Why Italians Love to Talk About Food (25 page)

 

At home, I much prefer a turnip
that I cook myself, and once cooked I spear it on a stick
and peel and sprinkle it with vinegar and cooked must,

 

this I prefer to the thrush, partridge, and wild boar served at other people's tables,
similarly under a modest blanket
I sleep as well as under one of silk or gold.

 

The technological cycle requires that the vinegar be aged in special cave-vaults where abrupt temperature changes are recorded each day. The aging process of the product lasts at least twelve years; particularly prized varieties are aged for twenty-five or thirty years, and even longer.

To make such a vinegar (a nectar more expensive than vintage cognac), you take the best wine, white or red, Lambrusco or Trebbiano, bring it to a boil, and then add the mother. This mother, composed of the bacteria responsible for the acidification (
Acetobacter aceti
) that is found in the gelatinous deposit that forms on the bottom of the casks where the mature product is stored, is a real treasure, and is jealously guarded to maintain its secrets and keep it far from the curiosity of “gastronomic spies.” In the early phase, the decoction is kept in very large containers, called
botticelli
. Later, as new servings of the mother are added, the liquid is poured into smaller and smaller barrels. A special collar is put on each barrel, which acts as a barrier against unwanted bacteria. With decanting and adding, a complex alchemy is followed: a little liquid is poured from the larger barrel into a smaller one, according to canonical proportions; three weeks to a month are allowed to go by; then more adding, more pouring, and so on. The first barrels must be made of mulberry wood, the subsequent ones of chestnut and cherry, the last ones of oak and ash. Every now and then cloves, cinnamon, coriander, licorice, and nutmeg are added (this recipe is also secret). And so balsamic vinegar, at one time sold in pharmacies, has become an unparalleled ingredient in cooking.

 

Many Italian cities have earned nicknames over the centuries. Venice is called La Serenissima, the Most Serene; Genoa La Superba, the Arrogant; Brescia La Leonessa,
the Lioness; and Rome La Città Eternal, the Eternal City.
¹
Bologna has two nicknames: La Grassa, the Fat, and La Dotta, the Learned (it was in Bologna that the first law university in Europe was founded, in 1119). “One eats more in Bologna in a year than in Venice in two, in Rome in three, in Turin in five, and in Genoa in twenty,” wrote Ippolito Nievo (1831–61) in
Le confessioni di un italiano
(The confessions of an Italian). Pavel Muratov's response to Nievo:

 

In Bologna there is something light that cheers the eye, agreeably not too complicated. It is a city of contented, healthy people. The fattest granaries and vineyards of Italy surround it, producing a renowned wine. No other place can compare with Bologna for the abundance, variety, and good price of every possible and imaginable foodstuff, and it is no accident that the Italians call it “Bologna la Grassa.”
²

 

That the nickname was not bestowed in vain is evidenced in the description of a Bolognese feast of January 28, 1487, when Giovanni II Bentivoglio, ruler of Bologna, celebrated the arrival of his son, Annibale, and his wife, Lucrezia d'Este.

 

To begin with, the crowd could admire
pignoccati
, pine nut biscotti, and
cialdoni
, cornets of sweet pastry, accompanied by sweet wines in silver vessels; then roasted pigeons, pig's liver, thrush, and partridge with olives and grapes, all arranged on 125 silver platters, one of which (in accordance with the custom of the time) would be served for every two guests. Then a gilded basket with bread passed by. Afterward a sugar castle was carried in, with merlons and towers: it was entirely filled with live birds that, once released, flew out to the great amusement of the guests. Next came a roe deer and an ostrich, followed by meat pies and calf's heads,
³
then stewed capons, veal breasts and loins, kid, sausages, pigeons, and, along with the meats, the
sapori
or relishes, that is, the sauces, in gilded silver vessels; puréed vegetables and various other gravies served as side dishes. After that came peacocks cooked and then re-dressed with their feathers in the shape of a fan; each gentleman received one, adorned with his family's crest. Meanwhile trays of mortadella, stewed hare, and venison were prepared—and displayed in the piazza—but all covered with their skin, to make them seem alive. And still more trays of doves and pheasants, accompanied by apples, oranges, and additional sauces. And sugar cakes with almond paste,
giuncate
[curds of freshly made cheese] with biscotti, kids' heads, roasted doves and partridges, and a castle—of sugar like the other one—full of live rabbits . . .

