A Delightful Franciacorta Welcome, and more tortellini

After a few days in Venezia (Venice), I have been offered a new stage position, at the ‘Relais Franciacorta’, between Brescia and Milano, near Lago Iseo (Lake Iseo). The setting reminds me greatly of living and working in the Kelowna area of British Columbia. It is delightful! I have been working here for 5 days now, and this is the first chance I have had to put up a blog note. The work-day extends from just after 8 in the morning to about 10:30 at night.

The new stage is a great change from the last. This kitchen is enormous, directed and created by a Chef who previously worked with Gualtiero Marchesi, the acknowledged Dean of modern Italian cuisine (see my previous blogs about Maestro Marchesi). Chef Fabrizio Albini is calm, quiet, deliberate, very supportive of his entire brigade in the kitchen. The brigade consists of about a dozen cooks and assistants. There are 6 positions in the entire place ... hot kitchen (3 positions; fish, flesh and pasta), an antipasto kitchen, a bakery and a pastaceria. Huge walk-in refrigerators and freezers, large store-rooms; everything most people imagine in a large four-star hotel. It is a wonderful opportunity I have to work here.

Chef Albini welcomed me with a quick introduction, a warm handshake, big grin, and a delicious lunch with the entire group at work that day. Everyone here works together, he pointed out, like a family. Most of the staff live in the hotel, and we see each other all the time. There is no room here for a bad temper. So, we all work to get along well, and are supportive. My observation, and from comments of the staff, tell me he walks that talk, every day. People here sing a bit while they work, there is lots of friendly kibitzing and support, and everyone follows the Chef’s personal manner of working very hard but being focused and calm while doing it. Quite a feat!

As you can see from the photos, the main kitchen is enormous. So far I have seen meals for up to 175 at a time go out the door, with no flap or fluster on anyone’s part. The capacity of the kitchen in greater than that, though. The wait staff just come in the door, cycle past the slide and get their plates on their trays then away they go. The menu is of the absolute highest gastronomical standard.

In any kitchen this size there is always a huge amount of prep work to be done. It is not only peeling potatoes and carrots, though. Yesterday I worked with Daniele delCarmine, one of the kitchen brigade and, in the morning we worked to prepare items for a large banquet luncheon. After lunch was done, at about 2 in the afternoon, we started making tortellini. We quit at just a bit before 10 last night, having hand-made a bit over 2,200 tortellini. They are all neatly packaged away, ready to be used. (Just so you know, the counter we work on for this operation is over 20 feet long. Most homes in Canada don’t have this sort of counter-space in one long run.) (If you want to make your own tortellini, just less, see my blog entry about making them, below.)

One of the interesting challenges for cooks in the trade is the satisfaction of dong wonderful preparation, then having it all march out the door into the roomful of happy clients, leaving you with an empty frig. But there can be a bit of a push-pull. “Hey! I worked hard to make all this, and the frig looks great, and it is all neat and clean! Don’t mess anything up, or use it, because I’ll have to make more!” I was joking with Daniele last night about this. We agreed that we should make all the tortellini, but that they should never be used. That way we would not have to make them all again! However, we know that this mammoth push will only last about 2 weeks, maybe three. We already have made a date for another ‘tortellini holiday’, as he dubbed it, for later in November. We’ll knock off another 2000 or so.

What a wonderful start to a new and exciting stage in Italy!

Heat

Today as I was walking one of the innumerable alleys of old Venice, where I am spending a few days, I was handed a flyer. Usually I turn away from all street handouts, but it came with two words I appreciate ... “free” and “concert”, along with the words “tonight” and “please join us”.

Well, I had no particular plans, so off I went. The concert was to start at 20h30 in one of Venezia’s dozens of old churches, that dedicated to Saints Giovanni e Paulo.

I am not a native of Venice. After a couple of days here I can find a few of the major tourist spots without too much trouble, and have learnt how to read the signs attached to the walls all over this old city. “Per S. Marco” , “Per Rialto” and “Per Ferrovaria” are the ones you see the most. They mean “towards San Marco”, “towards (the) Rialto (bridge)” and “towards the railway station”. If Venezia shopkeepers had a euro for every time they’ve been asked directions to one of these three, they’d all be rich like the Venetian patricians at the height of the Serrenissima. I had to ask several tired, cold shopkeepers how to get there. Explanations were always given with a wave of the hand in a general direction towards the bridges crossing the miasmatic canals. In the evenings, when the chill comes in from the sea, it is better not to breathe too much near the bridges. And to be very well-dressed. It is cold and damp out.

I am writing this near the end of October. All over the centre of this ancient city are hotels and public spaces, including churches, that share the benefits of a municipal heating system. Not every building has to install a furnace, or boiler, and all the what-have-you that a furnace requires. No; all that buildings have had to do is, basically, sign up to the municipality and install the radiators. Then, presto! Heat!

Well, the city this year has declared that November 1 will be The Day The Heat Comes On. Until then there is no ascertained need for heat. It is not in the regulations, or something. Heat = not now. It does not matter what the vagaries of actual temperature might be ... present nights plunging towards 4 degrees outside, and increasingly inside too ... the heat will come on starting November 1. If the municipal boiler works. I surmise there is some doubt. Sometimes, as one blue-lipped soul muttered to me seditiously, the steam from the city boiler seems to rise to exactly the same temperature as the out-of-doors night-time air.

Venezia’s old buildings are, well, old. Some are between 800 and 1000 years old. Not to belabour the point, but most of the Venezia that the tourists come to enjoy, that UNESCO has declared to be part of humanity’s unique heritage, was built a long time ago, when it was common for large public rooms to have a fireplace, or something to help heat the place. Or for everyone to be really good and ready for the chill damp evening and bundle up as best they could, or better yet not leave home and hearth for the dubious benefit of a public gathering.

So tonight’s concert was free. It was lovely! It was also chilly and damp. Between numbers the musicians would put down their instruments and stick their blue-numbed hands into their armpits and huddle together and dance a little, or blow on their fingers to revive blood circulation. All this in an ancient church generously attached to the municipal heating system.

A collection box for free-will offerings was made prominently available near the end of the concert. As one of the delightful (but obviously chilly) performers told the audience, musicians do not live on love and air alone. The love is nice, the air is important, but they also need to eat. Rustling paper money would be gratefully received, we were told. Better than cold, hard cash.

With the seats offered for the performance, designed to reinforce the concept of original sin, and penance required for same, the performers did not want to reinforce any cold hard anything.

Paper money, at least, makes heat.

I hope they made a fortune, and managed to warm up.

Play With Your Food!

When most of us were kids, we all, at one time or another, probably heard this message; “Don’t Play With Your Food!”

Food is fun, food is sensual, food is sexy, food is one of our most vital links to each other, involving trust, communication and history, among other things. We can enjoy a world tour at our own dining table, and invite friends along! We can try to make foods our parents or grandparents made, in our own kitchens, and revive old memories. We can try out a new idea, a recipe from a magazine or cookbook. Each of us can be Julia Child, if we have courage.

Think of all the cuisines available ... Canada enjoys every part of the world! Cuisines of Italy, France, Viet-Nam, India, Brasil, China, Japan, the entire continent of Africa; everyone but the penguins has cuisine. Each region or country develops its own tastes, textures, flavours, colours, presentation preferences ... and then there is the ‘us’ factor.

Just like a good folk-singer, who knows the words and the music, but shares it slightly differently each time, we do the same with food we make. We play with the spicing, with the proportions, with the sizes, with the pairings. How do we eat it, and who with? What tools, who gets served first, who or what signals the formal beginning and end of a meal? Are there particular plates or equipment we use that evoke memory? Some of us are more formal, at times, than others. Some of us will say a Grace or follow a religious tradition such as the Jewish Shabbat dinner, or we have a family ritual of some sort, to begin, or sometimes to end. Weddings have particular customs in every culture. Even doing the dishes at the end has significance.

