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.

Zeppole

Zeppole are so easy to make—after all, they are basically just fried pizza dough balls—it is almost embarrassing to post about it, but since it was one of my favorite snack foods that Angelina made, it deserves pride of place on this blog. And, in any event, who doesn't like fried dough?

Zeppole can be sweet or savory. Angelina would make the savory variety. Simply make a regular batch of pizza dough (see my post on Angelina's pizza casereccia for the recipe) and, grabbing a walnut-sized ball of dough, make a well in the middle of the ball with your finger and place a single anchovy fillet inside. Then bring the sides around the fillet to cover the well and form a nice ball. You may need to roll the dough around in your hands a bit to make sure the opening is well sealed. Continue in the same fashion with the rest of the dough.

Now fry them gently in olive oil, or a mix of olive and canola oil, until they are nice and golden brown on all sides. It will take no longer than five minutes or so. Regulate the temperature so they do not brown too quickly, before the insides have a chance to cook. They will swell up as they fry, which is exactly what you want. Drain them on paper towels or on a rack.

Zeppole are really best eaten right away, but you can keep them warm in a slow oven, on a baking rack placed over a cookie sheet, or even reheat them later. They will lose a bit of their crispiness but none of their goodness.

NOTES: There seems to be some confusion, let's call it, about the name these little guys. That's not surprising, since it is common in Italian cooking, which is still highly regional, for the same dish (or with slight variations) to change name from region to place to place. According to Neapolitan gastronome Jeanne Caròla Francesconi, the 'official' name for what Angelina—and many others—call zeppole is pasta cresciuta, with the name zeppole reserved for the sweet variety. Readers have told me that they would call this dish pettole, which is apparently the name given to them in Puglia and Basilicata. Other there are still other names, depending on where you go: sfingi, fritelle... Well, this being Angelina's blog, I'll keep calling them zeppole.

The more common sweet version of zeppole are usually filled with crema pasticcera or sweetened ricotta mixed with some chocolate bits, or just the dough. Sweet zeppole dusted with confectioners' sugar before serving. Of course, all kinds of other fillings, both sweet and savory, make for many variations. Without a filling, they can be shaped into rings rather than balls. Some variations are made from choux pastry and baked. But these savory, anchovy-filled fried zeppole are the ones I remember from my childhood and will always be my favorite.

Zeppole are traditionally eaten in Naples on St. Joseph's Day, March 19. In Rome a very similar fried pastry is, in fact, called bignè di san Giuseppe and eaten the same day. But apparently in other parts of Italy, such as Calabria, zeppole are traditional around New Years, which makes them timely around now. But, honestly, these are so good you won't want to limit your zeppole making to one time of year. 

A wonderful snack food, zeppole can also be used as a kind of antipasto, either alone or as part of medley of different offerings. Just remember to make enough: like potato chips, no one can eat just one!

Post-scriptum: One reader (my mother!) informs me that, yes, Angelina also made the sweet variety of zeppole, too. Funny I don't remember that too well. But then, I was an unusual child in that I didn't have a sweet tooth. I would eat sweets, of course, if there were given to me, but I didn't seek them out. Nor, apparently, did I find them all that memorable. 

Struffoli!

Struffoli, small balls of dough fried and then covered in honey, is the quintessential Christmas sweet of Naples and its region of Campania. Although I don't have much of a sweet tooth, it is very dear to my heart; it was one of nonna Angelina's signature dishes, and it never failed to make an appearance each year around the holidays. In our family they were known as 'Nana's honey balls'. As a child I took the name literally, and until I moved to Italy, I thought that they were my grandmother's invention. You can imagine my surprise then, when, on vacation on the Amalfi coast one year, I peered into the window of a pasticceria and saw... Nana's honey balls! Where on earth, I thought to myself, had they gotten the recipe? Well, I soon enough learned that Nana's secret recipe was actually no secret at all. In fact, the recipe is ancient, dating all the way back to the Greeks who settled southern Italy, founding, among other things the city of Naples or Neapolis, meaning 'new city' in Greek.

In any event, these little babies are actually quite simple to make, but, like many old-fashioned dishes, they require a bit of time and tender loving care:

Ingredients (for a small plateful of stuffoli)

300g (3 cups) flour
3 eggs
Butter, a walnut-sized chunk or 3 Tbs. oil
Rum,  or other spirit (optional)
Zest of one lemon
Salt, a pinch

Vegetable (or olive) oil for frying

300g (1 jar) honey
Candied fruits (optional)
Confettini or candied 'sprinkles'

Directions

You begin by making dough with the first six ingredients. This was traditionally done by making what the Italians call a fontana, or fountain of flour, in the middle of which you make a well for other ingredients, then slowly incorporating the flour into the well by hand as you beat the eggs and other liquid ingredients with a fork. These days, however, a stand mixer makes short work of this. Just put in your flour, then the other ingredients, and mix until you get a nice dough, just as if you were making pasta.

Once the ingredients have formed a smooth dough, form it into a ball and wrap it in plastic wrap. Let the dough rest for a good 30 minutes or so.

After the dough has rested, take a handful of it at a time and roll them out into 'cords' as if you were making gnocchi, about the thickness of your little finger (if you can manage it, otherwise as close to that as you can get). Then cut the cords into short lengths, again just like you are making gnocchi.

 Take each little piece of dough, one by one, and quickly rub them between your palms in a circular motion to form little balls, the smaller the better. Place the little balls on a floured towel as you work, making sure that they are all in a single layer so they don't stick. Just before proceeding to the next step, you grab the ends of the towel and swish the balls around to lightly flour them.

Heat the oil in a large pan. You want lots of oil so the little balls can deep fry in it. When the oil is nice and hot, but not boiling, plunge the dough balls into the oil a handful at a time. The oil will immediately bubble up vigorously. Not to worry, it's supposed to be that way.

Fry the dough balls until they are lightly browned. Drain on paper towels while you proceed to the next step.

 Now, in an ample sauté pan or saucier large enough to hold all of the dough balls, gently heat the honey until it liquifies. Add the dough balls, stir them gently to coat. Allow the balls to soak up the honey for just a minute or two. (They should not get soggy at all.) If using candied fruit (see Notes below) you will want to add some at this point.

