Ada Boni: Il Talismano della Felicità

Writing only about two decades after Artusi, another giant of Italian gastronomy, Ada Boni, produced an even more monumental work entitled Il Talismano della Felicità, literally the "Talisman of Happiness". Unlike Artusi, who was basically a talented amateur, Ada Boni was a professional food writer. In 1915, she founded a lady's 'home economic's magazine called Preziosa. Each monthly instalment featured recipes that she had collected from all over Italy, albeit with a strong emphasis on her native Lazio and central Italy more generally. In 1929, she published a compendium of over 2000 recipes from her columns--a truly encyclopedic volume that has had an enormous influence over modern Italian cuisine. (Artusi's masterwork, by contrast, contained 'only' about 600 recipes.)

Boni's was probably the first cookbook published in Italy intended specifically for housewives. Her audience was that educated upper-middle class woman of the time who may have had a housekeeper but could not necessarily afford a cook. And even in those days, this class had pretensions beyond the home. Here is the remarkable opening passage from the Forward of the first edition of her book:

Many of you, ladies, may know how to play the piano well or to sing with exquisite grace. Many of you may have prestigious degrees, may speak foreign languages or be pleasant writers or fine painters. Others of you may be master tennis or golf players, or know how to drive a luxurious automobile with a firm hand. But, alas, if you examine your conscience, I am certain that not all of you can honestly say that you know how to make a perfectly coddled egg!

The sweep of Boni's work is truly impressive, even overwhelming. Il Talismano is organized roughly according to the usual order of a modern Italian meal:

Antipasti, including what she calls 'complex' antipasti--many of them like vol-au-vent, ramequins and mousse showing the strong French influence over Italian cuisine at the time--and 'simple' antipasti, including more typically Italian fare: olives, prosciutto, roasted peppers, hard-boiled eggs and so on.

Then a chapter of condimenti, salse e sughi--all three terms are translated as 'sauce' in English but mean slightly different things. Condimento literally means 'condiment' of course, but beware here of false friends: the verb condire in Italian means both to 'sauce' a pasta or other food and to 'dress' a salad. So this chapter includes not only things like butter maitre d'hotel but also what we today would call gorgonzola sauce for pasta and gnocchi, as well as a condimento of sausage and ricotta for pasta and the famous pesto alla genovese. (Most dishes that combine pasta with a vegetable are examples of the use of condimenti.) Salsa is the usual generic word for 'sauce' and includes classic French sauces like bechamel, mornay, veloute, 'brown' sauce, mayonnaise, hollandaise, caper sauce. None of these salse, however, are used for pasta (except for bechamel for baked pasta dishes). The word for a pasta sauce, in particular a tomato-based pasta sauce, is sugo, and Boni devotes a whole chapter to these, along with another, shorter chapter to a special sub-set of sughi known as ragu', typically made with meat, either in a single piece or minced, and simmered for a long while. The most famous ragu' is probably ragu' alla bolognese, known in English as Bolognese sauce (which, I cannot help mentioning here, in Italy is usually used to dress egg pasta, especially tagliatelle, or short pastas like rigatoni, especially when mixed with bechamel and baked, but never with spaghetti!)

The next chapter is devoted to soups: clear broths, creme, minestre, minestroni, zuppe and zuppe di pesce. Boni explains the sometimes subtle differences among these categories. Creme are not necessarily made with cream--the word refers more to the texture of the soup, and creme are more often than not made from pureed vegetables or legumes sauteed in a soffrito and then diluted with broth. Minestra is probably the 'standard' or default word for soup, often containing pasta or rice, and includes such classics and pasta e fagioli, quadrucci con piselli, pasta e ceci, minestra di riso e cicoria, stracciatella alla romana. Most people are familiar with minestroni, but perhaps fewer understand how many types there are--Boni devotes an entire chapter to the subject (and even so, only scratches the surface). Then she proceeds to zuppe--the word sounds like 'soup' and it does mean soup, but the particular type that includes bread. And, finally, zuppe di pesce--fish soups, a chapter that goes on for 15 pages and presents at least as many recipes.

Then follows an extensive survey of both durum wheat and egg pastas, paste asciutte secche and pasta asciutte all'uovo. Among the former the reader finds now-famous dishes like bucatini all'amatriciana, conchiglie con ricotta e spinaci, maccheroni ai quattro formaggi, penne all'arrabbiata, penne alla vodka, orecchiette ai broccoletti (which she calls orecchiette alla pugliese), spaghetti alla carbonara, spaghetti con aglio e olio, cacio e pepe, trenette col pesto, vermicelli con vongole, and so on. Among the egg pastas are numerous ways to make fettuccine, pappardelle (including my favorite, pappardelle sulla lepre), tagliatelle (like fettuccine but thinner and a bit wider) often served with ragu' alla bolognese, tonnarelli. She also covers stuffed pastas--agnolotti, cannelloni, rotoli di pasta, tortellini--and baked pastas like lasagne (including the two Ur-lasagne of Italian cookery: the Northern style lasagne alla bolognese and the Neapolitan style lasagne di carnevale that was Angelina's speciality!)

The following, slightly shorter chapters, are devoted to rice, gnocchi, and polenta. Of course, there are lots of risotto recipes--including risotto alla milanese, risotto alla sbirraglia, risotto con salsicce, risotto con scampi, risotto primavera--as well as the classic risi e bisi and, of course, that triumph of Neapolitan cuisine, sartu' di riso. But Boni also includes some unusual recipes --especially for her time--like curried rice and riso con ananas. Besides the inevitable potato gnocchi, we find flour gnocchi alla Bismarck, gnocchi alla romana (which she calls gnocchi di semolino), spinach and ricotta gnocchi (also known as gnocchi verdi or ignudi). The polenta chapter includes the wonderful polenta con baccala' alla vicentina, polenta with spareribs and polenta with sausages (both Roman standards) plus polenta pasticciata in forno--polenta baked in layers with meat sauce, like lasagne.

Boni then devotes an entire chapter to fried foods like mozzarella in carrozza, fried rice balls known as suppli' in Rome and as arancini in Sicily) as well as a whole sub-chapter fritti misti, from Emilia-Romagna, Florence, Milan, Naples and Rome, plus a fritto misto di mare. pizzas, calzoni, savory torts and egg dishes.

Then come the intermezzi--or 'in between' dishes, served between the primo (first course, usually a soup or pasta) and the secondo (or second course, usually of meat or fish), These intermezzi has almost disappeared from the modern Italian table in all but the most formal occasions, and include many all-but-forgotten dishes like parmigiano in budino (parmesan cheese pudding), as well as souffles and vol-au-vent.

Then come pizzas, calzoni and savory torts, including the classic pizza margherita and many others. The savory torts include the famous torta pasqualina alla genovese (Genoese Easter spinach pie) and various torte rustiche.