Good food is hand-raised and hand-made. This is as true at home as in a restaurant ... you get what you pay for. Industrial food does have its place, but we all know that if we want subtlety, a sense of participation, the sense that we make time to linger together at a shared table of trust, communication and history, we make it ourselves. Think about the traditional Thanksgiving feast every October. Some people go to where they know it will be made as well, or better, than they can do themselves, or to a place in the community that makes the local, typical food very well. In Italy, this means the trattoria.

In this trattoria a lot of tortellini goes out the door. Everything here is hand-made, and I am the present hand-maker of tortellini, among my other sins. It is not hard, and is a great dinner to make at home, with friends either actively participating or kibitzing in the kitchen. It is cheap, and uses up leftovers.

I will refer to the photos posted with this blog as I lead you through this easy, fun activity.

Start by assembling tools and ingredients ... this is vital, because once you start, there are only a few times to stop.

You will need a good flour ... Italian type “00” works very well, but regular hard flour is fine. You will need eggs ... quite a few eggs ... so have a dozen or more on hand. You will need an egg separator, or be able to separate eggs with your fingers. You will need a rolling ‘pizza’ knife, a large, cool flat surface (at least a metre wide and 45 cm deep), a pasta machine of some sort (I show two ... a little hand-cranker and a large electric machine). You need to have already made and cooked your filling before you begin, and have it cool or chilled. You need a little spray-bottle for water, or maybe use the sprayer on the front of a fancy iron, just not plugged in! A spoon for placement of the filling, and a rack of some sort to put the tortellinis on once they’re made.

Take the time to assemble all this stuff, which may take a couple of days. Not every finer home or castle has a pasta machine, for example, but many friends have one that might be shared for a while! Invest in a rolling pizza knife ... it will save a lot of trouble. And the tool in the photo that looks like an expanding gate with wheels on the bottom is a tortellini knife ... it cuts precise squares (as you can see in the photos) which makes the process easy. But the more rustic approach works just fine ... but be careful with the sizes ... you will want consistency! Be a square, just for once in your life. If you do not want to make the pasta dough by hand, you will need a strong stand-mixer. At home I use my KitchenAid; here I use a huge floor mixer. You can use a countertop just as well ... be prepared for a work-out! And you will probably choose a hand-blender to make filling. Finally, you will need a kitchen scale. This is a tool of any good kitchen, and worth the investment. Get an inexpensive one that runs on batteries, unless you have acres of countertop! Work in grams, not ounces.

After the tortellini are made, they can be used almost immediately (wait 15 minutes for them to set up, though), or chilled for the next day, or frozen for future use.

Start with the filling. What I am using is a vegetarian mixture of potatoes, peas and a tiny amount of salt. Boil the potato in little cube shapes (will cook quicker), and part way through the cooking heave in the peas, and the salt. When it is done, partially drain the water off until the water barely covers the vegetation in the pot. Then use a hand-blender to turn it all into a puree. If it winds up a little thin, just reduce it on the stovetop until you’re happy. You can make fillings involving almost anything ... meats of every description (cut up VERY VERY fine), veg in either puree or extra-fine cube (literally a millimetre or two in each dimension ... no more). The filling needs to be soft but not runny. It needs to be completely cooked.

When the filling is ready, reserve it in the chiller. It can hold for a few hours, or a day. Cover well.

Next, make the actual pasta dough. This is messy and fun! I can offer two methods ... use a KitchenAid or your countertop.

Countertop hand method ... weigh out 225 grams of opened eggs, in the following proportions ... for every three yolks, put in one whole egg. Stop making the egg mix when you hit about 225 grams, but over a little is OK. Weigh out 500 grams of flour. Ensure the countertop is clean and very dry. Pour the flour onto the countertop in a single heap. Use your fingers to make the heap into more of a wall, with a hollow in the middle right to the counter. Make sure the flour ‘wall’ is the same thickness and height all around (about 3 cm high) . Pour the eggs into the well you have made. Use a fork (or your fingers) to start breaking the yolks, and stir the eggs around in the middle. Slowly work in the flour from the walls ... main word is slow ... and do it evenly, so the eggs don’t suddenly launch themselves to countertop freedom! Work as much flour into the eggs as you can, and start to turn the developing dough with your hands (abandon the fork at this point, if you’ve been using it), using the palm. Don’t worry if you can’t get every gram of flour into the mixture ... the take-up of the eggs will vary depending on the type of flour and the present temperature and humidity. Notice you are not adding any salt. As you work the dough it will start by being rather tough, maybe a little crumbly. As you persevere, the glutens will start to develop and it will become nice and springy. Knead the dough on the counter for about 4-5 minutes until it is perfectly smooth and holds together tightly in a ball. At each knead, turn the dough ¼ turn to the right, and knead hard with the heel of the palm. Use all your body-weight, and roll the dough under the palm across the counter away from you for a few centimetres. When the dough has been kneaded tight and springy, wrap it in plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator for a little while, just to let it rest and for the glutens to work. (My dear wife says that if your muscles hurt after making pasta, it is just your glutenus maximus!)

KitchenAid method ... put the eggs and 90% of the flour into your mixer bowl after breaking the egg yolks. Turn on low, using a bread hook. As the pasta is made the machine will be working very hard. Stop from time to time to check. When the pasta has reached the ‘clean-up’ stage (when no dough sticks to the sides of the bowl), stop the machine and test the dough. Add a little more flour as needed or as you are able. If it seems a little soft, give it another 30 seconds or so. Be gentle with the pasta. As with the countertop method, take the dough out of the machine, hand-knead it a few times (to get a good shape, and just to be able to say you actually DID hand-knead the stuff!), and roll it in plastic and put it in the frig.

For the trattoria I use much larger amounts of each ingredient, but the method is just the same. I also have a huge floor mixer, so I make pasta 2 or 3 kilograms at a time. We go through a lot! I make this amount of pasta every week, to become tortellini, tagliatelli, spaghetti, linguini.

This is the second time you can stop, if you choose. The filling is made, the pasta dough is made.

Now, start looking at the photos I have supplied. Once you start this next section, you can’t stop, so get everything ready. Read through so there are no surprises. Have a drink!

When ready, take the dough out of the refrigerator, unwrap it and put it on to a lightly flour-dusted counter. You don’t want anything to stick, but you don’t want to change the proportions, either. Divide your dough into 2 or 3 portions, and hand-flatten it.

Open your pasta rolling machine up to as wide as you can go, and run the dough through the machine twice ... each time reverse the dough (i.e., the leading part of the dough on the first pass becomes the end of the dough on the second pass). If needed, fold your dough, press the fold hard and re-roll at the same pressure. Work the thickness down so you are at the second-last option ... when you hold up the sheet of pasta, you should be able to see your hand through it. That’s the test. When the pasta is in the rolling machine, do not stop the roll! Always go to the end. It can be re-rolled if you make a mess. I’ve made lots of mess, in the beginning, but now have had lots of practice. Persevere!

Lay the pasta sheet onto a very lightly-dusted counter. Cut into squares using a sharp rolling knife, not a regular knife (because the shape will drag).

Get the filling handy, with a spoon.

Lightly spray the squares with a mister. If you can see water on the surface, you have misted too much. (In this case, quickly and lightly touch the squares with a kitchen towel. Do not use paper towel!) Only do 8 squares at a time, and cover the rest with a kitchen towel to maintain surface aspect.

Touch a little of the filling into each square, as demonstrated. Don't overfill. Less is better than more.

As you fill each set of 8 squares, fold them on the diagonal and gently touch the side-lips together. The water will make them stick. Touch them along the edge to ensure a good seal. Fold the tails together so they stick. Immediately put the completed tortellino on a rack to dry.

Do all your pasta in this manner. Roll out, cut, mist, fill, fold, dry. It will be a mess the first couple of times, then you will get the hang of it and, pretty soon, presto! You’ve made yourself delicious home-made tortellini.

This is all quite exhausting work, so may I recommend a delightful glass of something from Henry of Pelham (in Ontario), or another fine refresher. Italy makes wine too ... I make my pasta fuelled by Prosecco!

