In the soup

"So who's making the trifle?" It was decision time for the Christmas party. No one was willing to make the trifle. Excuses flowed. "I'm already making a cake." "I can't do it. It always comes out wrong." "It's an English thing, I wouldn't know how to make it." There were a few half-hearted looks at recipes online. Some aghast observations, "alcohol, cake and jelly? In just one dish?" In the end no one made the trifle. It was that unheard of things: a trifle-less party.


Roll on a week and I'm in France. Dessert appears, a superb homemade apple cake in a puff pastry crust swimming in a pool of 'creme anglaise' (English vanilla cream). I refer to it as custard. "

Apple cake à la George Sand

No, not custard, you know 'Zuppa Inglese'", I'm corrected. But I know that Zuppa Inglese (English soup) is...well...trifle. A debate ensues on the relative merits of creme anglaise, creme patissiere, custard and zuppa Inglese. It's all vaguely confusing. The dessert, by the way, was delicious.


Now one thing I know is that I don't like Zuppa Inglese. This is because the sponge cake or ladyfingers layered in it are soaked in a liqueur called Alchermes, a sickly sweet pink coloured liqueur which is found in many Italian desserts. As its flavour is reminiscent of medicinal syrups I wasn't surprised to find out that in the past it had been used as such a remedy, most notably for the smallpox.


The soaked sponge is then doused in creme patissiere or custard as for a trifle.  It may then be topped by a chocolate sauce or meringue or whipped cream. The Zuppa Inglese may have originated from the 16th century kitchens of the Dukes of Este, the rulers of Ferrara. They would have asked their cook to reproduce the 'English trifle' which they had enjoyed on their frequent visits to the Elizabethan court.


Another story would have it that a Neapolitan pastry cook made it for Lord Nelson and had taken inspiration from the English booze-laden trifles. Hence, he gave it the name of Zuppa Inglese (English soup).


Whatever its origins Zuppa Inglese is a form of trifle albeit without the fruit and the jelly which goes into traditional English trifles. But the real question remains: is Tiramisu a trifle? 

Honfleur - Normandy

Of Christmas trees and more

Wouldn't you know it, I've been living in Italy for years with a misconception about the immaculate conception. It is celebrated with a holiday here on the 8th December.

For years I thought it celebrated the conception of Jesus. Silly. I was confusing it with the Virginal Conception which took place on a 25th March a long time ago, exactly nine months to the day before Xmas.


The immaculate conception was the conception of Mary's mother, St Anne. In Italy the 8th of December kick-starts the Christmas season which concludes on the 6th December, the Epiphany or as it is known here: the day of the Befana. The Befana is a witch who brings sweets for good kids and charcoal for naughty ones. 




She reminds me of St Nicholas  (the night of 6th December) which my brother and I used to celebrate when we were children. St Nicholas would come down the chimney and bring us gifts. His nasty side-kick, known as Père Fouettard (Father Whipper), and in those un-PC times usually depicted as a scantily-clad (in Winter!) dark-skinned fellow bearing a tall wooden staff in one hand and an elaborate leather horse-whip in the other, would come to punish naughty children. He would give them charcoal or even flog the really naughty ones.

 The Christmas season began in shops a while back. Mountains of Pandoro and Panettone, over-sized spongey buns some with raisins and candied fruit, some plain, others with chocolate chips, have been clogging up supermarket aisles since the last weeks of November. Each week more Christmas and New Year delights have been added to the shelves: long bars of nougat, bars of nut filled chocolate, candied nut cakes, bottles of Prosecco, lentils from Norcia, tortellini etc.... Yet all these products really high-light how simple traditional Christmas fare in Italy is. 

And then there's THE TREE. This year's Christmas tree on Piazza Venezia is a sad dying creature with lacklustre fronds that drag downwards. Last year already the tree had caused consternation and the city council had argued that it was a tree of austerity (what fun for Christmas) in keeping with the Pope's jubilee. In contrast, the Pope's tree all the way from Norway is a glorious pagan symbol with up-tilted furry fronds and merry baubles. In Galleria Alberto Sordi  the ecological tree all bio-degradable and environment friendly is a testimony to what private funds can achieve. It's also elegant and tasteful. In fact just about any Christmas tree looks nicer than the sad tree on Piazza Venezia.