Remove your struffoli from the pan with a slotted spoon and arrange them on a plate. It is common to arrange struffoli in a ciambella or ring, but you can also simply pile them high. I like to form them into a little 'Mount Vesuvius' as picture above. Then sprinkle your pile with confettini  (or candy sprinkles). It is also customary to decorate and flavor struffoli with candied fruits, in particular little bits of candied oranges and cherries, in addition to the spinkles. You can do this if you like, although—as far as I can remember—Angelina never did, so I follow suit. They can be eaten immediately, but improve with age.

NOTES: Although it takes a few steps, the recipe is really pretty much foolproof. The only trick, the extent there is one, is to make your struffoli as small as you can manage, as that will mean more honey flavor and less chance of an undercooked middle.

There are a few variations on the dish, although none that change its essential character. Like many traditional recipes, the original fat for both making and frying the dough was strutto or lard, not oil. Today, it is more usual to use butter for the dough and vegetable or even olive oil for frying. Not all recipes call for the liquor. And some recipes call for orange rather than lemon zest. And the ratio of egg to flour varies from recipe to recipe. Here I have indicated the same 'golden rule' as for pasta dough: 1 egg per 100g (1 cup) of flour. But recipes may call for more or less egg, some for an extra yolk for color and richness. Some recipes omit the fat from the dough—be it butter, oil or lard—altogether, while others call for significantly more fat than indicated here. And, finally, some modern recipes, especially Italian-American ones, call for a pinch of baking powder, which lightens the honey balls considerably but is obviously a modern permutation.

To tell you the truth, struffoli were not all that popular among the younger generation of my family. I like them well enough, but one of my sisters actively despised them. Being a natural born politician, however, that didn't stop her from complimenting our grandmother profusely one Christmas. Well, our ever thoughtful grandmother took note and the following Christmas  brought a double batch of her 'honey balls', one for the family as usual, and another just for my sister, since she loved them so much! You should have seen the look on my sister's face as Angelina handed her that enormous second bag full of struffoli...

«Polpetielli» affogati

Octopus is a popular food all around the Mediterranean basin and yet elsewhere it is often, for some reason, 'controversial'. Many people who will happily scarf down fried calamari will shudder at the thought of eating its close cousin, which is too bad, because octopus is one of the finest fruits of the sea. When properly cooked, it is perfectly delicious, tasting much like squid but… more so, with a deeper flavor, almost 'gamey', in a good way. It is also very affordable. It cost me $6.00 a pound, in that store that some folks call "Whole Paycheck".

The main issue with octopus is toughness. Large octopus needs to be cooked for a very long time, and they are often beaten beforehand, a bit like tripe, for tenderize them. But baby octopus is another story. It needs long slow cooking, but 45 minutes to an hour is often enough for the smallest varieties. Slightly more mature octopus is sometimes also sold as 'baby' octopus, so cooking times may vary. Like squid, octopus also need to be cleaned (see Notes below) but more often than not they are sold pre-cleaned. Or you can ask your friendly fishmonger to clean them for you. Once they're clean, rinse them well and set them in a bowl until you are ready to begin cooking.

In any event, the cooking method is as easy as it gets. You place your baby octopus, whole, into a pot (traditionally terracotta but enameled cast iron or even a heavy stainless or copper pot will do fine) together with about half as much by weight of canned tomatoes, a drizzle of olive oil, some chopped garlic, a dash of salt and, if you want a little heat, some red pepper flakes. Cover tightly and simmer over lowish heat for 45 minutes to an hour. By this time, the octopus should be tender and the sauce should be nice and thick, and rather darker than when it started. If the octopus is done but the sauce still rather thin, which can happened since octopus tend to shed liquid while cooking, you can fish them out of the sauce and continue reducing until you have the right consistency, then add the octopus back in to heat up again. If, on the other hand, the sauce has reduced but the octopus still needs some more cooking, then just add a bit of water and continue simmering. About 5-10 minutes before the dish is done, add some chopped parsley. Serve hot, with a bit of the sauce and, if you like, some more parsley and/or a drizzle of olive oil on top.

NOTES: A bit like a pizzaiola, the red sauce makes a delicious dressing for pasta. If you want more sauce, you can up the ratio of tomato to octopus from 1:2 to 1:1. The pasta could be served as a primo before the octopus or at a separate meal.

You can also use a pressure cooker to speed up the cooking time. It should take about 20-30 minutes after it comes up to pressure. You will then need to simmer it for a few minutes to reduce the sauce, since there is much less evaporation when cooking under pressure.

The august Jeane Caròla Francesconi includes a recipe for this dish in La cucina napoletana. She is very adamant that you should make sure that the lid should be tight when simmering, and suggests using a piece of waxed paper (you could also use aluminum foil) to ensure a seal. And she admonishes the reader not to open the lid during the simmering. Not sure why but I won't question her wisdom! Of course, this is not an issue when using a pressure cooker.

As mentioned, the only tricky part of cooking octopus is the preliminary cleaning of the octopus, which is to say removing the inedible bits. You need essentially to remove its 'mouth', which is located on its underside, at the center of its tentacles. This can be done fairly easily with a paring knife. You then remove the ink sack  (most but not all octupus have one) and any viscera through the resulting hole. (Be careful not to puncture the ink sac, as you will wind up with black ooze all over the place!)

A pre-cleaned baby octopus

This fine article by Mark Bittman on octopus, in particular its cleaning, for The Splendid Table is well-worth a read. .

Carne alla pizzaiola

One of the pillars of everyday Neapolitan cuisine, this simple dish is a great solution for those times when you feel like a bit of solid sustenance but don't feel much like cooking something elaborate. A bit like slapping a piece of meat on the grill only a bit tastier. The name of the dish translates loosely as 'pizza-style meat' because of the sauce of tomato and oregano, a combination not nearly as ubiquitous as non-Italians often imagine but commonly associated with pizza. It goes by various names—manzo alla pizzaiola, fettine alla pizzaiola, bistecca alla pizzaiola—but, more often than not, it is simply called 'la pizzaiola'.

There are two primary ways of making pizzaiola, quick or slow, depending on the kind of meat you are using:

The Quick Method: If you are using tender, lean beef, then you want to opt for the quick version. In Italy, they sell thinnish (but not paper thin) slices of beef called fettine di manzo or just fettine. If you can't find anything like that, you can use boneless steaks (as pictured). If they are any thicken than say, 2 cm (1/2 inch) then I would suggest that you cut them into half thicknesses. In either case, pound your slices with a meat pounder or the back of a heavy skillet. Pat each slice dry to ensure good browning.