Have fun, make a mess, explore. Remember, this is a cross-cultural experience, so try all sorts of filling. This is similar to making samosas, after all, or egg rolls, it is all the same sort of thing.

It is always best to have friends over to share the experience. Teach yourself how to do the process, then get everyone you know involved.

To cook, use cold water brought to a strong boil. Salt the water to sea-salinity (most north americans use far too little salt in their pasta water). Have your table set and plates warming, because when it is ready, it is ready NOW, and is unforgiving.

Put the tortellini into the water all at once, for only about 2 or 3 minutes ... as soon as it floats, it is done. Drain or take out of the water with a spider (skimmer), do not rinse, and plate immediately. Grate fresh parmesan cheese on, if you wish, or pecorino (sheep’s milk cheese). If you want a sauce, put sauce on the plate first, and put your delicious, fresh, appealing tortellini on top! Also, you can top with freshly-torn basil.

Go play with your food.

Dine well, in health.

Sante!

To Everything There Is A Season (ing)

Potatoes trouble me.

In this trattoria we use a lot of potatoes, and Chef has been trying to get me to turn them. A turned potato looks lovely, is delicious and can be used in a variety of ways. The trimmings from turning make excellent soup or a presentation base for something else.

But I am a turning dunce. See that knife in the nice photograph? It is called a 'Turning Knife'. It turns me purple with annoyance when MY potatoes don't look like Chef's potatoes. Also turns me a bit green, with envy. The turned potato in the photo was done by me, and took about 20 seconds. Chef does it in less than 6 seconds (and I've timed him).

Turn! Turn! Turn! I practice, just like the song says ... MY turned potatoes all resemble something that needs a visit to an auto repair shop. Chef's turned potatoes are even, proportional, presentable. He calls them his little Bottecellis. Mine ... well, judge for yourselves, and stiffle the laughter so I can't hear it, please. Be kind.

Grrrr ...

So today, since the trattoria is closed for dinner on Wednesdays, I am going to sit down with a bag of spuds and just practice. I'll turn until my wrists ache or my patience is entirely shot.

After they're turned, what we do here is give them a par-boil, then finish them in the blast-oven with a little EVO and fresh thyme on top. Goes with almost everything except breakfast cereal.

Chef's questions for today .. how high do we set our level of personal excellence? Why? Do we expect the same of others as we do of ourselves?

Walk 3 Metres In Chef's Shoes

Well, the Chef hardly walked last night, and THAT’S a good thing. Martha would probably have approved.

Let me explain ...

Saturday night in the restaurant business almost anywhere is one of the two heavy nights of the week (the other being Friday). We were sitting eating a bit of dinner, the three of us looking at each other, slowly enjoying a simple meal. A little chat. One of Chef’s brothers dropped in for a visit with one of his kids, and it was a nice, quiet family gathering. No rush ... it was after 6 in the evening, and we had no reservations to anticipate. This was regrettable, but not the end of the world. We’re pretty remote. I had done a little cooking for Chef and his mother for dinner, but (with no reservations) had decided to wait until later to eat myself. I had been fiddling around in the kitchen since about 5, gently doing anticipatory prep for next week. Sylvia came in, having spent the day on her feet at a Sommeliers’ convention and competition (she did well).

The phone rang. Chef answered, nodded a few times, said ‘ciao’ and hung up. We finished dinner ... Chef said to me “Martin, go prepare bread for 12 people”. He was not kidding. From zero to twelve in a minute. We only have twenty chairs.

Now, I had spent all morning and a good deal of the afternoon cleaning the refrigerators and freezers in advance of a visit from the Public Health inspectors on Monday morning. The place was spotless! The walls scrubbed, the floors too. Everything cleaned, sorted; old, tired little items lurking in the back of a tray had been judged and either tossed, properly rotated or at least spiffed up. The placed looked good. We were ready for the inspection! Cleaned up like artwork for a public viewing.

After last night, I have no legs left to do it again. Up the stairs, down the stairs. The big walk-in refrigerator is up nine stairs and through a narrow door into another part of this 300 year old building. The patisserie is down five stairs and in a old brick-vaulted room. This is past another set of fridges, a blast freezer, the meat slicers and the slide (the counter where the plates, prepared in the kitchen, are given to the waiter or hostess to pick up and present to the customers in the dining room).

This means that the kitchen is separated from the prep areas by the slide ... it is a formal dividing line in most kitchens ... the cooks on one side, the ‘help’ on the other. They don’t mix much. The kitchen here is not large (about 4 metres long, about 3 wide, built like a bowling alley, with the slide at one end and a window to the street at the other. If we open the window we have immediate access to the window-boxes of fresh herbs we grow, and can, in the middle of service, reach out to the waste bin and toss out bags).

On the two sides of the kitchen are kitchen pot, pan and wares storage, a blast oven, a large hot-top, a 4-burner industrial gas range, two sinks, a dishwasher and an immediate-use refrigerator. The walls have knife-magnets on them. There is a pair of racks above the slide. There is a small dry-erase board for us to write notes to ourselves (we write names of foods or processes that have to be done before our next service, such as listing mozzarella and beef to buy, or cook peas and put through a chinoise). There is no decoration of any kind save one large picture of the Virgin Mary, high on the wall, gazing very fondly at the stove.

In the middle of all this stands the Chef. Chef does not want to have to move very far. His job is all done within this small space. My job is to make sure he does not have to leave for any reason. Some days I am more successful than others. Last night I was completely stumped when he asked for some of the prepared pigeon, and I had no clue as to what it looked like or where it was, so he had to leave his post and go get it and show me. This slows down the entire kitchen, so the trattoria suffers.

Chef does not really want to move very far at all. He wants to have food, in the form he wants or needs, handed to him instantly so he can do what inspires him to make it delicious and present it with flair and imagination. Then he pushes it across the slide and hopes for the best. Inept service can scuttle any Chef’s best work, or add greatly to it with fine, discrete service and imaginative, knowledgeable wine suggestions. Sylvia (the entire wait-staff and hostess responsibility falls on her shoulders) is a master at this. Out she goes through the flipper-doors, a discrete smile on her face, making people feel cared-for, the very centre of her attention.

Last night (except for the unfortunate pigeon incident) was utter ballet. Balanchine would have been thrilled! We do it with knives, very hot equipment, crockery and not much talk. It is fast and surprisingly quiet ... our 'pas de trois'.

One of my Chefs at ALMA said, “No talk! Work!” Chef tells me what he needs, and I get it. He tells me what to do and it is done very fast. And in between the two of us is his Mum, who runs the dishwasher and puts things away. Sylvia comes and goes. When she brings in a written order Chef and I both look at it: he wants to know what he will be doing, and I need to know what he will need to do it. Much of my work is anticipatory ... all Chef has to do is ask, and what he needs is put into his hands. Reminds me of movies of an operating room. We wear uniforms, we just use slightly different tools and processes. “Knife! Sponge! Blender! Rabbit!”

The secret to running a trattoria, or a large restaurant, is preparation. Then the dance is really fun.

So last night Chef didn’t have to walk much, although he never stopped moving all evening. We both keep a large bottle of water at hand, and by the end of the evening we’d each poured in at least a couple of litres. Our jackets, some evenings, are actually wringing wet.

Today is Sunday and we are closed. Our legs hurt, our hips hurt, our feet hurt. The trattoria needs re-stocking, and we’re taking a rest. Chef is going cycling with friends, Sylvia is gone to visit her parents in Marostica and your humble scribe is reporting in.

Have a delicious week-end!

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My Chef-teachers at George Brown Chef School, Chef Tomaselli, Chef Meneses and Chef Gonzalez, used to demonstrate careful preparation technique in every class ... they would come in very early to do prep and lay-out, so when the class started before 8 in the morning, no matter what was going to be taught or demonstrated or developed, everything was just one or two steps away and the Chef could utterly focus on the process and the products. It was a superb demonstration of professionalism, in every class, every day. The food was jaw-droppingly good, but what has stuck with me just as much was the preparation for making the dish. Each Chef got ready to get ready (mental focus, clothing, tools, equipment), then actually did his mis-en-place (prepared the vegetables or pastry flour and butter for use or demonstration, arranged his ingredients in bowls, had a scale out to measure precisely what he wanted, to the gram). When the class started, it was a process of sharing a concept, a description of what and why it was done this way, what variations were available or suggested, and what to avoid. Then preparation and presentation of the dish by technique and tool. These classes were convincing models in every way.

