Why Italians Love to Talk About Food (21 page)

 

The preparation of a good risotto Milanese requires a quality rice, such as the Vialone type, with a large, relatively more compact grain than the Carolina type of grain, which has an elongated, almost spindle-shaped form. A rice that is not entirely “hulled,” that is, whose pericarp is not entirely removed, meets with favor from those in the know in Piedmont and Lombardy: the growers, who use it for their personal cooking. To be specific, the grain here and there appears covered by the residual strips of a film, the pericarp, that has the appearance of a tattered walnut-or leather-colored covering, but very thin: cooked strictly by the rule, it produces excellent, nourishing risottos, rich in those vitamins that distinguish tender grains, seeds, and their outer husks.
Risotto alla paesana
, or country-style, from these rices turns out particularly exquisite, but so does risotto Milanese: a little darker, it's true, after, and despite, the golden baptism of saffron.

The classic vessel for cooking risotto Milanese is a round casserole, or even an oval one, of tin-plated copper, with an iron handle: the old, heavy casserole which from a certain
moment on was never heard of again; a precious fixture of the old, vast kitchen. It was an essential part of the kitchen's “copper” or “coppers,” and an erstwhile poet, Bassano, did not neglect to include it in his poetic “interiors,” where gleaming copper more than once figures on the brickwork, capturing and reflecting a ray of sunlight that, once dinner is digested by the diners,
concocto prandio
, begins to fade. Since the old copper has been snatched from us, all that remains is to trust in its replacement: aluminum.

Holding the casserole over the heat by the handle, using the left hand and a felt pot holder, add slices or small pieces of tender onion and a quarter ladle of broth, preferably hot beef broth, along with first-rate Lodigiano butter. Butter,
quantum prodest
(just enough), depending on the number of diners. After first lightly browning this modest buttery onion mixture, toss in the rice, little by little, in small, repeated amounts until reaching a total of two or three handfuls per person, according to the anticipated appetite of those at the table: nor should the little bit of broth initiate the process of boiling the rice: the ladle (of wood, now) will therefore be busy, turning and turning. The grains will then become browned and will soon settle against the tin-plated, red-hot bottom, each one maintaining its own “personality” in this phase of the ritual: not sticking together or clotting.

Butter,
quantum sufficit
(just as much as needed), no more, I beg you; it must not bathe, or form a nasty sauce: it must anoint each grain, not drown it. The rice has to settle, as I've said, on the tin-plated bottom. Then, little by little, it will plump up and cook, as a result of adding the broth bit by bit; here you will want to be careful and painstaking: add the broth a little at a time, beginning with two half ladlefuls of it taken from a “side” bowl that you have ready. In it will be some brightly colored dissolved ground saffron, an incomparable gastric stimulant that comes to us from the dried pistils, their flower then duly crushed.

Risotto Milanese should never be overcooked—heavens, no!—but should be only slightly more than al dente on the plate, with each grain soaked and swollen with the aforesaid juices, yet an individual grain, not stuck to its companions, not mushed into a glop, in a soggy mass that would be disagreeable. Some grated Parmesan is just barely allowed by good risotto makers; it's a means of rendering Milanese sobriety and elegance more cordial. With the first rains of September, fresh mushrooms may be found in the casserole; or, after St. Martin's Day, at the time the risotto is served, dry slivers of truffles from a special truffle-slicer tool may be sprinkled over the dish by a solicitous waiter, duly remunerated when the feast is over. Neither the mushroom addition nor the truffle addition manages to pervert the profound, vital, noble significance of the risotto Milanese.

 

Whether or not onion has a right to be part of
risotto alla milanese
is the subject of many disputes. Elena Spagnol, an irrefutable authority in culinary matters, to whom many recipe books are credited, has convinced the author of the present volume that there is no place for onion in a good risotto. Nevertheless, reading Gadda, we find that the brilliant novelist sautéed minced onion in the pan before adding the rice to brown. Preaching in the same choir is the voice of the gentle poet of Romagna, Giovanni Pascoli, who in turn offers the rigorously Milanese recipe in his lyrical poem “Il risotto” (the cook he describes is from Milan):

 

Friend, I've read your
Risotto in
. . .
Ai!
It's very good, but a little futuristic
with all those “you'll do this, you'll do that.”

 

This, from my area, is more sure
because it's in the present tense. She minces a little
scallion in a simple pan.

 

In it she adds butter the color of crocus
and saffron (she's from Milan!); then
she leaves her dish on the fire.

 

You'll say: Butter and onions? I should add
that there are also bits of chicken liver,
tripe, and mushrooms.