Add enough olive oil to nicely coat the bottom of a heavy skillet. Turn the heat to high and when the oil is very hot, quickly brown a clove or two of garlic (taking care that it does not burn) then add the beef slices and sear them quickly on each side. They should be just lightly caramelized. Don't crowd the slices which, as you probably know, would impede proper browning—you can do them in batches if need be. Remove the slices as they brown. 

Add an ample amount of best-quality canned tomatoes, which you can simply crush with your hands, to the oil. (In the summer, if you have really good ripe fresh tomatoes, you can chop them up roughly and use them instead.) Lower the heat, season with salt, pepper and a nice sprinkling of dried oregano. Now, a word of advice: even if the oregano gives this dish its characteristic 'pizza' flavor, don't go wild with it. A little dried oregano goes a long way and you want its aroma to complement but not to overwhelm the taste of the meat.

After the pizzaiola sauce has simmered for a minute or two, add back your beef slices and continue to simmer away for about 10 minutes, until the sauce has reduced nicely and the meat is fully cooked through. You want to keep your sauce simmering at a moderate pace—not too slowly or the sauce will not reduce, but not too quickly either, which would tend to toughen the meat. Although I usually love my beef 'barking' rare, this is one dish where the meat really has to be well done, both so that the beef has time to absorb the flavor of the sauce and because, for whatever reason, tomato sauce and rare beef do not really pair very well.

The Slow Method: Although the above method is perhaps the most common way of making pizzaiola these days, the original recipe used a rather tougher cut of beef, cooked slowly. According to the authoritative JC Francesconi, author of La cucina napoletana, the typical cut in Campania is called the colarda, taken from the rear leg of the steer, a cut that is not often found even in other parts of Italy. Other places, the costata (rib) or noce, a fillet taken from the inner thigh, are used. In the US, I'd use the kind of cut you'd use for a pot roast, sliced, like a bottom round perhaps. All the ingredients are placed together in a Dutch oven, covered, and simmered over low heat for about an hour, adding a bit of water or white wine if the sauce gets too thick. This method results in a wonderfully savory version of the dish, but it does not lend itself to a 'spur of the moment' approach.

NOTES: The measurements are really pretty loose in this dish, but you may want to make ample sauce, which is wonderful with pasta, either as a first course to the meat or saved for another occasion. The sauce from the slow method is, of course, much more savory.

Variations abound, in particular for the quick method: for a lustier sauce, you may want to add olives, capers, anchovies and/or a bit of red pepper flakes. Some recipes, including Francesconi's, recommend adding a bit of white wine as well which gives the sauce a little 'zip'. Some recipes head in the opposite direction, so to speak, and omit the oregano and other flavorings in favor of a pure tomato sauce, although frankly that sounds a bit dull to me. Some modern recipes will substitute a soffritto of onion, carrot and celery for the garlic, which provides a more 'refined' but less characteristic flavor. Not all recipes call for the initial searing of the meat slices, but I find that it lends a nice depth of flavor. 

And if you are feeling particularly extravagant, you can place the cooked slices in a baking pan, nap with the sauce and lay over slices of mozzarella. Then pass under a broiler just long enough to melt the cheese and serve.

The basic method is very versatile. Other sorts of meat or even fish can be made using the same method: older veal, for example, or chicken or turkey breast. As for fish, choose one with nice, firm texture that will stand up to the assertive sauce, say some swordfish, tuna or mackerel, cut into 'steaks'. And you can even make hamburger patties this way!

Parmigiana di melanzane

Being a lover of good food, I find it almost impossible to answer the question 'what's your favorite dish?' But if I had to, my answer would probably be eggplant parmesan--parmigiana di melanzane--the way Angelina used to make it.

This is a simple dish to make, but it involves several steps. Allow yourself a good two hours to prepare this dish. It tastes much better made ahead, so if you have the time, make it in the morning and have it for dinner or, even better, make it at your leisure the day before.

Step 1: Prepare the eggplant. You begin with eggplant, of course. For this dish, the large, purple variety is preferable; about two should do you for a good sized baking dish. You cut the eggplants into fairly thin slices. Now you should 'purge' them of their excess liquid, which can be bitter. Sprinkle the eggplant slices with salt, and then lay them in a colander laid on top of a plate. Cover the slices with a small plate on which you should place something a bit heavy like a can of beans or tomatoes. This will help press the liquid out of the eggplant. Leave them for about an hour.

You should notice a small puddle of brownish water below the colander, which you should discard, of course. Remove the slices from the colander and pat them dry.

Step 2: Fry the eggplant. Now you dip the eggplant slices in flour, followed by an egg and cheese 'bath' made from beaten eggs, grated pecorino cheese, finely chopped parsley, salt and pepper. Shallow fry the eggplant slices over moderate heat until they are golden brown on the outside and tender inside.

You will need to fry the eggplant slices in batches. As each batch is done, drain and set on paper towels to absorb the excess oil as you continue with the next batch. Repeat until you're done.

Step 3: Prepare the tomato sauce. While this is going on, prepare a very light tomato sauce by combining chopped tomatoes (fresh if in season, but canned tomatoes are fine), a few leaves of fresh basil, salt, chopped garlic and just a few drops of olive oil. (Some people omit the olive oil altogether since the eggplant, even after draining, can be a bit oily.) Simmer for about 15 minutes, until the tomatoes have melted into a sauce If using canned tomatoes, add a bit of water to loosen the sauce before simmering. You will want a good amount of sauce, so be sure to make a potful--you can always any extra to dress pasta.

Step 4: Prepare the cheeses. Take a large mozzarella, preferably fresh, and slice it. Grate lots of parmesan cheese, at least a cupful (you can grate it as you assemble the dish).

First layer down...

Step 5: Assemble the dish. You are now ready to assemble the dish. In a bake-and-serve pan, place a layer of the fried eggplant slices, then a bit of the tomato sauce, then a few mozzarella slices, a bit of shredded basil (optional) and grated parmesan cheese. Season. Then add another layer of eggplant and continue until you've used up your ingredients. End with tomato sauce and parmesan. (Don't put mozzarella on top, it will brown too quickly in the oven and burn.)

Ready for the oven...

Step 6: Baking. Bake in a hot oven (400 F, 200 C) for about 30 minutes, or until the dish is bubbling hot and the top a bit brown. Don't worry if it even looks a bit 'burnt' around the edges--that's normal and, to some tastes, the best part! Let the dish cool a bit before eating, at least 15 minutes. In fact, it tastes best made ahead and reheated (just a bit) before eating. It can also be eaten at room temperature. Just don't eat it piping hot, because you will miss the full, wonderful flavors!

