Party Pan

By Patricia Winton

Yesterday I went to a birthday party. When the birthday girl, my friend Gaby, invited me a couple weeks ago, she said, “I’ve ordered pan brioche.” I’d never heard of this before, so I asked about it.

Gaby said, “Oh, I used to see it at parties. It’s a collection of sandwiches all put together inside bread.” I had trouble getting my head around that. Somehow, I imagined a loaf of bread hollowed out with sandwiches stacked inside. Then I forgot about it until I arrived for the party.

I live very nearby and turned up as the first guest. At her request, I’d brought a plate of my famous deviled eggs. “And here,” she said, “is the pan brioche.” I saw a tall round loaf of bread encased in cellophane and topped with a red bow. I still had trouble understanding how it worked.

Eventually, when I was no longer the lone guest, we opened the package—a somewhat difficult task because the cellophane had been taped as if to ward of an invasion. Even with two sets of hands and a pair of scissors, we were almost thwarted in our attempt to breach the fortress.

The bread had been sliced horizontally. Gaby removed the top piece, which she labeled “the hat.” revealing four bamboo skewers holding the slices in place much as toothpicks hold together club sandwich triangles.

Each layer had a different sandwich filling: prosciutto and cheese, bresaola and rucola (dried beef and arugula), tuna and tomato, mushroom and cheese. There was probably some salami as well. I didn’t sample every layer. The bread had been cut into quarters vertically creating dainty sandwiches

It made a festive party food, and I’m sure to get one at some point in the future. The shop where Gaby had this one made is just down the street. I’m not sure I’m up to tackling this in my own kitchen.

I'll return to my tales from Sicily in two weeks. Next week, I'm writing about a World War II anniversary in my neighborhood.

To Market, To Market

By Patricia Winton

A Winter Day at the Market

One of my favorite pastimes in Italy is shopping at the markets for food. Rome has dozens of markets scattered throughout the city. The best known, Campo di Fiori, is an outdoor market in the center of Rome. While locals do shop there, it’s a tourist spot as well and has prices and products targeting the out-of-town crowd.

There’s another tiny street market in the center near Via Margutta, Gregory Peck’s street in Roman Holiday. In this tony neighborhood, tourists pass by on the the parallel Via del Corso and Via del Babbuino, missing out on one of the best sites and experiences of the city.

Dressed Puntarelle

When I first came to Rome, I haunted the markets all over the city, getting off buses to visit a new one. I learned a great deal about Italiann, food then. On one of these excursions I first encountered puntarelle, a special Roman dish made from a type of chicory. The leaves must be stripped from the stems, the part that’s eaten, and I watched a man using a special tool for the job. In my own market, I find bags of cleaned puntarelle, but so far, I haven’t seen anybody cleaning it. The stems are dressed with garlic, anchovies, olive oil, and white wine vinegar.

During my first year in Rome, I shopped with a little old man and woman who were only licensed to sell eggs. I bought four at a time, and they wrapped them in brown paper. After I had been buying from them for several months, the woman whispered, “Vuole delle fragole?” Fragole are strawberries, and I thought buying some a good idea. She took me to the trunk of her car, shielding the view with her body and placing me in line to do the same. Inside, she revealed some stunning small purple grapes. She was selling them without a license and making them available to good customers. I bought some; they were good. That’s how I learned that some grapes can be called strawberries, too.

During the fall and winter months, proprietors of vegetable stands cut vegetables to make minestrone mix. The mixture varies from stall to stall, but it will include root and leafy veggies. Sometimes it will include onion or shelled beans; sometimes not. It’s great to take a kilo home, mix it with some stock and a bay leaf, and let it simmer while I work. And lunch is ready.

I haunt just one market these days. It’s a five minute walk from my home, and I think it’s one of the best markets in the city. Covered, with heating and air conditioning, Il Mercato Tuscolano III feeds me. About 60 stalls spread throughout the hall, and unlike some markets I know, no stalls remain unused.

Entrance to My Market

One stall sells many varieties of mushrooms, another sells 20 or more varieties of fresh pasta. The center of the hall holds a stall selling fresh buffalo mozzerella. Branching of from that are many vegetable and fruit stands. Fresh eggs? Several stalls sell them. One woman sells “exotic” items. She sometimes has sweet potatoes or plantains.

You can buy a slice of pizza if you’re hungry or a cup of espresso in the corner bar. And in case you have other needs, you can buy paper towels or a spool of thread, get your shoes repaired, or pick up fresh flowers.

A couple of times, I’ve taken friends visiting Rome to the market—sometimes making lunch from our purchases. Everybody going with me has been enchanted, so far. Wish you could join me.

