I have to hand it to myself, I am really rather cool. I realised this the night I spent counting all the times Pellegrino Artusi included butter in a recipe. I realised that I was at a Fonzie (US Cult TV character, not Nik Nak imposter) level of coolness when I got to 924 and decided I couldn’t risk being any cooler and should probably turn in for the night. Its not just Artusi who favours the use of butter, or indeed its slightly more delicious outlawed cousin, lard; The cruiserweight names of Italian food doyens such as Vincenzo Corrado, Bartolomeo Scappi, Marcella Hazan, Achille Spatuzzi, are just a lipid sized sample of old fashioned animal fat champions. Ask nonno and nonna what they used for fat before the “Economic Miracle” of the 50’s and 60’s when shelves were flooded with olive oil? Unless they were in a mass olive producing region of the old country, they were most likely using lard or butter for their food and oil for the lamps and occasional bribe.
This recipe, I think, came to me in the throws of a drunken dream. After a brutal night in a restaurant that once upon a time lurked round the back of Liverpool Street station, I clutched at the memory of eating tagliarini with tiny cubes of carrot, broad beans, mint, and zucchini and finished with a hint of pecorino. it was delicious, fresh, clean and sweet and my cousin (who was with me at the time) swore we didn’t eat it or anything that resembled this jumble of spring veg and carbs. The next morning I checked the menu to absolutely no avail, and knowing the chef and his lack of creativity, I assumed I had concocted the whole dish out of the stupor of 13 or 14 grappas.
70g Buffalo Milk Butter
Splash of dry white wine
15g Fave beans (shelled)
15g purple potato
20g Pecorino cheese
Splash of good balsamic (I mean really good, if you don’t have good balsamic just acidulate with a little more white wine)
200g Petra Pasta Flour
10 egg yolks
Dash of water
1. Make the pasta by mixing the pasta flour with the egg yolks. I try and use the Burford Brown egg yolks to give the pasta a wonderful golden colour. You can also buy Italian eggs which have a rich yolk… If you need too, add a little water to bring the dough together into a smooth paste, similar to play-dough. Rest for 30 minutes minimum in the fridge
2. Form the cavatelli. Cut the dough in half, or quarters (Whatever you are comfortable working with) and roll out to the thickness of about half an inch. Cut into strips and then centimetre squares. Push down on the pasta dough with your thumb then forward to make something like a mini cannoli.
3. Bring a pan of salted water to the boil.
4. Finely chop all your veggies. I cut them into matchstick sized pieces and then into tiny little cubes that some Gallophiles would call “Brunoise”, I think the Italians would say “Cubettini”
5. Blanch the veggies in the boiling water for 30/40 seconds and remove into ice cold water to stop the cooking process. Keep the water.
6. Place some fo the buffalo butter in a frying pan and gently heat. Place the Cavatelli into the boiling water and cook for 3/4 minutes and then add to the butter in the frying pan.
7. Add the blanched vegetables, a handful of freshly chopped mint, a tiny splash of white wine and a good amount of pecorino. Cook out until a rich emulsion forms and finish with a little more butter
8. Serve with a little more mint and pecorino, your heart may not thank you but your mood will be through the roof.
I am 4, sitting at a long pine table the colour of petrified tree sap. There are ’s kids everywhere in a dazzling array of technicolour nylon armour, dungarees, vest tops, water paint stained jeans and socks that slip down the ankle to give the impression that the foot is a foot long.
It’s the 90’s so, naturally, there is a finely woven wicker placemat in front of me, the remnants of food from past meals clinging to the fibres like some decaying wattle and daub. I am not hungry, I ate 3, maybe 4, chocolate cookies from a worn blue tin emblazoned with “All Butter Danish Cookies” but I am on the Elvis side of greedy. I like my food and I especially like what my aunt has got in her sun burst orange Le Creuset.
It’s Pasta Tuna Sweetcorn night in North Hull, just like it is up and down the country for anyone between the ages of 2-102. Tables will be decked with centuries old grissini sticks destined to be lovingly sucked into a saliva pap before being dropped and trodden into the carpet. Yellow tins of grated parmesan husks, swept off the factory floors of Italy and carefully repackaged for the UK consumer will dispense a fine dandruff of insipid beige onto heaped mounds of stodgy conchigle pasta. If that didn’t sound delicious, it’s finished with a flour heavy bescimella, day-glo tinned sweetcorn and anaemic tuna with all the texture (and probably flavour) of anaglypta.