Octopus, and Being a Tourist

I Am A Tourist.

Well, sort of ... I actually have a teeny small place here in society, as a cook, but in truth I am a tourist. I will leave in a couple of months, and that position I hold will evaporate. It is a temporary gift to me, by the willingness of the larger Italian community, and the Chef I am working for. My opportunity is to learn all I can and take it away.

Kipling said “I am part of all that I have met”, but methinks I will be forgotten pretty soon after I leave. What is much more germane is the inverse of that thought of Mr. Kipling; “All that I have met is part of me”.

One of my favourite poems is about this, precisely. It is “Ithaca”.

“When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

by Constantine P. Cavafy in 1911


On that note, let me encourage a culinary adventure.

I love good seafood. Most North Americans don’t eat octopus. The kind folks in Detroit toss octopi on the ice at NHL Games, and that’s about it. Our entire relationship with this gustatory treat is through hockey.

Well, be a culinary tourist for a day ... try this adventure on for size! Have fun. Do it with a friend, or more.

Go to a good fishmonger and get a fresh octopus. (In Toronto I go to Diana Seafood at Lawrence east and about Warden, or City Fish on Dufferin near Ranee, or Fiesta Farms on Christie south of Dupont. Or the St. Lawrence market.)

Take the octopus home and clean it under fresh cold water. Get a large pot of COLD water (one where there will be room for boiling gently, AND the octopus). Fill the pot with cold water and put in the octopus. Salt the water. Put on the stove and heat to a gently simmering boil on a large ring, where the heat will be evenly spread over the entire bottom of the pot ... do NOT cook it fast, as the meat will toughen ... and when done take it out of the pot and do NOT rinse it off and reserve on the counter or on a plate. It won’t look like what you started with ... the tentacles will have curled up, and the head shrunk.

While it is gently simmering, peel some potatoes and halve them. Put them on a platter and toss a bit of olive oil on, both below and onto the potatoes. Add a sprig or two of fresh rosemary to the platter. Fire it into a hot oven and gently broil until done ... about 15 minutes, I would guess. (Our commercial equipment operates differently from home equipment, so I am adapting for you.) While these are going, prepare some large, long fresh green or yellow snap-beans to be slightly steamed, and perhaps some fresh mini-tomatoes soaked in a light vinaigrette, with a basil emphasis. Do not cook the tomatoes.

As the potatoes are broiling and the octopus is cooling, put the octopus onto a cutting board. Cut off the tentacles from the area near the beak. Cut off the mouth-parts (the area near the beak) and discard. Slice the head into thin rings, keeping or discarding the innards as you choose. This should all be tepid to counter temperature. Peel the skin off, if you choose. Cut the tentacles into 2 cm lengths (about an inch, I think). The meat will be very tender.

When the potatoes have cooked, remove from the oven and let cool on the counter. Remove the rosemary and keep a few (maybe 20 or so) of the leaves ... discard the stem. Drain the beans when they are still crispy a little.

Into a large bowl put the octopus meat, and a little pepper. The potatoes that have been cooled a bit, the beans that have cooled, the rosemary and fresh kosher salt. In our kitchen we add a little more EVO (extra-virgin olive oil) and some balsamic vinegar to the bowl, then toss it all around to make a delicious octopus salad. Add tomatoes. Add a little fresh black pepper, coarsely-ground, and a bit more sea-salt. Toss gently (I just use my fingers so the meat is not damaged). Plate onto wide, shallow bowls and enjoy with a wine of choice and friendship in spades. Drizzle on a little more EVO to garnish the rims and the content. Serve with fresh, warm bread and a little balsamic vinegar on the side to dip.

If you’ve never tried something like this before, let this adventure be your first voyage to a culinary Ithaca!

You Too Can Be A Trained Professional!

The customers are still enjoying a grand evening downstairs in the trattoria ... I can hear the cheerful roar up on the third floor, where my little garret room is tucked away. It is midnight,, Friday midnight, the week-end is starting and my feet hurt, every bone in my body aches and I have set myself on fire only once this week. Chef managed to set himself on fire twice, so he’s winning. What’s the prize?

We’ve actually had it pretty quiet this week ... until tonight. We had reservations for two parties of two for 8 o’clock. The first party arrived and were just getting their ordering under way when the second party arrived ... all five of them ... which morphed into seven when someone used their cell phone and called for friendly back-up on the main course and desserts. All you can do is laugh and enjoy the crazy ride when this happens.

Almost every item on our menu is made entirely from scratch. Bread (I’m the baker), tiramisu, fish, octopus dishes, rabbit, snails (we don’t actually grow these ... we just encourage them a bit ... ), scampi (likewise), filet of anything you can filet, gelato, patisserie cream, tarte di Nonna, the lot. Many of the wines featured are typical to the area, or close by. The delicious carnaroli rice comes from just south of Verona, and the potatoes are grown by the Chef’s parents on their plot. Fresh veg is supplied by a gentleman who comes around in a truck twice a week and tootles cheerfully on his horn to advertise his availability for business.

Yes, things can go a little haywire. Tonight we ran out of zucchini and had to improvise. My tortellini were a little damp (too much water spray before closing) so cooked oddly. (They taste great, just did not act normal in the pot, and Chef was concerned. And if Chef is concerned, I am MORE concerned.)

Chef gave me a great lesson today on making a deliciously-smooth carbonara. This is something you can do at home ... be encouraged to try it! I made it for the four of us for lunch.

Get out: pasta of your choice (home-made fresh is best, but let’s face reality folks), 6 thick slices of bacon (don’t give me that look; get out the damn bacon if you’re going to do this recipe), 4 egg yolks (this is important ... separate them well. Keep the whites for use at another time), some grated parmesan cheese OR good, sharp pecorino (I think the pecorino works best ... pecorino is sheep-milk cheese, and parmesan is cow-milk cheese), fleur de sel or kosher salt, a pepper grinder and some cream or whole-fat milk.

Start by sautéing the bacon in a large, flat-bottomed pan, until slightly crisp ... gently crush and reserve. Keep the drippings. (This is comfort food you’re making, not some rubbish for a diet loaded with grapefruit, chicken and an enthusiastically-named quarter-litre of banana-flavoured goo in a tin). Get your pasta cooking in generously-salted water. The water should be the same saltiness as sea-water. Don’t go cheap on the salt for pasta! Store-bought linguini, for instance, will take about 9 ½ minutes to be al dente. If you’re using fresh, adjust your start-time as needed. Do not over-cook your pasta (I say this because most folks do).

Add a good dollop of finely-freshly-grated cheese to the egg yolks and stir. Add pepper and perhaps a little salt (but since you very generously salted your pasta water this should not be a problem). If needed, add a little milk or cream ... you want a sauce that is, well, decadent. No pursed-lip self-righteousness about this dinner ... this is food that schmecks, and you should be proud to make it!

When the pasta is just before al dente take it out of the water with tongs. DO NOT DRAIN IT or rinse it off ... just throw it directly into the large bacon pan, with the drippings and the bacon, and stir it around quickly. Do not overheat this pan. Gently pour in the egg-yolk mixture and stir. The yolks should stay creamy, and not cook hard. Remove from the heat and serve immediately onto warmed plates and enjoy with friends.

Enjoy this with a good glass of Barbaresco!

You, too, can be a trained professional. Try This At Home!