I’m off to Sicily in a couple of days. I’ll post from there next week—probably just photos.

A Flamenco Dancer, Silly String, and Sugar

A couple of days ago, I encountered a bull fighter and a flamenco dancer at the supermarket. They were about one meter (three feet) high—in other words, children. Decked out in their carnival finery, they and other children will wear their costumes for afternoon walks with their parents (including stops in the supermarket) and even to school until Martedì Grasso. The costumes can be quite elaborate—even for babies—and have price tags to match.

While they’re out, children toss confetti at passersby and at each other. And, unfortunately, they attack with Silly String, which, fortunately, doesn’t appear at any other time of year, including Halloween. I went into a couple of shops this morning and found: Silly String, confetti, streamers, noisemakers, blank masks for hand painting, giant bow ties, magic wands, and plastic swords. That was just one shop on a shelf opposite the leftover Valentine paraphernalia.

Parades with floats and costumed performers will grace many cities and towns—especially in Venice and Viareggio. But the real stars of the carnival season are the desserts that only appear at this time of year. Here’s a brief rundown.

Frappe

These melt-in-your-mouth tidbits are similar to a rich pie crust made with eggs. They are rolled into rectangles and cut into fluted squares. Traditionally they were fried, but in this day of frowning-at-fat, they are sometimes baked. After the frappe come out of the oil or oven, they are generously dredged with confectioner’s sugar.

Castagnole di Carnevale

These little balls have similar ingredients to frappe, but sugar, vanilla, and grated lemon zest are added. The mixture makes a firm, but not rigid, dough that is formed into small balls. These are always fried and dusted with either confectioner’s or normal sugar.

Frittelle di Mele

Apple fritters, these, made by coring and slicing apples about one centimeter (1/4 inch) thick. A batter that includes the juice of a lemon and cinnamon coats the slices which are then fried. Really good served with vanilla ice cream.

Castagnole di Ricotta

Unlike the Castagnole di Carnevale and other sweets stuffed with ricotta, the cheese becomes a part of the dough. The ricotta is mixed with eggs, flour, sugar, vanilla, baking powder, and the grated zest of a lemon and an orange. After the dough rests in the fridge for about half an hour, it’s formed into small balls and fried like the other castagnole and sprinkled with regular sugar.

Chiacchiere

A medium-firm dough made with flour, yeast, eggs, milk, and butter makes the basis for this popular carnival treat. Once the dough has risen, it is rolled into a thin rectangle and sprinkled with sugar and lemon zest. The dough is then folded over itself several times, forming a roll. The roll is cut into short pieces which are then fried. The hot oil carmelizes the sugar and the layers open something like a fan. It’s a gooey, concoction, sometimes covered in colored sprinkles.

Ravioli Fritti

Sweet fried ravioli comes from a dough laced with the ever-present lemon zest and a couple of spoonfuls of white wine. When the dough is rolled out into a thin rectangle, it is cut into fluted circles. Half the circles are filled with a spoonful of either ricotta, marmalade, or Nutella. The remaining circles top the filling and each ravioli is sealed then fried and sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar.

Many Variations

Many variations to these sweets exist throughout the country, usually with regional twists. In some places, for example, the chiacchiere resemble frappe. 

I hope I’ve whetted your appetite.

Please visit my website at www.PatriciaWinton.com

Drinking Walnuts

By Patricia Winton

On a mid-summer evening a few years ago, I joined a group of Italian friends for dinner. Seven of us gathered around a large kitchen table and feasted on lasagna as the first course—a staple for dinner parties because the cook can prepare the pasta ahead of time with no last minute prep needed. On the terrace, our host barbecued fat sausages, steak, and chicken along with eggplant, zucchini, and red peppers. A sumptuous—and typical—Italian summer feast.

Afterward, we ate splendid peaches and cherries. When we were sated, out came the espresso and tiny glasses that signaled a digestivo would follow. When our host brought out the bottle, the Italians began muttering, “Oh, Nocino!” and “Did you make it yourselves?” and “Did you gather the noci at San Giovanni?”

When the dense syrup trickled into my glass, everyone gazed at me. They held their breath as I lifted the glass and sipped. My mouth tingled with a hint of cinnamon and cloves. When I swallowed, the flavor of walnuts lingered. The silence evaporated as everyone began talking at once to let me in on the secret. I understood nothing. Finally, order prevailed, and as I continued taking tiny sips, the story emerged.