Then come the egg dishes--starting, of course, with frittate of all kinds, but including the lesser known frittatine, or 'little frittatas', fried on both sides like a frittata but including a batter made from milk and flour, which gives the frittatine a lighter texture not unlike quiche. Several omelettes, in the French style, follow, together with poached, shirred and fried eggs (there's even a recipe for fried eggs and bacon!) plus eggs mollette (soft boiled eggs) and finally, hard boiled eggs. Among the egg recipes you'll find uova fritta all'americana--although I doubt many Americans would find it familiar: eggs and ham in tomato sauce.

Seafood dishes follow, including the ever-popular baccala', made in 13 different ways, then eel, all sorts of finny fishes--fried, baked, grilled, poached, simmered in tomato sauce--then crustaceans, mollusks--squid and octopus, of course--and snails.

Meat dishes follow, including a surprisingly large assortment of beef dishes, veal, lamb, pork, poultry, rabbit and frog, game--including what I think of the most typical Italian game dish, cinghiale (wild boar) but also venison, of course, and hare, then the famous quinto quarto: the offal cuts so beloved by Romans like coda alla vaccinara. Among the meat dishes you'll find classics like bistecca alla fiorentina, bollito, brasati (pot roasts), involtini, saltimbocca alla romana and other scallopine dishes, polpette (meatballs) and polpettoni (meatloafs), spezzatini (stews) costolette (chops) including the Roman classic scottadito, cotolette (cutlets), ossobuco alla milanese, abbacchio al forno (roasted baby lamb, a Roman favorite), vitello tonnato, cotechino, pollo alla cacciatora, pollo alla diavola, various turkey dishes (yes, Italians eat turkey--mostly the breast, either roasted or cut into scallopine). The offal dishes include trippa alla romana and other sorts of tripe, liver, sweetbreads, brains, lungs, kidneys--you name it.

Salads, vegetable and bean dishes follow in the next chapter. then fruits, then desserts: cakes, pastries, pies, ice cream...

Suffice it to say, Il Talismano covers the length and breadth of Italian cookery. While Artusi is clearly a work from another time, in Boni's recipe you see Italian cuisine, as we know it today, clearly taking shape. The recipes, too, are more modern: they give measurements--precise ones by Italian standards--cooking times and detailed instructions. Artusi, in more traditional Italian style, will tell you to being by making a soffrito with onion and "the other requisite ingredients"--assuming you know what these are--Boni assumes nothing, taking you by the hand and leading you through the cooking process. No wonder that Il Talismano remains a standard cookbook for home cooks in Italy today, with a status similar to The Joy of Cooking in the US. It is (or traditionally was) the gift that mothers-in-law gave to newly wed brides, in the hopes that she would learn to feed her son well... (And you'd better believe that Angelina gave my mother a copy, too, when she married my father!) It is not an exaggeration to say that you can find Il Talismano in just about every Italian kitchen.

Il Talismano--or a version of it--can be found in English. It goes by the name of The Talisman Italian Cookbook and is available from amazon.com and other outlets. Unfortunately, however, the book is much abridged (300 pages as opposed to the original 1053) and contains additional, unauthentic recipes of the Italian-American variety, which the American publishers thought were needed to attract readership. Still, it's worth a buy.

Post-scriptum: As encyclopedic as Il Talismano was, Ada Boni went on to publish more cookbooks in her lifetime, notably La cucina regionale italiana, Italian Regional Cooking, and an ode to the cuisine of her native Rome, La cucina romana. Here monthly Preziosa continued to publish until 1959. She died in 1973, at the age of 82.

What motivated Boni to produce such a prodigiuos body of work? As the title of her masterwork suggests, she was motivated by a desire to promote happiness since, in her own words:

There can be no true happiness if such an essential part of our daily lives as eating is neglected. Cooking is the most gay of arts and the most pleasant of sciences.

Filetti di pesce all'aqua pazza

Acqua pazza, or 'crazy water' is the humorous term for an extremely easy, but tasty way to poach fish--or, more specifically, to the poaching liquid. You start with an oil and garlic base, as if you were making an ajo e ojo, in a pan wide enough to fit your fish filets in a single layer. Then, letting the oil cool a bit, add cherry tomatoes (pomodorini 'pachino'), which you can split in two if they are fairly large, chopped parsley and a generous splash of white wine. Place filets of a white-fleshed fish (today I used Chilean sea bass) into this 'bath' and add enough water (or fish broth) to come about halfway up the fish. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle with some more parsley. Cover and allow to simmer gently until the fish is cooked through, about 10-15 minutes, depending on the type and thickness of the fish.

NOTES: The version described above is about the most basic version of this dish. For more complexity, you can add olives, capers and/or anchovies to the acqua pazza. If you like some heat, add a bit of peperoncino (or red pepper flakes) to the hot oil along with the garlic.

There also exist more 'refined' versions that start with a soffrito including, in addition to or instead of the garlic, onion, carrot and celery. Some recipes also call for the addition of bay leaf and other herbs to the poaching liquid.

The type of fish is yours to choose, but white-fleshed fish work best. Orata (sea bream) is probably the most typical fish used for acqua pazza, but merluzzo (fresh cod), scorfano (red fish), rombo (turbot) and spigola (bass) are often used--even sgombro (mackerel) although personally I'm a bit dubious about this last option.

You can also make whole fish all'acqua pazza if you like--in fact, this is the original way to make it. If you do, you will have to turn the fish over during cooking to make sure it cooks fully on both sides. With filets, assuming that they are not too thick, this may not be necessary.

Done and ready to serve...

Coda alla vaccinara

This is comfort food at its most comforting, one of the many humble but delicious dishes that typify popular Roman cooking: braised oxtail "butcher style".

The tail is one of those cuts of meat that are known in Italian as the quinto quarto, or literally the "fifth forth". In the old days, animals were cut up in four quarters, or quarti, the first quarto went to nobility, the second to the clergy, the third to the merchant class and the fourth to the military. What was left over--the entrails and such--or the 'fifth quarter', went to proletarians like the butchers. And, of course, if you were a butcher, you'd want to maximize your income by selling the best parts, keeping only the cuts least in demand for yourself.

This, they say, is why so many typical Roman dishes are made from organs: rigatoni con la pajata, for example--rigatoni dressed with a sauce of tomatoes and the intestines of suckling kids, or fritto misto alla romana, which inevitably includes calf's brains, or coratella, the heart, lung and esophagus of lamb, sauteed with artichokes--or coda alla vaccinara.

Even though oxtail is a humble cut--even today it's pretty cheap--it may be the sweetest, most tender, most unctuous meat you will ever eat. If you've never tried it, you owe it to yourself to do so!

Here's how I like to make this dish: saute a soffrito made from finely chopped panetta, onion, carrot, celery and parsley in olive oil over medium-low heat until tender. Then raise the heat to medium-low and add pieces of oxtail with crowding. Allow the oxtails to brown, turning them often, and seasoning with salt and pepper. Be careful not to allow the vegetables to burn; add a bit of water if need be. (The pieces will not caramelize, just lightly brown. That's fine--the main point of this operation is for the meat to insaporire, meaning to absorb the flavor of the soffrito. )

Add wine--some recipes call for red wine and some for white, which I prefer--and allow it to boil off completely, again turning the oxtail pieces. Then some crushed tomatoes (the amount will depend on your taste, but I like abundant sauce so add quite a bit) and then enough water (or broth) to just cover the oxtail pieces, along with a bay leaf and a few cloves. (If you're fussy, these can be tied up in cheesecloth and removed before serving.) Cover and simmer until the meat is very tender, almost falling off the bone, anywhere from 2 to 4 hours, depending on the meat. I find it usually takes more like 4 than 2 hours. This dish is the very definition of 'slow food'.