Caffe, and the Vaporetto

So there I was last Sunday morning, on the bus heading into Vicenza for a day being a quiet tourist. This is something I really enjoy, and do frequently ... just go somewhere and start to hang out. Look at the posters on walls. See what people are eating (yum!). Read a bit of my guide-book and decide (or not) to try my frantic and marginally-accurate Italian and actually DO something. You see, when you live in your head as much as I am doing here, with a very limited ability to talk to people, it is just amazing what you can do with the grammar of another language. Particularly one that seems sort of familiar, but really isn’t!

Chef had me working on octopus yesterday and there I was, sawing at tentacles and muttering ‘polpo, polpo’ to myself. At least that’s what I was trying to do. Polpo is octopus. But somehow one of the ‘p’s went south on me, and Sylvia and Chef watched and listened for a few seconds then burst into laughter. For a while they would, or could, not tell me what was so damn funny about me cutting up an octopus. I have done this, and worse, to octopi in the past. But there I was, cutting away and whispering ‘chicken, chicken’ (pollo, pollo’) to myself. The Italians, who value their lovely, expressive and musical language will all be tremendously relieved when I get on someone’s plane to leave for good.

Anyway, having snuggled comfortably into my bus seat for the ride into Vicenza I was nodding off in the sunshine when I felt my phone buzz and heard its annoying ring. “It is morning. Who on earth can that be?” I thought to myself. Canada is 6 hours behind me ... everyone is asleep (or should be). I glanced at the tiny screen without having my glasses on and it seemed to say $%*^ &($@@. I didn’t know that person so I answered, and it turned out to be another ALMA student, placed in Brescia, who was on the train into Venezia and wanted to know if I would like to join him for an overnight in the city, do some touristy things and just hang around, share thoughts in English and have a drink or six. At least, that’s how he put it.

In Vicenza the bus station is right beside the train station, so saying ‘yes’ and joining Chris on the train was simple. I just had to get off the bus, walk over to the train station, find out which train he was on and buy a ticket for it. Chris and I just texted and called back and forth about 5 times, and I wound up buying a second-class seat on the EuroStar Inter-City train that was due to arrive in 25 minutes and take me to Venezia. This gave time for a caffe.

A coffee in a shop here in Italy is not the long, drawn-out social ritual that it seems to have become in urban Canada; no long line-ups, no anemic swill in a cup. In Italy, from the most refined coffee bar to the ‘AutoGrill’ (the pull-off restaurants on the Autostrades), there is a simple ritual. Walk in, go to the bar and just glance at the bartender. Say ‘caffe’ (ca-fey’), and an expresso will appear in front of you within 20 seconds, often faster. Want a drink with milk? Say ‘cappuc’ (ca-pootch’), and within the same 20 seconds a lovely cappuccino will be plonked down in front of you. Now THAT’S service, and it is good coffee. Never in a plastic or paper cup. You are expected to drink the coffee within about 45 seconds, and then go and pay for it. The going rate seems to be about €.90 for a caffe, and €1.30 for a cappuc’.

There was time for two. :>)

So here I was on a train with my friend Chris, heading towards Venezia. He was SO loaded down with clothes, and his computer. He was staying three days. As he pointed out, he had three pair of shoes with him, just so he could always match properly. Chris said he’d found a hotel right near Piazza San Marco (the central tourist area, right with the Duomo facing it, around the corner from the Bridge of Sighs. It had a bit of a reputation as a dive ... but it was close to San Marco, only a two-minute walk.

We tried to check into the hotel, but were told that he had a room (he’d reserved it), but I could not share the room. No. Not at all. It was forbidden. The. End.

But they had one room left. A small room. Upstairs. A very small room. It did not have its own washroom or shower. But it was available. €60 a night. OK, I said, let’s see the room (knowing that unless it was a cot hung over the canal I’d take it). Well, up went the clerk to check the room, but he came back and with a small sigh and sad smile said that he could not FIND the room. I thought to myself ‘Who takes a room with them? You can’t steal the whole room’. The clerk explained that he had just started working at the hotel, and that the room numbering, like everything else (particularly addresses) in Venezia, sequence was non-existent. I said OK, I’ll take the room as long as it is there when I arrive later. I smiled and was assured that the room would be found for me. Inquiries would be made.

I don’t know about anyone else reading this, but does that last paragraph sound ridiculous?

Chris and I wandered off and did touristy things ... went into the Duomo and were simply stunned ... and up the Campanile and were ... simply stunned ... all of Venezia is stunning. Just don’t pay too much attention to the odours from the ‘canali’ (canals). The main part of Venezia, built long ago on islands in a muddy swamp at the mouth of a river, a site selected for protection from invading hordes of Visigoth looters, has NO cars (or trucks or busses or anything on wheels that is not worked by human power). Want to go somewhere? Take a good pair of shoes and start hoofing. Or take a gondola (only for tourists ... the locals would never use them ... too slow). Or the vaporetto (water-bus).

As Chris and I wandered around and got lost all over the place, we found two places several times ... the Rialto bridge, and a theatre that is the home of the Venice opera school. There was an affable young man at the entrance to the opera school, obviously selling tickets, and we tried, in our mangled Italian, to ask for directions. He replied in perfect Manchester English (he is a visiting student) and, after giving us advice, suggested that we buy a couple of tickets. Chris and I said to each other ‘when else are we going to have the chance to go to a Baroque opera in Venice, in full costume?’ That was quick ... we walked away with two student tickets (only €20 apiece) and instructions on where to find a good pre-opera dinner for cheap. We took advantage of the dining advice and found a lovely bar run by two ex-pat Japanese guys, and an Indian and a Chinese post-graduate business student! The language in the bar was a mixture of all their home languages, Italian and some creative hieroglyphics, I think. We walked in, thought we made an comprehensible order in Italian and were immediately replied to in perfect English, three different accents, all clamouring to be heard at once!

The bar was fine, the language a huge clamour, and fun for all.

Then we went to the opera, in the gorgeous old hall designed by Baldassarre Longhena, decorated by painters from the 17 and 18 centuries. It was an evening to remember. Everyone in the presentation wore 18th century costume, including full horsehair wigs and, for the ladies, full hooped skirts. The orchestral instruments were using modern strings, but the orchestration was true to period ... a harpsichord (2 manuals), a cello, a bass, two violins, a viola, an oboe, a transverse flute and an English horn. What absolutely perfectly balanced music for the room! The singers sang, the players played, and the audience ... of about 400 ... applauded wildly for a great set of performances, and we all ... sweated. The room has never been fitted with fans or any way to change the air, and there was a street festival going on outside, so the windows were at least partially closed! And it was a warm night.

We had to get back to the hotel, or into the area, after the concert because Venezia closes up fairly early (unless you want to move into a tourist hotel and pay through the nose). We asked the Manchester gent what the best way to get back was, and he said “Take the vaporetto”, and gave directions to find it. We did. It turned out that it was actually the highlight of our trip ... for €6.50 Chris and I each had a full frontal view, for almost an hour, from the vaporetto as we went up and down various canals. The Grand Canal is an entire civic statement. You can see the power and might of this ancient place. The other canals are as interesting, each with their little treasures or vignette.

Then the vaporetto leaves the Grand Canal and heads out into the open Adriatic, for a moment, before heading back into the fabled city, and it is a view to hold and treasure all one’s days. This is a city that knows things, that has seen a lot of history, has made so much itself ... one of the first places to try and understand what ‘the other’ was all about. Marco Polo came back here from Cathay and the land of the Great Khan, and tore open his clothes to have the riches of the orient spill onto the floor of the Doge’s palace from his sundered seams. And European culture has rarely looked back. This is the actual home of so much of all of western history and culture: It is, truly, awesome.

Then reality strikes ...

Back to the hotel, where my room had been found. No one could explain where it had been, and no one could explain where it was. I had to be shown.

And it was small. It had no loo or running water. It certainly was not in sequential order. But it was the last room in the hotel, and it was within 2 minutes walk of the piazza, so I honestly did not care. My options were really none and nil.

I checked into the hotel with no papers (no passport), and no luggage at all. Just the clothes I had on my back, my guidebook and my sunny optimism. The hotelier was suspicious. I reminded him that I had waited for him until the room was found, since it had been lost, and we each had a genteel little chuckle about that. He took my Monarch Park Collegiate staff ID card as sufficient proof that I am who I claimed to be, and said ‘Good night, gentlemen, pay in the morning’.

