Pecorino

Historically the Napoletani have been able and brilliant friggitori—fryers of food. Until only a few years past and sometimes, still, in the quarters of the poor, the very air was thick with the scents of food being crisped to a light gold in boiling oil. The humble kiosks of the friggitori, traditionally wagons fitted with cauldrons, were wheeled about the dank alleyways, the friggitori wailing out the worth of their salty wares, promising them to be “nuvole ricoperte d’un manto dorato”—“clouds mantled in gold.” Sometimes, the offering was a nugget of simple bread dough stretched out and fried, then dusted in sea salt and anointed with oil, other times there might be little croquettes of rice and cheese or fritters of broccoli or artichokes. Often, though, the friggitori brought forth lusciously crunchy half-moons of dough plumped with mozzarella and known as panzarotti. Our favorite kiosk sits, still, in front of the Pizzeria Bellini, just down the street from the Accademia delle Belli Arti in Via Costantinopoli, a tiny quiver of space where one can stand, at nine in the morning, even, to bite at hot, too hot, savories while listening to two violins, a viola, a violoncello, and a Baroque guitar working through Boccherini. Here follows a version of panzarotti made from course dough rolled thin, laid with mozzarella, pecorino, and bits of salty meat or tomato or anchovy, folded over and cast into whorls of bubbling oil.

Traditionally, the gatekeep of an apartment building in Napoli is a widow or a widower of a certain age, one of whose missions, as spiritual guardian of the palazzo, is to slot the mail—after fastidious palpating of its contents, lifting it to the light of the sun, trawling it for heretical intelligence, and generally shadowing the recipient’s movements by it, to diligently rouse, invent, and unbosom internal gossip. The good gatekeep only breaks from these industries to stir at or baste some one of his legendary little potions, all of which signal to the tenants as they cross the threshold what will be the old watchdog’s supper.

Perhaps until the beginning of this century, there came always, in the severe mountains of the Abruzzo, a haunting desperation with the first days of May. Bankrupt of the thin stores conserved to abide the incompassionate winter—their handkerchief-sized patches of earth sown a few weeks before—the contadini (farmers) waited then for the land to give up its first nourishment. Often it came too late and many died. And even as time brought more mercy, these terrible days were remembered, the pain of them soothed by a simple ritual. The story says that on the first of May, sette fanciulle virtuose—seven young virgins— went from house to house in a village in the Marsica, the area that suffered most in the past, and begged whatever handful of the winter food that might remain in the larders. And, then, in the town’s square over a great fire in a cauldron, the fanciulle prepared a beautiful pottage to share with all the villagers, to bring them together, to warm them, to keep them safe. The potion was known as la virtù—the virtue. The soup is still made, ritualistically, faithfully, each first of May in many parts of the Abruzzo—most especially in the environs of Teramo, as well as in the Marsica—now more extravagantly, brightening the humble dried beans with spring’s new harvests. Employing even a handful or so of all the ingredients results in a great potful of the soup, assigning it thus as a festival dish. On some sweet day in May, invite twenty-nine or so good people and make the soup for them. The tail of a pig and one of his ears, though they are traditional to the soup, seem optional to me.

…in the manner of Ellisabetta. Abruzzesi women seem congenitally beatific. They endure, they temper, they are faithful to their own notion of life and betray none of the gnashing dramatics of those Italian women who seem to burlesque passion, who remain in pain eternal, fanned if only by the postino’s tardiness. The Abruzzesi are intrinsically more dignified than those. As wives and mothers, the Abruzzesi seem more revered than leaned upon. Not the archetypal massaia, farmwife, a woman of the Abruzzo historically worked the fields, made bricks, and piled them up into rude buildings with the same good sentiments with which she told fables to her children and suckled her baby. There are many stories, in fact, of women of the Abruzzo that I might tell you. I could tell you about Francesca Cipriani. Well into her seventies, slender, of fine bearing, her long, silver hair pinned up under a kerchief, she speaks eloquently of what it is to live in an isolated mountain village at the end of this millennium. She knows very well that hers is the last generation with the will to stay there inside the small rhythms of its solitude. She is of the village of Campotosto, long and still famed for its plump, rough-textured sausages. She is one of the last artigiani—artisans—who build, by hand, the mortadelline di Campotosto. We were hard put, though, to talk her into selling a few of them to us. She said that this last batch had not yet had time to age properly and that she simply would not sell them in their unfinished condition. We told her that we had a woodshed much like hers and that we lived, not so high up as she, but nevertheless, in the mountains and that we would promise to hang the little sausages there in our own crisp, cold, oak-scented air. She consented. As we were driving away, she raced after the car, counting on her fingers and calling to us, “Lasciatele appese fino al giorno di Pasqua e a quel punto saranno perfette”—“Leave them to hang until the day of Easter, at which point they will be perfect.” We did exactly as she said, taking Francesca’s mortadelline from the woodshed on Easter morning, slicing them thickly, and eating them with a soft, buttery pecorino bread for our Easter breakfast. And then I could tell you about Elisabetta. We found her in the countryside between Anversa and Cocullo. We saw a sign fixed to a tree, penned in a child’s hand, we thought, that read, LA VERA CUCINA ABRUZZESE. COME ERA UNA VOLTA. THE TRUE COOKING OF ABRUZZO. AS IT ONCE WAS. It was, after all, nearly noon, and the invitation was, indeed, irresistible. We pointed the car, as the sign’s arrow indicated, down the narrow, scraggly lane. We stopped in front of the only house. There was a puppy sitting among the weeds and wildflowers, a starched, white napkin laid before him like a tablecloth and beset with various little dishes. After wishing him a buon appetito, we turned to the door. Another sign, in the same child’s hand, invited us to ring the bell if we were hungry. We rang the bell. And there came Elisabetta. A rosy wool skier’s cap pulled low over her brow, her thin, tiny body swathed in long skirts—one piled over another for warmth—and scuffed black boots composed her costume, all of it ornament to her caffè-latte-colored skin and the great, gray sparklers she had for eyes. Elisabetta, now seventy, began her career as a restaurateur at sixty-one. She was just coming into her stride, she told us. Since we had arrived much too early for lunch, she sat us down in the kitchen in front of an old whisky bottle filled with cerise-colored wine and two tumblers. She puttered about, chopping and stirring and such, talking about her life, her adventures, how, when her then twenty-year-old son was sent to Sicilia for his military service, she went along. Because she feared the boy would miss her too much and because she feared, too, she migh...