This was the insulting pinnacle of Britalian cooking. A dish that, unlike Spaghetti Bolognese, cream saturated carbonara and the Pollo Sopressa (A more Nato friendly version of Chicken Kiev), that seemingly has absolutely no roots in Italy. What’s more, the very concept of putting a viscous mantle of white sauce over something as delicate at tuna flesh is anathema to the legacy of Italian food as far back as the 4th century BC when Archestratus of Syracuse noted; “the very best way for you to deal with this fish; You need fig leaves and oregano (not very much), no cheese, no nonsense” .
If ever a more motley collection of ingredients could be described as “nonsense”, I am yet to encounter them.
In Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus, a play noted for being able to disgust an audience within minutes, Tamora experiences the abject horror of unwittingly consuming her two sons, Chiron and Demetrius in a pie; flesh, blood, bones, hair the lot, a bit like eating at a Little Chef back in the day. I am going to guess that if you are Italian and reading this, thus far, your horror will have been on a level comparable to Tamoras. But I have to make a case for this, on behalf of the time pressed mothers, out of pocket students and child minders with more stroppy mouths to feed than a Parisienne cafe on the day after a national strike. It was simple, cheap and pleased pretty much everyone and anyone who wasn’t genuinely Italian or a food columnist for The Guardian. It could be made in under 20 minutes at a time long before the advent of Jamie’s “Meals in Under a Nano Second” and its inoffensive palate of cream/beige meant that, in a country that mass produces fussy eaters, it will always be a crowd pleaser
I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it at the time; , that would be as hypocritical as a former heroin addict turned rehab councillor saying that the nights they spent with the New York Dolls seeing into the future at the end of pipe wasn’t fun. It was a comforting dish, it filled you up, it stuck to your ribs and hugged your throat. The negative side was that it set me on an uncomfortable path with any type of fish based pasta (excluding shellfish) pretty much until today.
As I got older the impact of seminal Italian chefs like Carluccio, Locatelli, Alastair Little, Nino Sassau and the team at the River Café began to ripple up north. The blankets of sloppy bescimella, long thick ragus and clumsy cream dishes began to give way to lighter, sweet fresh tomato based sauces, olive oils and buttery emulsions that found popularity in the late 90’s early 2000’s.
Tuna would be tipped into one of these with maybe a handful of capers, some chopped olives and a little chilli in an ersatz version of a puttanesca minus the anchovies. It would be tossed into linguine with that stylish weed, rocket, and finished with lemon, a crushed clove of garlic, a sprinkle of oregano or finely sliced red onion. All very refined to the eye, but again containing that ever present, seemingly eternal ball of trachea clogging tuna.
Here is where the problem lies, Tuna flesh starts life red, like you see in the fancy unaffordable packs in M&S. When they can it, they bleed it first and then cook it. When you cook it a second time, Bang! You’ve got the edible equivalent of wood chip – , basically an inedible pointless protein. Its curious, delicate flavour gets lost, imparting nothing more than a faeint tang of ozone to any pasta dish. It’s only real legacy, following a long mastication is the feeling of it scraping down your gullet and something equivalent to a test match in the time it takes to swallow.
I gave up with tuna in pasta, or any type of sea fish for that matter, for a long time. I enjoyed both too much to spoil the other with their unholy union, a union I felt was more toxic than a TOWIE wedding.
Maybe some of the boy scouts reading this will be scoffing at even tolerating the idea of using canned tuna, like it’s a no brainer and I should have been using fresh fish all along. The truth is I have and I think it is equally a crime against man and our scaly submerged brethren. I totally believe tuna fish is best served raw, tarted up with nothing more than a little good olive oil and a couple of well dispersed drops of lemon. If it’s going to be cooked then it’s got to have had seconds on a raging hot grill…and then just a drizzle of olive oil and lemon. Take your sauce and sling it in the bin with the Home Pride bescimella and that copy of Nick Knowles vegetarian cookery book. (random mention of NK!!!??!!)
I mentioned at the beginning of this diatribe against such a seemingly inoffensive dish as pasta with tuna, that I couldn’t bear the thought of it….up until now,. Recently I had some kind of Damascene conversion. I didn’t see a stern faced Jesus appearing on an arid dessert track, instead I saw San. Francesco Di Paola dressed in his habit, emerging out of a rip tide staring a bulbous looking blue fin square on. Emblazoned across the Fender Jaguar orange tin in white copperplate the glorious words “Buzzonaglia Di Tonno, Callipo”. For Italians this may not be a new revelation, but for a man brought up on skip jack in spring water it’s like finding the Garden of Eden was behind your compost bin all along.
