What’s in a word?

Not just any word. I’m thinking of those descriptive words that are used to lure us in to parting with our money where consumer goods – in the main, food or drink, are concerned.

You know the ones – they scream out of windows and sandwich boards – like beacons of assurance that their product is better than the ones sold next door.

Homemade
Artisanal
Gourmet
Craft

The problem with such words is that they are subjective and rarely quantifiable. One cook’s homemade is another’s production line filling, stuffed in to a pre-made casing on site where no one lives. Usually it means that someone has had to use a peeler, a knife, even an oven – above a microwave. Though if it’s not someone’s home – how can it be homemade? Clearly the idea of putting ‘Made in a non-domestic kitchen – possibly last week and stuck in the freezer before being thoroughly defrosted and sold on today’ doesn’t quite have the same, well, homely feel to it. But can you be sure that hasn’t happened?

The next three words appear to be cropping up everywhere at the moment. I had a gourmet pie today. This post is not an attempt to mock, ridicule or criticise the pie. I enjoyed the pie; a lot. If you live in Leeds and like pies – get along to Granvilles Food Company and try one for yourself. If you are of a certain age, try saying Granvilles without instantly thinking of using a stutter. For the record I had the Beef, Red Wine and Onion pie. I will definitely have it again.

Anyways, I digress – as per. The point is that the pie was billed as a gourmet pie. It was a good pie, an enjoyable pie – but how did it leap from being a pie, to a gourmet pie. It was far better than anything I’ve had from a chip shop or football stadium. Better than most supermarket branded pies – but was it better than the one I get from my butcher, who simply labels up his pies as; well, pies. Does gourmet in this instance refer solely to the quality of the ingredients rather than a level by which the pie should be measured?

I should have asked. But being British, I opted to take my pie and go rather than question. We should question our food more.

Artisanal and craft are words that, quite frankly, bore me now. They both seem to refer to quantity size as much as production method. In that they make a smaller batch by hand, therefore it must be better than the mass produced offerings. Must it, really? I don’t know – I’ve had some artisanal or micro manufactured products that lacked any discerning characteristics – like flavour. Whereas, and whisper this in hushed tones – sometimes companies that make in bulk, know what they are doing – and leave you with a decent product in your hand.

If you’re ever bored – type craft beer in to search on twitter. The justifications you’ll read are very much like a dog chasing its own tail, though at least in that instance, the dog eventually gives up and chases something else.

Using words seems to enhance, not necessarily the quality of the product, more the opinion that the seller has of their own ideals – which they would like to pass on to you. It can, in some cases bump up the price – in others, limit where you can buy it from. But does a word actually make something taste better?

No.

But it doesn’t seem to stop people trying to convince you otherwise.

As I said, this post isn’t actually directed at G-G-G-G-G-G-Granvilles. They just happened to ignite something that has been festering for some time now.

The Family Meal: Home cooking with Ferran Adria

How many of you read the introduction to cookbooks?

That bit at the beginning where the author – usually a celebrity chef – will tell you about their motivation for the book. Where they will give you a feel for why this is the most important cookbook they have ever written – most important time of their cooking lives; before they go off on a crusade to convince you why you should buy certain foods, from certain people, at certain times of the year.

Ignore their mantra and you effectively miss the point of the book (which is really just to make more money on the back of a TV show).

This book does not do that. There is an introduction. The introduction makes it clear to the reader that the family meal in question was shared not at home – but by the staff of the world famous, three Michelin starred, elBulli restaurant. You don’t have to know anything about elBulli – it is now closed after all. All you are asked to do, is read in the knowledge that the dishes in this book were originally intended for 75 members of staff – the family – but have been adapted for the enjoyment of just two, six, 20 or even 75 in your home.

The introduction provides an explanation to the format of the book, laid out not as recipes, but in 31 three courses menus – one for every day of the month. It then goes on to refer to the ingredients you will find in the recipes, how you can buy those ingredients and finally, offers basic cooking tips and information on the equipment you will need.