NOTES: A friend from Naples once told me that this version of parmigiana--made with eggplant slices dipped in egg--is typical of the interior of Campania, the region where Naples is located and of which it is the capital. In fact, that's where Angelina was from, a small mountain town near Benevento. In Naples proper, this dish is made with eggplant slices that are simply lightly floured and fried. Most modern recipes you will find follow the Neapolitan method. I've tried it that way and it makes for a lighter dish. But I still like Angelina's version best! For an even lighter dish, you can brush the eggplants with olive oil and grill them instead of frying. The result is actually very nice, but you are getting pretty far from the original flavor and texture of the classic dish. They also make this dish in Sicily (in fact, the Sicilians claim the dish is theirs-see below) but without the mozzarella cheese.

If you are pressed for time, you can skip the initial 'purging' of the eggplants. As long as the eggplants are reasonably fresh, it should not make that much difference. I sometimes skip this step myself. But be aware, there is a chance that the dish will have a bitter aftertaste. And if you want an even quicker dish, instead of a tomato sauce, you can use passata di pomodoro or crushed canned tomatoes--it will cook in the oven--a drizzle un filo d'olio over each layer.

Some recipes calls for baking the dish in a moderately slow oven and for a longer period, from 45 minutes up to an hour, raising the temperature at the very end if necessary to brown the top. The advantage of this method is that you are less likely to burn the top.

This dish can play many roles in an Italian meal. It can serve as an antipasto, as part of a buffet, as a light secondo or as a piatto unico: a single-dish meal in itself. And, to be honest, I even eat it, the morning after I make it, for breakfast!

By the way, as is typical for a popular dish with many variations, there are a good number of different stories about the origins of this dish. some of them place it in or around Naples, while say the dish originated in Sicily. Despite the name, however, it is very doubtful that this dish comes from Parma. The name may refer simply to the generous use of parmgiano cheese in the dish. Some early sources say that the parmigiani were known for making layered vegetable casseroles. The Sicilians say that the name comes from  parmiciana, which the dialect word the slots in window shutters (persiane in proper Italian) since the eggplant slices lined up in the baking dish were said to resemble said shutters.

This interesting article discusses the various claims and their relative merits. If you can read Italian, Wikipedia also has an article on the dish. Both place the probable origin to Campania and to the 18th century chef and writer Vincenzo Corrado.

My sous-chef....

Baccalà alla napoletana

Baccalà, or salted codfish, marries especially well with tomatoes, and the marriage reaches its apogee of deliciousness in the summer, when tomatoes are at their best. And who does tomatoes better than the people of Campania, home to Italy's best tomatoes?

Baccala alla napoletana, Naples-style codfish, is a simple dish of bold flavors reminiscent of pasta alla puttanesca. You begin, as usual, by soaking the salt cod for up to 24 hours in several changes of water. Drain the cod, pat it dry, and cut it into serving pieces.

Now make your sauce, in a skillet or flame-proof baking pan, by very lightly sautéing a soffritto of chopped garlic and parsley in olive oil until it just begins to give off it fragrance. Immediately add roughly chopped very ripe tomatoes and simmer gently. When the tomatoes start to melt into a sauce, toss in a handful each of capers—preferably the salt-packed kind, rinsed and dried—and olives—preferably the small black Gaeta or Niçoise variety.

While the sauce is simmering, lightly flour and fry your baccalà pieces in olive oil until they are lightly browned. As they brown, transfer them to the pan or skillet with the sauce.

When all the baccalà has been added to the sauce, take a spoon and nap a bit of the simmering sauce over the fish pieces. Now you have a choice: you can continue simmering the dish over the stove, or you can place the dish in a hot oven (200°C, 400°F) for 10-15 minutes, until the sauce has reduced to a nice consistency. I like the oven method, as serving the baccalà direct from its baking dish makes for an attractive presentation at table.

Remove the dish from the oven, sprinkle with a bit more chopped parsley for color, and serve with some nice, crusty bread.
 

NOTES: For some pointers on buying and soaking baccalà, check out this post.

If tomatoes are under-par or out of season, you can use canned tomatoes for this dish. For tips on selecting the best canned tomatoes, see this post.

Even after soaking, you may find that the texture of salted codfish is a bit firmer than you like your fish to be. If you prefer a softer texture, poach the codfish pieces for five minutes or so, drain and let them cool off before flouring and frying them.

La genovese

Besides ragù alla napoletana, la genovese is probably the most iconic of all Neapolitan pasta sauces, and yet it is little known outside Italy or, for that matter, little seen outside Naples itself. And, for reasons I cannot quite figure out, it did not seem to survive the trans-Atlantic voyage; in my experience, la genovese does not form part of the Italian-American repertoire. All of which is really a shame, because this has got to be one of the most delicious sauces ever devised for dressing pastasciutta. 

La genovese requires long, slow cooking but can simmer unattended for most of the time. You cover the bottom of a large pot, preferably either terracotta or enameled cast-iron, with a generous amount of olive oil or, if want true authenticity, melt a heaping wad of lard. I usually compromise and melt just a spoonful of lard in olive oil to give it that special savory flavor. Then add lots of finely chopped onion to the pot (see below for measurements) along with a carrot and a stalk of celery, both chopped finely as well. Then add a nice, large piece of stewing beef—my favorite is chuck, for its rich flavor—and some finely chopped bits of salumi (salame, pancetta and/or prosciutto) along with a glassful of white wine or water. Season the ingredients well with salt and pepper, cover and allow this mixture to simmer over very low heat for about 3 hours, uncovering the pot and stirring from time to time, and adding a bit of water if needed to keep the mixture moist, until the meat is fork-tender and the onion is well reduced and melted into a kind of 'cream'. 

At the last, raise the heat and allow the onions to caramelize until they are nice golden brown color—but be sure not to burn them. Remove the beef for another use, possibly as a second course. The remaining onion cream is your sauce. Use the onion sauce to dress ziti or other stubby pastas. If you like, serve with grated parmesan or pecorino cheese. (I prefer the former over the latter.) 