Funnily enough, on first glances, it bears striking resemblance to the interior of the compost bin. Far from the insipid beige hall-carpet pallor of your everyday tuna, the “Buzz” looks like Operation Dessert Storm camo: a pastiche of meaty white flesh, fatty blacks and browns and the occasional lattice of veins. It’s this inclusion of the dark meat that is the game changer. Italian and especially Sicilian chefs have known for generations that this is the stuff you do match up with pasta. Even Elizabeth David knew it, stating that during her time in Sicily the fishmonger would wrap up the white and dark meat, some fatty ventresca (belly meat) and even the heart of the beast. Like all that is good in this world to eat, the secret ingredient is, lamentably, fat.
I’ve used it a few times now. I’ve cooked my pasta, finished it with olive oil, chopped taggiasche olives and some finely sliced tropea onions, before heaping half a can of this terrifying, oleaginous fish flesh on top with just the slightest squeeze of lemon. I even tried it with a San Marzano sauce, cooking the tomato first before adding the tuna after and it was like eating fois gras. The principle is the same for pizzas, do the cooking separately. In this case, a Torpedino base with a short kick of oregano on some good dough, and then use the tuna like some indulgent spread over the top when out of the oven.
The possibilities for this can of fishy joy are probably endless, like the Tuna fish itself, nothing goes to waste, not even the can which I have lovingly fashioned into a pen holder. If it were a ship it would pretty much have passed all its sea trials with flying colours and be ready for commission, yet something tells me there is just one more dish it has to conquer before it’s passed fit for service; an old classic, a rule Britalia of a plate beloved by old and young alike…I wonder if Zia Tina still has that Le Creuset dish.
Carlo Maria Recchia – born in 1993 – is a very young entrepreneur who built his fortune from an ancient passion, love for the land and for agriculture, which led him to be the first and only producer and distributor of the this black corn Mais Corvino throughout Europe.
In an era in Italy where you hear about youth unemployment and activities in continuous failure, Carlo Maria Recchia is the example of a young man who has not only chosen to remain in Italy but to invest in its territory and revert to a contemporary a very ancient trade: the farmer.
Since the age of 17, following a discovery made during a research project for the school – Istituto Tecnico di Agraria, Crema – he has dedicated himself more and more to the rediscovery and cultivation of the Mais Corvino, a type of black corn which dates back to the time of the Maya, with significant nutritional properties, which in Europe has not been cultivated since 1700.
In 2014 Carlo formed a company called CMR and Mais Corvino was born, an agricultural enterprise of Carlo Maria Recchia, which becomes a direct grower of Mais Corvino of Coldiretti. The Corvino corn plants are then cultivated in 3,000 square meters, in the countryside around Cremona. The corn grains are ground to stone in an historic mill, La Grande Ruota of 1857, by Dello.Il Mulino (the mill) was designed with the aim of further preserving the raw material and its organoleptic properties during the processing phase; thanks to the combination of a stone milling of the cereal – “like that of the past” In addition to flour, CMR Mais Corvino starts the production of pasta and a gluten free beer.
2017 is the year of a new turning point: Carlo Maria Recchia joins the company with Massa di Leoni Srl, a Branded Content agency founded by Luciano Massa and Luca Leoni, and this is how the individual company CMR Mais Corvino becomes a real company, the Corn Corvino Srl. The union of these two and the key know-how of agriculture and digital communication represents in reality the perfect synthesis of innovation of the project by Mais Corvino Srl: a new and revolutionary way of doing business, where the recovery of the past becomes a trend thanks to the foresight and technology in the hands of this young entrepreneurial generation.
Eat better, not less…
Eat better not less is not a slogan but a message of food education. “We are what we eat”, our life and our physical and psychological health, vary according to our diet. Healthy eating is both a right and a duty to be guaranteed to the entire world population.
World estimates say that in 2050 the planet will be populated by more than 9 billion people but, to date, we can not guarantee the minimum amount of food for the survival of more than a billion people.
The awareness of these issues is the first tool that man has available to address the problem of hunger in the world.
The corporate spirit of Mais Corvino Srl supports this position and is committed to enhancing the issues related to nutrition, the protection of nature and mother earth.
Mais Corvino is an ancient cereal, with a black and elongated grain, cultivated by the Maya already in the 3500 A.C.
Compared to common corn, this unique variant contains twice as many proteins, 20% less carbohydrates, 20 times antioxidants, equal to those contained in blueberries. In particular, Corvino Corn is rich in flavonoids, beta-carotene, vitamin A and is gluten-free.
