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

Originally posted on Parla Calcio?

Oh Italy.

The place I’d love to one day call home – that beautiful country I have visited more than any other (if you discount Lancashire) in recent years.

Italy – the home of great food, great wine, historical landmarks, fantastic football teams – and a language so, so, err, so….

Parla Calcio?

This is a project I have thought about doing for a couple of years now. A way in which I can interweave my love for football with a burning desire I have to learn the Italian language. To see if the language of football – that of players names, club names, stadium names, formations – can be used as a bridging gap between the vocabulary used to describe them.

Just as pizza, pasta and cappuccino are commonly used as part of the English language, so to will you find Italian words creeping more and more in to the vocabulary of football writers and commentators – Catenaccio (always used in a negative way), Seconda punta (not to be said after too many drinks) and Trequartista (what every club claims to have, when they justify their midfielders smacking long balls over the heads of their strikers).

A glossary provided by Michael Cox of Zonal Marking gives a definition of those words

The plan is to pick a team (this will be explained in the second post on this site) and armed only with an Italian/English dictionary, an online translator, a copy every Tuesday of Gazzetta dello Sport and an, as of yet undefined method of learning Italian aside to this – be it lessons or an audio system – I hope to start to develop a far greater understanding of the language (hand gestures included) as the season progresses.

It won’t all be about football, though it will be linked to football – after all, that is the common language we are starting with.

Posts may range from memories of cities my chosen club is visiting, or comments on the local delicacies – the food, the wine – of that region. Either way, I hope to build my own glossary, through the titles used for each post, that anyone starting out at the same level can build a greater understanding of the language.

(NB – www.parlacalcio.co.uk is a blog that will sit in parallel to this one. I intend to start this off by keeping the two separate, but there is the possibility that I will morph the two together – preferably so that the new site is linked here as a direct page. Articles may appear on both where the main thrust of the subject is non-football related)

I love a debate.

The kind of debate I love the most is one born out of a campaign. Where a movement looks to change the way something is perceived and tries to generate interest through an impassioned stance.

The latest movement to spark my interest (antagonistic nature?) came in the form of a twitter campaign to get the BBC’s Saturday Kitchen programme to showcase more beer matches with their food; rather than relying solely on wine as the “perfect” partner.

The campaign appears to have started with a conversation, produced a complaint to Ofcom, and gathered a pace on twitter with general back slapping and encouragement – before finally taking over a hashtag for people to join in with the movement.

And they did. Beer writers, brewers, general public, watchers of the show; all beer and food lovers alike were quick to tweet their support.

Now it’s (far too) easy to be cynical – especially for me – in such cases. There are clearly going to be other benefits to the supporters of this movement, rather than just a perceived improvement of the show. If the programme does start to match food with beer, then a number of brewers will be hoping that they will get their beers showcased – or at least be able to start linking their beer to food in a positive manner.

The Ofcom complaint* was raised by the brewer, Dave Bailey of Hardknott Brewery, based in Cumbria. It came with a press release and even got Dave a slot on his local radio to discuss this point. Exposure in the media simply by using a subject close to his heart, that he could then use to challenge the way a broadcaster does, or in this case, doesn’t value his produce. He won’t be the first or last to reap a positive from a perceived negative slant.

Beyond the brewers, the beer writers will also be able to use this to their advantage – giving them further leverage to approach the print media for more valuable column inches, or to create their own blog posts that highlight the infinite possibilities of matching beer with food. There’s even the scope to offer tailored talks and courses on the back of this – everything you would expect them to already be doing, but now with a hook to a national campaign.

Even retail outlets managed to get in on the act by recommending the beers they sold as a match with food, using the hashtag assigned to target the TV programme – nothing wrong whatsoever with this. They are a business. It’s what they should be doing.

Cynicism aside, that is if you believe such a thing is possible with me, I fully endorse the notion behind this campaign. It’s not merely the constant use of wine that irks – as I am more likely to drink wine with food – it is the value of local products, made by local hands; over the preferred approach of constantly promoting imported goods (with the rare exception they may choose English wine). It contradicts with the way they present their local, seasonal food offerings. This ties in strongly with another interest of mine, the Slow Food movement. It is a movement that started off in the North West of Italy and is growing within the UK. Where more value is placed on developing and promoting quality on a local level – which must surely cover beer production as well?

The issue now is trying to work out whether this is still the basis of the argument being put forward by the movement, or whether a series of mixed messages has started to dilute the view – removed the possibility to debate its merits.