Still another castle was brought in at this point; in it was a large wild boar who,
unable to get out, was grunting . . . As the boar snorted and bellowed, the stewards served the golden roast suckling pigs. At the end, cheeses and ice creams were presented, along with pears, pastries, sweets, marzipan, and other similar delights.
⁴

 

Given such love of extravagance, it is not surprising that, in centuries which exalted plump women, the women of Bologna were considered the most irresistible, the most appetizing. “Ah! Bologna! how sweetly mixed are the elements in thy women!” wrote Boccaccio. The Marquis de Sade also spoke about the beauty of Bologna's women, with no small satisfaction, in the notes on his second Italian journey (1775). Reputation and anecdotes ascribe to the residents of Bologna, and especially to its female denizens, a lively sexuality, which evidently emerges in the blissful enjoyment of food, but which is probably also influenced by the atmosphere of this old university town: in bygone days 35 percent of the city's population was made up of young men who came there to study, but also to flirt and have a good time. Even today, judging from society news, it seems that the most beautiful women of Italy are found in Bologna and Parma.

 

If the cuisine of Liguria is a cuisine of return (to dry land) and that of Emilia is a cuisine of indulgence, then Romagna's is logically a cuisine for traveling. Its badge is the medieval “sandwich,” namely, the
piada
or
piadina
, the most famous specialty of Romagna: a soft, round flatbread wrapped around a filling of vegetables or cheese. The
piada
, whose name is related to the word
piatto
, flat, is cooked on the grill or in the hearth, on a
testo
, or earthenware slab. It is also the subject of a poem that Giovanni Pascoli wrote about the preparation of
piadine
:

 

And you, Maria, with your gentle hands
knead the dough, then stretch and flatten it
and there it is, smooth as a sheet and big
as the moon, and on outspread hands
you bring it to me and settle it gently
on the heated
testo,
and then go away.

 

I turn it and, with the tongs, poke
the fire beneath, until infused
by
the moderate heat, it crisps and bubbles up
and the aroma of bread fills the house.
⁵

 

The
piada
was often a makeshift solution, a handy expedient when bread was in short supply in the cupboard. It took little time to prepare since the dough for the
piada
did not have to rise (starting in the early twentieth century, it became customary to add baking soda or brewer's yeast to the dough, along with milk, lard, or honey).

The cost of baking
piadine
was inexpensive, in part because just a few coals were sufficient and there was no need to consume firewood. Accompaniments to the
piada
also cost very little: wild herbs or vegetables, raw or cooked in a pan, or, more rarely, fresh cheeses. Ancient varieties of the classic
piada
were
piadotto
(water, cornmeal, and raisins: today it is found only in old recipe books) and
cassone
or
crescione
, whose shape recalls the Roman calzone: a
piada
folded in half and stuffed with the usual greens or (in the Forlivese mountains) with squash, potatoes, and ricotta.

Piadina
is thus an example of poor man's fast food, suitable to serve as nourishment for wayfarers. But to say that Romagna's gastronomy is exclusively “travel cuisine” would be a cliché. No region of Italy can be described by means of a single stereotype. The truth is much more complicated, even in Romagna's case. Romagna's Comacchio Lagoon and its many swamps make up an unusual world, far removed from fast, easy roads and the carefree euphoria of travel: an unreal, romantic atmosphere.