If the introduction has a mantra, it is built on the freedom of choice – your choice, not the authors.

At the start of the menu section there are a number of basic recipes that you will need to produce, ahead of time, when planning your menu. These can then be stored in fridge or freezer until they are needed.

Then the book moves on to the all important meals, in three courses – but only if you want it that way. The authors have chosen the layout of the meals based on the likes of their family. For your family, they’ve listed the individual recipes in an easy to build format – collating starters, main courses and puddings together. The choice is still yours. This is your book to cook how you choose.

Each meal has an introductory page with the ingredients of the three courses laid out alongside an easy to follow timeline, which provides a breakdown of the cooking component of the menu. This will not include time to warm ovens up, boil water or pour a supportive glass of wine. That is covered off in the introduction by the three word phrase – mise en place (or advance preparation).

What then follows is a step by step pictorial guide showing the various cooking stages of the recipe, with a breakdown of the quantities per ingredient depending on how many (two, six, 20 or 75) you are cooking for. The pictures are clean, clear and annotated. They offer a lifeline to the novice cook that understands what the final dish should look like – but often gets unstuck on terms like brown, finely chop – even simmer. If you’ve never had the final dish, never attempted to cook with certain ingredients – why should you be expected to know what something looks like as you are cooking it? The pictures do that for you.

As simplistic, helpful and a force for wanting to make you cook new meals as this book is – please be aware that it really isn’t a guide for everyone. I see no reference to organic or carbon neutral produce. It advises you to use frozen where necessary, to buy packaged meats if this is the affordable option – that full fat is often best. One of the recipes requires the use of potato flakes – or in British parlance; Smash. There are also recipes such as burgers, roast chicken or omelette that are served with crisps. Yes. A ready salted crisp omelette.

This book will not replicate the experience of dining at elBulli. It doesn’t offer three starred Michelin cuisine. What it does offer is 93, easy to follow; basic recipes that the least confident cook in your present buying circle will be able to tackle.

Maybe not all of them – but then, that’s their choice.

The book is currently available on Amazon for £12.37

Why do you choose the wine you buy?

I mean – what makes you choose the wine you buy?

Are you the sort of person who once had a bottle with friends, or in a restaurant, and have steadfastly stuck with the same bottle ever since?

Did you once watch a well known American comedy series about a group of acquaintances, which was usually sponsored by a wine organisation – and then decided that you would give that wine a try?

Do you always go for the second most expensive wine on any list in a restaurant?

Or are you governed by what supermarkets decide is cool, or are paid to confirm what is cool? Do you drink New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc for no other reason than it is always prominently out on display, or do you go for one of the other wines that are placed at the end of an aisle – usually at a reduced price, or bulk buy discount?

Me? Well I am the worst kind of wine buyer – for I am a bluffer.

I like to think I know a little bit about wine. Little being the operative word at play here. I have books that tell me how to pronounce Pinot Grigio (as in Joe not zho), or they confirm what the difference between vin de pays, AOC, DOCG or Grand Cru is. I trot out the line that the T in Moet is hard not soft and that Chablis is really chardonnay by another, more dignified name. But does any of that actually help me choose my wine?

No. So instead I turn to the internet to aid my bluffing. I use sites like Supermarket Wine which collates most of the newspaper based reviews. I scan through the recommendations before walking in to the shop, and then purposefully stride past the dithering “ignorant” types who are eenie meenie miney moeing their way around the Australian or New Zealand mass produced stuff. I pick up my bottle, read the label, nod appreciatively and put it in my basket. More often than not I’ll also pick up a bottle I am more familiar with, just in case, well, the recommendation is not to my taste.

The internet makes bluffing easy – but then at the same time, it also helps you learn more about wine. So that maybe one day, I’ll be more than just a bluffer.

When I read about wine, I am naturally drawn to two things: Good, approachable writing and, if I am to be wholly honest here, a bargain as well.

