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
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.
|Farinata from Monterosso|
Looks appropriately classical--which of course I didn't know when I planned this trip.