Now for the finishing touch: About 30 minutes or so before the dish is done, add a generous amount of chopped celery and allow it to cook along with the oxtail and other vegetables. This is very important, as the celery balances the unctuousness of the oxtail and sauce with a bit of astringency. The dish would otherwise be a bit too cloying.

NOTES: Lke other braised dishes, coda alla vaccinara is even better left overnight and reheated the next day. If you want a less rich dish, you can leave it in the refrigerator and skim off some of the excess fat--and there will be a lot of it, since oxtail is a rather fatty cut of meat.

If you want to speed things up a bit, you can simmer the coda in a pressure cooker. However, even after 1-2 hours under pressure, you'll still need to continue simmering off-pressure for about an hour or so to reduce the sauce and concentrate the flavor. So, to my mind, this is one case when you may not save yourself that much time.

Make sure you have plenty of bread to sop up the sauce, which is absolutely divine. In fact, coda may be even better as a sauce for pasta: remove the meat from the bones, chop it up and add it back into the sauce, and use this to dress rigatoni to make rigatoni alla vaccinara.

Like most popular dishes, there are lots of variations. This version is, to my mind, the most straightforward and flavorful. But some recipes call for boiling the oxtail first for its broth (which you can keep for soup or risotto) and then adding it to the soffritto. And many, perhaps most, recipes call for parboiling the celery pieces before adding them to the oxtail at the end, which takes some of the 'bite' off the celery. I find that step unnecessary (especially using American celery, which is quite mild in flavor to begin with) and, in any event, as I said, the celery helps balance the flavors of the dish.

If you like spice, you can add a bit of peperoncino (or red pepper flakes) to the soffrito. Other variations tend toward the sweet or sweet-and-sour. Nutmeg or cinnamon is sometimes added. Some variations even call for raisins and dark chocolate--never had that version, and I'm sure I want to try it...

By the way, besides loving the taste, I feel a special connection to this dish for another reason: apparently the section (rione) of Rome where the butches lived and where tradition has it that this dish was born was called Regola. Well, that's where we used to live, in the piazza San Paolo alla Regola, a quiet little piazza only a few steps from bustling Campo dei fiori. :=))

Home sweet home: our apartment was
just above the edicola.

Pan-fried soft-shell crab and "Italian" cole slaw

One of the things I miss most about Italy is the wonderful Mediterranean seafood. But there is at least one area where North America may best the old country--soft-shell crab, especially here on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay. It's soft-shell crab season again, and those of us living here are especially lucky to have the exquisite soft-shell blue crab, whose season begins in May and lasts until July. The flavor is ineffably sweet, its texture a wonderful mix of crispy and soft. Time to enjoy it while we can!

I like my soft-shell crabs as simply made as possible, cleaned (see below) and dipped in flour seasoned with salt, pepper and--a Chesapeake Bay must--some Old Bay spice. You shallow-fry the crabs for 2 minutes or so on each side, until golden brown, in hot oil. That's all there is to it.

Cole slaw is a classic side for fried soft-shell crabs. As a healthier alternative to the traditional cole slaw with mayo, I 'invented' an Italian-style cole slaw: to the usual shredded cabbage and carrots, you add shredded fennel, very thinly sliced red onion and roughly chopped parsley. Dress with a fruity olive oil and lemon juice, and season with salt and pepper. The result is lovely to look at and really refreshing. Unlike other cole slaws, it is best eaten right away.

Of course, "Italian cole slaw" is something of an oxymoron, as cole slaw is not a traditional Italian dish, but I thought I was being awfully clever and original making an old American dish with an Italian accent. Well, as it turns out, I had "discovered America" as they say in Italian. There are already multiple recipes for my 'invention' on the 'net. Ah well...

NOTES: Soft shell crabs are actually just normal blue crabs that are molting their hard shell. They have to be caught and eaten within about four days after molting or the shell will grow back. Crabs only do this in the late Spring and summer months, hence they are strictly seasonal. (See this Wiki article for details.)

There are a number of other ways to fry soft-shell crabs. And even simpler version is simply to fry the crabs in oil or butter, without flouring. (I find this, however, a bit too simple.) Soft-shell crab can also be dipped in egg after flouring, not unlike Angelina's fried vegetables. You can also fry soft-shell crabs like Southern Fried Chicken, soaking the crabs in buttermilk before dipping in seasoned flour. You can also bread them as you would a chicken cutlet. They can be deep fried instead of pan fried if you like, but I find deep frying a bit too heavy and, in any event, less convenient for home cooking. Be careful when you fry soft-shell crabs, by the way, as they are quite 'juicy' and are liable to splatter. Wear an apron and be ready to jump!

Soft-shell crabs are generally sold live and need to be cleaned before cooking by snipping off their 'apron' and face and removing their lungs. Here a video that shows you how. If you find this a bit too brutal or just don't want to be bothered, you can buy them pre-cleaned or ask your friendly fish monger to clean them for you. These crabs are extremely perishable and should be eaten the same day you buy them--a good idea for any seafood, actually.

Grilled Vegetables

A summer combo: zucchine, peppers, eggplant and cherry tomatoes.

Here's one of our warm weather stand-bys, a big platter of grilled vegetables seasoned with salt, pepper and a generous drizzling of olive oil. Simplicity itself, but as with all simple dishes, execution--and the quality of your raw ingredients--is everything.

Back in the Spring, I made green onions, asparagus, radicchio, zucchine and--as a kind of experiment--a couple of baby artichokes. More recently, I've been using typically Summer vegetables: eggplant, zucchine, peppers and tomatoes. I find that grilling the vegetables over fairly gentle heat, until they are lightly spottled but far from charred, produces the best results. I sometimes brush the vegetables lightly before grilling--it helps them soften and brown. But last night, I just cut them up and slapped them on the grill.

The smoky but sweet taste of grilled vegetables is wonderful with some creamy aged cheese, like camembert or taleggio. Take a bit of veggie, a bit of cheese and eat them together. Yum! (This combination was a 'trick' I learned from a couple from Milan, who cooked their vegetables on a griddle rather than a grill.)

A springtime combo: asparagus, spring onions, radicchio, peppers, zucchine and baby artichokes.

NOTE: The choice of veggies is, of course, up to the cook. I find that eggplant is also tastes great grilled (they really do need to be brushed with a oil, however, or will never attain the right texture.) Belgian endive is also very nice, as are scallions, regular onions. Never tried leeks, but I bet they'd be good, too. Tomatoes, in season, are wonderful: the grilling intensifies their flavor. I like to cut them in half horizontally, sprinkle them with some chopped garlic, salt, pepper and parsley (a persillade in French) and drizzle them with olive oil before grilling. And let's not forget grilled corn on the cob in season, with either butter or oil! Another way to grill vegetables is to wrap them in foil. My friend Susan Faeth does with onions and string beans, and they're absolutely delicious that way. Some people also grill fruit, but I've never tried it.