Victoria Moore covers both of these in her Telegraph column. There’s usually a story, a reason why she will recommend the wine – offering a time and place, or wine tasting experience to support her recommendation. Even though she writes for the supposed organ of the tax dodging, wealthy conservative, she’s not put off from throwing in a number of £5-6 supermarket specials for us mere mortals.

Tim Atkin, once of the Times and Guardian bridges the gap between TV wine personality, columnist and now website provider. His site has a host of articles to inform the bluffer of what wines we should be claiming to drink, whilst also providing a wine of the week recommendation we can actually buy to impress with.

But where I find most of my source material is on the sites that are designed primarily for the net and not as a holding place, to inform us of the writers other activities.

Juel Mahoney is an absolute joy to read. Her Wine Woman & Song and Vinissima sites are must reads – not just for their wine recommendations, but also for the beauty of both the words and imagery she uses. No other writer I follow is likely to compare a Riesling to a golden Optimus Prime – or use the route of the Giro d’Italia cycling race to pick out regional wines to recommend. Her posts are usually short – often about wines well out of my reach in terms of knowledge and price – but every piece makes me want to drink. Which is surely a must for a wine writer?

Finally, and one I’ve only recently found, is Nik Byrne’s Wine from a tumbler. Nik’s site stands out from others as it makes the label of a wine easily accessible for all to understand. He uses photos with graphics to highlight the region, the grape and other key items such as age and name. It is a great help for the novice wine drinker who may not know that certain old world wines are actually made from new world grapes they will regularly buy. Nik is also good at recommending wines at a price point that are accessible to all – something every bluffer needs in their armoury.

Examples of bluffer speak with translations:

I think I prefer the 2009 vintage – I say think as I could only afford one bottle, and can’t for the life of me remember what it tastes like

Image: Wine from a tumbler guide to Fino sherry

The list of good sites is not exhaustive. Also try:

Jamie Goode’s Wine Anorak site

Fiona Beckett’s Guardian column

and Simon O’Hare’s Simon Says blog – he really should write more about wine. HINT!

How hard is it?

I mean. It’s “only” a drink.

A means by which to force through, poor over, suspend the grinds of a bean in water – before you leave it to rest, add milk, more water, more milk.

It can be done manually, automatically – in an instant; just take your time.

It can be dark, light, black or white. It can be piccolo, lungo, tall or flat – but in the end, it’s still “just” a drink.

So why is it rare to find a cup of coffee that tastes – that makes me feel – just like the last?

Coffee does strange things to me. It can go right through me – from first sip to instant movement. It can set the senses working overtime – adrenalin charged, heart pounding, thoughts racing – everything, anything. But then, in a piazza – in the right frame of mind, it can do – well, nothing. It just passes off as something good. Something, that makes other things better.

I’m not one of those need-coffee-to-function types. My first cup is governed either by money, time or availability – it does not govern how my day will pan out, unless it is a bad cup. It regular turns out to be a bad cup.

TOO HOT! Why does the high street always make it too hot? Why do high street baristas stand, looking over their colleague’s shoulders – nodding, smiling, intently absorbing – then appear to forget everything they’ve been taught, as soon as they come round to making my cup? Lattes become cappuccinos. Flat whites are lattes without the Cap froth. Shots are haphazardly poured in, poured over – twice the number you think is necessary. The experience is not always a pleasurable one.

Yet you do find the odd oasis of roasted heaven. Where the proprietor cares – where they source good beans, good machines, great staff. Sometimes they lose their way momentarily. Communicating with you, but over your shoulder as they shoot the breeze with their achingly cool friends, who spend more time talking about their coffees than actually drinking them.

Or they are pushing a vision. Their vision – which is really just good coffee; you hope.

If I had the time I’d always make it at home. Source my own beans, use my own machine – try to make it how I want it. But where is the variety – the interaction.

Great coffee is served by an understanding barista who knows instantly what mood you are in. Knows how to handle the dialogue, knows when to simply serve or enthusiastically engage. They know to alter their blend depending on the weather, they know the difference between a cappuccino and a latte – they know that customers want to drink it as soon as it is served, not show it off to the world whilst it cools down.