Measurements: To make enough genovese to dress pasta for 4-6 people, use 1.5 kilos (3 lbs.) of onions. Recipes range in the ratio of meat to onion, from almost 1:1 (usually a bit less meat than onion) to 1:2, with most calling for 1:1.5, so for four-six people, add 1 kilo (2 lbs.) of meat. Use just a bit of the salumi, perhaps 100 grams (3-1/2 oz.)

NOTES: The most common variation of this dish, much used for an everyday version of la genovese, is to omit the beef and simply use the bits of salumi to provide savor to the onions (it's a good use for any spare bits that may be hanging around your fridge) or even no meat at all. Either of these versions can be called la finta genovese or 'mock genovese'. Some recipes call for a bit of tomato purée or paste towards the end, by the original—and my preferred—version is in bianco. Some versions also call for adding a great deal of water, enough to immerse the meat, and letting it reduce over time, rather than adding it bit by bit, using the so called arrosto morto technique. 

The typical pasta, as mentioned, is ziti, especially the long type that you break into sections by hand (pictured in the post on zitoni al forno) but another stubby pasta like penne would also do. I have seen recipes calling for bucatini, also know as perciatelli, a kind of thick, hollow spaghetti that is popular in both Naples and Rome (and is indispensible to make the Roman classic bucatini all'amatriciana). 

You may have cottoned on to the fact that genovese means 'from Genoa'. So why is this name for a typically Neapolitan dish you may ask? Well, no one really knows for sure, but the most popular story has it that it was invented by Genovese merchants living in Naples in the 16^th century. When they left, their chefs stayed behind and started cooking the dish for the natives. The original version, as detailed by the estimed gastronome Ippolito Cavalcanti in the 19^th century, was more like a typical French daube, a meat dish braised in a mirepoix. Somewhere along the line, the onions became the star of the show, and the dish was transformed from a secondo to a primo. (This article gives some interesting details, along with another recipe for the dish.)

Pasta con la cicoria

Cicoria, or chicory, also known in English as 'curly endive', is a staple of the central and southern Italian diet, or at least so it was traditionally. People from Campania like Angelina were said to be especially fond of leafy green vegetables, so much so that they were sometimes called mangiafoglie, or 'leaf eaters' (just as Tuscans are sometime called mangiafagioli for their love of beans). Leafy greens were affordable and could even be scavenged from the countryside. That frugal tradition continues even today; I can remember when I was living outside Rome it was not unusual to see people out in the fields, leaning down here and there to pick up some wild chicory or other greens for their supper. 

The health effects of eating your greens were unknown in the old days—in fact, if you read some of the classic older texts like Artusi, you will find that greens were considered poor substitutes for more solid sustenance like meat. These days we know that leafy green vegetables are healthy but, unfortunately, they are no longer super-affordable peasant food. One of the ironies of modern life is how the staples of the underprivileged, vegetables like arugula or radicchio (which is a form of chicory, by the way) have become expensive items that 'regular' folks can scarcely afford. But green chicory at least can still be had at a reasonable price and, if you ask me, it is one of the more delicious vegetables. It is crisp and slightly bitter when eaten raw in a salad, while it develops a pleasantly soft texture and almost sweet flavor when cooked.

And it is easy to prepare. You just follow the usual in padella technique that we have featured before: trim the chicory of any wilted external leaves, wash it well (the heart often has sand) and parboil in abundant well salted water until just tender. Remove the chicory from the water, cut it up roughly and sauté it in olive and garlic, seasoned with salt and pepper and, if you like it spicy, a bit of peperoncino. 

Prepared this way, cicoria is a standard contorno or even main dish on central and southern Italian tables. (Angelina practically lived off the stuff!) But it also makes for an excellent condimento for pasta. Just add your pasta, cooked very al dente preferably in the same water in which you have already cooked the chicory, to the skillet with the sautéed chicory. Add a bit more of the pasta-vegetable water and mix well, allowing the pasta to absorb the flavors for a minute or two, by which time most of the liquid should have evaporated and the chicory will have partially 'melted' into a kind of sauce for the pasta. 

Perfect for a quick weekend supper. 

NOTES: Some recipes call for a bit of anchovy, as you might add to broccoletti (broccoli rabe) but, as much as I love anchovies, I find that their saltiness clashes with the sweetness of the chicory. There is also a version in rosso, where you add tomatoes to the olive and garlic to make a quick sugo di pomodoro before adding the chicory. You will also find recipes that call for topping the pasta with grated cheese (usually pecorino) which I don't particular feel the need for, but it is no doubt a valid option. 

As for the pasta, I would recommend a 'stubby' kind like penne (pictured here) but you will also find recipes calling for bucatini (aka perciatelli).

Frank’s Sausage and Peppers

What would summer be without this perennial Italian-American favorite? It's hard to imagine an Italian street fair without the enticing aroma of sausages being grilled on portable barbecues while peppers and onions are sizzling away on a near-by griddle. Isn't just the thought of it enough to make you hungry? Here's my take on this classic.

First you make a kind of peperonata—the fried peppers and onions that make for such a popular summer side dish—by taking a nice heap of 'frying peppers', the thin, longish light-green peppers that Italians call friggitelli, cutting off their tops and slicing them in half from top to bottom. Remove the seeds and any white ribs you find inside. (This kind of pepper has a lot less than regular bell peppers, but you will still find some.) Then slice them vertically into thin strips:

Measurements don't much matter, but I find that a half pound (250g) of peppers per person is about right. That may look like a lot of peppers to begin with, but they reduce considerably while cooking.

Then peel an onion and slice it in half from top to bottom. Trim off the root and then slice each half vertically into thin but not paper-thin slices. Make sure you slice the onion vertically—that is, from  root to tip with the grain. If you slice onion horizontally—across the grain—the onion pieces will 'melt' into the dish as it cooks. That's what you want for most dishes where the onion is there purely for it savory flavor. But in this dish, the onion is more than just a flavoring, it is a component in its own right: put another way, it's not just part of the harmony, it has a solo:

The exact amounts don't much matter, but in this dish the peppers are the real star, so one medium onion is enough for a pound (500g) of peppers. Now heat a skillet and when it is hot, add a generous amount of olive oil. Before the oil begins to smoke, add you sliced peppers and onions. Mix well with some tongs (or a spatula) and lower the heat. 