I put a question to Dave in the comments of his blog, asking how he would feel if Saturday Kitchen started to match food with beer – but used imported beer as their choice. Dave’s own view was that British light session beer does not sit well as part of a food match; that you need robust flavours in there to compliment the food. If the Masters of Wine used on the show agree with that sentiment, and go with bold Belgian or American beers, it would, in Dave’s own view “undermine(s) many of my arguments” – though he did go on to say that any beer and food matching done well could eventually lead to a greater use of British beer over time.

Undermining the argument is what could happen if mixed messages are put out there. Part of the campaign put an emphasis on beer being Britain’s national drink – but that immediately opens up an argument as to whether this really is the case? If you go on to the CAMRA site the history of beer focuses on Ancient Egypt, China and Babylon – with no reference to Britain at all. Wikipedia (sorry, I know I shouldn’t) suggests that hoppy beers that are at the forefront of popular tastes now, would have been frowned upon in England long after a point where the German, Dutch and Belgian brewers were adding hops to their beers.

If the national drink argument focuses merely on units sold or consumed, how many of those are from British breweries making beer with imported hops, in a foreign style – or worse still – brewed under license in this country, but originating from another? I always thought tea was our national drink – another example of us taking an idea from abroad and stamping our own identity on it. But then maybe that’s what makes it so unequivocally British (read: Chicken Tikka Masala).

So are more members of the movement simply happy just to get any kind of exposure for their beloved beer? This appears to be the case. Less than 24 hours after the Saturday Kitchen assault, a wine column by Olly Smith in the Mail on Sunday** was retweeted by a great number of people actively involved in the beer industry, or who had taken part in the Saturday Kitchen tweet exercise. The column promotes the idea of beer to his wine readers. In it he gives flavour examples within wines, and matches them to hop tastes found within beer. Of the four beers chosen – two are directly imported in to the country (so no different to wine there) and one uses imported hops from America (though this is made by Kernel Brewery which is very much London based).

The final beer, Thornbridge Kipling, is sold as a South Pacific Pale Ale, using hops from New Zealand. Now this last beer is an intriguing one. It is made by a brewery in Derbyshire, yet the key brewers that got the beer to the high quality that you can pick up in the shops today are from New Zealand and Italy – Kelly Ryan and Stefano Cossi (originally brewed before Kelly Ryan joined Thornbridge, but he helped define the current taste). I’m no way looking at this from the prospective of British jobs for British people that the paper used in a positive light might do – but does this fit in with the unequivocal Britishness as discussed earlier, whilst going against the grain (no pub intended) of what Slow Food, local produce is all about?

With all that in mind, it’s hard to see where the debate can exist with a movement that could be pushing in different directions. If it is, as Dave Bailey hoped at the start, an ideal of getting British produce supported on a British TV show – then is there room for supporting British produce that relies on foreign imports/know how/techniques purely to promote beer that doesn’t have the same taste, feel or arguably – quality?

If there is, can we debate the merit that exposure is enough on its own – well, no – as proven with the odd negative comment I’ve read on twitter about the hackneyed rehashing of the increased uptake in real ale within certain sectors of society – or worse still, when people disagree with the quality of the beer chosen in media articles.

Once we know fully what the argument of the movement is, then maybe we can debate it – over a beer or two – and decide whether we fully support the direction it is going in. Until then, unfortunately, the mixed messages appear to leave us with a series of slogans and mantras that leave me unsure exactly what the point of the Saturday Kitchen assault really is about:

“WHAT DO WE WANT? A GREATER ACCESS TO BEER ON TV THROUGH THE USE OF DRINK AND FOOD MATCHING, PREFERBLY USING BRITISH BEER THAT IS MADE WITH BRITISH PRODUCE, UNLESS THERE IS A BETTER FOREIGN CHOICE, THEN WE’LL ACCEPT THAT AS LONG AS IT IS STILL BEER AND EVEN THOUGH IT IS IMPORTED LIKE WINE, WE’LL LOOK PAST THAT IN THE HOPE THAT THEY MAY START TO USE BRITISH BEER IN THE FUTRE.”

“WHEN DO WE WANT IT? FOUR TIMES EVERY SATURDAY MORNING EXCEPT WHEN THE SHOW IS ON A BREAK, THEN WE’LL TAKE ARTICLES IN NEWSPAPERS WE MIGHT NOT NORMALLY READ NOR AGREE WITH, BUT ONLY IF THAT SHOWCASES THE BEER WE LIKE AND THE ARTICLES ARE WRITTEN BY JOURNALISTS WE KNOW WHO REALLY CARE ABOUT OUR BELOVED BEER.”

* there were over 1,500 tweets relating to beer and food matching on Saturday Kitchen, though only 10 complaints were received by Ofcom in relation to the original complaint. 10 is the minimum number required for the complaint to be shown as a public record

** sorry, I just can’t bring myself to link a Daily Mail/Mail on Sunday article

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