Thanks to Carlo Maria Recchia, who in 2010 manages to have the first 40 seeds of the ancient cereal and for the next two years he cultivates them to multiply them and start production, since the first 40 plants in 2011 he has now managed to plant 1.3m of these unique ancient and prestigious black corn bearing plants to transform into flour so that today we can enjoy this wonderful food across Europe.
A beautiful recipe by Francesco Mazzei can be found here by clicking the link. Francesco having the first dish on a UK menu with Mais Corvino back when he open Sartoria two years ago.
The Thomas Cook middle England “Pilgrimage of The Sun” route
I never did holiday romances growing up, not in the conventional sense, but the closest I got was a story that makes Heathcliff and Cathy look like Alex Reid and Jordan.
When Calabria started getting too hot for my fur lined Yorkshire father, we switched up and would go to the cooler Adriatic climes of Cattolica, a tributary party town of the once great 70’s package holiday Mecca, Rimini. It was a brilliant melange of amusement arcades, knock off football shirts, granita stands, seasonally burnt German tourists, pastel tablecloths and sticky plastic garden chairs – perfect for a teenager from Hull.
Of course, being on the Thomas Cook middle England “Pilgrimage of The Sun” route, you got plenty of opportunities to meet girls and I reckon many of the lads, with whom I would spend my days smacking a 99p flyer* backwards and forwards across the luminous green pool,did.
No, back in those days I had one main occupation on holiday -eating. I was like a horse with blinkers and a nose bag attached. From the morning buffet of salami, prosciutto cotto, hot rolls and Nutella brioche to the evening 6 course meals of Salumi, giardineri, veal, passatelli, during the whole shebang with various interruptions throughout the day of Stracciatella gelato and granita, I grazed merrily under the Italian sun like a fatted lazarini.
It was on one of these trips, however, I arguably fell in love with a cheese that had about as much affect on my life as Helen did on the history of Troy.
Stracchino is that shy, shrinking wall flower of the cheese world. It’s hard to find in the UK, difficult to contain and has a reputation for not travelling well. It arrives begrudgingly, from tired (Stracche is a Lombard colloquialism for “tired”) stressed cows brought down from their summer vacation in the lush mountain pastures of Lombardy and Piedemonte. The first milk they produce is slightly fatty, rich and bitter and this is where Stracchino gets it trademark boozy aroma from. It makes for the perfect turophile love story.
In 2001 my parents finally liberated me from the hotel’s poolside lunch menu of stomach cramping lasagna, chlorine spattered imitation beef burgers and a Salad Nicoise solely designed as a threat to punish any infant miscreant. I was free to wander through the lunchtime human tide of sweltering shimmering Germans, willowy red Dutchmen and English families perpetually on the hunt for “Spag *shudder* Bol” .
The one place that seemed to cater for any of the actual inhabitants of Cattolica was a blue garden shed run by a mother and son team flipping out hot Piadina by the truck load. For a greedy teen boy, or anyone this side of vegetarian, what isn’t to love about hot flat bread made from strutto (good time pig juice/lard) with a thick white mantle of rich, acidic spreadable cheese with a yeasty back taste? I didn’t know what I was asking for but my now honed technique of pointing and moving my head in a culinary direction landed me with Stracchino and prosciutto day after day.
Stracchino was a revelation. It’s not a cheese that slaps you round the face and leaves you drooling on the floor, no Stracchino is dairy humility. It’s the cheese equivalent to Barry Manilow’s “Mandy”; It gives a lot, you overlook it, maybe even dismiss it…then a few days later realise it’s possibly one of the best things to have ever entered your mouth. The flavour is one of persistance, it builds and grows before registering in your brain as something quite unreal and moreish.
It’s an oddball cheese to be fair. The texture, when straight out the fridge is satisfyingly gelatinous but give it time at room temperature and it acquires the solemn ooze of lava, letting itself spread out much like a midriff on a fat man following a 12 course dinner. On the palate it’s thick, sticky and heavy, you could even say a little bit boozy? It coats every corner of the mouth with a satisfying earthy, acidic farm yard flavour, before dissipating into sweet, milky vapours that remind you of a young grana padano.
Italian restaurants named after cooking utensils
I was hooked, but I didn’t realise it until my return to the UK. I had taken my alabaster goddess, with her un-sculpted lines and love handles that make it look more like some flabby bread dough than cheese, totally for granted. In the UK, circa 2001, it was nowhere to be found.