Here’s to your first coffee of the week – may it be a sign of the good things that will surely follow.

Image: coffeecuppics

I know it’s been a month or so since we were out in Italy, but there is an episode from our trip that I’ve been meaning to share. An episode which shows that no matter how difficult a situation might first appear – languages can be broken down with a simple smile, wave of the hands and a plate of food; lots of food.

The friend we were staying with in Italy had once taken us to a fantastic agriturismo just north of the main vineyards of Barolo and Asti. Agriturismos are old farms that have been converted in to holiday lets/B&Bs, with the view that they are able to secure tourism grants as long as they promote and provide the food and drink of the local area. There we ate a five course meal – Salami, Cheese and Truffles, Pasta, Chicken Cacciatore and a desert – all washed down with a fantastic Roero Arneis.

We had gone for lunch with the intention of offering to pay – a thank you for taking us out for a drive around the vineyards. As the courses started to pile up, and the bottles of wine drained of such a delightfully crisp white – it started to become apparent that there was no way near enough money in my wallet to feed the three of us. I feared I was off to the kitchen to earn my keep, and to wash dishes in exchange for the truffles we had just polished off.

I need not have worried. Although our host was never going to allow us to pay – the final bill came to no more than €50. That was 15 courses, two bottles of wine, plenty of bread and water at little over €1 a course. I could now see why this successful businessman chose this venue over the more fashionable spots in Torino.

We tried to find the same place on our latest visit. We had a name, a map and a good grasp of the directions.

Or so we thought. As we got closer to point on the map our destination suggested we should be, the rolling hills that greeted us last time around were nowhere to be seen. Admittedly it was October on our previous visit, and a blanket of fog laid nonchalantly over those hills – but still, where once there was undulation – now only flat, straight roads.

We saw a sign that matched the name – it lead us up a farm track (promising) which ended in front of a large metal gate (not so promising). Even though we knew we were at the wrong place, we still pressed the buzzer on the gate – too hungry and impatient to turn back. The gate swung open, we followed the track further in to the car park and settled, deflated (me) in front of a building we had never seen before.

Three yapping dogs greeted us as we got out of the car – followed by a stout, greying Nonna; filling the frame of the door. She said something – I looked at Amy. She said something else – I continued to look at Amy. My default position when I don’t understand something is to look in another direction and hope that someone else does.

They tried to find a common ground. The Nonna asked if we spoke Italian (not really), then German (err) and finally French – yes – Pour aller au stade, sil vous plait? Though how that would get us a plate a food was beyond me.

Eventually we worked out that we should have made a reservation, though with a wave of an arm we were welcomed in to the venue. We walked through a holiday venue clearly in readiness for the coming summer, with tools, boxes and piled chairs surrounding us. We were shown to a table in a darkened room – offered bread and wine, before a younger woman started to appear with the food; and what food.

Whatever difficulties I thought we might face with the language barrier soon disappeared thanks to a set menu. We didn’t have to order, we just simply had to nod and accept the latest offering to come out. First there was a selection of Salami, then mortadella, then a Russian salad, then a flan, pasta, more pasta, seconds of everything that had gone before.

I was jumpy. I am always jumpy in difficult situations – especially if Lauren is restless and unhappy. But the more the food flowed in to the room, and the more of the inoffensive wine I drank – the more times I got up to the window and showed Lauren the dogs in the garden – the more I realised there was nothing to be intimidated about. There was no reason to be jumpy. Quite the opposite in fact. The Nonna appeared towards the end of our meal and asked our fellow diners if anyone could speak English. She then asked the person who could, to apologise to us on her behalf for the state of the venue. To explain they were in the middle of renovations and that the room wasn’t always this way.

I was taken aback. Here was this person, who had without need or reservation, been happy to feed my family – gave Lauren an extra course of strawberries with nothing but a smile. Apologising to me; an idiot who had wanted to run away because I felt lost without the ability to communicate with her. It really made me think that maybe, I need not worry so much about the initial inability to communicate – and that I should care more about simply enjoying the experience; the new – the food.