By the way, the artichokes did not turn out very well. The dry heat produced a still hard, rather bitter flesh. I'll have to look into it--better to parboil them first, I think. Or perhaps they are just not a good vegetable for grilling?

Because some vegetables are so small or thin, it is wise to use either a grilling basket or a special perforated grill that you can place over the barbecue. Otherwise you risk the vegetables falling into your fire!

Spaghetti fatti in casa con pomodori al forno

This dish of homemade egg pasta spaghetti with roasted tomato sauce is one of my favorite dishes from one of my favorite cookbook authors, Giuliano Bugialli. The sauce is simple to make and, if you use dry spaghetti (or store-bought fresh) the dish becomes extremely simple to execute. But if you're feeling a bit ambitious, homemade pasta brings it to another level.

To make the spaghetti: I usually make life easy for myself by using my trusty KitchenAid mixer to form and knead the pasta dough and then the pasta attachments to roll out and cut the dough into various pasta shapes. To make fresh spaghetti for 4 persons, add 3 cups (350g) of flour into the mixing bowl with a pinch of salt, and turn on the mixer with the dough paddle attached and mix at slow speed (setting 1-2). Then add, one by one, 3 eggs. (If you are very hungry or not following the pasta with a secondo, then use 4 cups (500g) of flour and 4 eggs.) Once the eggs are well incorporated, switch to the dough hook and continue to mix, first continuing at a slow speed, then turning it up a notch to a moderate speed (setting 3 or 4) until the dough forms a smooth surfaced, uniform ball. Depending on various factors, including the exact size of the eggs and the ambient humidity in your kitchen, one of two things may happen: either the ball will be very sticky and wet, in which case you can add a bit more flour until the dough becomes firmer, or the dough will remain too dry to form a ball, in which case you can add a bit of water. To make the rolling and cutting easier later on, you can add a drop of oil, before adding the eggs although purists frown on this. Take the ball of dough out of the mixing bowl and place it on a lightly floured spianatoia or other dry surface and knead it by hand for a few minutes until the dough has reached the right consistency--smooth and pliable and yet still firm. (If you find that the dough is too wet, sprinkle it with flour and knead the additional flour into the dough.) Then allow the dough to rest for 30 minutes wrapped in plastic wrap. This rest will 'relax' the dough and make it much easier to work with, but if you lack time, it is not an absolutely necessary step.

Then put the pasta roller attachment on the mixer, set at the widest setting and, taking a piece of dough corresponding to one of the eggs used to make the dough (in other words, if you used 3 eggs, cut the dough into three pieces), flatten it out with your hand or a rolling pin and then pass it through the roller, which will turn the dough ball into a rather thick sheet. If the pasta has a smooth consistency (which is should if it has been properly kneaded and rested) then lightly flour the pasta sheet, turn the roller to the next, slightly narrower setting, and pass the sheet through the roller once again. For spaghetti, you can stop here or go to the third setting if you want your spaghetti a bit thinner. (When making other types of pasta like tagliatelle, fettucine, lasagne or ravioli, you would go thinner still.) Repeat the process with the other pieces of dough--which you will have kept wrapped in plastic so they don't dry out.

Lay out the pasta sheet to dry on a towel or--my preferred method--on a baking rack. The baking rack will allow air to flow on both sides of the pasta, so it will dry more quickly and evenly. In either case, however, it is a good idea to turn the sheets over every once and while so they dry evenly--the top will always dry more quickly than the bottom, even when using the rack. The pasta is dry enough when it feels 'leathery' to the touch but not brittle. If it is not dry enough, the pasta stands will tend to stick together when you cut the sheet, while the dough will become unworkable if dries out. (If you notice that splits are beginning to open on the sides of the pasta sheets, then it is getting too dry, but if you act quickly enough, the dough can still be used.) With some practice (and a few inevitable misfires) recognizing the right degree of dryness will become second-nature.

Once dried to the right point, pass the pasta sheets through the cutting attachment. The pasta attachment set for the Kitchenaid mixer, as well as most pasta 'machines', come with two cutting attachments, one for thin pasta like spaghetti and one for ribbon pasta like tagliatelle. The one for thin pasta will be the roller with cutting blades at narrow intervals looking something like a comb. As the pasta sheet passes through the roller, catch the strands of pasta with your open hand and gently hold them up so they do not fold onto each other. Lay them out on a floured surface (or back on the rack). Given how thick the pasta sheets for spaghetti are, it is possible that some (or a lot) of the strands will stick together. If this happens, then you can just gently pull the strands apart. It's a bit tedious but not too difficult.

To make the sauce: For 4 people, take 1kg (2 lbs.) of very ripe tomatoes. For this dish, I found some nice 'heirloom' plum tomatoes from a local farm that had lots of flavor. Plum tomatoes are best for this dish, but any type--so long as they are nice and ripe--will do. Cut the plum tomatoes horizontally into thick slices. (If using larger tomatoes, such as 'beefsteaks', cut them into chunks.) Then layer the tomato slices or chunks in an oiled baking dish or overproof braiser. (I find a braiser works well, as it is deep enough to contain the pasta later one). On top of your first layer, lay a few anchovy filets (optional) and (my addition) some slivers of garlic. Season with salt, freshly ground black pepper and some red pepper flakes, to taste, and then drizzle over a bit of olive oil. Then repeat until you've used up your tomatoes. Pour a generous amount of olive oil on top of it all--Bugialli calls for a cup of oil (250ml) in all. It will look like an awful lot of oil, but remember you will need that oil to dress the pasta later on, not just to cook the tomatoes. Place the tomatoes in hot oven (2oo C, 400 F) and roast for about an hour. (Another personal twist--Bugialli calls for only 20 minutes in the oven, but the longer time allows the tomatoes to reduce further, which really concentrates their flavor.) This sauce can be made ahead and then gently reheated when you are ready to serve the pasta.

To complete the dish: Boil the fresh spaghetti in plentiful, well-salted water. When it is still quite al dente--and this should take only 2-4 minutes, as fresh pasta cooks much more quickly than dry--scoop the spaghetti out of the boiling water with a spaghetti fork, transfer it to the pan with the tomatoes, together with a good handful of chopped or torn basil (another personal touch--Bugialli calls for chopped parsley). Mix well and serve immediately.

NB: Don't drain the pasta well--allow some of the pasta water to cling to the pasta, which will thin out the sauce a bit and help it to mix with the pasta. If the pasta still seems dry, then just add a ladleful of the pasta water. If you don't have a spaghetti fork, you can always drain the pasta in a colander, but remember to reserve a measuring cup of pasta water to thin out the sauce.

NOTES: Bugialli's recipe can be found in The Foods of Italy. According to Bugialli, this dish is the direct descendant of the very first pasta and tomato dish that is documented in the historical record, from an 1830 cookbook by Vincenzo Corrado.(more on him below). In that original dish, the short stubby 'maccheroni' were baked, still dry, with olive and fresh tomatoes, for a result that is a bit stodgy. This dish--I'm not sure if it's Bugialli's invention or a 'find' from Neapolitan cooking--is a wonderful adaption, more agreeable to modern tastes.

