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Toasting the Tuscan Kitchen
by Jan DeGrass
Winner, Food and Drink category in
WanderTales writing competition
I was growing restless. I sat alone in the lobby of the Hotel Annalena
in Florence, Italy, watching the evening light filtering through high
casement windows and splashing over what had once been a
ballroom.
"Napoleon's sister lived here, you know," the hotel manager told me
as she settled into an armchair opposite, bearing two cups of
espresso.
The hotel booking was part of my culinary vacation with an American
company operating in Italy that had arranged a guide and chef to
teach me rustic Tuscan cuisine. My first meeting with the guide,
Lucca Santiccioli, was supposed to start that evening when I would
be taken, along with other participants, for an aperitivo and chef's
dinner. But no other participants had appeared in the lobby at the
appointed hour and the kindly manager had drained her espresso
and was now looking at her watch.
Finally, a well-groomed young man entered and announced grandly,
"I am Lucca."
"Oh, good," I responded, "and where are the others?"
He gazed around the empty lobby, shrugged and said, "There are no
others. But I am here!"
This tour was exclusively for me. Sadly, there would be no
camaraderie with other cooks in the kitchen, no late nights chatting
over a bottle of vino. I was disappointed for all of 20 seconds, then
reason prevailed—here was a handsome Italian man prepared to
take me out to dinner. What was the problem?
"Let's go," I said cheerfully.
Aperitivo in the Italian tradition is a social time, Lucca
explained, before the traditionally late dinner. We walked across
Florence's Ponte Vecchio, the old bridge, to a gelato shop with
outdoor tables on a busy street corner. Over a light sparkling wine,
prosecco, we tasted tart lemon sorbet and Lucca described the
history of the city's ruling family, the Medicis, whose guiding hand
built the ugly fortress called the Pitti Palace, and whose patronage of
the arts sponsored the Uffizi Gallery. Rich money lenders, the
Medicis could afford to gather snow in the mountains and store it in
underground caves. On feast days the stored snow was mixed with
milk and eggs, and gelato was born.
"Want to know how to tell good gelato?" Lucca asked. "Look for the
pistachio. If it's too green they're not using natural ingredients." This
pistachio was the colour of new buds unfolding, delicate and light.
At Florence's Four Lions restaurant the chef's special began with a
typical meaty antipasto that included a coarse liver pate. The
presentation was lacking—it's difficult to make pate look like anything
but chopped liver—but the taste was superb. It was served with an
ordinary house white Rosso o Bianco Toscano. Several varieties of
pasta were served with a local specialty, porcini mushroom sauce.
The secundo or main dish was baccala alla Fiorentina, cod with a
layer of thinly sliced potato and fresh tomato with olive.
After this feast there was no room for the proffered dessert course:
torta di ricotta or gelato, and I staggered back to the hotel, full to
bursting, ready for the following day's cooking lesson with chef
Monica Fabianelli.
The lively, engaging Monica ensured we work up an appetite by
starting with a stroll through the 13th century Santo Spirito Square,
where an antique market was in progress. On other days of the week
the market sold farm fresh and organic produce, the basis of good
Tuscan cooking, and my tour would later include a tasting trip to city
markets where I sampled locally-made pecorino cheese and
Florentine salt-free bread.
Monica revealed her background as a guide and teacher of Italian
culture as we walked through the extensive, formal Boboli Gardens
and out of the walled city through the Porta Romana gate to a busy
road on which heritage stone buildings had been carved into smaller
apartments. The doorway to her tiny apartment opened onto a
narrow, dark staircase. Up one level, the apartment was dollhouse
size and the kitchen less than one meter square. There, rejecting
aprons as garments for cissies, Monica stripped down to leggings
and blouse, I rolled up my sleeves, and we prepared Sunday
dinner—me prepping dishes on the dining room table, she shuffling
the half metre between the stove and sink, snatching up and
washing dirty utensils immediately. We were a smooth team, oiled by
a jug of red wine and joined by a love of food.
Tuscan cooking is farmhouse style; it uses fresh ingredients and
doesn't worry about elegance on the plate. We rolled up thinly sliced
beef kept moist in the oven by zucchini and tomato filling. We
cooked rigatoni with spicy sausage meat and leeks, carefully
trimming the green away and slicing the flavourful white leek thinly.
This vegetable (often referred to as onion in translation) is beloved of
the Tuscans.
For dessert we prepared panna cotta, a gelatine and fresh cream
pudding. The region's Chianti paired nicely with everything. After our
three-course meal Monica poured glasses of the country's signature
sickly sweet limoncello liqueur.
"They say it aids digestion," she told me. "Pooh, I think it's an excuse
to drink more!" (Later, when two friends arrived from London to join
me in exploring Italy, we tasted the fiery grappa, made from grape
skins, seeds and stalks, and liked that better.)
When I described the porcini mushroom sauce that I had sampled at
the restaurant, Monica added it to the next day's menu to be served
with tagliatelle. The star of the show was the humble spinach
gnocchi.
"Press the spinaches," she urged me, supervising until every last
drop of green liquid was squeezed into a bowl. After pressing, mixing
in egg, parmesan and ricotta, rolling in flour, boiling and baking, I
hoped they would not be the bland, pasty balls found in grocery
stores at home. They were not. They oozed flavour and
complemented the simple baked veal and lemon juice dish.
For dessert, tira misu was my choice and I whipped the mascarpone
with enthusiasm, while Monica dutifully prepared fresh espresso to
drown the flaky lady finger biscuits. But her heart was back in the
farmhouse. We would make apple cake as well, she announced, a
simple, apple-topped golden cake, served fresh and warm. It was
delicious…but so was the tira misu. Salute!
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