Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well (20 page)

These amounts serve six to seven people.

One might say that the people of Veneto know of no other first course than rice, and therefore they cook it well and in many different ways. One way is rice in brotht with sausage—but there the sausage
is left whole, while I prefer to crumble it into the broth when I add the rice. Rice should not be washed, but only cleaned and rubbed in cloth to remove the dust. To my rice and sausage, I like to add either turnips or cabbage. Both must first be “blanched,” or, in other words, parboiled. Cut the turnip into cubes, the cabbage into strips the size of fettuccine, and saute them in butter. Just before removing the rice from the fire, add a good pinch of Parmesan cheese to bind it and give it additional flavor.

Once, when I was a young man, a horse dealer and I set out on what was in those days a long trip to a fair in Rovigo. On the evening of the second day, a Saturday, after many hours of long travel with a horse which, under the very able hands of my companion, made short work of the road, we arrived, hungry and tired, at Polesella. Naturally, our first attentions were for our valiant animal. Then, upon entering the ground-floor room which in many inns serves as both kitchen and dining hall, my friend asked the innkeeper, “Have you anything to eat?”

“No, I do not,” she replied. And then reconsidering, she suggested, “I wrung the necks of several chickens for tomorrow, and I could make some rice.”

“Make the rice and make it at once!” came the answer, “We are starving!”

The innkeeper set to work, and I stood there watching carefully how she would put together this rice dish.

Cutting a chicken into pieces, she removed the head and feet, and placed the rest in a pan in which a “soffritto”
¹⁵
of lardoon, garlic and parsley were browning. She added a small piece of butter, and seasoned with salt and pepper. When the chicken was browned, she put it in a pot of simmering water, then threw in the rice, and before removing it from the fire added a good handful of Parmesan cheese to flavor it. You should have seen what an enormous plate of rice she set before us. But we got to the bottom of it, because it had to serve as first course, main course, and side dish.

Now, to embroider upon the rice of the Polesella innkeeper, I would say that, instead of salt pork—unless it is of the exquisite pink variety—it is better to use finely chopped bacon. Tomato sauce (recipe 6) or tomato paste is also quite good with this dish. Also, for it to bind well with the chicken, the rice should neither be too cooked, nor too watery.

Make a “battuto”
¹⁶
of prosciutto and a quarter of an onion; place it on the fire with butter and, when the onion begins to brown, add the quails, plucked and cleaned. Season the birds with salt and pepper, and, when browned, cook them in broth. When they are half done, add the rice and as much broth as may be needed to cook the rice and quail together. When the rice is ready, flavor it with Parmesan cheese, and then serve the rice and the quails, either dry or with broth, as you prefer.

Four quails and 400 grams (about 14 ounces) of rice will serve four people.

In those parts of the country where homemade egg pasta is eaten almost daily, every housemaid has mastered the art of making it, and especially this dish, which is the essence of simplicity. Thus I speak about it not for them, but for the inhabitants of those provinces who know of no other soups than those made with bread, rice or store-bought pasta.

The most simple malfattini are made with flour. Fold the eggs into the flour and knead the mixture on the pastry board until you obtain a firm loaf. Cut this into large slices a half finger thick, and leave them a while to dry in the air. Then chop them with the mezzaluna into tiny bits about half the size of a grain of rice. You can achieve consistency of size by passing them through a strainer, or by grating them from the whole loaf. But do not do as those who leave them large as sparrow’s beaks, for this will make them difficult to digest. Indeed, for even easier digestion, rather than with flour, you can make them with bread crumbs, either plain or with a pinch of grated Parmesan cheese and a dash of spices.

However you make them, you can serve them with peas as in recipe 427, when peas are in season, or use finely diced beet, or both.
Á propos
of beet, I have noticed that in Florence, where they make a great use of aromatic herbs in cooking, dill is unknown. Mixed with beet, as is done in other towns, dill graces the palate. Indeed, I have tried to introduce this fragrant herb to Florence, but with little success. Perhaps this is because in that city beets are sold in bunches, whereas in Romagna they are carried loose to the market or already mixed with dill.

Couscous is a dish of Arab origin, which the descendants of Moses and Jacob, in their peregrinations, have carried around the world. But who knows how many and what kind of modifications it has undergone in its travels. Nowadays it is used as a first course by the Jews of Italy, two of whom were kind enough to let me taste it and see how it is done. I then made it again in my own kitchen as a test, and can therefore guarantee its legitimacy. However, I cannot guarantee I shall make you understand it:

For it is no simple thing to seek
this odd concoction fully to describe,
for a tongue that human words can speak
¹⁷

The following amount will be enough for six or seven people.

750 grams (about 1-2/3 pounds) of veal brisket

150 grams (about 5-1/4 ounces) of lean boneless veal

300 grams (about 10-1/2 ounces) of coarse-grained semolina

1 chicken liver

1 hard-boiled egg

1 egg yolk

a variety of vegetables, including onion, cabbage, celery, carrot, spinach, beet and others

Put the semolina in a wide, flat earthenware dish, or in a copper saucepan. Season with a bit of salt and a dash of pepper, and sprinkle with a few tablespoons of water, a little at a time, kneading it with the palm of your hand so that the flour swells, and becomes loose and granular. When you have finished adding the water, slowly pour a tablespoon of oil over it, while kneading it in the same manner as before. The whole process should take about half an hour. After working the semolina in this fashion, place it in a soup bowl and cover it with a cloth, the ends of which, gathered together beneath the dish, you will tie firmly with string.