The thing I love about this dish is that roasting the tomatoes gives even fairly insipid tomatoes a new lease on life by concentrating their flavor. And there is something about roasting that provides 'depth' that no amount of simmer ever would.

If you don't have a KitchenAid mixer, of course you can make the pasta dough in the same way either with a food processor (being very careful, however, not to over-process) and using a pasta 'machine' to roll out the dough. Of, if you were my nonna Angelina, you would make the pasta dough on a board and roll it out and cut it by hand--but that's a recipe for another day. And, fi you're not in the mood to make your own spaghetti, no worries--just use store-bought spaghetti, linguine or bucatini. And I'm sure that even a stubby pasta--the original choice anyway--would work very nicely.

The original source for the predessor recipe, Vincenzo Corrado, is considered the greatest Neapolitan gastronome of the 18th century and early 19th centuries. His first masterwork, Il cuoco galante, published in 1773, presented the aristocratic, French-influenced cuisine of the Neapolitan nobility of the time. Much later in life, in 1832, he published a two volume work of over 600 recipes, known as i Pranzi giornalieri, or The Daily Dinners, was his attempt to adapt this cuisine for daily life. The title derives from the fact that the book actually offers recipes for dinners for each day of 16 weeks out of the year, four for each season. It is from this latter book that the recipe was taken. This books also contains the first known written recipes for parmigiana di melanzane--Corrado was quite a guy!

The other great Neapolitan gastronome, Ippolito Cavalcanti, lived in the 19th century, when Neapolitan cuisine took on many of the features that we consider typical today. He is well worth his own post, however, one day. Works by both Corrado and Cavalcanti, along with many other classic cookbooks, are available from Libreria Napolis, a Neapolitan publishing house, presumably only in Italian. I have no idea if they will ship abroad. Unfortunately Corrado's book is not available, as far as I can tell, on amazon.com.

Pollo in porchetta

When I served this dish, several of my dinner guests were wondering what the 'secret' ingredient was that have this roast chicken such a special flavor. Of course, rotisserie chicken is almost always wonderfully juicy and luscious, but pollo in porchetta--chicken prepared in the manner of roast suckling pig--is something else.

The secret is that you stuff the chicken with large chunks of pancetta--about 250g (4 oz.) for a whole chicken--together with sprigs of fresh rosemary, sage, juniper berries, whole pepper corns and salt. Salt and pepper the bird and drizzle olive oil over it. It is a good idea, especially if you want to rotisserie roast it, to truss the bird to keep the legs and wings in place. For instructions see this video from the Rouxbe Online Cooking School:

Rouxbe Online Cooking School & Video Recipes

Then you roast the bird, either using the rotisserie on your barbecue (see post on arista for the set up and technique) or in a hot oven (200 C, 400 F) until golden brown on the outside. The internal temperature should be around 70 C (160 F). Leave the bird out, tented with aluminum foil, for about 20-30 minutes before serving. As when making arista, use the delicious drippings as a sauce, reducing it if need be in a small saucepan.

NOTES: Although the stuffing and seasoning will give any chicken great flavor, of course buying the best quality chicken you can find will make this dish that much better. For this dinner, I bought a locally raised, free range, organic bird. As corny as that may sound, it makes a huge difference.

Pellegrino Artusi, La scienza in cucina e l'arte di mangiar bene

This is an Italian cookbook like no other. Artusi--it is quite common to call this book by the author's name rather than its title--is to Italian cooking what Escoffier's Le Guide Culinaire is to the French: indispensable.

The author, Pellegrino Artusi, was born in 1820 near Forli, in the region of Emilia-Romagna, about halfway between Bologna and Rimini. He was not a professional cook but rather a business man for most of his life, making a fortune as a silk merchant. It was after he retired in mid-life that Artusi dedicated himself to write this classic work. He finished the book in 1881 but could not find a publisher, so he used his own money to self-publish the first edition. He went on to publish 14 editions in his lifetime, selling over 200,000 copies, an incredible number for the time.

Artusi is more than just a cookbook. Writing only about 10 years after the Risorgimento, the unification of Italy, Artusi assembled recipes from many different regions of the new country. His section on pastas, for example, includes tagliatelle, "maccheroni" alla napoletana, maccheroni alla bolognese, pasta con le sarde from Sicily, gnocchi alla romana, passatelli from his native Emilia-Romagna, and so on. In a sense, this book was an attempt to unify the peninsula culinarily just has it had been so recently unified politically (although his attention is not evenly divided; northern dishes far outnumber southern ones). At the time, there was really no such thing as "Italian" cooking, only cooking that was Roman, Ligurian, Neapolitan, Milanese, Bolognese, etc. Artusi even included a glossary of Tuscan cooking terms which he was not sure all Italians would understand. At the time, Italy was also still not fully united linguistically. The Tuscan 'vulgate' had been chosen as the standard form of the Italian language, but most people still spoke their regional dialects. In this project, Artusi was thankfully not totally successful, as Italian cuisine remains even today quite regional--which is one reason it is so wonderfully rich.

One thing I find fascinating about Artusi is that so many of his classic recipes are still enjoyed today: cappelletti in brodo, tortellini, potato gnocchi, pappardelle sulla lepre, risotto nero, frittata di cipolla, scaloppine, polpette (meatballs), osso buco, vitello tonnato, bistecca alla fiorentina, arista (a Florentine pork roast), vegetable sformati, cipolline agrodolci, piselli col prosciutto and insalata russa among many others.

But there is also much in this book that illustrates the evolution of Italian cooking since Artusi's time. He dedicates an entire chapter of this book to fried foods and another just to boiled meats, for example. (Aspics figure prominently, too.) Of course, Italians still eat all sorts of fritti and bolliti today, but you would be hard-pressed to find a modern cookbook where they figure so prominently. His notions of nutrition reflect his times. He lists the 'nutritive value' of various kinds of meat (game and beef are best, fish the least nutritious, he claims) but castigates the Tuscans for being too fond of vegetables, warning that excessive vegetable consumption will give them a 'flaccid constitution'. But perhaps we should not be too quick to dismiss Artusi's advice, since he lived to be 91.

Perhaps the evolution of Italian cuisine is most evident in Artusi's suggested monthly menus. For a dinner in June, for example, he proposes the following:

Minestra in brodo: Stricchetti alla bolognese
Fritto: Fegato di vitello di latte, animelle, cervello e funghi
Umido: Piccioni coi piselli
Tramesso: Zucchine ripiene
Arrosto: Galletti di primo canto e insalata
Dolci: Bocca di dama, Gelato di visciole
Frutta e formaggio: Frutta di stagione e pasticcini in pasta beignet

It is the structure of this meal, more than the dishes themselves, that shows how Italian cuisine has changed. Besides the sheer number of courses, they do not follow the modern structure of antipasto, primo, secondo, contorno and dessert where each course is defined by its principal ingredient. Artusi structures his meal by cooking method: the first course is a soup (a kind of pasta in brodo), followed by a mixed fry of veal liver, sweetbreads, brain and mushrooms, then stewed pigeon with peas, then a stuffed and baked zucchini dish as a 'tramesso' or intermezzo, then a roast chicken with salad, then sweets (lady fingers and cherry ice cream) and finally fruits and cheeses. (People obviously had hearty appetites back then...)

