of row eight in the Duomo, last night, the sight of the Eliot Gardiner derrière presented expressively at podium height did not enhance the performance of the Monteverdi Choir.

Which was a thing of extraordinary beauty. The 1610 Monteverdi Vespers, performed impeccably. No - beyond impeccably. Probably one of the best performances I've ever heard of anything. Sigh-makingly good, in parts...and merely excellent in the in-between bits. Deservedly, the audience stood at the end to applaud, and applaud, and applaud. I clapped so long and so hard, my hands actually hurt as a result.

What a pleasure!

But, please - could somebody have a quiet word with Sir John, and persuade him that it's time he graduated to a tail-coat...and did us all a favour!

Tonight's Dinner:

Polpettone of Spinach & Tuna.

Testaroli, with Baccala & smothered Onions.

Nectarine Tarts.

Sara Mingardo...

...was wonderful, last night, as the contralto voice in Pergolesi's Stabat Mater, in the Duomo. Quite, quite stunning. Not only her voice - which was perfect - but also her presence; a Hermione-like stillness gave to her delivery a calm gravitas. Incomparable.

The first of this year's Anima Mundi programme, the Duomo was packed. As ever, for the first concert, the nave was a sea of fluttering programmes, as people fanned themselves against the heat - and I know that by the time we get to the last in the series, several weeks from now, it will be a question of sweaters and coats, and even then the likelihood of cold feet by the end of the evening.

Tonight's Dinner:

Ravioli with fish stuffing

Guinea Fowl in champagne sauce; swiss chard stalks, in butter & garlic.

Crepes, filled with lemon cream; walnut and honey sauce.

Recipe: Braised Fennel

More of a technique than a specific recipe, this method of cooking fennel works just as well with celery, or swiss chard stalks or leeks...or, in fact, with any of the green vegetables that could be considered 'fibrous'.
I came across the recipe a couple of years ago, buried deep in the pages of one of Anna del Conte's works. I forget which one, and equally I forget now who she quoted as her source (as I'm sure she did, generally being extremely scrupulous about provenance). Vastly superior to simple sauté or baking, the end result from this method is silky and luxurious, with the vegetable meltingly soft, in a sauce which combines all the best elements of the cooking medium and of the vegetable juices mixed in.
It can also be cooked entirely in advance and gently reheated in a warm oven, under foil.

For four:

Ingredients: 2 medium Fennel bulbs, trimmed; 1 oz Butter; 1 tsp Salt; 2 cups Stock (Duck, Chicken, Veal...anything, really, as long as it has flavour).

Method:

1. Melt the Butter in a pan which has a lid and is large enough subsequently to hold the Fennel.

2. Cut each Fennel into 4 lengthwise and add them to the pan; turn the pieces so that they are covered in melted Butter. Sprinkle with Salt, and cover the pan; cook gently for about five minutes.

3. Add the Stock to the pan, raising the heat underneath so that the Stock starts to bubble, then lower the heat again to a low simmer.

4. Cook, partially covered for about half an hour, until the liquid has reduced to a couple of tablespoons or so of thick sauce. Adjust seasoning as necessary, and serve.

We've been denounced...

...to the Commune! Although, since this isn't soviet Russia, the manifestation of authority wasn't snow-covered jack boots and a thunderous knocking on the door at four in the morning, but instead the arrival as we sat, drinking coffee on the terrace, of portly and avuncular Signor Martini, from the planning office, accompanied by his younger and only slightly less portly assistant. Whoever our denouncer was, they got off to a poor start, since we go back quite some way with Signor M...in fact, he was even present on that memorable winter's afternoon in Architect Scarpellini's office, some years ago, when somebody closed the door rather too firmly, and the ceiling fell in. There's nothing like shared adversity to create bonds...

As soon as he recognised us, officialdom relaxed into jocularity, and even before he'd visited the scene of the supposed crime, there didn't seem much to worry about. It turns out that we'd been reported for 'building with cement' without a permit, and there was also some reference to our using 'rete', which is the italian name for the metal grids that form the inside of reinforced concrete. Except, in our case, the rete are being used as trellis for climbing roses, and the walls of the lily-pond (apparently the subject of the 'building with cement' complaint) are held together entirely by their own weight, without a slather of cement to be seen. A vague glance from several feet away was enough to satisfy Signor M, while the four-footeds clamoured for attention round his feet...and after fulsome exchanges of civilities, he went on his way, and that particular bit of bureaucratic nonsense headed for deep filing in the basement of Palazzo Gambacorti.