The cooling green tint of the sauce, its reserved, sensual sort of piquancy, make this a pasta good for high-summer lunch or supper after insalata di cantalupo (see page 22).

Twenty kilometers from our home sits the bustling Latian village of Acquapendente. There we find our trustworthy pork butcher, our panificio di famiglia (family bakery), and the only shop between Rome and Florence where Erich can find the music of Astor Piazzola. Hence, Acquapendente is a sort of vortex for us. It is on early Friday mornings when it beckons us most plaintively, the day the market—the mercato—comes to town. It is a good-enough market at any time of the year, but steeled in late January fogs is how we like it best. From our home in San Casciano dei Bagni, higher up by four hundred feet and, in winter, sitting nearly always in crystal air, we descend the narrow, sloping road past the sheepfolds, past the ostrich farm, away from the new, gold sun, fresh from its rise, and into the thick, purply mists of the rough little place. Wrapped in our woolens we stroll the abundant tables of green-black Savoy cabbages and violet broccoli, baskets of potatoes and turnips unwashed of their Latian earth. Here and there are lit small, consoling charcoal fires in funny little tripod burners over which the farmers thaw their ungloved hands. Just outside the fray are the humbler posts, those that beg no rent, that are had for their predawn staking. The farmers, sober in the unpacified cold, unwrap their often meager stuffs—a basket of chestnuts, one of cauliflower, and once, a man, standing beside his little pile of pumpkins, held a brace of pheasant, still dripping their blood on the frozen ground, his booty from a predawn hunt—offering them at far lower prices than those asked by their more prosperous colleagues inside the village. It was there, too, at the Friday mercato in Acquapendente that a woman from Bolsena, who was selling just-ground chestnut flour, sat on the edge of her table and wrote out this most wonderful recipe. The smokiness of the chestnut flour enlarges upon the forest scents of the mushrooms, the whole combining into a sensual sort of rusticity. If chestnut flour is not to be found at your specialty store, substitute whole wheat or buckwheat flour and mix 3 ounces of canned, unsweetened chestnut puree with the mascarpone.

In this indulgent salad, wild mushrooms are sautéed until tender and crisp, then tossed in a warm sherry vinaigrette with bitter greens and herbs. There are so many different herbs in this salad that each forkful tastes different, depending on which herb you bite into. Chervil contributes a mild anise nuance, while chives add a peppery, oniony note. Tarragon has a pungent licorice bite, and parsley a bright grassiness. Ribbons of pecorino and a sprinkling of toasted hazelnuts are the final layer of luxury in this delicious warm salad. All Italian sheep’s milk cheeses are called pecorino. They are usually named after their place of origin, as in Pecorino Romano or Pecorino Toscano. However, my favorite pecorino, Pecorino di Grotta, for this salad is from the Emilia-Romagna region. The story goes that the local housewives would hide a wheel or two of this aged cheese in the basement (grotta), storing it for later, when they would sneak out of the house and sell it for pocket money. Let’s hope that times have changed for the ladies in Emilia-Romagna!

