Last night was the festa for Luciano's restaurant as you know. 30 years! It was one of those parties where you don't know but one or two people apart from the host. I started to wonder why I came. That odd moment of getting all dressed up and standing around with your plate in your hand, trying to find a corner to put one's glass down.
I felt rather like a bird with my plumes spread, somehow there for the looking but not for the talking. Then I heard the name 'Lia'. I saw on old woman sitting in the back with longish gray hair
and sun glasses on, surrounded by people. I realized that this was Luciano's beloved aunt that I had heard so much about but had never met. She is almost 80 now; an alumni of Columbia University when Eisenhower was the president (of the school). She studied philosophy and taught in Rome for many years. She is the real story.
She quotes Dante, the Greeks, Shakespeare, sings Frank Sinatra, and can drink almost anyone under the table. She see's your very soul. The drink might as well have been coffee this night, as her performance grew more intense and passionate without a waver. She was the most awake of all of us in every sense and was still going strong until 3 am. Dagmar, Luciano's x wife and I took her home. We arrived and she said.."Peggy, Peggy, questo e il mio castello! Guarda come bello!" This is my castle, see how beautiful it is! Like my aunt Sarah, she lives alone without a car deep in the countryside in a glorified hut. Books were stacked unevenly on all tables. There was not much light in the house. She is legally blind but her memory is stellar.
When I first came to Elba and met Luciano, I knew then why Fabio was Fabio (Picchi~ of Cibreo fame in Florence) and why he had sent me there. He was heavily influenced by Luciano as he spent every summer in Elba and learned Luciano's gregarious, fearless, rustic ways of cooking. He took it and refined it. His habit of wearing red pants and orange shirts came from Luciano. He borrowed his fascination, as Luciano's 'devil may care' attitude, also suited his.
Now upon meeting Lia, I understood where Luciano's gioia di vivere' came from. His first trip with Lia to the movies when he was 10 years old, changed his life. She transported him away from the provinciality of Capoliveri in his mind and from there, she became his mentor. Luciano went on to live and work abroad, learn a few different languages and even became an actor in films. The restaurant, a stage for all of his talents.
The story does not end there. Lia had a mind of her own. Islands make strong women, especially if they are educated. Her sister's family moved to Australia with young children. When the nephew's returned grown and gorgeous, she fell in love with one of them, 8 years her junior.
It was shocking for everyone including them. They asked to be married by permission from the Pope and he granted it. Yet, they never married. He died early in an accident.
Lia remained unmarried, but not unhappy. She would raise her fists and quote Dante with bravado! She loved the world and it's mystery.
These women keep showing up..whether in Alabama, West Virginia, or here in Capoliveri. Their stories need to be told.
I'm off to the beach. Soon it will be a conversation 'voce a voce'. We'll be discussing how sweet the tomatoes taste this time of year..and how gentle the breeze feels today.
Big kiss,
Peggy li. ( she called me Peggy li as a form of endearment all night, not knowing my name was
Peggy Leigh.)
ps. she can't wait to meet you. New York never leaves a young woman's soul.
...........................................
Lia died some years later. She had magic in her bones. She could quote the greats with great command, never missing a line. Sally came to Elba for a big birthday from New York. She brought Lia the New York Times. For a few years after that, she couldn't stop talking about the kindness of Sally li. Lia will be sorely missed. Her legend, a strong, shooting star.
Anna Tasca Lanza, my mother, passed away on the evening of July 12. It happened with no suffering at all, while she was sleeping.
In these last months I have been so very close to her that it is difficult for me to talk about her or about our relationship. I think that memories and feelings will rise up, floating like oil on water, little by little, every day now for the rest of my life.
Nevertheless, I would like to share some of my thoughts with all the friends who receive my newsletter and who know about our cooking school, which Anna built from nothing in 1989 and that I have been proudly pursuing since 2004.
The first sign of my mother's illness was that she was not willing to cook anymore. She completely lost her appetite, and when I went on holiday last summer, I found upon my return that Mum and Dad had simply stopped eating, a fact complicated by the heat, the loneliness, the loss of enthusiasm.... The moment I came back I suddenly found myself inverting the usual familial roles; I had to start cooking for my parents and found that it wasn't simple at all!
Mummy was fussy, like anyone who has lost her appetite and doesn't feel like eating anything but a very few and precious things. I realized I had to catch up with food, which in my childhood had meant comfort food for both of us, the food we used to eat on the blue table of the kitchen when Dad wasn't home (he hates peasant food!)...Anna and I, whispering and giggling together about anything we talked about.
At that point I realized that these comfort foods were the only things my mother would enjoy eating: capellini in brodo con la ricotta, spaghetti con la salsa, fave bollite, gazpacho, pasta con le zucchine fritte, minestra di zucchine e tenerumi, plus an endless variety of sweets, which she had always adored: lemon curd, taralli, blancmange, almond brittle, chocolate mousse. In fact, what she most demanded in her food was love, and I would use "all my love" as the main ingredient.
In her last month she was completely out of the world of food, managing only fruit juices and pistachio and walnut ice cream. She wouldn't talk, she wouldn't open her eyes. Now and then she would move her right arm or squeeze my hand very gently when I told her about my children, Ruggero and Virginia. I was afraid to experiment with foods because she very quickly got tired with our timid feeding temptations.