An ancient belief held that the dew on the shortest night of the year was a panacea for every illness, especially digestive problems and liver ailments. Traditionally, midsummer was celebrated between June 21 and June 25. In Italy, that became the birthday of St. John the Baptist (June 24). Thus, the dew on the night of June 23 was the most revered.

Walnuts have always been linked to witches and spells, and the superstition required that the dew on the walnuts be collected by a barefoot virgin to counteract those spells. She was supposed to climb the tree and collect the walnuts without using metal to cut them. The following morning, the liqueur was mixed and set to age until the night before All Saints Day—Halloween—when it was sipped to ward off those witches and spells.

Today, few barefoot virgins collect the walnuts, but some people enjoy the tradition of making the liqueur. That early in the summer, the green walnuts can be easily cut into quarters. They are placed in a glass jar; flavored with cinnamon sticks, cloves, and lemon peel; sweetened with sugar; and infused with grain alcohol and sometimes a bit of red wine.

Nocino is made commercially in Modena (home of balsamic vinegar) where a group called Ordine del Nocino Modenese promotes the region’s Nocino. So, if you don’t have a walnut tree handy, or a barefoot virgin available to collect the nuts, perhaps you can sample this wonderful after-dinner drink at home anyway.

Today’s post is late, but it coincides with the day for collecting the walnuts, June 23. Changes are coming to Italian Intrigues. Beginning next week, I’ll be posting here every Thursday.My last essay at Novel Adventurers will appear next week as well.

The Cat in the Pan

By Patricia Winton

He popped onto my TV screen soon after I moved into my first Roman apartment. The program, La Prova del Cuoco—The Cook’s Challenge—had been on the air for a couple of years at that point. A zany mix of professional chefs, amateur cooks, and even children, the program demonstrated the Italian obsession with food. The most serious notes came from Beppe

Begazzi, an expert on Italian cuisine, and especially, on the basic ingredients. His pedantic pronouncements about where to forage for the best porcini, how to cook bistecca fiorentina, when to eat sausage, or how to ensure the freshest salad greens provided a seriousness to the otherwise rapid pace of the show. His dark eyes and closely cropped white hair gave authority to what he said. Often clad in a plaid shirt with a bolo tie or a sweater, he fascinated me. I’ve learned a great deal from Beppe.

When I began creating characters for my mystery stories, I realized that my heroine needed a sidekick. A schoolmasterish figure like Beppe would do well. From this kernel of an idea, Nino Nardo emerged. He’s about 30 years younger than Beppe, who’s in his 70s. Unlike Beppe, his bald head shines above an impeccable business suit. Over time, Nino has become very real to me. He adopts his professorial voice when he wants to make sure the heroine understands something. He recognizes his weakness, and often gives her an apologetic smile when he’s gone too far.

Beppe, too, can be over the top, but in my mind, Nino is such a separate entity that his image wasn’t tarnished when Beppe fell from grace a couple of years ago. At the time, Antonella Clerici, the show’s host who had been working with Beppe for several years, was on maternity leave. She knew how to slow him when he rode his hobby horse too fast. Her replacement, a former beauty queen named Elisa Isoardi, did not.

In the segment that got him fired, he talked about coniglio del tetto—roof rabbbit—a term used to describe cats. In earlier shows, he had talked about how people ate everything, including cats, during the hungry 1930s and 40s. On the broadcast in question, he gave a recipe. Poor Elisa stood mute, even sinking behind props, as Beppe described how to wash the cat in a flowing stream for three days before cooking.

As I look at the program in Youtube now, I think he was winding her up. The station’s manager had recently announced that Elisa would remain on the show, barring Antonella’s return after her maternity leave. I think Beppe was quite possibly trying to demonstrate what little control Elisa had. Animal rights groups denounced the program, talk shows debated the issue, and Beppe didn’t return. Antonella told journalists that she knew how to keep Beppe in check, but Elisa’s lips quivered as she spoke about her cat, Othello.

Things are back to normal in the world of television now. Antonella hosts the show again, and last year, Beppe returned as well. In my fictional world, Nino is headed for trouble, but not for eating cats.

I write on alternate Thursdays at Novel Adventurers. I hope you’ll drop by. And please visit my website at www.PatriciaWinton.com

Roman Artichokes

By Patricia Winton

At this time of year, the giant purple Roman artichoke—known as cimiroli—comes into season. Two regional recipes, carciofi alla romana (Roman artichokes) and carciofi alla giudia (Jewish artichokes), vie for the dinner table. Either may join the Easter feast. The former, carciofi alla romana, requires less work. Both are delicious when well cooked.