 

What a fine aroma comes from the fireplace!
I already feel a little restored
after my Greek and Latin!

 

Then she crushes some tomato over it,
and leaves it to simmer nice and quiet
until it takes on a pale golden color.

 

Only then does she cook in it
the raw rice, as you say.
It's already striking noon . . . Here comes the risotto
alla romagna
that Mariù makes me.

 

It's curious that this poem was written as an imaginary response to a poem described by him as “Il risotto in ai” (
ai
being a form of the future tense) by another literary figure, Augusto Guido Bianchi, editor of the
Corriere della Sera
and a Milanese friend of Pascoli (their letters are now preserved in the Biblioteca Braidense of Milan).

 

. . . The casserole requires a hot coal fire;
one hundred grams of good butter and a few onions.

 

When the butter browns, you will then add
the raw rice, as much as you want,
and while it toasts, you will stir and toss it.
Broth is needed then, but very hot;

 

put in a little at a time, since it must boil
continuously, and never be allowed to dry out.
In the end, you will dissolve
a little saffron in it, you will do this
so that the yellow will color it.

 

You will let the broth be absorbed,
so that the rice will be dense, once it is cooked.
It needs a lot of grated cheese.
Thus you'll have the risotto of Milan.

With an area of 2,124 square miles, Liguria has 217 miles of coastline. This small region nevertheless has as many mountains as Valle d'Aosta, Trentino, or Abruzzo. Therefore, what the Ligurians have been able to depend on during the course of their history is obvious: fishing, mountain goats, and the strength of their own enterprise.

Farming is hard work in this mountainous coastal strip of stubborn soil. It's conducted on terraces contained by low drystone walls constructed in irregular grids of shale or slate (cement and stucco are forbidden, in theory, by a special law to protect the environment, observed by almost everyone) and continuously patched by hand. Modern methods of cultivation have not yet caught on here: it is difficult to adapt large farming equipment to a plot of land that is merely a few spans wide. Thus, from an agricultural standpoint, Liguria remains an oasis of so-called bioproducts, a paradise for agritourists, a bastion of ecological and ethnogastronomic “food defenders” (see “
Slow Food
”). A relationship with simple things is so developed here that humble products—herbs, seasonal vegetables, and eggs—that are little appreciated elsewhere enjoy the highest consideration.

Liguria's cuisine is first and foremost the seaman's, and second a “cuisine of return”—that is, a cuisine of the land, that long-dreamed-of land that the sailor, once
back in home port, treads with unsteady gait. Throughout the entire voyage, the seaman has eaten hardtack and focaccia (the same ship's biscuits and flatbread that even today constitute an important component of the Genovese and Ligurian diet). Focaccias drizzled with olive oil, often topped with dried fish, such as
mosciame
—traditionally dried dolphin fillet, which today, following a national ban on dolphin fishing, is replaced by tuna fillet. Hot dishes were scarce: hot food was distributed only once a day on the ships, before noon, when the second watch was about to begin and the first had just ended. A pesto of basil and olive oil, plus other caloric ingredients (pine nuts and pecorino cheese) and a vitamin component (crushed garlic), was also spread on the focaccias.

By Margherita Bourtsev

Ligurians have a skeptical, even hostile, attitude toward their sea: “Anything
good would never be called
mar
” (in the sense of
male
, evil), they say. Nevertheless, they are ready and willing to go to sea, and they do it with tenacity. Glorious navigators aside—among them the most illustrious, Christopher Columbus—the ablest, hardiest old sea dogs are found in crews from Liguria, and nothing is impossible for them. Genoa was dubbed “Genoa the Proud” in distant times, since by the eleventh century it dominated commercial traffic in the Mediterranean and was one of four Italian maritime republics (the others were Venice, Amalfi, and Pisa) that controlled trade with Asia and Africa, in competition with the Arabs and with Byzantium. Genoa eventually ruled over not only the Mediterranean but also the Black Sea, establishing colonies in Greece, Asia Minor, Spain, Africa, and Crimea.

Once back on land, the sailor has no desire whatsoever to gaze back at the sea. Instead, Ligurians turn their faces upward and blissfully contemplate the mountains. It is telling that the majority of the nation's alpine troops were recruited here, and that the local cuisine consists primarily of foods from the land. Once back from their voyages, sailors and fishermen couldn't stand any more cod and shellfish. They dreamed of savory pies with vegetables, spinach, mushrooms, fresh cheese, and ricotta. The seaman's wife prepared the pie dough the night before, baked it in the morning, and then went to welcome her husband at the port; with dinner ready and waiting, it was easier to enjoy the day.