Galleria Alberto Sordi

This year the tree has outdone its predecessor. No amount of baubles, tinsel and fairy lights can save it. For weeks the M5S led city council has protested that the tree is fine, until eventually the tree was declared dead. A cold uncovered trip from its native Dolomites and a harsh tearing of its root contributed to the trees demise. It also cost the city of Rome close on 50,000euros.

Old mangy after dark

It has been nicknamed spelacchio (baldy or mangy) and likened to a toilet brush. For many it is a symbol of the city's current state of decay and disorder. Che tristezza!

The pope's tree

In Coppede - whimsy let loose

I stumbled across Coppede quite by accident. I was hurrying to work. I got off the number 3 tram on Piazza Buenos Aires and thought I'd take a short cut rather than double back along Viale Regina Margherita. I'd turn down Via Tagliamento and cut across the back streets to Via Serchio where I gave lessons in a rather imposing villa with a large garden. It looked more like a private residence than a private school.

I turned the corner from Viale Regina Margherita into Via Tagliamento, strode past a church and walked into another world. Two enormous turreted dark grey stone buildings stood before me. At their foot was a make-shift parking lot with cars parked messily next to each other interspersed with motorbikes and scooters leaning precariously - a nudge, a strong gust of wind and they would teeter to the ground.

An arch spanned over the road and linked the buildings. A dark iron chandelier dangled down from the centre of the arch. I felt as if I'd walked onto the set of a horror movie, a kind of Gothic noir with a mad woman screaming in the rafters or maybe David Bowie in vampire drag sleeping in a coffin high up in the turret. So I wasn't surprised (after a bit of research) to learn that the horror meister himself, Dario Argento, had used the area in two of his films as had other directors such as Richard Donner, Carlo Vanzina and Francesca Barilli. 

I discovered that these two imposing buildings were the Palazzi degli Ambasciatori (Ambassadors Palaces). In a trance I inched closer to the arch, away from Via Tagliamento unwittingly towards the heart of the area. I passed on my right a statue Madonna con Bambino (Madonna with child). Under the arch I paused to gaze up at the black chandelier.

Two large windows at the back of the arch opened onto an apartment. I could see a large portrait of a woman. e watching the passers-by.

The heart of the area is Piazza Mincio with its central Fontana delle Rane (Fountain of the Frogs - 12 in total - constructed in 1924). The fountain has had its fifteen minutes of fame. The Beatles upon leaving  the nearby Piper Club decided to have some fun and jumped into it.
The Piper Club (owned by sixties diva, Patty Pravo) has been a bone of contention over the years with residents of Coppede claiming that music and associated vibrations have caused damage to the edifices.

Radiating out in all directions from that central fountain are the amazing, slightly demented buildings that make up the area.

But what had Gino Coppede, its architect, been thinking? The area is a mixture of Gothic, Baroque, Art Deco and Liberty with some added Medieval notes and Greek references.  Gino Coppede has been called the Italian Gaudi. A Florentine, he worked most notably in Genoa and Messina. In fact his style is known as style Coppede - it reached its apex here in Rome in a few blocks, comprising around forty structures (villas, buildings and a fountain), built between 1915 and his death ,of lung cancer,in 1927. His son-in-law, the architect Paolo Emilio André completed the project.

The Coppede style has been described as a fusion. Or as the 'Corriere di Genoa' of 1908 said: " he (Coppede) takes the best of what he finds, plays with the different architectural styles and melds them together in his own unique way."

Fontana delle Rane

Although it is referred to as a Quartiere  (an administrative district) it isn't one. It belongs to a larger, affluent area called Parioli.

Most Romans refer to the area as Quartiere Coppede after the architect who created it.

Today I stand beside the central fountain on Piazza Mincio and I walk around it. Its at the centre of a roundabout and cars and scooters rush by, its drivers oblivious or innured to what surrounds them.

On one side there's the 'Palazzo del Ragno' so-called because of the large creepy black spider painted above its entrance. Above the spider, a large stone face gazes out impassively, eyes dead.

Facing this is another key Coppede attraction the Villini delle Fate (Villas of the fairies). Seahorses adorn the wrought iron gates. The facade is decorated with painted scenes - references to Dante and Petrarch - and a nod to the architect's Tuscan origins. On the other side are the Palazzi degli Ambasciatori dark and oppressive, huge stone masses that dwarf the whimsical folly that is the small moss covered fountain by which i stand. 