These arcana not withstanding, Artusi is not just a historical curiosity. After more than a century, it is still--along with Ada Boni's Il Talismano della Felicita'--one of the standard Italian cookbooks. No Italian cookbook collection is complete without it. Artusi has been translated into many languages, and is available in English on amazon.com. If you read Italian, the entire text is also available online at Wikisource.

Due sono le funzioni principali della vita: la nutrizione e la propagazione della specie; a coloro quindi che, rivolgendo la mente a questi due bisogni dell'esistenza, li studiano e suggeriscono norme onde vengano sodisfatti nel miglior modo possibile, per render meno triste la vita stessa, e per giovare all'umanità, sia lecito sperare che questa, pur se non apprezza le loro fatiche, sia almeno prodiga di un benigno compatimento.

--P. Artusi, from the Preface of La scienza in cucina

Maryland-style Crab Cakes

To tell the truth, I only recently started making crab cakes, so I'm no expert at it. But last night I decided I wanted to make my own, so I scoured the internet for recipes. There are lots of ways of making crab cakes, but the basic ingredients are crab meat (obviously!), preferably either lump--which I used--or backfin, mayonnaise, egg and just enough bread crumbs to bind the mixture. (A bad commercial crab cake will often have so much bread that it tastes more like stuffing.) You can flavor this mixture with an assortment of other things, most commonly mustard, minced scallion, worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper,parsley, and, here on the shores of the Chesapeake, a dash of Old Bay seasoning is a must. (Many recipes call for some chopped bell pepper, but I find that the taste of the pepper overwhelms the taste of the crab, so I always omit it.) Make sure to mix gently (a spatula works best) and not to overmix--you don't want an entirely even texture and the crab meat should remain in smallish chunks. You then form the cakes, which can either be perfectly rounded, almost like a large meatball, or slightly flattened like a hamburger. You then fry the cakes in moderately hot oil until golden brown on the outside. If frying crab 'balls', you should deep fry them. Crab 'burgers' can be shallow fried. If shallow frying, you need to be careful when you turn them, since the cakes do tend to fall apart, even with the various binding agents.

Crab cakes are typically served with cole slaw and French fries, but I prefer to serve them simply on a bed on green salad dressed with oil and vinegar (or oil and lemon). Tartar sauce is also de rigueur but they are already so rich, I find a slice of lemon to sprinkle on top is all the condiment that I need.

NOTES: The freshness and type of crabmeat really makes all the different between a great crab cake and an ordinary one. Find the best crabmeat you can afford, and try not to get the kind that breaks up into shreds. Crab cakes should contain nice hunks of crab meat, not have a uniform texture.

Obviously, this was not one of Angelina's specialities--but I like it anyway! :=))

Gnocchi di patate con salsa di noci

Folks, it's Thursday again and--as the saying goes, giovedi' gnocchi!--it's gnocchi day! Last week we had gnocchi with pesto sauce. This week it's gnocchi with another, somewhat less known raw sauce from Liguria: salsa di noci or walnut sauce. Looks-wise, this dish is not particularly spectacular--it's rather pale and wan, in fact--but the taste is really something special.

There are any number of different recipes for walnut sauce, but they all include walnuts, a bit of garlic and olive oil ground up like pesto in a mortar and pestle or, in a more modern vein, in a food processor or blender. Many recipes add bread and cream or milk to 'fill out' the sauce , as well as a bit of parsley for color. Some, and I suspect the most genuini, add marjoram and pinoli nuts.

Here's the version we tried tonight: put 200g of walnuts, a clove of garlic a handful of parsley, a pinch of salt and freshly ground pepper in a food processor. Process until you have a rough paste. Then add a dinner roll or thick slice of bread, with the crust removed, soaked in milk and squeezed dry, olive oil, grated parmesan cheese and (if you have some on hand) a tablespoon of Greek yogurt. Start processing and, as the you process, add either milk, cream or 'half-and-half' through the funnel until the mixture forms a fairly smooth sauce. As in the case of pesto, however, you do not want a baby-food-like puree, so don't over-process.

Take your gnocchi (see recipe for homemade potato gnocchi or just use store-bought) and boil them in well salted water until they come to the surface of the water. Transfer them from the water with a slotted spoon into a large bowl, add a generous dollop of the walnut sauce, some more grated cheese and, if you like--although some sources call it heresy--a nut of butter. Mix gently with a spatula, adding a bit of the pasta water to thin out the sauce if need be. Serve immediately with additional grated cheese for those who want it.

NOTES: Many recipes call for blanching the walnuts and removing their semi-bitter skins. I rather like the slightly bitter taste and understand from my research that it is more authentic not to do so. So I don't. But if you are put off by the taste, by all means, you can add this extra step.

The use of a bit of Greek yogurt may seem, at first blush, rather odd. But the real salsa di noci is made with something called prescinsôea, a kind of fresh cheese which is more or less impossible to find outside Liguria. It has a slightly sour taste, which Greek yogurt, with a bit of parmesan cheese, is meant to approximate. (Any genovesi out there can tell us if this really works...!)

The most typical use of salsa di noci is to dress pansoti, or 'pot bellies', a kind of triangular Ligurian ravioli stuffed with cheese or cheese and an mixture of greens and herbs known as preboggion. But that's material for another post. I find that walnut sauce works very well, especially in the summer, with potato gnocchi. Try it and see if you like it...

Uova alla fiorentina (aka the real Eggs Florentine)

The dish known in most of the world as Eggs Florentine--an egg sitting on a bed of spinach braised in butter, topped with mornay sauce and shirred in a hot oven--is, in fact, not Italian but a French invention. Some say it was invented by the venerable G.A. Escoffier. (If you care to look it up, it's Recipe No. 400 in the Guide Culinaire.) As many of you probably know, the term "Florentine" is commonly used in French cuisine to denote a dish in which spinach features.

Eggs Florentine, or Uova alla fiorentina, as actually eaten in Florence is rather another thing. As befits Tuscan cooking, it's rather simpler but very satisfying. You make spinaci ripassati in padella, spinach sauteed in garlic and olive oil (see the post entitled "Cookout all'italiana" for the recipe) then, making a well in the spinach (or several if cooking for a group) you drop an egg into the well and cover the pan. Let the egg cook over very gentle heat until done to your liking--if you're like me, until the whites are just cooked and the yolk still runny. Serve immediately with some crusty bread and a crisp white wine.

NOTES: This is a great dish for weekday evenings when you don't have time to spare. Takes about 15 minutes to make.

I like to saute my spinach with a bit of red pepper for heat, although this is not necessarily typical. If you would like a more elegant variation, place the sauteed spinach in individual ramakins, break the eggs over the spinach and top with grated parmesan cheese, then shirr in a hot oven. (This is, obviously, closer to the Escoffier version.)