Maintain a moderate flame so that the vegetables are sizzling nicely in the oil without browning too much. As they cook, the peppers and onions will reduce considerably. Hold off seasoning the dish, as adding salt early on will tend to 'melt' the onion. Instead, season well about halfway through the cooking time (which is to say, after 10-15 minutes) with salt and pepper. Make sure that the vegetables are nicely coated with olive oil—they should glisten like a salad. If they are a bit dry, don't hesitate to add some more oil. When the peppers are just about tender—and they should be fully tender, neither crisp-tender nor mushy—turn up the heat and let the vegetables caramelize, mixing often so they brown nicely but don't burn. Then take them off the heat and cover them. Let them 'rest' like that while you turn to the sausages.

Now it's time to grill the sausages. As you probably know, when cooked whole it is best to prick sausages here and there with the tip of a paring knife or the prongs of a fork. This prevents the filling from 'exploding' out of its skin as it cooks. But there is another way to treat sausages before grilling: butterfly them by slitting them down one side and opening them like a book. This not only allows the sausages to cook more quickly, but exposes more of the sausage to caramelization. If you like the taste of crisy pork, you are bound to like this technique. Your sausages should like something like this before cooking:

Then place the sausages on a hot grill, skin side down first, turning them from time to time, When they are nicely crisp and brown on both sides, serve them on top of the peppers and onions, which you will have laid out on a platter as a bed for the sausages to lie on. 

NOTES: It may come as a surprise, but sausages and peppers is not a particularly common dish in Italy. Although it is not unheard of to add sausages to cook along with a peperonata, the dish has nothing like the iconic place in Italian cooking that it does in Italian-American tradition. You will look in vain in the major Italian cookbooks for sausages and peppers, even those specializing in Neapolitan  or southern Italian cooking. In southern Italy, it is far more common to pair sausages and broccoletti or cime di rapa, known as broccoli rabe in English. Typical of Neapolitan cooking is the use of the young shoots of the same plant, which are known as friarelli. (NB: Confusingly, frying peppers or friggitelli are sometimes also called friarelli.) In the north, you are more likely to find sausage cooked with Savoy cabbage, radicchio or Tuscan kale rather than peppers. None of which to belittle this dish. On the contrary, the match of sausage and peppers is a delicious match, one that was really meant to be. 

A common variation of this dish is the addition of tomato or some tomato sauce to the peperonata when it is about halfway done. By the time the tomato reduces the peppers should also be done. Some people like to add a bit of red pepper flakes as well, although I don't recommend it. If you like some spice, use 'hot' sausages—although I usually not very partial to them, they really go well in this dish. You can also add just a pinch of oregano to the peperonata, but not too much, as the flavor of oregano is very pronounced. But do avoid the use of too many dried herbs or that awful invention called 'garlic powder', which makes everything it touches taste rancid. The elements of this dish—the sausages, onions and peppers—all have tremendous flavor. They don't really need the 'help' of artificial ingredients. 

If you don't have a grill handy, the sausages can be fried in the same skillet. You can brown them at the very beginning, then remove them to make your peperonata, then add them back to the skillet when the peppers are almost tender to finish cooking. Or, when the peppers are almost tender, you can push the peperonata to the sides of the skillet and brown the sausages in the center, then mix everything up and let it cook gently until the sausages are cooked through and the peppers are tender. 

Sausages and peppers are often eaten as the filling for a 'hero' sandwich, but I like it just as it is, with some crusty bread on the side. If you have leftovers, the dish reheats well; it also makes a fantastic filling for a frittata. Some people also use it as a condimento for pasta. Not my cup of tea, as they say, but if you do use it this way, make sure to cut up the sausage into bite-sized pieces. Here a little tomato sauce helps give it a saucy consistency that works well with pasta.


 

Angelina’s Green Beans with Onions and Mint

Although our favorite way of having green beans when we were kids, especially in the summer, was in umido, or stewed with tomatoes, Angelina had another nice way of making green beans with sautéed onions and mint. As it turns out, at least according to this article, the recipe is from Puglia and is called fagiulini spilusieddi, meaning 'imaginative green beans' in the local dialect. Now, I have two theories about this: my grandfather being from Puglia, it is possible that she learned this Puglian way of making green beans to please her husband. It is also possible that in her area, which is not very far from Puglia, they also made green beans this way. 

In any event, the dish is very simple, tasty and definitely worth a try: you boil green beans in well salted water until tender. While the green beans are cooking, sauté sliced onions (perhaps half as much by weight as the green beans) in a generous amount of olive oil over moderate heat until they are nicely softened.  (Adding a sprinkling of salt and a spoonful of water helps them to cook more quickly.) Mix a handful of chopped parsley and mint into the onions. Then, if you like, add some bread crumbs, turn up the heat a bit and let them saute until they turn golden. Otherwise, turn off the heat.

When the green beans are tender, drain them and add them to the skillet with the onions and herbs. Turn them to coat well and let them stew for just a few minutes to insaporire. Before serving, sprinkle the beans with a bit of freshly squeezed lemon juice, just enough to brighten the flavors, season with salt and pepper, and serve hot. 

That's it. Simple but delicious! 

NB: I wanted to dub this dish 'fagiolini alla pugliese' but, just to confuse matters even more, it turns out that there is such a dish, more or less identical to fagiolini in umido, but with a bit of peperoncino for spice. Go figure…

Quick Note: Spaghetti con le zucchine

A very quick post since I am quite literally running to catch a plane to Mexico…

As we've seen before, pasta and vegetable dishes are a quick and easy solution for weeknight dinners, when you don't have the time or the energy for anything fussy or fancy. This may be the easiest of them all: spaghetti with fried zucchini. 

You begin, as many of these dishes do, with an aglio e olio base: pour a generous amount of olive oil into a skillet (remember, this is going to be your sauce and you can always leave the excess oil in the pan when you serve) and in it, lightly sauté one or two crushed cloves of garlic over a lively flame. When the garlic is just beginning to color, add thinly sliced disks of zucchini. Season with salt and pepper, and cook over high heat, tossing the zucchini slices from time to time to ensure even cooking, until they have become quite tender and lightly browned, about 5-10 minutes at most. 

Meanwhile, get your pasta on the boil and, when it's al dente, drain it (but not too well) and transfer it to the skillet with the zucchini. Add some minced parsley. Mix well, allowing the pasta to absorb some of the flavored oil. Serve immediately, with a some additional minced parsley as a topping. 

NOTES: Of course, you can dress this dish up a bit more: add some pepperoncino if you want some heat (although I find that it tends to overwhelm the delicate flavor of the zucchini). One variation that I particularly like is to add a dollop of ricotta cheese, some grated parmigiano and a few shredded basil leaves at the very end and mix well. It turns the dish in an entirely different direction. (If you want a richer dish, you can add an egg yolk as well to the ricotta and basil mixture.)