 The area scares and delights in equal measure. Stone faces and monsters glare out from the facades. I am reminded of the horror classic starring Clare Bloom, "Hill House", I can but imagine inside the 'Palazzo degli Ambasciatori' endless corridors that go nowhere, obtuse corners and dull thudding noises that no one wants to hear in the middle of the night, and people being swallowed up by the vast stone edifices.

Yet, in direct juxtaposition, stand the Villas of the Fairies - cute seahorses and colourful painted Tuscan facades, as if to conjure away the darkness of the buildings which face them.





Seahorses

Gino Coppede was inspired by so many genres. He fused them into his unique style. It lives on today, utterly extraordinary in Rome. A little detour away from the beauties of ancient Rome, a trip into Parioli is all it takes to see and admire and shiver at his truly unique vision.

Fontana delle Rane



Rice Tales

There's no good rice in Italy, I would moan. It was all pizza and pasta. I would stock up my backpack with Camargue wild rice and packs of Uncle Ben's long grain. As far as I was concerned Italian rice was sticky and gloopy and best left alone.I had of course completely forgotten childhood dishes of ossobuco with its delicious saffron coloured creamy rice.

Uncle Ben's was a favourite because it really did cook as indicated by the instructions on the packet. However, with the passage of time it dawned on me that in a country which thrived on a selection of two types of first course namely pasta-based or rice-based, there had to be some pretty good quality rice about the place. There was.

The flat foggy plains of Padania, fiefdom of the Lega Nord (Northern League - a nationalist political party) were full of the stuff, as were the foothills of the Alps and the lowlands of the Veneto. Rice was everywhere.

And of every kind. There were the Arborio and Carnaroli types, both good for risottos though it seemed the Arborio type was the best for optimal mantecatura. There was the Roma type (for salads), Baldi and Ribe, as well as Nero Venere and others. The more I looked the more there were. Riso Gallo (the cockerel) is the brand which seems to dominate the market.

The most obvious uses of rice are for the risottos which can go from the plain bianco (cooked in broth with butter and parmesan to finish) to far more complex dishes containing meat and vegetables or maybe with shaved truffles on top, from family cooking to higher end gourmet dishes.
Just as long as the rice isn't scotto, over-cooked (ie a mushy mess) all is well.

Key to a successful risotto is the final mantecatura. That final addition of butter which melts into the just done rice to give it that perfect creamy texture. I watched, fascinated, as a TV chef demonstrated the procedure. The rice had been absorbing broth in time honoured fashion for the required 15 to 20 minutes with the requisite amount of stirring, now was the time for the final touch.

He slashed a corner of butter (btw Italian butter is no way as good as French butter) and dropped it into the pipping hot rice. It melted in seconds, he deftly seized the skillet and jerked it back and forth creating a wave (un onda). It was a thing of beauty. The white rice rose upwards along the edge of the skillet and fell back in a perfect wave as the the butter was mixed into the wet rice. He shook the skillet again and the rice obeyed in picture perfect mode.


Attempts to repeat the move in my own kitchen have been less than perfect. Firstly, the skillet is too heavy so I have to seize it with two hands which limits mobility. And while the wave will rise it rarely falls where it's supposed to. I'm happy with a wavelet, a ripple on the pond of my rice. The taste is aways great.

Rice isn't only for risottos (surely the plural should be risotti?), it is also the star in Roman suppli's (balls of rice with a mozzarella centre), in Sicilian arancine (orange-sized deep-fried balls of rice stuffed with fresh peas, or ragu and cheese) and various types of timballi (moulded rice cakes stuffed with vegetables, cheese and meat) such as the Neapolitan Sartu, usually served on special occasions. In the summer, cold rice salads (made with the appropriate salad rice) served with pickled vegetables (giardiniera) are curiously popular.

Timballo di riso e melanzane

Risotto con romanesca

Unreasonable

I've been in Italy a long time. I should be used to it. And yet...
Daily life can sometimes be an exercise in frustration, a daily banging my head against the wall at the sheer lack of logic, lack of practicality which is endemic. But is it only in Italy? I've been here close on 20 years so maybe I've lost perspective.

This past month has seen the widespread condemnation of the actress Asia Argento for bravely opening up about her personal contact with an American monster/ogre/whatever-you-want, a man who used his position to use and abuse. It was a classic case of shaming the victim whipped into a frenzy by the Italian media and making pundits out of the general public. The victim was responsible for what had happened to her seemed to be a widespread opinion. And it was hard to tell whether it was the men or the women who were more condemnatory.