To make the broth, put on the fire the veal brisket with 3 liters (about 3 quarts) of water. When the broth begins to simmer, skim it and then place the soup bowl with the semolina on top of the pot. Make sure that the broth does not touch the bottom of the bowl, which must fit as tightly as a lid so that no steam escapes. Cook the semolina over steam in this way for an hour and fifteen minutes. Halfway through the cooking process, open up the cloth to stir the semolina and then put everything back together as before.

With a knife mince the lean veal, add a piece of finely chopped crustless white bread and season with salt and pepper. With the mixture make little meatballs not much larger than hazelnuts and fry them in oil.

Chop the vegetables well and begin by sauteing the onion in oil. When the onion turns a golden brown, add the other vegetables. Season with salt and pepper, stirring constantly. Let the vegetables cook until they have reabsorbed their own water. When they are nearly dry, moisten them with brown stock, or with broth and tomato sauce (recipe 6) or tomato paste. Cook them together with the sliced chicken liver and the meatballs.

Remove the semolina from the bowl, place it on the fire in a saucepan and without bringing it to a boil, fold one egg yolk into it. Add some of the sauce, mix, and place on a large platter. The semolina should be almost dry so that you can decorate the top with the hard-boiled egg diced in small crescent shapes. Mix the rest of the sauce into the broth and serve it into as many bowls as there are people at the table—accompanied, of course, by the platter of semolina. Each person takes a portion of semolina onto his or her plate, and has a spoonful of broth with each mouthful.

The brisket can be served later as boiled meat.

Having given this long description, it seems to me that two questions will spontaneously arise in the reader’s mind:

1. Why all that oil, and why always oil as seasoning?

2. Is this dish worth all the maddening effort it requires?

The response to the first question, this being a Jewish dish, is given in Deuteronomy, 14:21: “Thou shalt not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk.” The less scrupulous however, add a bit of Parmesan to the meatballs to give them more flavor. The second I can answer myself. To me, it is not a dish to make a great fuss over, but if prepared with great care, it can please even those whose palates are not used to such dishes.

Minestrone brings back memories of a year marked by collective anxiety and a singular personal experience.

In the year of Our Lord 1855, I found myself at Livorno during the bathing season. Cholera was then making its way through several provinces of Italy, gripping everyone with the fear of a major epidemic, which, in fact, was not long in coming. One Saturday evening I entered a trattoria, and asked: “What’s today’s soup?”

“Minestrone,” was the answer.

“Fine, bring the minestrone,” I replied. I ate, took a stroll, and then went to bed. I had taken lodgings in the Piazza del Voltone, in a whitewashed new villa run by a certain Mr. Domenici. That night, I felt the onset of a frightening disturbance in my body that had me running regularly back and forth to the rest rooms—which in Italy should rather be called an
unrest
room. “Damned minestrone! You will never fool me again,” I cried out, raging against something which was perhaps quite innocent.

Morning came, and feeling myself totally drained, I caught the first train and escaped to Florence, where I immediately felt much
better. Monday the sad news reached me that cholera had broken out in Livorno, and the first to be struck dead was none other than Domenici himself.

And to think I had blamed the minestrone!

After three attempts, improving upon the dish each time, this is how I like to make it. Feel free to modify it to suit the tastes of your part of the world, and the vegetables locally available.

Start by making the usual meat broth, and cooking in it a handful of shelled fresh beans. If the beans are dry, then simmer them in water until they soften. Then cut some Savoy cabbage, spinach and a little chard into thin slices, and soak them in cold water. Then, to get the water out of the vegetables, place them on the fire in a dry saucepan. Drain the contents well, pressing them firmly with a wooden spoon to get rid of excess water. For a minestrone that serves four to five people, finely chop 40 grams (about 1-1/3 ounces) of fatty prosciutto, a clove of garlic, and a sprig of parsley, and sauté them together. Add this to the saucepan, along with some celery and carrots, one potato, one zucchini, and very little onion, all cut into short, thin slices. Add the beans, and if you wish, some pork rind (as some people like to do), and a bit of tomato sauce (recipe 6) or tomato paste. Season with salt and pepper and cook in the broth. As a last ingredient add enough rice to absorb most of the liquid, and before removing the minestrone from the fire throw in a good pinch of Parmesan cheese.

I should warn you that this is not a soup for weak stomachs.

150 grams (about 1/3 of a pound) of fine-grain semolina

30 grams (about 1 ounce) of grated Parmesan cheese

6 deciliters (about 2-2/3 cups) of milk

2 whole eggs

2 yolks

salt, a dash of nutmeg and lemon zest

Cook the semolina in milk, adding a bit more dry semolina if you think the mixture is not firm enough. Salt it when it is done, and wait for it to cool before you add the eggs and the remaining ingredients.

Place the mixture in a pastry tube with an attachment that has fairly large holes. Press the mixture into boiling broth, holding the pastry tube perpendicular to the surface of the liquid. Let the passatelli cook until they are firm.