So we went to the wrong place. So I hid behind my wife as a woman struggled to tell us that she’d be happy to feed us – what eventually came of the day lives long in the memories. From the bread on the table, the wine in the carafe to the food in my belly – no matter the initial difficulties, this was another experience to chalk against the reasons why we love Italy so much. It was also helped by the fact that the meal had only cost €20 per person.

I doubt we’ll ever go back to that agriturismo. I doubt we’ll even ever find the original one we had set out to visit. What I don’t doubt is that I need never be fearful of a greying woman who simply speaks another language – for when she cooks, and I eat, it is perfectly clear that my belly and her kitchen were at one – the only fluency that really mattered.

Agriturismo Verne – where we eat

I can still vividly remember leaning across to my dining companion as I urged him to cast his eyes towards the door of the Pizzeria we were sat in. There, framed by a single light above the doorway was a vision of Milanese beauty so fine, that she turned the heads of most as she entered the room.

It was as if the Goddess Venus had found her mortal form; choosing to dine with her worshipers for this one night only.

I joked that she was clearly there for me; to fulfil her role as Mrs King in waiting – though I would need to finish my dinner before we were formally introduced. She took a table directly in front of the pass, giving the kitchen staff ample opportunity to gawp as they rushed to get their next dish out.

As she settled, so did my attention – returning once more to the antipasti in front of me. Composure resumed, we continued our conversation on the upcoming Milan/Juventus match we were there to see. Even beauty has to accept that food and football can also hold a person in their own, beguiling trance.

Antipasti finished, I rose from my chair – aiming to pass Venus on my way to the bathroom. She drew me in like a siren; her song was her beauty. I was captivated – unable to move from the path – even with the waiters bustling around me. I was a mere 10 paces from being in the presence of greatness -nine, eight, seven, six…

Something happened at five. Something that made me realise that not all is, as what it might at first appear to be. From 10 paces I saw a refined beauty – one so striking it drew near silence from the room. From five paces, I saw that beauty for what it really was – fake, made up; no longer the song I wanted to hear.

Venus’s make up was so thick, it was hard to tell where her face started and the illusion finished. She was still immaculately presented – though I had missed the fur trim on her outfit on first inspection. She sat, slightly slumped in her seat – still receiving looks of admiration from around her – yet what had previously been a vision of godlike beauty, was nothing more than a mask – one that had clearly taken awhile to perfect.

Disillusioned, I hastily found the bathroom before returning once more to my meal.

I noticed that the main course had arrived as I rejoined my companion. There, at my seat – was the largest veal cutlet I had ever seen. It was breaded in the Milanese style, with a single bone curling proudly from one corner. It was not much to look at – a flattened mass of breadcrumbs near spilling over the side of the plate. Yet it was the sole reason for me being in that restaurant.

I had, had Vitello alla Milanese many times before; first in Soho, then in a plain, non-descript restaurant in Harrow. You could once get it in Marks and Spencer before they withdrew it – either from a lack of interest, or more likely from a change in attitude to veal. I even lived on schnitzel and chips on a skiing holiday, where my pallet and the four star restaurant’s buffet were somewhat out of alignment.

Yet here was the chance to sample the dish, in its place of origin, in what was again a somewhat plain, ordinary; yet wholly welcoming restaurant. The breadcrumbs had a delicate crunch, yet were not overly hard – nor blackened. The meat was light, delicate and full of juice and flavour. Where there was once more than a plateful, was now no more than an ever dwindling, joyous experience. With every bite, I craved more – yet held back for fear it would all be gone to soon. I considered saving one piece, tucking it in a napkin and devouring it later when alone in my room – but I thought that would be a waste; strike now whilst the veal was hot.

It was everything I hoped and knew it would be.

