Or
something like that. I do not speak
Italian. My entire vocabulary consists
of terms like yes, no, how, where, what, and how much. I can also be very
enthusiastic in Italian: marvelous, beautiful,
perfect, please, and thank you.
I just
spent close to two weeks in northern Italy. Most of the time I didn't need
language, since the amazing planners for this long-planned trip for college
classmates, hatched at a reunion last year, pre-arranged everything, including
most meals. No decisions required.
The meals
were incredible. In restaurant after restaurant, course upon course simply appeared on the tables in front of us.
Platters often held three or more goodies each. And bottles of local wine were liberally poured.
Since for at least the latter half of the trip we were near the sea (often in
sight of it), we ate a lot of seafood—local sardines, squid the size of my
finger, gamberoni (a kind of jumbo
prawn). We also tasted some interesting
local delicacies, such as lardo
(which is exactly what it sounds like:
pig fat, cured in marble vats for over a year with spices and herbs—I
liked it) and ravioli with stinging nettles in the filling.
You will no
doubt hear me raving on here about the cooking of northern Italy for a while,
but most of it I can't hope to replicate, so I'll start with the simple
stuff. But first: a tour of a Medici Renaissance kitchen, in
the Castello di Trebbio. No, it's not a
museum—there are people living in the castle, not to mention the aged, uh,
servants?, and we saw our meal prepared in the incredible kitchen, unchanged
for centuries (except for the flat-screen television in the corner!).
I want these. And someone to polish them all. |
The stone sink--still in use. |
The kitchen table: two boards only, over two inches thick |
Farinata
2 cups
chickpea/garbanzo flour (finding this may be
your biggest challenge)
1 1/4 tsp
salt
Freshly ground
pepper, to taste
1 3/4 cups
water, at room temperature
1/4 cup
olive oil, plus a little extra for the pans
Whisk
together the dry ingredients. In another
bowl, whisk together the water and olive oil.
Whisk the contents of the two bowls together until smooth. Let sit, covered, for an hour.
While
you're waiting, turn on your broiler and let your oven preheat.
The
authentic version calls for a 12" round ovenproof pan. I don't happen to have one, but cast iron
skillets (9") work just as well.
You need something that will get good and hot!
A few
minutes before you are ready to cook your farinata, place one skillet in the
oven to preheat. Remove from the oven
when hot and add about a teaspoon of olive oil, tilting the pan to distribute
it evenly.
Pour about
a cup of your batter into the pan (it will sizzle! And don't make the layer of
batter too thick) and distribute. Place
the skillet in the oven and broil for about 4 minutes. Then turn off the broiler and turn on the
oven to 450 degrees F and cook another three-four minutes, until your farinata
looks crisp. Remove from the oven and
slide the farinata onto a cutting board (if you have a seasoned pan, it goes
easily). Let cool a couple of minutes
and slice into six wedges.
Repeat with
the remaining batter. This recipe made
about three farinata.
You can
dress this up by sprinkling some grated Parmesan cheese over the top before
broiling. If you want you can get fancy
and sprinkle other herbs, onion, olives, etc., but remember—this is not a
pizza. I'm not sure what it is, but it's
kind of addictive.
Mangia!
Farinata from Monterosso |
Looks appropriately classical--which of course I didn't know when I planned this trip.