Gnocchi alla romana

Here’s a linguistic quandary: The Italian word gnocchi is usually translated as ‘dumplings’, and the dictionary defines the word ‘dumpling’ as "a small mass of leavened dough cooked by boiling or steaming” or “a piece of dough, sometimes filled, that is cooked in liquid such as water or soup”. Well, gnocchi alla romana defies these definitions: it's not made with a dough, it isn't filled and it's not cooked in liquid or by steaming either. So how to translate the name of this dish? Who knows, but anyway, this is how you make these gnocchi:

For 4 people, you heat 1 liter (1 quart) of milk with a dash of salt and a bit of butter. When it just comes to the boil, add 250g (½ lb.) of semolina in a slow stream--in Italian they say a poggia or “like rain--into the simmering milk (just like you make polenta). Lower the heat and let the mixture cook until it has become quite stiff, mix in some grated parmesan cheese, and then spread it out thinly--about ½ cm (¼ in.) or so thick--and as evenly as you can on a baking sheet or other flat surface, which you will have lighted oiled or buttered to prevent sticking. (A wet spatula is ideal for this operation.)

Let the semolina mixture cool completely (it speeds things up considerably if you stick the baking sheet into the fridge) and then, using a glass or cookie cutter, cut out disks of the semolina. Arrange those disks in a buttered baking or gratin dish, layering them in slightly overlapping rows like so many roof tiles. Top with copious amounts of grated parmesan cheese and melted butter. Some recipes also call for grated gruyere which, of course, makes for a richer dish. You then either bake the gnocchi in a hot oven (200° C, 400° F) or pass it under the broiler until nicely browned on top. Let the sizzling gnocchi ‘settle’ for a few minutes and then serve them in their baking dish.

NOTE: This dish does not need any kind of sauce, although one correspondent tells me that she serves these with ragu for her husband, who does not care for the taste of butter. Some recipes call for an egg yolk (or two) to be added to the semolina after it thickens, off heat, which will give the gnocchi a richer coloration and a slightly firmer texture. Try it if you like.

I find that the broiler technique is both quicker and more appealing, as baking in the oven takes 15 minutes or more, by which time the gnocchi can dry out a bit.

After you cut out the gnocchi disks, you will be left with scraps of semolina. Don’t throw them out, whatever you do. Save the scraps for later. If you gather them up and press them together into a ball of ‘dough‘. When you are ready for another meal, form little croquettes out of this ‘dough’, roll them in bread crumbs and fry them until golden brown. These croquettes are absolutely delicious--even better, if you ask me, than the gnocchi themselves…

Chiocciole con salsiccia, piselli e ricotta

This was a dish I made up on the spot today, finding a stray single link of Italian sausage, some leftover ricotta and some frozen peas at the bottom of the freezer. The result was very good indeed--I thought I had stumbled on a new classic, until I check it out on internet and found that, yes, the dish, or something very much like it, does indeed already exist. The dish, rigatoni alle salsicce e ricotta, is from Molise, one of the less known regions of Italy, on the Adriatic coast, south of Abruzzo and north of Puglia. I hadn't been so disappointed since I had thought I had 'invented' whitefish brandade...

In any event, you saute some thinly sliced onion in olive oil and, when it is soft, add crumbled sausage meat and allow it to insaporire for a few minutes over gentle heat. (The meat should not caramelize.) Season well and add frozen peas and crushed tomatoes (or chopped fresh tomato if you have it) and allow that to simmer until it has well reduced and the tomato has separated from the oil (see photo).


Boil the chiocciole in well salted water until al dente, then add to the sauce. Mix well, over low heat then add a healthy dollop of fresh ricotta and just a bit of grated pecorino. Mix again and serve, topped with additional pecorino for those who like it.

NOTES: You would normally add a ladleful of the hot pasta water to a sauce mixed with ricotta cheese to loosen it a bit and smooth it out. But the pasta shape here--chiocciole, or little snails, are one of the those pastas (like shells) that tend to carry water in their insides, so simply don't drain them too well and you should have enough liquid to form a nice, smooth sauce.

Of course, you don't have to use chiocciole. Other forms of stubby pasta will do--the molisani themselves use rigatoni. But I think that some kind of concave shaped pasta would be best, as they tend to 'catch' the bits and pieces of sausage and peas within their cavities.

Pappa al pomodoro

In the days when freshly baked bread was a staple of everyday life, a plethora of recipes grew up for using leftover stale bread. This classic Tuscan recipe is, to my mind, the very best of the lot--pappa al pomodoro, literally "mush with tomatoes". (Sounds better in Italian, doesn't it?)

To make this dish, you start as so many Italian dishes do, with a soffritto: saute chopped garlic and a peperoncino (or red pepper flakes) in olive oil and when you just begin to smell the garlic, add freshly chopped tomato or, if you don't have any on hand, crushed canned tomato. Simmer for a few minutes, until the tomato has melted (if fresh) or simply reduced (if canned). Add cubes of day old or stale bread, mixing well. Then add enough water or broth, mixing all the while, for the bread to start to come apart and form a fairly firm, uniform 'mush'. (It should be firm enough to eat with a fork, although you should use a spoon.) Continue simmering for about 5 minutes, then add a good handful of fresh basil leaves--no need to tear or chop them--stir and then take it off the heat and cover. Allow the pappa to rest about 20-30 minutes and serve, topped with un filo d'olio and (if you're a pepperhead like me) freshly ground pepper.

NOTE: Pappa al pomodoro is very good--perhaps even better--served the day after. It is delicious at room temperature and slightly warmed, but never scalding hot.

You need good crusty bread to make pappa al pomodoro. This is a Tuscan dish, so Tuscan bread would obviously be a first choice. Sandwich bread--besides the fact that it never seems to go stale, just moldly--would turn out too soft. Yes, this is mush, but mush with character!

There are, of course, variations on this basic recipe. Some variations call for other odori besides (or instead of) garlic, typically onion, carrot and/or celery. The ratio of water/broth to bread can be varied according to how firm you like your pappa--I like mine very firm. And the ratio of tomato to bread can vary, depending on how 'red' you like your pappa. If you use fresh tomatoes, you should peel them and take out the seeds, but, to be honest, I'm usually too lazy to do so...

Arista alla fiorentina

Like panzanella, arista alla fiorentina is one of the signature dishes of Tuscan cookery. And like so many Tuscan dishes, it is as simple as it is good.

To start, you take a nice pork loin roast. Try to find loin that is not too lean--very lean meat will be less flavorful and has a higher likelihood of turning out dry. Depending on from what part of the loin the roast is taken, it may have had a bone removed from its interior and been tied. If so, untie the roast. If not, then 'butterfly' the roast so that it opens up like a book.

