Timira Gupta wanted to go to Italy and learn how to cook Italian food from a wrinkled, old, Italian mamma, in a house overlooking a meadow with barrels of home-made wine and all this while nibbling on cheese. So, that's exactly what she did...
Timira Gupta wanted to go to Italy and learn how to cook Italian food from a wrinkled, old, Italian mamma, in a house overlooking a meadow with barrels of home-made wine and all this while nibbling on cheese. So, that's exactly what she did...Inspired by Anthony Bourdain's travel show episode in Italy, I too wanted to visit a farmhouse atop a hill and learn how to cook authentic Italian cuisine from an old wrinkled Italian mamma, while nibbling on freshly-made cheese in the meadow where barrels of home-made wine have been left to ferment. And if there was a camera crew available, well, that too.
Turned out, it wasn't too much to ask for minus the camera crew. The moment I expressed my fancy aloud, my Italian friend, with whom I was spending my Italian holiday, plonked an Italian helmet on my head, took out her even more Italian Vespa and rumbled me away to the Italian most village in the region.
This was just a start of the Italian overdose. We reached a beautiful house atop a hill (check one) and entered the little house to see an old, wrinkled, woman (check two) sitting at a table peeling a heap of carrots. Italian friend introduced me to Italian aunt who was excited that I had come to learn the Italian magic of Italian cooking. I can go on with 'Italian' as an adjective but because my editor is a stickler for word limits I shall spare the word and spoil the editor.
Well, we were just in time to witness the making of Zuppa Toscana, a traditional Italian soup from Tuscany. Italian aunt who spoke no English asked Italian friend whether I ate meat or not. I understand the language a little and to say 'yes' convincingly in Italian all you have to do is nod your head, widen your eyes, and say "Si, si!" Big mistake.
Even after being told that I understand only little of the language, excited Italian aunt chose to ignore that 'little' fact and continuously spoke to me in Italian. I nodded head politely to whatever she said. The madness began when Italian friend stepped out and I was left alone in that kitchen. I was running around the kitchen pulling out drawers when asked to open cupboards, passing knives when asked to pass spoons, and chopping onions when asked to boil potatoes vigorously nodding my head throughout the ordeal.
Before I knew it, Italian aunt had fried the minced sausage and bacon pieces in a pan and dunked them into a pot of chicken stock along with onions, potatoes, garlic and other Italian herbs. And while she did all of this on one side of the kitchen, she magically lined up ingredients for Potato Gnocchi on the other side. That was her speciality. She chanted out, what seemed to me, the dos and don'ts of cooking gnocchi. I thought she said we should boil the potatoes instead of baking them but when she put four potatoes into the oven to bake I realised that I should stop trying to decipher the language.
By then the Zuppa Toscana was in the midst of its bubbling glory and the aroma was so enthralling that it attracted Italian aunt's entire family straight to the kitchen.
First to walk in was her son-in-law. A typically Italian-looking handsome, young, man. He didn't speak any English either. On hearing of my interest in Italian cuisine, Mr Son-in-law got busy around the kitchen.
I was expecting another authentic Italian dish in the making but he surpassed my expectation. He brought in front of me a platter full of the most authentic Italian ingredient cheese, and about eight different varieties of it. (Check three!) Turned out that he was a cheese enthusiast and knew everything that had to be known about Italian cheese. Out came the wafer-thin crackers along with a map of Italy and each type of cheese was tasted, described and then spotted on the map in its region of origin.
There was the regular Parmesan, a hard thick-crusted cheese usually grated and added to salads, which was brought out only to train my palate to mark the difference between Parmesan and a much better quality named Parmigiano, which most people confused with Parmesan.
Honestly, I didn't quite taste the difference and my head began to excessively nod in Italian affirmation again. Italian friend noticed and promptly asked Mr Son-in-law to go on to the next variety.
There was an extra creamy Mozzarella that he had specially ordered all the way from Puglia, south Italy. Then there was Gorgonzola, a soft cheese with green veins running through it. It had a strong pungent flavour that made me stop after just a little.