We finished the night with a customary “pick me up”, before leaving to find a bar to carry on the night; and no doubt the football chat. As I did, I noticed Venus was pushing her food around her plate. A night in a hot restaurant had not done much for her appearance, with her mask slipping to reveal the true nature of her song. What was left was no longer a vision of beauty, more a bored mortal not wishing to add any further to her waistline.

Temporary delusion aside, it was clear that the only thing of true beauty in that restaurant was now residing in my stomach as I stood on the pavement outside. Unlike Venus, the chef had almost tried to hide the beauty of the veal – covering it in breadcrumbs; leaving a slightly exposed, golden wafer of meat on a plate not quite big enough to hold it in one place. The beauty defined not by the eyes, but by the taste buds – as it should be with food.

I saw through the window another order of veal making its way from the pass. I noticed the expression of joy on the recipients face, before my eyes darted back to see that Venus had all but done with the night; no longer happy with her mortal form, desperate to return to her palace of worship (a mirror, her makeup, the start of the night).

I’ve eaten Vitello alla Milanese a number of times since then, and although the venues may change the beauty is yet to fade – for the dish has no makeup to run, no poor complexion hidden under the sweet song of a sauce. With vitello, its beauty is in its simplicity.

Its beauty comes in the taste.

I love Italian food.

I love it for its simplicity, its complex nature; the speed with which a dish can be prepared or the age it takes to eat a sumptuous feast. It is the often, contradictory nature that appeals so much – for there is a meal, a dish or a taste sensation for whichever mood you are in; whichever mood you want to be in.

Yet even though my shelves are littered with Italian cookbooks, or draws stuffed full or magazines claiming to offer authentic Italian recipes, I’ve started to question if what I eat is truly of an Italian origin; or simply a base note diluted by years of non-Italian “improvements.”

It all started with a piece of veal, progressed on to a Celebrity Chef’s restaurant; there was a twitter conversation about ragu before it ended with a simple statement whirling around inside my head – Spaghetti Bolognese is to Italian food what Chicken Tikka Masala is to Indian Cuisine.

Coincidentally, the veal was served up in a lovely, roadside restaurant in Bologna. It was one of those places that appeal to tourists, with their wipe clean pictorial menus and English speaking waiters. The hotel we stayed in recommended it, and even though we didn’t expect too much – Amy’s seafood platter far surpassed all expectations.

Now back to the veal.

My love of veal may not sit easy with some of you – but somewhere in a list of favourite meals will always be Vitello alla Milanese – or veal escalope. Whilst thumbing through the rigid plastic, drool resistant menu I saw the word vitello (veal) and the outline of a familiar image. It looked the same as that favoured dish, though this was billed as Bolognese style – still, when not in Milan and all that.

It turned up looking the same as always, but as I cut in to the cutlet I could see one major difference – there was cheese between the meat and the breadcrumbs. Cheese? Was this seriously an authentic, regional dish? Could they simply, by adding cheese to an already perfect recipe, claim it as their own?

On the same trip I indulged in that true local speciality, ragù alla Bolognese. It was served as a starter, with Tagliatelle and had a real meaty punch to it. There was little sauce, granular and light in texture but what sauce there was, coated the pasta perfectly to give a flavoursome bite, in every bite. It was as far detached from my first introduction to Spaghetti Bolognese as could be imagined; no heavy Plum Tomato, chunky onion and mushroom base – swirled around a fork before dripping all down my top – just like in one of those branded, sauce-in-a-jar TV adverts.

A minor confession here – I never cared much for the homemade Bolognese of my youth, and would often make my own with a jar of said, branded sauce. The sugary, heavy sauce would often boil down to leave not much more than stewed mince. Authentic, if you are a puppet promoting a Dutch take on Italian food. Though don’t worry, things have progressed a lot since then.

And so on to the celebrity chef – Jamie Oliver. The whole ‘is this really Italian?’ morphed courtesy of a visit to Jamie’s Italian in Leeds. I had a nice, if somewhat lacklustre antipasti plate – the meat was too cold – followed by Porchetta. Porchetta is basically rolled belly pork with herbs and salt. I’ve had it countless times, usually from street vendors who sell it as a sandwich with crusty bread.