Likewise, in a less horrifying way, when I decided not to go into the dog park because there was a large male dog who had taken such a dislike to mine that he set on her for no reason, I was told that, in fact, it was my dog's fault. Really? How so? I queried. If she weren't so shy, she wouldn't be attacked was the answer. I was astounded. I pictured the last violent encounter, when my dog had rolled onto her back in the classic surrender pose and the other dog had continued regardless, nipping at her exposed belly. So, it was in fact yet again the victim's fault.

Italians don't shy away from speaking up or making a fuss. They protest regularly: en masse. Demonstrations are a feature of living in Italy. Not a week goes by without one. But actually sticking up for a principal, sticking to ones guns in the face of adversity, effectively fighting continual unjustified price hikes, making teachers in state institutions accountable for their actions, getting rid of a plague like system of 'raccomandazione' which sees people get jobs through connections rather than on merit regardless of their ability to do the job.. well, no, that just isn't the done thing.

Asking too many questions makes one liable, it would seem, it makes one into a target for the bullies. And, they're everywhere. Curiously,, when I first came to Italy,  I was told that bullying didn't exist in Italian schools. I was incredulous. It just turned out that while it definitely existed it wasn't mentioned. Part of the, 'if you don't talk  about it, it doesn't exist' mentality that permeates all strata of life.

Don't query your child's grades for fear that his teacher will take it out on  him. Don't ask why the condominium fee has gone up by 30% because it may go up even more as a 'punishment', don't ask why you have to pay for a TV licence when the digital signal doesn't work so you can't get state TV, don't ask why the workers doing 'obligatory' work in your flat are not liable should they botch the job, but you are.... Don't ask. Don't become visible. Stay a victim of an unreasonable system. That's what you signed up for.
So unreasonable. But isn't it so everywhere?

Thursday Gnocchi

Small pale oval ridged lumps sat in a heap on the dish. The waiter grated over a scattering of parmesan flakes. From the kitchen came my dish, a brightly red coloured hill of tomato sauce drenched bucatini. The waiter repeated the parmesan ritual. Why did he have to be so mean? My dining companion shook his head , "giovedi gnocchi!" (it was Thursday). I tucked into my pasta as he ate his gnocchi. He smacked his lips, "buonissimo." I didn't believe him. How could something so dull looking so simple be any good?

And so, for many years I chose to ignore a key Italian dish. Possibly memories of my British grandmother's bland Sunday dumplings, lumps of stodgy flour, were to blame as well.
Gnocchi are prepared from North to South with regional variations and different sauces. The principal ingredient can vary from semolina, potato, chestnuts, pumpkin to the basic bread dumplings, canederli of the Alto Adige.

Tradition has it that Thursday is for gnocchi, hence 'Giovedi Gnocchi'. But the saying would be incomplete without 'Venerdi Pesce, Sabato Trippa'. (Fish on Friday, Tripe on Saturday). As gnocchi are filling and calorific, they are a good preparation for a lean fish-filled Friday. On Saturdays the butchers would prepare the cuts for the plentiful Sunday lunch. Offcuts, again the leaner and more digestible as well as smellier pieces would be used on Saturday. 



Thus, through thrift, parsimony and observation of Catholic tradition was no food wasted nor did anyone go hungry
Gnocchi may have originated in the Middle East but it was the Roman legions that brought them to Italy. These early gnocchi were made from a semolina porridge-like dough not unlike today's flat discs of Gnocchi alla Romana (also made with semolina).

The more widespread and popular potato gnocchi came with the introduction of the potato to Europe in the 16th century.
The basic recipe takes 700grs of mashed potatoes, 300grs of flour (type00), 40grs of parmesan and an egg all mixed together to form a dough. The dough ball is then split into smaller parts, each is rolled out into a sausage and each sausage cut up into separate little dumplings.The dumplings then need to be furrowed. Most Italian markets will sell a small furrowed palette along which to roll the little balls. However, pressing down a fork onto the soft dough will create a similar effect. The ridges are all important to capture and hold the sauce whatever it may be: tomatoes, garlic, pesto, four cheeses, chestnuts and cream, funghi porcini etc. .

Gnocchi are as versatile as any other type of pasta. They can be flavoured with herbs, truffles, cocoa, combined with any vegetable, and vary in size from itzy-bitzy gnocchetti to the ping pong balls that are the canederli.