Next was Ricotta, a smoked cheese that he said could be cooked in gravy without it melting like mozzarella. It tasted very much like our very own paneer and a few weeks later, I did try making paneer butter masala with Ricotta and it was an absolute hit. But the most special cheese was yet to come.
Mr Son-in-law fished out a little pouch made of fresh green leaves. He opened it to reveal little white balls.
Burrata is what he said it was called. But it didn't matter, because once you put it in your mouth you forget what words are all about. The outer skin is solid mozzarella and it contains a filling of cream inside it that is waiting to ooze out.u00a0u00a0
Still captivated in the absolute magic of what had just touched my palate, I stole a glance at Italian aunt who was a little annoyed that her apprentice had been whisked away by the cheese connoisseur. I had to make up for my absence. She had already started kneading the potatoes with flour and egg and I meekly snuggled up to her trying to show my greatest interest in kneading.
She rolled the soft dough into a log, the thickness of a thumb, and cut it into one inch long pieces; all at the speed of lightening. She then dropped them into boiling salted water and it was fascinating to see how the pieces floated on the surface as soon as it was time to take them out. A bowl of fresh pesto was ready to be poured onto the potato gnocchi. The Zuppa Toscana was taken off the fire and needed the last touch of cream and dressing to it.
Enter Italian aunt's daughter and granddaughter with baskets full of cherry tomatoes, onions, zucchini, aubergines and bundles of green lettuce. They greeted me with a smile and told me with much pride that the vegetables had been freshly picked from their garden.
I stepped out in to their backyard and witnessed, not a garden, but a large field that had a tiny vineyard as well. Italian granddaughter spotted her grandfather in the middle of the vineyard and dragged me towards him. He was standing atop a ladder busy fixing the roof of the vineyard mesh.
I greeted him with a courteous hello and he turned around to reveal the incarnation of Don Vito Corleone himself. The hair, the moustache, the lines on his forehead, the clenched jaw and the gun in his hand... it was a hammer, reallyu2026 but it could have been a gun. He looked at me and the smile melted off my face. Thank goodness he spoke soon because the moment he spoke, the image of Mr Corleone crashed to the floor, giving rise to a comic Roberto Benigni.
He spoke some English and I was glad he did. He was an enthusiastic old man with a strange sense of humour, who spoke of his love for gardening, especially in the vineyard. Which brought us to the topic of wines. He took me to a little shed where he had some strange apparatus set up. He took out a glass jar that was filled with a clear liquid, poured out a little in a shot glass and asked me to taste it. (Check four!) It looked tame I gulped it down. My eyes nearly popped out. It was probably the strongest spirit I had ever tasted.
He poured another, saying it had a better flavor and yet another, saying it was the latest he had made. These were highly distilled spirits made from the skin and seeds of grapes. Usually served as a digestive or 'after-dinner' drink, it was clear that that rule hardly applied when it came to our Italian grandfather. I asked him what it was called. "Grappa," he proudly proclaimed. Yes, Italians take great pride in whatever they make and that was further proven when we got back into the house quite buzzed out of our minds.u00a0u00a0
Lunch had been laid out on a white laced tablecloth. In the centre of the table stood two varieties of olive oils, a loaf of bread and a cheese platter. Zuppa Toscana, Potato Gnocchi in pesto sauce and a big bowl of salad that looked delectably fresh occupied the rest of the table. Italian aunt looked very pleased with what she had cooked up and Italian daughter and granddaughter were rather content with their salad preparation.
Mr Son-in-law took his place next to the cheese platter and Italian grandfather added his bottle of grappa to the grand feast that lay in front of us. Italian friend and me, well, we just smiled and started the binge.
First was the soup, next the gnocchi and the salad in the end. The meal could not be consumed in any other order. Salad in the beginning is a strict no-no. Italians are very particular about the way you eat their food. You cannot add any ingredient or accompaniment to their dishes unless you are meant to u2013 it is sacrilege. The grappa was working its way up my head and I wanted to do something crazy. Have you ever dared to ask an Italian for tomato ketchup to add to their food? Well, don't, ever!
