The oddly named ‘nduja (pronounced an-DOO-ya) is a traditional Italian ingredient that has recently taken the world by storm. It’s a kind of salume from Calabria made from pork offal and roasted chile peppers. As a consequence it has a taste as fiery as its colour. For those that like their food spicy, it’s a must.
This is a dish that my English mother learned to cook from my Venetian grandmother. As I child, I was very fussy about the vegetables that I’d eat, but I don’t remember ever refusing to eat or having a problem with this dish. On the contrary, I’d look forward to winter evenings in order to have the opportunity to eat it.
While not strictly a Christmas dish, pasta e fasioi (which means pasta and beans) is definitely in the category of a winter warmer. Perfect for a cold December lunch, or dinner after a long day Christmas shopping. Although variants of this recipe are found in other regions of Italy—using the standard Italian name, pasta e fagioli rather than the Venetian fasioi—it is firmly rooted in Venetian cuisine. The kind of beans used come from the New World, and were unknown in Italy until Venetian merchants introduced them in the seventeenth century. And if made properly, it uses fagioli di Lamon which are product of the Veneto and have IGP status.
Fasioi de Lamon.
Similar in appearance to borlotti beans, Lamon beans are considered to be of a superior quality because of the strict and traditional way in which they are cultivated. For example, they must be grown from seeds which are no more than three years old, and which were themselves cultivated in Lamon, situated in the foothills of the alps, in the Venetian province of Belluno. It’s interesting that in Tuscany where the main legume grown is the chickpea, this dish is made with them, rather than beans.
Chopped odori are reminiscent of the Italian flag, well almost!
The dish itself consists of a hearty bean soup, in which dried pasta is thrown and cooked at the last minute to add some carbohydrate. I use dried tagliatelle, which I break into small pieces, because my mother (and by association my grandmother) did. It’s also the version noted by Venetian nobleman Ranieri da Mosto (father of the famous Francesco) in his excellent book on Venetian cuisine. He notes however, that the pasta used varies in different parts of the Veneto and I’ve even heard of this dish being prepared with rice instead of pasta.
Pancetta.
I use a thick piece of pancetta with lots of fat in my version. However, tradition calls for cotica, which is basically pig skin. However, this is becoming increasingly hard to find (I searched in three of the most important butchers in Venice to no avail). You could use a piece of thick pork belly to substitute. It doesn’t need to be chopped, as it’s not eaten but removed at the last minute after it’s imparted all its flavour to the dish.
As I note at the bottom of the recipe, there are ways of making it vegetarian or even vegan if you wish. However you make it, you will find that it’s one of those dishes where the overall taste and effect is much more than a sum of its parts.
Buon appetito!
Polpette biscotte al finocchio
Italian food may be simple, but often it’s not fast: but that’s one of its charms. Good ingredients, cooked well. It’s no surprise therefore that the Slow Food movement started in Italy. Traditionally, a lot of the more time-consuming dishes would have been cooked by housewives while their husbands were out at work, and so often consist of dishes which can cook more or less unattended while you get on with other chores. A good example is the authentic ragù which would be cooked slowly for about three hours. If you’ve ever tasted a three-hour ragù, you’ll appreciate why.
Spaghetti alla carbonara just like it’s served in Rome.
After pizza, spaghetti alla carbonara is probably Italy’s most famous dish, but also its most controversial. Everybody knows that this plate of bacon-and-egg pasta is supposed to have a rich, creamy, sauce, but few know the real secret of how to achieve it. Outside—and even inside—Italy, people often cheat and add a little (or sometimes a lot of) cream to get the right consistency. But to purists (and even not so purists), cream might as well come in bottles with the number 666 printed on the label. They will tell you, with a stronger than religious fervour, that it is not part of the original recipe. Nor, for that matter are peas.
It’s no secret that I love aubergines, or eggplants as some of you call them, or … well for argument’s sake let’s call them melanzane, the Italian word. So, it’s no secret that I love melanzane and would probably eat them every day, if I could. When cooked properly, they have the same mouth-puckering strength as a quality mature cheese. It’s no secret that I love cheese, or fromage, or … well let’s call it formaggio.
Tintoretto and Tintoretto … dessert and art.
This weekend I had some friends from out of town visiting and wanted to cook something typically Venetian. I planned to serve the mazzancolle in saor from the last post, a risotto al nero di seppia—more about that in a later post—but what about the dessert? Everyone loves tiramisù it’s true, but I am a little bored making it. So I decided to come up with a completely original dessert. Something within the Venetian tradition and connected with the city’s rich history and culture. And so the Tintoretto was born.