Yet this Porchetta was served up with a sauce and chips. Hmm!

The dish came with the seal of approval from Gennaro Contaldo – Oliver’s mentor and spiritual guide in all things Italian. It had the herbs, but there were nuts, a meat stuffing and sultanas soaked in Vin Santo – an Italian desert wine. I’m not in a position to question the authenticity of such a recipe, it just felt as though this was a leap too far from street food to almost gastropub belly pork. Is this a take on Italian food, even from an Italian – just to appease British diners?

I put that question to two local Italians who are making an excellent name for themselves in Leeds – Alex Galantino (owner of the genuine article La Bottega Milanese Coffee Bar) and Mattia Boldetti (manager of Diva Italiana Bar & Trattoria – a restaurant that simply oozes Italian style and class).

I wanted to know whether the supposed rules I had picked up along the way – never spaghetti with a meat sauce. Always food, even breadsticks with wine and never milk with coffee after breakfast time were rules the average Italian stuck to?

It was clear from the passionate way they spoke, that although rules did exist – my earlier comment about the different forms of veal had confused a need to identify a dish to a region, with a proud tradition of utilising the best ingredients the region had to offer. Of course they would add cheese to veal in Emilia-Romagna (the region surrounding Bologna) because that’s where one of the worlds’ most widely known cheeses, Parmigiano-Reggiano comes from. The fact that veal was available throughout Italy meant that it would be used as a basic ingredient – yet would be adapted depending on the strength of the accompanying local produce.

My next view that stating produce was from a certain region – Amalfi lemons, Puglian Olives – was a means for supermarkets to add money on, by claiming them as one of their specialist items, was also corrected. Yes they do this, but only because they are the best. Even in Italy it is widely accepted that certain parts of the country produce the best types of food, and therefore they get an added element of respect; this in a country where local identity often means more than national pride.

All the way through the dialogue with my two guides, it was clear that there were three themes running through their answers – tradition, passion, ownership – all down to history, the products available and the need to be better, to live better, to eat better than their neighbours. Though a comment about Neapolitans claiming they were unable to read if you showed them a book on the history of Espresso coffee did make me both laugh, and accept that there would be times when tradition was simply “lifted” from another region.

What they both taught me was that if the tradition is right, it is worth embracing – it is worth fighting to preserve – be it in a personal or commercial capacity. Yes they may have to adapt things slightly to catch they eye of the Brit who has never been to Italy and thinks a dish is made in a certain way. Yet it is far better to trust in their knowledge and open yourself up to the endless taste sensations that existed – long before we Brits started to write cookbooks.

But sometimes a little creative license is not necessarily a bad thing.

I know that what I claim to cook as Italian uses ingredients you wouldn’t find in an original recipe. I eat pasta rarely as a starter, I occasionally have a latte late on a cold afternoon or that I glug bottles of wine without as much as a crumb passing over my lips in accompaniment. But is that wrong – should food not be enjoyed for what it is, rather than be hung up on rules and regulations (unless of course it is being sold as something it isn’t)? Spaghetti Bolognese is to Italian food what Chicken Tikka Masala is to Indian Cuisine – in as much as you won’t find either in their supposed place of origin. But then both are loved by a great many people – and who am I, a non-Italian, to say they are wrong if that is what they enjoy?

I try to adhere to tradition, but when there are so many variations on a theme (check recipes for Lasagne) – how many regions am I insulting by snubbing their traditions in favour of another? Surely it is sometimes better to make it up as we go along. Making sure to pay homage to a broader way of living – of which food is a massive part of that life.