I couldn't help but wonder who'd been behind it, though, and who might even now have been watching from behind their curtains. There are only six possible culprits, which it was pretty easy to whittle down to two, and then (I think) to one. And whatever their motive, since the Commune won't be reporting back to them, they'll just be left wondering why nothing appears to have happened. This being Italy, of course, it won't occur to them that they'd just got it wrong, and instead will decide that we must have 'influence' at the Commune (which seems to be the italian explanation for everything; 99% of the time, I think it's complete nonsense). Useful, though, even if untrue, to be thought to have friends in high places...

Tonight's Dinner:

Tagliatelle Alfredo.

Pork, pot-roast in Milk; braised Celery.

Egg-white Chocolate Soufflé.

A 'Zero' Birthday.

Mine.

I don't generally take much notice of birthdays, but the change in decade seems to get people's pulses racing, and expectations all round are raised. Inevitably, the event was marked.

Fortunately, the barn was (practically) finished - albeit with an interesting pile of lumber offcuts, arranged tidily across one end; but at least lunch amidst scaffolding and cement mixers was avoided.
In fact, we started the celebration the evening before, as the Belforte group were staying for the night out at Locanda Sant'Agata - Anna and Luca's new restaurant-with-rooms out in the countryside on the way to the lower slopes of Monte Pisano - and we joined them there for dinner. Sunset over Gello, and splendid food (an absolutely excellent gnocchi with coniglio!), and, later, watching the evening mists rise as the heat of the day receded. The season is already changing, and soon that wonderful period will begin of soft autumn mists in the mornings, as the sun gathers strength and decides that perhaps summer isn't quite over, after all.

And the day itself. In the morning, the four-footeds gave me a beautiful air-twist stemmed georgian wine glass for my collection, which took pride of place in one of the display cabinets in the Pranzo - and then, it was sleeves rolled up, and on with lunch. Experience dictates that, on such occasions, unless 99% of cooking has been sorted out before the first guests arrive, and the first corks are popped, then the whole process risks descending into chaos. Fortunately, I just about made it, and by the time everybody was standing around in the kitchen emptying jugs of kir, and crunching fried sage leaves, all I had to do was stir things gently, whilst clutching a glass in the other hand.

The weather was beautiful; the day was perfect. The theme for lunch was 'champagne': champagne risotto, followed by guinea-fowl in champagne sauce, before champagne sorbet with fresh raspberries. And to drink, there was either Roederer or Piper Heidseick.

The Brancolis and Belfortes had plotted, and between them all I received a set of gardening tools worthy of Mr Macgregor himself, half of which were handmade in Tuscany, and the rest came from a venerable manufacturer in Holland. Mouth-wateringly splendid! And an additional gift from the Brancolis was a chinese fir tree, to go at the far end of the lily pond, with which I can christen my new tree-planting shovel.

Lunch over, we drifted through the rather short afternoon, until it was time for the Technical Department to produce tea, along with the cake he'd made (one candle only!) which was filled with limoncino-flavoured cream, and decorated with frosted limoncino leaves. A perfect end to the celebration, as the Brancolis then had to wend their way back up the hill in order to spend the evening strimming their vineyard...

During a post-prandial lull people sat, quietly chatting or reading, and I wandered round, watering roses, as the evening shadows lengthened, and the background sounds of clearing up were faintly discernible from the direction of the kitchen. The sun went down, many candles were lit in the barn and around the lily pond, as a beautiful full moon rose behind the romitorio; we finished the day with a late supper of smoked salmon and chilled pinot grigio, with the sound of the fountain gently splashing, and the moonlight shone through the pigeon-house tiling to make a cheese-grater pattern on the end wall of the barn. The four-footeds were stretched contentedly on the gravel, and all was well with the world.


Tonight's Dinner:

Tiger Prawns in Garlic.

Double-roast lamb shanks; buttered cabbage (we're in London for three days)

Peach and Redcurrant Tarts.