We collapsed.

In the morning I had time to go for a quiet walk in the piazza before any tourists got there, and was delighted to find myself in the company of the garbage collectors, several flinty-eyed seagulls and one open coffee bar. I ordered the usual ... caffe ... and was charged €2.50 for it.

The hotel offered breakfast with our rooms, so I went back and woke Chris up. We enjoyed breakfast together, then I said good-bye, as he was staying for another day, and I had to get back to Cogollo and get to work by 4 in the afternoon!

Away I went, into the labyrinthine tangle of Venezia, and emerged exactly where I wanted to be ... at the Rialto bridge. This gave opportunity to do a little tourist shopping for Gail. Then off to St. Lucia station and take the train home.

What a week-end

Please come for a visit ... I’d be thrilled to speak English (or French) with you, and show you the little of Venezia I have been enchanted by. We could go for a vaporetto ride together! Or go to the opera.

Duck ... Wear Sunglasses

Life is hard in the big city.

If you’re a duck.

You get used to people who know you, talk to you, feed you. They treat you real nice-like here.

Then you notice that some of your friends go missing. There’s a pattern. They go on Wednesdays.

Then, one Wednesday, your number comes up.


I spent most of yesterday kneecapping ducks.

Chef laid it down. “You see the ducks in the box? Kneecap ‘em.” Sounded cool-like, kinda detached, like he was barely there. Couldn’t look at me when he said it. He was calling to me from inside the frig.

I work for Chef. He says ‘”Kneecap ducks”: I do it.

Life is hard in the big city if you’re a duck.

I put some Blues Brothers on the player. “Baby, Dontcha Want To Go?” Cranked up the volume. Gotta go out rockin’. Put on my glasses.

Then I went for the ducks.


I kneecapped the ducks, frenched the lower legs, disposed of the feet. Chef seasoned them and they went into vacuum-seal bags with a little EVO (extra-virgin olive oil). I ran the machine for about 10 minutes, and the legs spent all last night and will spend most of today in a very slow oven, stewing in their own juices. They will be delicious.

See steamy oven picture (above).

It’s a duck’s life.

Way to go.

Quack.

No funky chicken for this Chef. He got duck.

I Smell Like Fish

A Brief Observation On The FISH

Fish in this trattoria come in three ways ... jarred, frozen and very recently dead.

The jarred (anchovies) are mainly used with tartare (beef and rabbit).

The frozen sometimes are popular ... Cogollo is deep in the mountainous area of NE Italy, and there is no fresh fish outlet here serving crab, shrimp, lobster, cod, hake or scampi. We have to make do with frozen.

The recently dead I have become depressingly familliar with today ... I smell like fish and scallops. I’ve shucked about 6 dozen scallops this morning before 10, and followed that up with about an hour and a half of dealing with a variety of Branzino and Orata.

Each of these comes expired. Dead. And entirely whole, complete; ready for the breath of life, I suppose, if they weren’t packed in ice.

Each starts by having all fins but the dorsal removed with scissors, then removal of the scales with a scale-scraper.

The Orata are gutted from below (slit the belly) and then have the gills removed. Thus the belly can be packed with seasoning, and the fish presented to the customer. It will look like a fish.

The Branzino are dealt with in a more complicated fashion. After removing the fins and scales, I start with removing the gills. Then I make two slits along the back, cutting down into the beast from the top on either side of the dorsal fin, right down to, but not through, the belly-skin. Then I remove the backbone in one piece, gut the fish, remove bones and finish by turning it almost inside-out. The fish is then ready to have the inside dressed (porcini, potatoes, whatever inspires Chef), the fish to be baked or roasted, and served.

Today I had about 20 fish to do in less than two hours, And clean all the scallops. This was to be done before noon. And make bread from scratch ... four different kinds, properly weighed, using a delicious natural fruit yeast starter. And make sure the bread has time to rise (about an hour), and get baked, and the kitchen to cool down so I don’t wreck the fish by working with them in a hot kitchen.

Then the trattoria opened for business and it has been a non-stop day of up the stairs to the large refrigerator, down the stairs to the patisserie. Fetch this, find that. Yes, Chef, No, Chef. Cut up rabbit to make a small ragout to go with mini gnocci, saute beef tournedos, shell and prepare shrimp, deal with a lot of vegetables, make creme brulee in several forms (including a deadly pistachio one!), make gelato, run a vacuum-sealing machine, disembowel and dismember a rabbit, french some lamb chops, make salads, prepare baked bufalo mozarella six times, flambee something I can’t even remember now, and deal with a gazilion small things that just need to be done and right now and fast and 10 minutes ago and why don’t you know what this is in Italian yet? Yes, Chef! A working commercial kitchen at full throttle is an unforgiving place ... the pressure is intense ... the drive for perfection and creativity enormous.

Part of my job is to learn the menu, not by name so much as by the ingredients and processes so I can anticipate what Chef will need. This sometimes means making a run to the freezer in advance of a need, or getting up three hours early so the bread can be made and the kitchen will be free when Chef comes in at 11. Many of my work days start at about 8:30 in the morning, and we just quit a few minutes ago and it is gone midnight.

This student-cook is writing to you, and enjoying a good, well-chilled beer.

Yes, Chef!, and I Am Muffin Man!

Yes, Chef!

Yes, Chef!

Yes, Chef!

I don’t know how many times a day I say Yes, Chef! I would lose count ... hundreds? More? Instructions come thick and fast ... Chef and I are developing a strange working mixture of Italian, English, gestures and some creative muttering. It works. Yes, Chef! Sorry, Chef! Immediately, Chef! It is over there, Chef! What did you say, Chef? Yes, Chef!

Yesterday Chef had some friends come by for lunch at 1:45, and they left at 6. This was in addition to the other 11 customers we had. We had 1 hour to clean the place and turn the kitchen inside-out to get ready for a full dinner service for 14. My Chef from George Brown College called at half past 3 and was a bit surprised that we were still in service at that time ... I phoned him back between 6 and 7 for just a moment, and those were stolen minutes ... there is SO much to do, some days. Other days (today is one of them) there is little or no service ... customers do not come, so we can spend time doing, at a more leisurely pace, what needs to get done anyway but is often hurried.

Yes. Chef!

There is only one vision in the kitchen ... one ego, one idea, one way to do things ... Chef’s. A working kitchen is the furthest thing from a democracy. Yes, Chef! No, Chef! Sorry, Chef! And Chef is Chef, not buddy, not his or her name, never hey! It is Chef. Just Chef. Yes, Chef! Everything that goes out the door into the room has his name on it. La Trattoria all’Isola di Christian Zana (the Desert Island of Christian Zana). You get the hint from the name. Yes, Chef!

But ...

Chef’s girlfriend, Sylvia, once had a muffin. She instantly developed a liking for the things, and she spoke to Chef about muffins. Together, on the second day of my stage, they approached me and asked me to invent a tiny, filled muffin for their patisserie presentation. Neither of them knew how to make a muffin, so I explained the basics of muffinry to them. Mixture of Italian, English, gestures, waving equipment around, some muttering. Finally a decision came down from Chef ... invent a special muffin for me that will be a signature piece in my patisserie.

Yes, Chef!

See the photograph above ... the large muffin is for kitchen consumption only (Chef, Sylvia, Chef’s Mum and me). These and the little loaf muffins are my invention for presentation on the menu. They are filled with a variety of delicious jams and marmalades, sometimes with chopped raisins, and are now featured in the patisserie of the Trattoria. They go out on a lovely platter with several other tempting offerings, and our experience in the past week (since the first muffins went out) is that they are an overwhelming success. Customers have been asking for more. I will be working on a light sauce (a berry and amarone reduction comes to mind) to hop them up for the winter service.

Yes, Chef!

-------------------

I Am Muffin Man!

Hear me bake.