It’s good to end by saying that last night I enjoyed a lovely bowl of Ragu with Tortiglioni pasta. I asked on twitter how those who read my tweets make their meat sauce. There was no one true consensus. Some used fresh or tinned tomatoes – even just a mere dash of puree. They used white wine, red wine or beer – even milk in one case. Whilst most tended to use what ever pasta was in the cupboard. The ragu I make is an adapted recipe from Giorgio Locatelli. It uses two kinds of meat, red wine, passata, garlic, soffritto (the holy trinity of carrot, onion and celery) and a few herbs – so not a true Bolognese sauce in ingredients, even if it claims to be in title.

As a recipe it is simple, tasty, takes an age to cook and can be served up at the start of a grand feast or, like last night, as a dish by itself.

Best of all, there wasn’t a plum tomato, mushroom or hand puppet in sight.

Just the way I like it.

“Would you like salad with that?” is a phrase uttered to me most lunchtimes. Irrespective of my sandwich filling of choice, the ever smiling staff behind the till, always check to see if I would like a percentage of my five-a-day added – at some extra cost – to my daily feed.

I usually say yes, even though my head and heart both say no. For salad is not what they mean; green liquid is all they have to offer. Water; water everywhere – on my meat, in my dressing and drowning whatever bread they have offered up today.

For salad read iceberg lettuce – the scourge of any good sandwich. Occasionally the lettuce will be joined by nerve jangling bullets of cucumber or the odd slice of tomato; both stored in a near arctic climate to ensure that every bite gives out an audible crunch. The tasteless triumvirate of iceberg, cucumber and tomato are usually piled too high, spilling over the walls of the mini baguette – their near flavourless lunchtime cousin – it’s enough to make you bring in your own lunch; were I not too bone idle to make it.

But why iceberg – why does this pale, whitish green leaf follow me from sandwich shop to burger bar? If there are, as the internet suggests, up to six cultivars of the lettuce family, why do so many people rely so heavily on the very worst to compliment their fillings? Cost is no doubt one factor, as is the fact that you can buy it pre-shredded in a bucket. There are no cooking instructions required. You don’t even have to drain the water off – from bucket to bread with one easy sweep of the hand.

So enough I say. Never lighten my sandwiches again. It’s trendy rocket or the oft forgotten classical Round from now on. Or how about Chard or something resembling a bubble perm in leaf form? Either way, it’s splitsville for me and the iceberg. If the sandwich makers of the world can’t be bothered to think outside of the salad box, then they’re not getting my extra 25p. Well, not until I’m once again confronted by life’s toughest question.

“Would you like salad with that?”

I can still see the sun bouncing off the mosaic on the façade of the Basilica of San Frediano in Lucca – illuminating the figures, as if by celestial spotlight. The warmth of the streets circling the Colosseum in Rome, as morning turned to afternoon – even the rolling, vine filled hills and airless piazza in Greve; stomach still churning due to the winding roads we navigated up from Florence.

We stopped there for food. Each time the venue of choice showed nothing to suggest the pleasures that were to follow. They offered little to distinguish themselves from the other eateries around them. No obvious sign of culinary superiority. Yet those first advances in to their menu still live with me today. Close my eyes and I can see those plain wooden boards. I can smell the vinegar, taste the meat and cheese, hear and feel the crack of the bread as I tear another piece from the bowl – close my eyes and I dream. I dream through food, to live another life where I am there, with Amy and Lauren, and not here.

If pushed, I would have to say that my favourite meal – my last supper – would be a nice wooden board of antipasti. That simple entrée in to an evening’s feed, where no real expertise other than the selection of produce goes in to its formation, holds me in rapture every time. A single slice of San Danielle ham, some Speck, Coppa di Parma, Finocchiona and Salame Milano – matched effortlessly with Pecorino, Robiola and Grana Padano; paired delicately with a few leaves, grilled vegetables, oil and vinegar dressing. That is a feast of both Kings and peasants – for by twist of fate’s hand, I could be both.

Either way, I would dine and die a happy man.

The inspiration for this piece came from Emma De Paoli’s excellent food blog nord sud ovest est (in Italian – though google translate does help)

The image is of www.vallebona.co.uk ‘s Extra Large Charcuterie Board