Spaghetti is the classic choice, but you can really use the dry pasta of your choice. Linguine would also be nice, as would rigatoni. The dish is not really apt for fresh egg pasta. 

Some recipes will tell you to fry the zucchini disks in a single layer, and turn them individually so they brown evenly on both sides, etc. etc. If you're like me, you'll be perfectly satisfied with a less pignolo method mentioned above. Just be sure to keep the flame high, use plenty of oil and toss frequently, and even if some zucchini disks will turn out a bit less browned than others, the dish will turn out fine. But by all means, if you have the time and inclination to fry the disks individually, more power to you!

Back on Sunday… Happy eating, or should I say: buen provecho! 

Spaghetti con pomodoro crudo

Summertime is fast approaching, the temperature is climbing, and my culinary imagination is starting to turn to dishes that quick but tasty and require minimal cooking. Here's one of the 'go to' summer pasta dishes in our house: spaghetti with a raw tomato sauce. 

The sauce should be made at least an hour ahead: take some best quality tomatoes (see Notes), cut them in half and scoop out the seeds, then chop them up into small chunks. Throw the tomato chunks into a large bowl, add a few cloves of finely chopped garlic (this is one of the few cases where a garlic press actually comes in handy), a handful of fresh basil, chopped as well, freshly ground pepper and enough olive oil to moisten all the ingredients very well—it should almost cover them. Let this mixture rest for at least an hour and up to three or four hours. This lets the flavors develop and meld. Leave it too long, however, like overnight, and the garlic flavor—which intensifies over time—may become overwhelming.

You need to salt this 'sauce' generously. Most recipes call for you to add the salt together with other ingredients. But if you are planning to leave the sauce to rest for more than an hour and/or if your tomatoes are watery, then hold off salting until about 30-60 minutes before you are ready to eat. 

Once the sauce has rested, boil your spaghetti (or other pasta—see Notes below) al dente and add it, well drained, to the sauce and serve immediately. No grated cheese is needed or wanted for this dish. 

Measurements: The main ratio is that of tomato to pasta. I find that the usual 1:1 ratio of condimento to pasta works fine, but you may even want to up this to as much as 1.5:1. So if you are having four people, say, use 400-600 grams (14-21 oz.) of tomato and 400 grams (14 oz.) of pasta. I usually use about one garlic clove per person (if they're not too big) and enough basil to balance out the tomato—see the picture to see what I mean. As usual, exact measurements are not particularly important. 

NOTES: This being a simple dish based on raw ingredients, the freshness and quality of those ingredients is crucial to the success of the dish. Most importantly, the tomatoes must not be overly watery and should actually taste like something. This dish is at its best when local tomatoes start arriving in the markets. But I have found that very small tomatoes, like cherry or grape tomatoes, or the greenhouse-grown 'Campari' tomatoes have excellent flavor and are not overly watery. If all you can find are those pinkish supermarket tomatoes, you may want to try another dish.

If your tomatoes are young and flavorful, they can be cut up as they are and added to your mixing bowl. But if you have any doubts about them, you can also improve the flavor and texture of your tomatoes by sprinkling the chunks in salt and draining them in a colander for 30 minutes or so before mixing them with the other ingredients. This should purge them of their excess water and concentrate their flavor. If you are dealing with larger tomatoes, you may want to peel their skin, which can be tough. Peeling a raw tomato is almost impossible to do, so you may want to either blanch them very briefly in boiling water or char them over a gas flame, which makes peeling much easier. 

Of course, besides the tomatoes, the basil and garlic should be as fresh as it can be and the olive oil as green and fruity as you can find it. 

Variations of this basic recipe abound: my favorite is to add some red pepper flakes, to taste, to the raw sauce. (NB: Like garlic, the flavor will intensify the longer it rests, so beware.) You can also add other typical summer ingredients like capers, olives, mozzarella, tunafish, anchovies. In addition to or instead of the garlic, some chopped white or red onion is very nice. (Avoid yellow onion, which has too strong a flavor to use raw, but if you have no other choice, soaking it in several changes of cold water will mellow it out.) A nice variation in technique is to place the raw sauce in the fridge, taking it out only just before adding the hot pasta; the combination of hot and cold produces some sort of reaction that gives the dish a very special taste.

In Roman cookery, this dish, made with slightly underripe tomatoes, olives, capers and fennel seeds, and often mozzarella and/or caciotta cheese, goes by the rather impolite name of pasta alla checca. (The word 'checca' being a pejorative Roman slang word for a gay guy, perhaps a reference to the fennel seeds, since the Italian word for fennel, finocchio, is another slang word meaning the same thing.)

You can also use other types of pasta. Linguine, of course, but also those stubby, concave pastas like conchiglie work very well with this sauce—perhaps even better than long pasta, as their nooks and crannies catch bits of tomato or other ingredients.

Zuppa di pesce alla napoletana

Italy, being a rather slender peninsula, is a country where the sea is rarely too far away. And, of course, the products of the sea play a major role in its cuisine. And so it is not suprising that zuppa di pesce, or fish soup, is a dish that you will find almost everywhere in many guises. In Tuscany they call their version of it cacciucco, and on the Adriatic coast, they call it brodetto, or 'little broth', and you will find variations of it from Venice all the way down to Abruzzo. (Further down the coast in Puglia, the name reverts to zuppa di pesce.) Although called a soup, it is actually more like a stew.

Zuppa di pesce is said that have been invented by fisherfolk, who in the days before refrigeration needed a convenient way to prepare all the unsold bits and pieces of their daily catch. So why not throw them all together in a pot to simmer with some aromatics and water or, if you could afford, white wine? When the tomato became a central part of Italian cooking, especially in the south, many local variations of fish soup turned various shades of red. 

The Neapolitan zuppa di pesce is perhaps the simplest and purest of all the fish soups in Italian cookery: you begin by sautéing a few slightly crushed garlic cloves in abundant olive oil. If you like, you can add a bit of peperoncino to sauté in the olive oil along with the garlic. When the garlic begins to give off its aroma and is just barely beginning to brown, you add tomato—ideally, the pulp of fresh, perfectly ripe San Marzano tomatoes, but otherwise use best quality canned tomatoes that you have run through the largest holes of a food mill. Season with salt and pepper (going light on the salt since the shellfish will be salty) and finely chopped parsley, then allow the tomatoes to simmer for about 10 minutes or so, or until they begin to reduce and reach a saucy consistency. Then add a splash of white wine. 