Hunting The Wild Porcino

Hunting the wild porcino ...

means an early start ...

Up at 4:30 for a start in the car at 5:30 to get into the woods at 6:30 and hunt until the need for espresso and some warmth overcomes the excitement of the hunt and the increasing frustration of the hunters ... porcini are wild, nervous mushrooms, hiding themselves under bits of plant, old sticks, a thin layer of dirt ... all this has evolved within the porcini population to avoid the eager sticks poked at ‘em by caffeine-deprived sleuths ...

We started at first light, and took one of the most wild drives I have ever been on up into the Dolomites ... to ‘Alto Piano’ (high level) where there are a series of seven villages within the alpine area. The rule, strictly enforced, is that you stop at a designated little shop and get your porcini-hunting license stamped for that day ... every hunter must have one of these ... at €7 apiece ... to avoid a fine of €70. Quite the incentive!

The highway (?) up to Alto Piano has 15 signed full 180-degree switchbacks; this road is just designed for nimble motorcycles, small, powerful cars and bicycles. (Or vice-versa) The road is a lane-and-a-bit wide in most places ... and the side-drop would be lethal. I am constantly impressed with Italian drivers ... fast, yes, and skilful ... North American drivers have a long way to go.

Porcini hunters do not just stop the car anywhere and wander off into the woods, flicking bits of underbrush aside with a stick to look for tell-tale signs of porcini (which are, truly, darn hard to find). No! The porcini hunters actually drive up the mountain to a place they think they will be private, stop the car, get out and wander off into the woods, flicking bits of underbrush aside with a stick to look for tell-tale signs of porcini.

It is slow, somewhat random and it is hard, to coin a phrase, to see the porcini for the trees. Porcini usually nestle under a thin layer of sticks, or a leaf, or other cover. There are little white mushrooms that are a sort of tell-tale (Sylvia calls them ‘spies’ for porcini) which, if you can find, indicate that this is a good area for likely porcini development ... but no guarantee that there will be what you want. Porcini hunters are very polite to the other porcini hunters they meet in the woods ... we met or saw almost a dozen in our special, unknown area. Success seems to truly vary widely ... a couple who parked right next to Chef’s car showed us their haul ... a few nondescript ‘shrooms, and one lonely porcino. They were quite impressed with Chef’s loot for a morning’s work!

To get a porcino out of the ground undamaged, one has to be careful. After spying the thing, shove the end of a stick under the porcino about 10 cm, then gently lever it out of the ground. Slow and careful are the watchwords of success.

Chef was successful ... after three and a half hours, he’d found 7 – seven! – porcini. Sylvia had found 2, and ... my porcini score was ... the nice walk in the woods overcame my slight disappointment at not being actually able to heave a porcino into the pot. But I understand that frequently there are none to be found. So I am told, with a sympathetic smile.

That evening we sold most of the porcini, thinly-sliced and layered into the unfolded inside of a couple of branzino (type of fish, presented with head and tail on), dressed with a simple sauce to enhance. The rest of them went to the four of us (Chef, Sylvia, Chef’s Mum (our dishwasher), and your humble scribe).

Yum!

My question to me for today is ... how do I actually work for the food I enjoy, or offer others? Has my food become entirely commodified?

Trattoria Life Starts

I live above a trattoria in Italy.

The time in ALMA school is over now, and all of us from George Brown Chef School in Toronto, and ALMA in Italy, are out on stage, at trattorias, restaurants, hotels and fine spas all over Italy. Some students have gone to small places in Sicily, some to large cities. One is in Venice, one in Bologna. Students are in Savona, Piacenza, Cortona, Cuneo, Rome, Parma; all over the place. ALMA has placed us with the finest cooks and chefs in Italy.

A trattoria is not a large restaurant ... it is more of a small, intimate operation, run by two or three people, completely dedicated to the typical produce of the area. For me, the ‘trattoria’ implies a work-in-progress, a personal investigation on the part of the Chef.

In Italy the idea of ‘typical’ is everywhere in the food world ... I see advertisements for typical food on little bars, trattorias, almost everywhere. It is a concept that most people here take enormous pride in, and have deep concern for. Typical implies respect for the land (so it can keep producing), for the methods used, for the presentation, cooking methods, wines available, even the manner of presentation (see the previous blog about Mr. Marchesi for deeper detail on this.) Manner and style are very important here ... nothing is just cranked out and banged down in front of customers who happen to lurch through the doors ... the choice of where to dine, when and with whom is carefully and deliberately made. (Canadians who have not travelled much have SO much to learn from this concept!)

I have the good fortune to work with Chef Cristian Zana at his trattoria, “Trattoria All’Isola” in Cogollo, near Vicenza, about 100 km to the west of Venice. Chef has had the trattoria open for about 7 years. He runs the kitchen and his delightful partner, Sylvia, runs the front-of-house operation. Sylvia is a sommelier, highly-trained and knowledgeable. Sylvia and Chef have welcomed me with open arms into their life of work and play. They are bright, very talented and enthusiastic. And they set one furious pace! Everything here is hand-made. We get along well in a mix of their excellent Italian and our self-generated mash-up of English and Italian. Their concern for my learning is strongly evident. They are unfailingly kind and generous.

A few examples will suffice, I think, to demonstrate the furious pace. I arrived on Friday at about 4 in the afternoon, and after taking a fast nap of 25 minutes , and taking time to change into whites, I went to work in the kitchen starting at about 5 until 1 in the morning. We served 2 people that night ... customers linger ...

Chef had me watch some operations and executions for the first 20 minutes, firing off fairly rapid Italian mixed with some English. Then I had to start producing ... and managed to. Last night (my second in the trattoria) we served 17 customers (a large number for this small place and tiny kitchen) ... our work evening started at about 5 PM and we walked out of the restaurant together at 1:45 AM to go for pizza! I rolled into bed just before 3.

Chef had me making parts of dishes ... steak tartare, prep of many vegetables, making bread, making pasta, making a kind of vegetable tortellini, plating dishes, making octopus salad, peeling spuds, carrots and running for him to the refrigerator (up a flight of ancient stairs), to the freezers, to the patisserie area, helping with making sauces, preparing rabbit ragout, preparing duck legs, running a vacuum-seal machine, forming pasta frolla into tiny baking dishes, and making it all a joy! His Mum comes in at night and runs the dishwasher and cleans, and Sylvia looks after making sure everything goes through the door on time, in order. What an operation.

And what a joy to be part of ... work hard and play hard. As Andrew, one of the other George Brown students said when we were all together at ALMA, “Face it ... We’re a bunch of adrenaline junkies getting our fix playing with sharp objects and peoples’ digestive systems.” He was right.

Everything we were taught at George Brown Chef School in Toronto and at ALMA is absolutely correct. Thanks, George Brown and ALMA.

With this entry are three photos only ... the kitchen at the trattoria and one of the general area of the town. And one of chef Zana and Sylvia.

Cogollo is deep in the Dolomites, and when I look out of my window in the morning I gaze across the road and village at gorgeous mountain scenery and a little hamlet. Cogollo will be home for almost 3 months for stage.

Today’s question is from Chef Zana ... when you put food on a plate, what are you doing?

The Marchesi Code

The past week has been an absolute blur, so for those of you who have been waiting ... just waiting! for another blog entry, I’m sorry, but this is the best I have been able to do. As you read the unfolding story below, I think you’ll understand why ... I am writing from my little room above a trattoria in Cogello ... it has been quite a week ...