The sweetness of the word “lagoon” tricks the imagination, generating associations with the caressing breezes of Polynesia, but Comacchio does not resemble Polynesia although the sunsets here, too, are fabulously beautiful: flocks of birds fly over the lagoon in the blood-red sky, and abandoned beacons and the ruins of medieval strongholds rise above the swamp. But furious currents here pierce both body and soul. The dampness goes right through you. The area of Comacchio at one time was saturated with water; the main profession of the inhabitants was digging channels for reclamation. Consistent with their profession, they were called
scariolanti
, pushers of
carriole
, wheelbarrows. The hard work in the cold must in some way have driven the local population to develop political ideas that were radically leftist and even anarchical. It is no accident that, in the twenties, it was in this corner of Romagna that many ideological conflicts, scandals, and fights flared up between anarchists and Fascists.
⁶

After having dug a number of canals near the city, the local
scariolanti
went elsewhere
in search of work. Their work was always in demand, of course, in Venice first of all, and second by the architects at the court of the Este family in Ferrara. For many centuries the swamps around Ferrara, which today have vanished, required the constant intervention of the reclaimers. Finally, in Mussolini's time, the Comacchio laborers were dispatched in an organized way to construct the great works of the regime: the reclamation of the Pontine Marshes near Rome and the draining of the terrible Sardinian marshes. Thanks to them, Fascist high-rise cities rose in place of the swamps: Latina, Sabaudia, Pontinia, Aprilia, and Pomezia in Lazio and Mussolinia (today Arborea) in Sardinia.

Two important occupations of the local people in these swamps are fishing and eel catching. The catadromous eels, born in the ocean, swim toward the delta of some great river after three years or so and spend the greater part of their lives in freshwater, until the age of eight to ten years: only then do they return to the ocean, thereby condemning themselves to death. Once sexual maturity is reached, the eels cross the cold, foggy marshes of the Po Delta, reach the open sea, and swim to the Atlantic Ocean; after swimming across it, they mate near its western shore, in the Gulf of Mexico, deposit their eggs, and die in the Sargasso Sea. While still in freshwater preparing for their suicidal migration, the eels, having reached approximately eight years of age, change color from yellow to silver and begin gobbling up food to accumulate fat before the long reproductive season in the Sargasso Sea, where they will then pay with their lives for a single moment of amorous exaltation.

The eels' migration begins in the coldest season, between the end of November and the end of December. Sometimes the eels also have a second migration, in the month of February. To prevent the fattened eels from slipping into the sea, fishermen install complex systems of traps called
lavorieri
, made of reeds. These are positioned at strategic points where seawater, warm and flowing, saturated with oxygen, pours into the lagoon. The reed traps are environmentally perfect. Eel fishermen, in fact, do not use plastic nets or enclosures even today, as a matter of principle. The
lavoriere
is devised in such a way that young eels three years of age (called blind eels), swimming in the opposite direction—from the ocean toward the historic birthplace of their fore-bears, in the marshes of Comacchio—can easily pass through it. Entering along with them are mullet, bass, and whitebait—a gift that allows the inhabitants of the area to vary their menus. The eels swimming from the river toward the ocean, on the other hand, remain trapped in the
lavorieri
's weave. They are removed from the traps on frosty nights, in absolute silence, with a full moon providing a faint light that is sufficient
to at least partially see what is thrashing around in the water (artificial illumination is not advisable).

The wonderful Museo Civico delle Valli, a museum that illustrates how the still fishing method used for many centuries was organized, is situated in the valleys of Comacchio. During the period of the eel migration, the fishermen settled down in huts built on rafts. A shipboard discipline reigned among the crews, with a rigid hierarchical scale from the lowest rank (cabin boy) to the highest (captain); and there had to be a scribe in every crew to keep accounts. Somberly committed to their monotonous work—pulling the slippery tapered fish out of the marsh—the workers, at the end of the season, could choose between two options. They could transport the catch to Venice on
marotte
(rafts with special eel cages attached to the bottom, submerged in the water), keeping the eels alive, only to let them meet an atrocious death in the frying pan after a morning at the market. Or they could process and marinate the caught eels there on the spot, in the “fish factories.” In that case, the beheaded eels continued to thrash about on the slimy floor for at least an hour. Then, finally, they could be threaded on skewers and roasted over a fire while the fat drippings were collected in pans and preserved in cans.