Zuppa dei valdesi

A reader who I'll call "Nancy T." wrote me recently to tell me about a dish called zuppa that her Piedmontese grandmother used to make. The word is one of several in Italian that mean 'soup' (see our Glossary for details). A zuppa is rustic soup, typically the kind that you are meant to have with bread, either dunk into it while you eat like the Neapolitan zuppa di pesce or laid at the bottom of your bowl before the soup is ladled on top like the Tuscan zuppa di porri. Nancy's grandmother's zuppa, on the other hand, is an example of the medieval practice of actually making zuppa out of leftover bread. In her zuppa, the slices of old bread are sautéed in butter and simmered with enough broth to cover and soften the bread while it cooks until it reaches the consistency of a pudding, reminiscent of the Tuscan pappa al pomodoro without the tomato.

Nancy asked if I had ever heard of her grandmother's zuppa. I hadn't but the recipe intrigued me—and it also sounded delicious! After a bit of digging, I found what I think is the traditional Piedmontese recipe for her grandmother's dish. The full name is zuppa dei valdesi,  also known in the local dialect as supa barbetta, and it comes from the valli valdesi, an area consisting of three valleys near Torino. The dish is a typical example of cucina povera, showing how, with a little imagination, the humblest of ingredients can be turned into exquisite eating.

Ingredients (for 4-6 people)

500g (1/2 lb.) stale bread or grissini
100g (3-1/2 oz.) grated cheese (see Notes)
100g (1/2 cup) butter (or more, to taste)
1 liter (4 cups) chicken (or vegetable) broth, or as much as you need.
Nutmeg, cloves and/or cinnamon, to taste
Salt, if needed

Directions

Break up the old bread (or grissini) into pieces. Sauté them gently in half the butter until lightly brown on all sides. Season with one or more of the spices, mixing a few times to ensure that the bread is evenly coated, then add enough broth to cover. Simmer the bread in the broth, covered, for about 15-20 minutes, or until the bread has softened and the broth has been completed absorbed by the bread. (You should add a bit more broth if needed to keep the bread moist.)

When the bread is done simmering, taste it and adjust for seasoning. Top with the grated cheese and the other half of the butter, which you will have melted separately.

You can serve your zuppa just like this, but for extra flavor, put the zuppa in a hot oven (200°C/400°F) for about 10 minutes until golden brown on top. Or just pass it under a broiler for a few minutes.  Serve immediately.

NOTES: Now here is the way that Nancy describes her grandmother's zuppa:

For us, typically after bagna cauda, when we have leftover bread, and it gets a little dry, we make  this dish (unless, of course, we wait too long and the bread is like a  brick).  I slice the loaves into about 1" slices.  Then, in a large pan, add "a nice piece of butter", as my grandmother would say. 3-4  Tablespoons. After the butter melts, the bread gets arranged, and it  browns in the butter.  It's turned over, adding more butter, of course.  Meanwhile, I've got about 6-8 cups of chicken broth heating up in a pot  behind the bread pan.  When the bread's been turned and had a chance to  brown a little, I start adding the broth, gradually. Kind of like  risotto. When about half of the broth is absorbed, the bread gets turned again, and more broth added.  In the end, I usually flip them once  more. 

The recipe today is usually a bit more upscale, made with those ubiquitous bread sticks called grissini, but Nancy T'.'s grandmother's version using stale bread is actually how the soup was originally made. In the old days, they often layered the bread with Savoy cabbage and let it simmer slowly for a few hours by the fire. There are also recipes that call for some sautéed onion. One rather extravagant version calls for cured pork and various herbs (bay leaf, rosemary, sage) interspersed between the layers of cabbage and bread.

The cheese would typically be Toma, a semi-hard cow's milk Piedmontese (and French) cheese, but if you can't find it, parmesan or grana padano would do. Or you could go for an Alpine cheese such as fontina, gruyère or Emmenthal.

Nancy recommends washing down this dish with some good, full-bodied red wine, and I would, too. It may be simple but—especially if you are generous with the cheese and butter—it is quite hearty.

There is little doubt that this dish is quite ancient in its origins. According to Anne del Conte in The Gastronomy of Italy:

Of all foods, zuppa is the most obvious inheritance from the feudal system centered on the castle. The lords and ladies ate what was considered noble food. The servants made use of the leftovers from the high table, which included large slices of bread that had been used instead of plates to hold meat, fish and other food, and to these they added herbs, wild plants and water, the result being cooked at length.  

The zuppe of the 15th and 16th centuries were very thick, made with toasted bread layered with other ingredients, often cheese, sugar and spices, and then placed in the oven. 