Let’s see ... about 30 – 35 years ago a remarkable man, Gualtiero Marchesi (said mar-kay’-zie) single-handedly reinvented Italian cuisine with his book, “The Marchesi Code”. He approached food, cooking and living as an Italian with a strong philosophical focus, reflecting a sensibility of the possibility of art, nourishment (in every sense) and a deep and abiding understanding of what it means to him to be Italian. In this remarkable cookbook and personal statement he elaborates Italian cooking and culture through 13 recipes. (For the interested, you can order the book in English through http://www.marchesi.it/ )

Consider a cookbook, an entire cooking school, arranged around these 13 principles: harmony, beauty, civilization, colour, genius, taste, invention, lightness, myth, territory, tradition, truth, simplicity. These are what my cooking school, ALMA, in Colorno, Italy, is trying to share, get us cooks to consider and aim towards, to be both an initiation and a portal. Sound too weird for words? Try it! This is all our teachers here have been trying to do ... get us all to think more simply. Most of us have our heads so busy with detail that we forget the big stuff. We’ve been given time to consider, to become open, to the big stuff. Maestro Marchesi spent almost an hour with the George Brown students on Thursday of this week, talking about life and answering questions. We didn’t spend too much time talking about the ‘how’ of cooking, but quite a lot on the ‘why’ that he wrote about in his cookbook, and spent his whole professional and personal life developing. Quite a remarkable man, somewhat shy, self-effacing, with a delicious grin that lights him up from the inside. Our cooking teachers at ALMA all worked in his kitchen when he owned a Michelin three-Star restaurant (the first in Italy). Mr. Marchesi refuses to call himself a chef ... he is a cook, embodying everything that the professional cook is and can be.

To get there, we have to understand what we have to work with and who we are, and the tours of producers, of craftspersons’ life-work, has been a series of almost dreamlike trips. The farm visits, the cheesemakers, the prosciutto makers, everyone has been dedicated their whole lives to making something as perfectly as is possible, with the utmost respect for detail, for history, for the area, for every possible input and outcome. If all this sounds too woo-woo for words, let me assure you it is not. Some of the trips started VERY early (up before 5 AM for long trips), and often back late. One of our tour days started at 5 and we got home at half past midnight, and had to be in the kitchen ready to roll before 8 in the morning. Hard work and hard play go together. What a blast! Giovanni, our (probably exhausted) bus-driver is a saint.

An example ... Felsina Winery and olive grove. This gorgeous place is built around three principles; utmost knowledge of the land, respect for the processes of history and customer need, and finding a life balanced properly, with time to work and time to stop and enjoy what one can do. We were welcomed to the winery, given tours of the land, shown the winery and olive oil presses, then greeted by the present owner. His philosophy is profound and simple too ... make something as perfectly as his trained, caring hands can craft, then give it all to his children and hope that they can, and will, do the same. The winery has been in the family for almost 300 years, expanded by the father of the present owner, and is situated in buildings over 1000 years old. The wine ages in history, literally! The olive oils (there are 4 varietals) are presented just as enthusiastically as the gorgeous wines. The wines are available at the LCBO in Ontario (look under Felsina, or Verardenga) and are worth every penny. The family treated us to a gorgeous lunch and extensive, guided wine and oil-tasting.

Our ALMA program included an evening B-B-Q on a farm in the rolling hills of Tuscany. What an evening ... the finest foods imaginable, an outside location, and then a group of local historical entertainers came by and sang typical songs of the area, sharing songs about philosophy, life-troubles and ways of growing as one ages. As Chef Tomaselli told us, we were in for a treat he could not really explain, and he was right. I took a moment out of the evening and texted to my wife “We are having dinner under a Tuscan sun!”. What a gift from ALMA and Italians to us ... examples of the very finest that Italy is, and has to offer, not only to us but to itself.

Question for us all today ... how do we make our dinners special ... how do we make our own Tuscan suns shine?

Monday ... what a lovely day in Chef School!!

On Saturday last I was ready to just cut off my hands and give ‘em away ... felt useless, inept, letting everyone (self included) down. Phooey. Who needs cooking when you can get perfectly OK take-out?

Well, how times have changed. A little sleep does a world of good ... our class spent the morning (from before 9 to after 1) with Chef Maestro Silvio Salmoiraghi in his teaching kitchen ... three dishes, each done to, or nearly to, perfection. We worked on a Beef Sirloin with Herbs, au gratin (which includes making a standard ‘Italian Sauce’), an absolutely georgeous veal fillet following the structure and idea of Chef Maestro Gualtiero Marchesi, and Chicken Kiev. Chef is a superb teacher, making each instruction clear, taking one dish at a time and unpacking it effectively.

As my students at MONARCH Park would say, Oh. My. God. !

Here ... try this at home. Here’s a recipe for the Beef Sirloin.

Take about 100 gm of fine white lard and cut up into thin squares of about 1 cm per side and half of that for thickness. Put into a tall container that will fit a hand-mixer (blitzer). Add some parsley, part of a white onion, some fresh basil (don’t anyone DARE use that ghastly dry stuff!), and some white wine (not much). Blitz this mess to make a sort of ooze ... it will be green and pasty. Take it all out of the container, put it onto a piece of plastic wrap and roll it up to make a tube about the size of a toilet-paper roll, and bung it into the refrigerator for about 1 hour to chill so it can be sliced up.

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Have about half a cup of fresh breadcrumbs handy for finishing touches.

Take the nice piece of sirloin about the size of your fist (not huge, not petite), and trim it up of all visible fat and connective tissue. Reserve the trimmings. Tie the sirloin with a piece of string around the vertical grain so it does not come apart in the pan, and salt all sides. Reserve on a small late next the stove. Heat a sauté pan to get butter well melted but not browned, and put the sirloin in so it cooks well on one side, then the other. Takes about 2-3 minutes a side. Do not overcook! When the sides are done, turn the meat on the tied-up edge and slowly rotate around so every edge is sautéed. Put the meat on an ovenproof plate and pop into the oven for about 7 minutes. When this is done, remove to counter and reserve.

At the same time you are doing this, make the Italian Sauce ... it will be needed for the final garnish, and takes time to render properly. Take a couple of tomatoes, a white onion, one shallot (a small one is fine) and some thyme, a bottle of white wine and some butter. Roughly cut up the tomatoes and the onion, perhaps some fresh parsley if you have it about the kitchen, and get it all sautéing with the butter in a fairly wide pan. You will need a bit of brown stock (the low sodium stuff, no name from Loblaws will work...heat it up before using), and some OK quality balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper. While the tomatoes and onion are breaking down with the lard, toss in a bit of the beef trimmings from the preparation of the sirloin. Stir occasionally, or give it a wrist-flip or two. Poke the entire thing to get the tomatoes to really break down. Let it al bubble a bit. Add the brown stock (about 150 ml) and about half of that of balsamic. Let it reduce a bit, then pour the entire contents of the pot into a fairly fine, strong sieve (or chinoise) held over a saucepan. Push against the hard stuff that is left to get all the juices out. Add a bit of finely-minced black truffle. Reduce to a gravy that will coat the back of a spoon, and add a little fresh-ground black pepper and salt. Just before using (by about 1 minute, no more than two, add about 1/3 of a very finely cut shallot.

Take the rolled-up green paste out of the frig, and open it on a cool cutting board. Slice off about 4 – 6 slices. Re-heat the sirloin (if needed) for about 1 minute a side in fresh butter in a saucepan, then take the sirloin and top it with the rounds. If you happen to have a truffle handy, add a single thin slice of truffle on top of the green paste. Drizzle a few breadcrumbs on top and put it back into the oven for about 1 – 1.5 minutes, then plate to a suitable dish. Garnish with the Italian sauce on the plate, with a tiny bit over the meat if you wish.

That is one of three dishes we did today! Try it ... enjoy it! Take time to read everything and assemble all the tools you'll need before you begin, and become familiar with all the ingredients. You may choose to go out and buy some items, like the truffle.

After lunch we spent over 2 hours with Prof. Sinigaglia, reminding ourselves of what is important in various Italian cuisines, and how regional or local variations or specialties developed or got that way.

Finally, questions were answered about our rapidly-approaching stage (rhymes with badge, not guage), then off for dinner. I spent part of the lovely evening here on a bicycle ride with some other cooks, and we enjoyed riding the castle perimeter. (Remember, our Chef School is in an old castle!)

Tomorrow is a day-long trip into Tuscany, featuring Sienna wineries and an olive-oil factory. We rise before 5 to be on the bus before 6, so good night all from Colorno.