This warm salad came about, like many of my dishes, as a way to show off one of my favorite ingredients—in this case, the lovely Kabocha squash. I roast the wedges of squash until they’re practically caramelized and then weave them into a salad of dandelion greens with a tart sherry vinaigrette. Tucked into the greens and squash you’ll find bacon lardons. Not to be confused with bacon bits, lardons are oversized rectangles of chewy, slightly crisped bacon, meaty and satisfying to bite into. Also hiding in the mix are salty toasted pecans and elegant shards of Roncal, an earthy sheep’s milk cheese from Spain.

I’m always looking for inspiration when I shop at farmer’s markets. The heirloom varieties of summer squash, like Goldbar, Paddle, and 8-Ball, are among my new favorites. To highlight their subtle flavor, I splash them with a simple lemon dressing, then surround them with sharp cheese and peppery greens.

Most Yankees have a preconceived notion that they don’t like grits. When we put them on the menu, lots of folks are resistant. It’s a tough sell for the waitresses, but once they get customers to try them, they’re hooked. Our flavor-boosted grits are rich and powerfully earthy. Serve them instead of mashed potatoes.

This is one of the best ways we know to use up day-old corn bread. We mix it with spicy Italian sausage and stuff it into some bodacious pork chops to turn out one good-lookin’ dish for our Custom-Que menu.

This is my version of a recipe that’s been bouncing around my family for years. It’s more Italian than barbecue, but who cares? It’s definitely a crowd pleaser. We get our fresh bread dough from the Columbus Bakery, a legendary family-run bakery in Syracuse.

This salad is a wonderful way to venture into the world of raw squash. Using the truffle version of pecorino isn’t absolutely critical, but its earthiness is a fantastic counterpoint to the brighter flavors of squash and lemon juice. For best results, use the smallest, firmest, freshest squash you can find— they’re easier to grate and taste better than the more mature ones. And because this salad is so simple (almost minimalist), the quality of your olive oil really counts.

Using store-bought puff pastry allows you to make these tarts on a busy weeknight. Round out the vegetarian meal with a salad of mixed greens or any of the winter vegetable sides on page 279.

Pesto made with parsley and sharp Pecorino Romano cheese (and without nuts) makes a colorful topping for tender lamb chops. It could also be tossed with pasta, spread on sandwiches, or mixed with cream cheese for a dip to serve with crudités (see page 52).

WHY IT’S LIGHT A springtime pasta dish forgoes heavy sauce in favor of a toss-together topping of arugula, lemon zest and juice, and extra-virgin olive oil. A generous amount of Pecorino Romano cheese ensures the dish satisfies both appetite and palate.

A classic example of the type of salads you’ll find in Italy, this is easy to throw together and more impressive than the usual mixed green salad. Depending on the region, the type of cheese may differ. I love to nibble on chunks of Pecorino as I make it.

In this country pizza is synonymous with tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese. In some parts of Italy, and especially in Rome, where I grew up, sauce and cheese are generally an either-or proposition, as in this veggie-centric version topped with both mozzarella and sharp pecorino but no sauce. I consider this the perfect item for an evening of playing poker (yes, I do like to play poker); it’s easy to eat with your hands, and it will satisfy vegetarians and meat-lovers alike because the olives make it meaty and substantial.

Nothing warms up a cold winter night like chicken soup, especially when there are hearty chunks of chicken and pieces of pasta waiting in the bottom of the bowl. When I came home from the hospital with Jade, friends and family took turns bringing food by for Todd and me. Sandra Tripicchio, who is an invaluable part of putting together my shows and books, made us a big batch of this lemony chicken soup, and it’s been a staple in our house ever since. You’ll love the way the lemon brightens the soup’s flavor.

Rome is famous for its artichokes, and in the Jewish district you can buy amazing fried whole artichokes on street corners. Back home, I use frozen artichokes for ease and I love combining them with beans in a creamy dip for bruschetta, a favorite snack throughout Italy. The crispy, salty prosciutto highlights the subtle flavor of the artichokes and adds crunch.

There is an important and splendid group of pasta recipes that is associated with Rome and the area around it; all the variations begin with bits of cured meat cooked until crisp. Around these delightfully crispy bits—and, of course, their rendered fat—are built a number of different sauces of increasing complexity. The first contains no more than meat and grated cheese and is called pasta alla gricia; the second, in which eggs are added, is the well-known pasta (usually spaghetti) carbonara, one of the first authentic non-tomato sauces to become popular in the United States, about thirty years ago; and the third is pasta all’Amatriciana, which adds the sweetness of cooked onion and the acidity of tomato.

Pesto has become a staple, especially in late summer when basil is best. But pasta with pesto does have its limits; it’s simply not substantial enough to serve as a main course. The Genoese, originators of pesto, figured this out centuries ago, when they created this dish, which augments the pesto with chunks of potatoes and chopped green beans, making it a more complex, more filling, and more interesting dish. Recreating this classic dish is straightforward and easy. Note that if you start the potatoes and pasta simultaneously, then add the green beans about halfway through cooking, they will all be finished at the same time and can be drained and tossed with the sauce in a snap. This technique may sound imprecise, but it works.