The valdesi, by the way, were the followers of a religious movement known as valdismo that began in the 12th century. It preached the virtue of humility and poverty, much like the Franciscans in Umbria who came shortly after them, and I suppose this 'poor' soup reflects those values. Unlike the Franciscans, however, they eventually broke with the Catholic Church. The Chiesa Evangelica Valdese still exists today and have a large place of worship in Rome among other places. They are known for their progressive social views, promoting, among other things, gay and reproductive rights, stem-cell research, the right to die and secular government. William Paca, one of the signers of the US Declaration of Independence, belonged to the movement. The US branch of the movement merged into the Presbyterian Church in the late 19th century.

Chiacchiere

I wasn't much on sweets even as a kid, but these little sugar-dusted ribbons of fried dough—variously known as chiacchiere, nastrini, stracci, cenci, frappe and a myriad of other names—were my one weakness in the sweets department. They are a traditional treat for Carnival, a time for over-indulgence, culinary and otherwise, getting in your 'last licks' before the privations of Lent.

The recipe is actually quite simple. The dough strongly resembles the dough for making stuffoli, but it is rolled out flat like pasta and cut into ribbons or squares or other shapes as you like. Even with such similar ingredients, the taste and texture are entirely different, an example of the Italian talent for creating incredible variety out of a limited palette.

They are not overly sweet—one reason I like them so much—but they are surprisingly addictive. So make lots!

Ingredients (enough for a large plateful of chiacchiere)

200g flour
1 whole egg plus 1 yolk
50g sugar
2 Tbs. olive oil (or butter)
1 jigger of sambuca, anisette, grappa or white wine
A pinch of baking powder (optional)

Oil for frying
Confectioner's sugar for dusting

Directions

Mix the first six ingredients together into a ball. You may need to add more flour or a bit of water until you have a mixture that is rather soft but neither sticky nor tacky. Knead the mixture for a good five minutes until you have a nice, elastic dough. (If using a KitchenAid mixer, use the paddle to mix the ingredients, then switch to the hook to knead the dough on slow.) Wrap your ball of dough in cellophane and then a towel and let it rest for at least an hour.

Divide the two into two parts and roll it out just as if you were making fresh egg pasta. If using a pasta machine, roll it to a medium thinness (notch 3 on a KitchenAid mixer pasta attachment).

Then cut the dough out into the shape(s) you like with a fluted pastry wheel. The most typical, perhaps, is the rectangle that is partially split in the middle as pictured above, but Angelina favored simple ribbons (see photo below). Some folks like to pinch the ribbons in the middle to create little 'bow-ties'.

Deep fry the dough shapes in moderate hot oil. (Not too hot: remember dough fries very quickly and  if your oil is too hot, it may darken too much.) They should puff up immediately, especially if you've used a bit of baking powder. Turn them often with a slotted spoon so they cook evenly. Fry until they are just golden brown, not too dark. (The dark ones don't look as pretty but they are still good—you can exercise you cook's prerogative and enjoy them yourself in the kitchen while no one is looking...)

Drain the fried chiacchiere on paper towels and let them cool. (They can be served lukewarm or at room temperature.) Before serving, dust them with confectioner's sugar. I like to toss them delicately the a bit of sugar first, then top them with a further dusting. They are at their best eaten immediately but are still good for a day or two after they are made.

Chiacchiere, Nana-style

NOTES: No Italian carnevale would be complete without a plate (or two) of chiacchiere, although other Carnival sweets can also be found around the country. In Naples, the other classic dish of the season is lasagna di carnevale, Angelina's signature dish. A dinner featuring both—and a nice roast, perhaps, for the secondo—would be almost overwhelming, but then, Carnival is all about excess.

The recipe for chiacchiere has changed remarkably little. Northern versions tend to use butter and spirits like grappa for the dough, while in the south they use olive oil and sambuca. (The original recipe, I believe, used lard, which you may try if you dare!) Modern recipes add a bit of baking powder (as for stuffoli) for a lighter, puffier result. You will also see recipes that add some additional flavors, usually lemon zest or, as in this lovely version I just saw today, a bit of orange zest. Some recipes will have you bake the dough ribbons in a hot oven, but I've never tried that—don't like the idea, frankly.

The recipe is apparently extremely old, dating back to ancient Roman times, when they (or something similar) was called frictilia.

Fagioli con le cotiche

Tuscans are known for being the biggest bean-eaters in Italy, so much so that they are sometimes called mangiafagioli in Italian. But Romans are no slouches in the legume department, either. They love fava beans, of course, and they make a mean pasta e lenticchie, for example, even if the Roman version is actually quite different than the one Angelina used to make. But the ne plus ultra of Roman bean cookery has got to be fagioli con le cotiche, a kind of Roman-style pork and beans, made with cannellini or (even better, in my book) borlotti beans simmered in tomato sauce with strips of pork rind. A classic example of how Roman frugality can produces hearty and delicious results.