I remember clearly going into our local branch of Safeways and keeping my eyes partially closed in Christmas morning-like anticipation,hoping that maybe one of those featureless tubs, nestled amongst the spiky bergs of Parmiggiano Reggiano, would be my creamy Holy Grail but only to be totally disappointed on finding largely insipid pots of supermarket mascarpone and ricotta.
Later, when I was a little older, we hooked up in Bologna. Shunning the opportunity to catch up on some underage drinking round the back of the Conad supermarket, I’d wander the colonnades of the old town tucking into this block of alabaster cheese tang like it was an apple.
I even got bold, smuggling as much stracchino wrapped in cling film through customs at the height of the foot and mouth scare like a crazed dairy obsessed Howard Marks as I could fit in an Umbro duffel bag. The border control didn’t scupper me but the intense heat in my bag generated in the near greenhouse conditions of Charles de Gaulle airport transformed the cheese into a fizzing ball of milk funk. I was gutted.
It would be years later I saw stracchino again, sitting prettily in the shop window of one of London’s outrageously priced Italian delis. She was still the same, pearl white, plain and unassuming, hiding the mysteries contained within but now with a price tag of nearing five quid and rendering it way out my league.
We are older now. Stracchino is becoming more available to the public, whereas with abs to maintain, I’m becoming less available to cheese. I see it now and again; in place of Mozzarella on a Pizza, where its beautiful melting abilities and subtle richness outshine the best buffalo and burrata. Occasionally she pops up tucked into a tortellini or stuffed into a veal chop by recent converts with Italian restaurants named after cooking utensils, sat jauntily on a blue rimmed plate atop a marble counter. Soon the East end hipsters will come and elevate it to lofty cheese heights, waddling West London food bloggers will rave and strike their piggy little flags into its terra un-firma. But me and Stracchino will always have that summer, in Cattolica.
A story of great tasting salami recipes that date back over a hundred and fifty years. Maletti Salumeria was born in Casinalbo, in the suburbs of Modena, towards the end of the 19th century, from a small kitchen workshop Francesco Maletti’s passion grew for excellence in Salumeria and his products soon became known for their unique flavour and aroma. Soon after his products were set to be exported all over the world and served the most beautiful delicatessens in Europe.
Maletti cured meats began to be distributed, first in Italy, then also abroad, the kitchen workshop became a small factory and a company store was created for the local consumers from Modena and Bologna where they could purchase direct from the store and chat with the family members about their goods.
Salsiccia di Secondegliano
QUALITY: choice pure pork, belly and shoulder only.
SPICES AND FLAVOURINGS: white wine (Sweet); white wine and crushed chilli pepper (Strong).
FLAVOUR: the mouth watering flavouring is sweetened by the light smoking (Sweet). Quite hot due to the wild chilli pepper, which gives it an unmistakable fragrance and flavour (Strong).
All love stories begin in the same way, firstly you have to meet each other and this is exactly what happened with the Torpedino. The Di Vito’s family business has always been in tomato production and when everyone thought it was impossible to grow a particular variety of tomato with a natural sweetness, they never stopped searching for the perfect answer. Finally in 2007, the Di Vito’s family discovered the Torpedino. Torpedino is the greatest expression of a territory that has always been devoted to the production and culture of tomatoes and this is what makes it an authentic product. It is a rustic variety, belonging to the family of Mini SanMarzano with a well-balanced relationship between sweetness and acidity, a solid pulp, and very little seeds. In the category of small size fruits this is the only one that can be consumed both red and green and it can be enjoyed both fresh and cooked. The shelf life of this gem extends beyond other tomatoes and will keep perfectly up to 20 days out of the fridge. Torpedino is a product that involves a close and passionate group of producers working the countryside, united by their love for quality, all working to achieve perfection.
Francesco Mazzei when he discovered the aroma and taste of Torpedino, now a firm favourite within the menus of his restaurants.
It’s a four season tomato, fresh all year round.
Torpedino grows from May to November in Fondi. When the climate turns cold the Torpedino production is moved to the south of Italy in the Sicilian countryside of Licata and Vittoria. The sun of Sicily can guarantee a reasonable quantity of fresh products from December to April making it a tomato to enjoy all year round.
We at Delitalia have fallen in love with this jewel and import it weekly to be enjoyed in restaurants around the UK. Transformed into elegant decoration, garnishes, accompaniments and rustic dishes by chefs hands, it can change the way you think about a simple tomato – have you tried the true taste of tomato?
Martino and Mariano di Vito (Mr Torpedino) visit customers across the UK.