Rub the inside of the roast with dry marinate made from rosemary leaves, garlic, salt and pepper. (Some recipes also call for sage.) This marinade can be chopped in a food processor, but do not over-process--they marinade should remain rather rough. I like to include whole or crushed peppercorns rather than ground pepper--it adds more flavor and texture, and I rather like the way the odd peppercorn will explode in your mouth when you bite into it. Then roll and tied up the roast. With the aid of a paring knife, 'lard' the roast by inserting more of the marinade into the meat at regular intervals. Rub the exterior with any remaining mixture and pour over a bit of olive oil (see photo below). You can start to roast the arista immediately, but I find it has more flavor if you leave the meat to marinate for several hours, or even overnight.


According to the great gastronome Pellegrino Artusi, in his masterwork La scienca in cucina e l'arte di mangiar bene (Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well), the best way to roast an arista is on a spiedo, or spit. If your barbecue has a rotisserie feature, then skewer the roast and place it above a drip pan in the barbecue, into which you can pour some white wine. Then grill over moderate indirect heat (i.e., leaving the burners directly under the roast off or, if using a charcoal grill, pushing the charcoal to the sides), lighting the rotisserie burner if you have one to aid in searing the roast to a beautiful golden brown. If you don't have a rotisserie burner, you may want to turn up the bottom burners to aid browing.


Depending on the size of your roast, let it cook for 45-60 minutes. Check the internal temperature after about 30-45 minutes. Pork is well done at 160 degrees Farenheit (about 70 Celcius). Remove the roast from the fire a few degrees under this, as it will continue to cook. Be careful not to overcook the pork loin, which is always rather lean and will dry out. Let it rest at least about 20-30 minutes before serving. It can also be served at room temperature--in fact, if you ask me, it's even better that way. (In fact, Artusi includes his recipe for arista in the chapter on rifreddi, or cold dishes.)

NB: Don't throw out the drippings in the pan--they are delicious poured over the roast. Reduce them in a saucepan if they are too thin.

Arista is often served accompanied by roasted potatoes (which can be cooked in the drip pan or roasting pan) but this time, having eaten pasta as a first course, I opted for some spinaci ripassati in padella (see my Italian cookout post for the recipe).

NOTES: If your barbecue doesn't have a rotisserie, it can be simply placed in a roasting pan and cooked over indirect heat. You can also simply roast the arista in a hot oven, like a regular pork roast. It will be perfectly delicious cooked this way as well. In fact, one advantage is that you can add your potatoes to the roasting pan--they will soak up the delicious pork juices in the process.

Arista can also be made with a bone-in pork loin roast, if you can find it. The bones provide extra flavor. In this case, however, butterflying does not work too well. I would 'lard' the roast with some of the dry marinade and apply the rest to the exterior. Although you could truss a bone-in roast, too, it stikes me as unnecessary.

Keep your leftovers. As mentioned above, to my taste, arista is actually even more delicious cold than warm. Thinly sliced, it makes a wonderful sandwich.

Arista has an interesting history. The story goes that the name, if not the dish itself, goes back to the Council of 1430, held in Florence, where emissaries from the Eastern and Western churches, made a vain attempt at reconciling the growing rift between the two branches of Christianity. But the Council was a culinary, if not a religious, success. The Greek-speaking emissaries from Constantinople dubbed the pork roast served there aristos, meaning excellent' or 'the best'. And the Italianized version arista has been used ever since to describe the dish.

Panzanella con "un po' di tutto"

As many readers will know, panzanella is a classic Tuscan bread, red onion and tomato salad. Well, the other day I had on hand some old bread and a few ripe tomatoes, but I also had bits and pieces of other ingredients fit for a salad--olives, cucumbers and half an avocado. And, why not?--I made panzanella with those extra ingredients and dubbed my spur of the moment version, un po' di tutto, or a "little bit of everything". A slight exaggeration, perhaps, but this dish does illustrate how once you know a basic recipe, it is easy and a lot of fun to play around--within limits. I have never been one for creativity for its own sake, or as a substitute for a solid grounding in the classics.

Anyway, if you want to make this dish, cube some day old bread and splash it with a bit of water and allow it soften for a few minutes. (Obviously, we're talking about firm, crusty bread here--see notes.) Squeeze it dry and throw it in a bowl with roughly chopped tomato, chopped red onion and a few basil leaves, salt and pepper. NB: Although it is not illustrated in the photo, for a real panzanella, you should crumble the bread up, in which case it doesn't much matter if you cube the bread or just cut it up into chunks. This time, though, wanting a change, I left the bread cubes as they were. Apologies to any Tuscans who may happen to be reading this blog...!

Now add your 'extra' ingredients, as you like--pitted olives, chopped cucumbers, celery, chopped avocado--on this occasion. You could also add tuna, hard boiled egg, anchovy, capers, chopped parsley or other fresh herbs. Dress with a generous amount of oil, then sprinkle lightly with wine vinegar. Allow to rest for a few minutes and then serve. (Can also be made ahead, for a picnic for example.)

NOTES: Panzanella is extremely easy to make, but there are some tips to bear in mind, starting with the kind of bread you use, which will really make or break the dish. The classic bread, it goes without saying, is Tuscan bread, whose defining characteristic is its lack of salt. This makes it rather bland for eating on its own, but perfect to using in cooking or to fare la scarpetta, wiping your plate with bread. (I remember my mother in law, while on vacation with us during a visit in Italy, wondered aloud if they were too poor in Florence to afford salt!) There are lots of stories about why, one being that Pisa, which is downstream from Florence along the river Arno and was the port through which much of Florence's trade would flow, hiked the prices a bit too high for the frugal Florentines, who decided to go without. You can read all about Tuscan bread in this interesting article.

Now even if you dont' have Tuscan bread, use a bread with a nice, firm crumb. Sandwich bread won't do. A good pane casereccio would be fine, IMHO. Sourdough breads are nice, although the taste is not too close to the original, but heck, I've even made panzanella with whole wheat bread and really enjoyed it. The important thing is, you need a bread that will stand up to being soaked in water and squeezed dry. And you do need to squeeze the bread well. If not, it will be too soggy to absorb the taste of the olive oil, vinegar and other condiments.

The other key ingredient is, of course, the tomato. It can be hard to find good, ripe tomatoes--don't bother attempting the dish if you can't find them. So-called 'heirloom' tomatoes make a nice panzanella as they have real, honest to goodness tomato flavor. The varietal, on the other hand, does not make that much difference, at least to my taste. It goes without saying, perhaps, but do not use canned tomatoes! This is strictly a summer dish.

Last, but certainly not least, the olive oil: use the best quality, fruitiest extra-virgin olive oil you can find. Again, Tuscan olive oil, which is quite fruity but not quite as bold as, say, Puglian olive oil, is the obvious first choice. But any fruity olive oil will do. As for any salad, don't use 'pure' olive oil or vegetable oil, or you will be disappointed with the results. Oh, and one more thing: use white wine vinegar, not red, which will 'stain' the bread.

Postscript: For a wonderful article--almost a treatise--on making the real panzanella, see "Tuscan Tomatoes" by Corby Kummer, from The Atlantic Online. And reading this great article, I find out that what I thought was my idiosyncratic twist on panzanella is a perfectly acceptable--and traditional--variant! Ah, well, as they say, there is nothing new under the sun...