I have to admit that I’ve never tackled the carciofi alla giudia (a fried artichoke) because it’s quite complicated. I've savored them at restaurants in the Roman ghetto, however, and they are quite wonderful. If you are interested, you can see a video (dubbed in English) that demonstrates the process.

To make both recipes, first you must clean the globes. (The video linked above gives a good demonstration of how to do this.) In Italy, artichokes are normally sold with a portion of the stem, which is edible. To clean, first prepare a bowl of water with the juice of a lemon along with the two lemon halves. Artichokes will darken your hands, so you may want to rub them with the lemon before you begin.

The first step is to snap off the tough outer leaves. Keep going until you begin to see green edges at the base of the remaining artichokes. Next, cut off the points by taking a sharp paring knife and begin making a horizontal cut midway between the base and tip. Turn the artichoke as you go, cutting deeper and deeper into the flesh until you reached the center. Next, use the knife to peel away the tough base of the leaves you removed earlier. Peel any stem remaining. Put the artichoke in the waiting water. Now choose a recipe, either the one below or the one in the video.

Carciofi alla Romana

4 globe artichokes (cleaned and put to soak in lemon water)

2 clove of garlic, minced

2 tablespoons chopped mint
3 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley

salt and pepper

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
water

Mix together the garlic, mint, parsley, and enough of the olive oil to moisten the mixture. Mix well. (The usual mint used in this dish is mentuccia—Roman mint—but you can substitute other mint if the mentuccia is not available.)

Remove the artichokes, shaking and blotting with paper towels to remove water.

Using your thumbs, stretch open each artichoke, making a little well in the center, and pull apart the leaves without breaking or separating them.

Fill each artichoke with some of the mixture, rubbing the exterior with the mixture as well. Place the artichoke in a large pot.

Pour the remaining oil over the artichokes and add enough water to come half-way up. Cover the artichokes with a large piece of crumpled parchment paper.

Cover the pan and bring to a simmer, cooking over a moderate flame for half an hour.

Pierce the artichokes with a fork to check if they are done. Continue cooking until they are tender, if necessary.

Serve the artichokes at room temperature.

Serves 4.

Join me on alternate Thursdays at Novel Adventurers. Next week I blog about my first journey to Italy, a trip fraught with seemingly insurmountable hurdles.

Remembering Rosemary

By Patricia Winton 

 There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.... 

    Ophelia in Othello                                

I first encountered rosemary in a little red, white, and blue metal container. It didn’t—and doesn’t still—sit on my mother’s spice rack. When I opened my own kitchen, I began widening my culinary horizons, and rosemary became an early experiment. I hate to admit it, but I produced the worst meatballs ever to be consumed by humankind, and my enthusiasm for rosemary cooled considerably…until I first came to Italy and encountered it fresh.

I visited my friends John and Enzo in the village of Riparbella, not far from the Etruscan town of Volterra. Enzo prepared roast chicken by sticking slivers of garlic into the flesh, placing more garlic, half a lemon, and a large sprig of rosemary in the body cavity, and coating the skin with olive oil. He placed it in a large baking dish surrounded by quartered potatoes. These were coated with more olive oil and anointed with additional garlic and rosemary. My reaction to this dish was akin to Julia Child’s introduction to sole meuniére, her first meal in France. I’ve been a fan of fresh rosemary since. Variations of this dish still dominate the Italian dining table for Sunday lunch.

Rosemary, common throughout the Mediterranean, has long been an integral part of the culinary scene on the Italian peninsula. Archaeological evidence suggests that the Etruscans used rosemary to flavor their fish and meat as early as 700-300 BC. The Italian word rosemarino comes from the Latin ros marinus, meaning “dew of the sea.” The Romans spread the plant to England during their occupation, although it needs protection from the cold in that climate, and Italians took it with them to the Americas when they emigrated there.

When I returned to the U.S. after that first experience here, I grew rosemary myself. It can survive outdoors in the Washington area, and rosemary graced my community garden for ten years. When I left the garden, I transplanted it (with the owner’s permission) to an area behind the building where I lived. It was an enormous plant by this time, and I had to rent a car to transport it. It thrived that summer, and when winter came, I gathered sprigs to hang in my kitchen, but I always clipped a fresh bit for cooking. Imagine my horror the following spring when I went out to gather rosemary to find the gardener had hacked it down. More than ten years later, I still get an empty feeling when I think about it.

Here in Rome, I have rosemary in a pot on my fifth-floor terrace. I still haven’t gotten the knack for growing it in a container. Surprisingly, it doesn’t seem to like the summer sun, which is intense. But come autumn and winter, it will thrive again just in time for all those winter stews, roast chickens, and legs of lamb that I’ll enjoy.