It is now time to add your seafood, starting with the varieties that take the longest to cook, then progressively adding those that take less time. The origins of the fish soup being what they are, the choice of seafood is pretty loose. But the Neapolitan version will almost always include one or more kinds of mollusks such as squid, baby cuttlefish or octopus, clams or mussels or both, and a variety fish with fins. The fish was, as mentioned, the local catch, so many local varieties of fish, most of them small and some quite bony but flavorful, can be thrown into the pot. Larger fish can be cut into serving or even bite-sized pieces. The most typical fish of all is scorfano, called 'scorpion fish' in English. (Scorfano is also typical of the Tuscan cacciucco and some of the Adriatic brodetti.) Triglie—red mullet—is also a common addition. But any firm-fleshed fish that lends itself to simmering will do: monkfish, snapper, catfish, sole. Last night I added some cut up halibut, and it was very nice. Although less typical of this kind of fish soup, sea scallops and shellfish are make nice additions. The more variety, the better the soup they say. 

You always begin with the mollusks, since they will take some time to cook. With very young calamaretti (baby cuttlefish) let them simmer about 10 minutes before you add any other fish. Octopus or mature squid (which you should cut up into bite-sized pieces) will take much longer, usually about 30 minutes, although you can sometimes find pre-cooked octopus that only needs heating up. Then add you fish and let that cook for another five to ten minutes, depending on the size. Then, finally, add the clams and mussels and simmer them until they open—if, that is, you are confident that they are free of sand. If not, steam them separately and add them at the very last moment, along with their liquid, strained to eliminate any sediment, just long enough for them to heat through. Sprinkle with a bit more finely chopped parsley and serve immediately.

Measurements are not particularly important in this rustic dish. The amount of tomato will greatly influence the end taste. Some recipes call for a lot of tomato—equal in weight to the seafood—but most call for about half as much by weight. The ratio among the various kinds of seafood is pretty free as well, but I find a good rule of them is to use about as much fish as other sorts of seafood. Or you can eliminate the fish altogether, and just use the mollusks and some shellfish like shrimp or crab, in which case you will have zuppa di pesce senza spine, or 'boneless' fish soup.

Zuppa di pesce is usually served with toasted bread, rubbed with garlic and sometimes drizzled with a bit of olive oil. The bread is also wonderful fried in olive oil—but that can be a bit heavy for modern tastes. I often just use bread to sop up the wonderful juices, an act that Italians call fare la scarpetta, meaning 'to make the little shoe' (see Glossary for details). 

NOTES: There are some minor variations among the recipes, mostly concerning when to add what. Some recipes call for adding the squid and/or octopus directly to the garlic soffritto, before the tomatoes. Some call for adding the wine either before the tomato or at the same time. And the parsley can be added at almost any time, along with the garlic at the very beginning, or at very end. And, depending how pervasive you want the garlic to be, you can use it slightly crushed (my favorite) or chopped or sliced. A few recipes call for onion instead of, or in addition to, the garlic—but onion is more typical of the northern types of fish soup.

It probably goes without saying, but any leftovers make a lovely sauce for spaghetti or linguine, not unlike the well-known dish spaghetti or linguine allo scoglio.

As mentioned, there are many varieties of fish soup to be found all over the country. You could write a book (or a blog) just about all the different versions. I plan to blog at least on the most famous of these, like cacciucco alla livornese and the broèto from Venice, in the future. 

And fish soups are not just limited to Italy. There are versions from all over the Mediterranean and beyond. The most famous one of all, without a doubt, is the wonderful Provençal bouillabaisse. The Greeks have their kakavia and the Spanish their sopa de pescado y marisco, and various fish soups can be found all over Latin America. And, of course, let's not forget the cioppino from San Francisco.

Seppioline alla griglia

Grilled seafood is extremely popular in Italy, especially in the warm weather months. One of my favorite restaurants in Rome, a place called "La Torricella" (The Little Tower) in the Testaccio section of town, served wonderful seafood. And perhaps my very favorite dish to eat there was seppioline alla griglia, or grilled baby cuttlefish. But you don't need to take a trip to Rome to enjoy it—it's simplicity itself to make.

Begin by marinating cleaned baby cuttlefish or squid (see Notes below) in some olive oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper and parsley. If you like, you can add some red pepper flakes or a bit of chopped garlic to 'kick it up a notch' as the famous TV chef like to say. Let it sit in this marinade for an hour or two. 

Now get your grilled nice and hot. Depending on the size of the fish, you can either lay it directly on the grill, use a grilling basket or a flat grilling plate. Grease your grilling surface to prevent sticking and lay your fish on the grill. Personally, I like to flip the fish fairly often to ensure even cooking, but if you're a fan of neat grill marks, then you will need to leave the fish to cook on one side until it browns nicely. Although the fish will cook in no time, it actually takes a surprisingly long time to brown, so be patient. Once the fish is browned to your liking, transfer it to a serving dish, pour over the remaining marinade and, if you like, top with a bit of chopped parsley and serve with lemon wedges. 

NOTES: Baby cuttlefish are best for this dish, as they remain tender even after grilling. For this dish, as pictured above, I had found some incredibly small baby cuttlefish, pre-cleaned and frozen, in a local Asian supermarket. In Italy, seppioline are small but not tiny, but no matter—the flavor was incredibly good. In a 'regular' supermarket, you are more likely to find squid rather than cuttlefish. Buy it whole—not cut into rings—and, if it has not been cleaned, you'll need to do it yourself by cutting it in half just at the 'joint' between the body and the legs, then remove the cartilage 'pen' inside the body. Cut the legs into pieces, then proceed. 

Try to find smallish squid, as the large ones don't really lend themselves to this kind of treatment, as dry cooking methods like grilling tend to toughen them if left to cook more than just a minute or two. Like tough meat cuts like shoulder, they are better cooked using moist heat like a braise. 

Post-scriptum: A reader from South Africa tells me that, for those who don't have access to baby squid , larger squid can be tenderized by soaking for 5-10 minutes in warm water to which a spoonful of bicarbonate of soda has been added. Thanks for the tip!

For a great demonstration of how to clean squid, see this video from the Rouxbe Online Cooking School:

Rouxbe Online Cooking School & Video Recipes