Ingredients (for 4-6)

For simmering the beans:

500g (1 lb.) dried cannellini or borlotti beans

A garlic clove

A sprig of fresh parsley

Salt

For simmering the pork rind:

250g-500g (1/2-1 lb.) pork rind, depending (see Notes)

A stick of celery

1/2 medium onion, in one piece

Salt and pepper

For the tomato sauce:

250-500g (1/2- 1 lb.) canned tomatoes, depending (see Notes)

1/2 medium onion, finely chopped

1-2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

A handful of parsley, finely chopped

Lard or olive Oil

Salt and pepper

Directions

Soak the beans overnight. Simmer the beans in fresh water to cover, along with a garlic clove and parsley (if using—see Notes) until quite tender, about 1-1/2 to 2 hours.

Meanwhile, prepare the pork rind: 

Raw pork rind

Pre-boil the rind for about 15 minutes. Remove the rind and let it cool for a few minutes. When it is cool enough to handle, cut it into thin strips. (Some recipes will tell you to trim of the fatty underside with a knife, but this is a bit too fussy for my taste and, anyway, I like the fattiness!) Then simmer the strips in water to cover, lightly salted, with the celery and onion. They will be done when they are tender but still have some bite to them, which will take, say 45-60 minutes.

Prep'd and ready to go...

Prepare the tomato sauce in a large casserole large enough to contain all the ingredients. A terracotta or enameled cast iron pot would be ideal. Make a soffritto by sautéing the onion, garlic and parsley gently in lard (the traditional choice) or olive oil, seasoning while the odori are cooking. Add your canned tomatoes, puréeing them by passing them through a food mill into the pot. Let the tomatoes simmer until they have reduced into a sauce, about 15-20 minutes.

Now it's time to put it all together: Add the pork rind to the tomato sauce and let them insaporire (see Glossary) for a minute or two, then add the cooked beans. Mix everything together well. Add a bit of the pork rind water and/or bean water if you find that the mixture is a bit dry. Simmer it all for about 30 minutes to allow the flavors to get to know each other.

Serve hot. Like many long-simmered bean dishes, fagioli con le cotiche are even better if allowed to rest overnight and reheated the next day.

NOTES: Raw pork rind can be hard to find in the States. I am fortunate enough to have a farm supplier close by that has it, but where I live, in any event, you will rarely (if ever) find it in a supermarket. I suppose that butchers will also carry it or take an order. Unfortunately, there is no real substitute for it in this dish. After all the name of the dish is 'beans and pork rind' in Italian! But if you were to substitute pork belly or some other fatty cut of pork, I would venture you'd wind up with something quite tasty. 

The basic building blocks of this recipe—simmer the beans, simmer the pork rind, make the sauce and mix it all together and simmer for a bit more—is common to all the recipes you'll see for this dish. But like so many classics, there are variations on the basic theme, and they revolve mostly around three factors:

First, the ratio of bean to pork rind. In some recipes, the ratio is 2:1, or even greater, so that the pork is really only there as a flavoring agent. In these versions, the dish can serve as a a contorno. In other recipes, the ratio can increase to as much as 1:1, so that the pork is there as an equal partner, so to speak. In these heartier versions, the dish graduates to a full contorno or even a piatto unico or one-dish meal, accompanied by nice crusty bread and followed by a green salad and perhaps a piece of fruit.  I just use as much of each as I have on hand, since it will be delicious no matter what! (By the way, if you have any left over, these beans go great with pasta.)

Second, the dish can be more or less in rosso, by adding more or less tomato, depending on your preference. And you can use canned tomatoes passed through a food mill (my preference) or a passata di pomodoro.

Third, the aromatic vegetables (aka odori) that make up the soffritto for the tomato sauce and are thrown in to simmer with the pork and beans vary from recipe to recipe. The above options are the ones I like, but for example, many recipes will tell you to make the tomato sauce with a classic soffritto italiano of onion, celery and carrots. Personally, I don't care for the sweetness that carrots lend to beans, and prefer to stick to the allium family. Some recipes will have you simmer your beans with no aromatics at all, since they will be absorbing the flavors of the tomato sauce and pork in the final stage anyway. And the pork rind, too, can simply be simmered in lightly salted water.

Some recipes also call for adding a bit of prosciutto fat to the soffritto, but personally I'd call that gilding the lily, especially if, as I like to do, you are cooking with lard. Even I have limits to my pork fetishism.