The name, gnocchi, derives either from the Italian for knuckle (nocca) or knot (nocchio). Once the dumplings are made they can be kept for later on a semolina filled tray or plate, or tossed into boiling salted water to be poached. As soon as they float to the surface they are ready to be scooped out and tossed in whatever sauce you want.

They are not to be confused with the increasingly popular cousin gnudi (naked) a dumpling made of ricotta and parmesan usually with sage or some other herbs. They are called gnudi as they are the stuffing of ricotta stuffed pasta without the covering pasta.

As for myself, I have been won over to gnocchi. 
I started out with the cute gnocchetti in a pesto sauce. Then the regular sized knuckles of potato gnocchi with tomato sauce and basil while eyeing up the aluminium trays of flat Gnocchi alla Romana that appeared in fresh pasta shops on Thursdays. Eventually I gave them a try too. They're a tad tricky to make. 
My graduation is complete as I now make both potato and pumpkin gnocchi. But eyeing the future I consider extending the range chestnut gnocchi, spinach gnocchi….the gnocchi future is infinite.

A Fountain called Carlotta

Every so often I come across a curiosity. Thus, as I was checking the times of the monthly strike, I stumbled upon an article which spoke of Garbatella. I live close by. I read how the inhabitants of the area were delighted that the Fontana Della Carlotta was flowing again. A tube in her innards had broken and interrupted her flow.

Fontana Della Carlotta? I was puzzled. I'd never heard of it yet ,from what I read, it was an iconic symbol of Old Garbatella.

I went looking for it. It was as good as any an opportunity for a walk. I walked up my street across the Cristoforo Colombo where street jugglers entertained jaded drivers at the traffic lights and into Garbatella.

At the first roundabout I took a right, down the road that led towards the Circonvallazione Ostiense, Garbatella's main shopping street. On the left side I saw the characteristic low slung buildings and plant filled courtyards of Old Garbatella, on my other side were taller more  recent additions to the district.
.

 I turned left into Via Giovanni di Capistrano, a narrow street with a graffitied orange wall down one side.

 I was entering the heartland of Roma FC worship. High on one building was a red and orange plaque with the dark Roma wolf on it. Mention you favour Lazio FC here and you might not get out alive!

I didn't have to go far. The narrow road opened out onto a piazza. A sweeping staircase led down to it. It wasn't quite the Spanish Steps but for the inhabitants of the area it might as well be. This was the Scala degli Innamorati, the lovers' steps. There weren't any lovers now just a group of teenaged girls killing the tedium of a Sunday afternoon. On the piazza itself next to the steps stood a pillar, or was it a plinth? Atop it was a type of urn, lower down the pillar was a fountain. Rather small and unassuming, this was the Fontana Della Carlotta.

 A woman's head with long hair ( allegedly a dark-skinned woman) was carved into the side of a pillar. The spout from which ran the water, an ugly piece of rusting metal, jutted out of her mouth. The water ran into a small travertine basin.

In times past, presumably when there were less street lights, would-be couples would gather around her or sit on the steps, engaged in various steps of courtship.

 Over the years Carlotta has suffered her fair share of vandalism, her coiffe isn't quite what it once was, she's been stilled on more than one occasion but she is still going, a plucky lady in a tough city.

Drinking the water she pours is said to bring good luck - three sips, three swallows, make a wish and it'll come true.

A plaque affixed to a wall states: With the water of beautiful Carlotta saved from the damage caused by the time that passes, the history of Garbatella starts to flow again. For the inhabiatants the Carlotta is a big deal.

So who was Carlotta? The story goes that she was a beautiful, courteous (garbata) woman who would greet travellers who passed through the area when it was still part of the countryside surrounding Rome. The area became known as Garbatella as a tribute to this amiable woman.  It has also been said that while this pleasant hostess existed, her name was actually Maria.

Whatever the truth to the story may be, the Fontana della Carlotta exerts attention today. When she is silent the people of Garbatella worry.

It was time to say goodbye to the old girl so I climbed up the steps. At the top were a pair of urns outside some imposing large buildings: more of the famed 'Case Popolare' that make up old Garbatella. And, as if I needed a reminder of how staunchly Roman this area is, I pass a building with a large plaque dedicated to the Roman actor Alberto Sordi. If it wasn't Totti  the recipient of wide spread adoration, it was Sordi.



Alberto Sordi