One day I decided I would dare something new, since she had always had a love for fresh, rather acidic and sweet flavors. With the fresh citruses from the garden, I made a lemon granita.
She ate it, and in a whisper she said, "Squisito."
This is the last comprehensible word I recall my mother saying. I love her so much for this last present, for being capable of appreciating quality and pleasure up to her last moments...I will never forget it.
His head fell into my lap with exhaustion, preceded by the rest of his Neapolitan body. He was wet and cold and the night sea water was rough and dangerous.
A fisherman’s trawling net was caught in the motor of our sail boat. A family of seven and a crew of three were with us on an overnight transfer from fire-breathing Stromboli in the Aeolian islands, off the northern coast of Sicily, to the great seaside city of Napoli. Darkness fell and the boat motored on. It was rough, our 46-foot Beneteau swimming upstream directly into the wind. Tough conditions for sailing in any case, but more pleasant to navigate if not been in a rush. We needed to get the family back, so we motored full-throttle.
We waited for the darkness to bring calm, a chance to sit down to a proper dinner, but that calm never came. Unusual for the Mediterranean.
We were hungry but afraid to eat. The sky was clear and stars appeared, but the sea churned as if the wind had an invisible hand in the stirring. It was going to be a long night. I gave my guests bread with honey as to comfort.
I went to my own cabin near the prua to try for sleep though the dishes were crashing around in their holds. A stray closet door kept breaking loose, swinging open with a bang. With my son, Graham, helping watch I shut out the chaos in my small cabin. Five minutes later, hearing a huge noise, I bounced up and ran out to the poppa, the stern, to take a look.
Captain Nardella, 36, knife in hand, was stripping off, heading into the crashing water. A fisherman’s trawling net was tangled in the motor. If he couldn’t get it loose by hand, he would have to cut it. He knew that if he didn’t free it, we would have to wait for the fishermen to come to us, which would take hours, equivalent to a flat tire in the middle of nowhere in a storm.
Dripping, he came up onto the deck and revved the motor stronger, standing in his wet tee-shirt. I offered him a dry one. He wouldn’t take it, the wet shirt drying on his body in the cool wind. His bare legs were exposed; hairy, tan and strong. Once he was sure we were out of danger, he felt the cold. A deep chill set in alongside the exhaustion. He bundled in a wind parka while I took a turn on watch.
Sitting cross-legged with my back to the boat, I told Tony to rest his head in my lap. It would keep my legs warm and give him a place to lay his head. There were no other dry places to sit on the boat. He collapsed and I covered him in the only wool blanket on board.
Jumping into the waves had been heroic, risky and a bit renegade. A short rest was in order. He was tense and trembling. Trying to get a few winks in between watches is a captain’s classic dilemma. He would get comfortable, then shoot up to look around, then close his eyes again.
I stroked his forehead, trying to relax him. It relaxed me as well. We were in this together. He turned onto his side and ever-so-gently put his hand on my crossed leg to brace himself. It was the touch of a gentleman. I looked down at this man in my lap, this hunk of courage, so gentle, sweet, capable and intelligent and…felt a pull in my heart. His broad shoulders fit into the curl of my legs. It was not just his love of the sea, his spontaneous opera when at the helm, he was not only a capable captain, but a sensitive intellectual with a PhD in wild orchids. (Napoli was once the cultural capitol of Italy and the place to send your children to be educated.)We spoke once, on the bow of the boat, about his good fortune. He was full of gratitude to be born in Napoli, the son of a doctor, at the foot of Vesuvius in a village of sailors. He spoke willingly about his Napolitanita, how they thrive on drama, deep feeling and the friggatura; the clever getting away with va fan cuolo rule-breaking that delights a free soul and their appetite for living in the flesh, eating well,living large, simply and sensibly.
When the elements were with us, instead of against us, sailing with him was a blue dream, like being on the back of the surfboard of a skilled surfer, going up and down the swells with controlled abandon. Whehew! Fantastico! Che pezzo di oumo! What a man!
How I appreciated the man he had become. One to scoop up, to have and to hold. It wasn’t the years between us or the fact that he was already taken that made it impossible. Or that I have no Neopolitanita’ in purezza to match, fiery and demanding enough to hold the line. Nor do I have soft cappuccino-colored skin. It wasn't about that.
I missed in that moment, a man of my own to adventure with, wondering if there is such a match for me. There was no rain, but my cheeks were curiously wet. Emotions tumultuous as the the sea.
Then I realized; I am forever meeting and adventuring with amazing men and women in my work, all the time. Relationships can be geographical, about place, and connection. About the wind. Something unspoken. A glance. Trying to keep others and each other safe in a storm. An unconditional relationship, strong, available and true.
A smile cracked through like the sun.
Tony Tony, moi e Anello, Amalfi portmaster.
We eventually arrived safely in port after 22 hours of rough seas, what normally takes 16 on smooth. The drama, and the tenderness, now a thoughtful memory.
Lori de Mori, food writer and one of my best friends, gave me this recipe a few years back. It was given to her by Contessa Lisa Contini Bonacossi of Tenuta di Capezzana one of the finest wine and olive oil producers in Tuscany. Whenever we gather for big lunches or dinners, Lori most often says, 'Via, I'll make Capezzana cake and we'll all be happy'. Big tea drinkers, we are even happier when there is some left over for tea as well.
A great-grandmother, with seven children of her own, Lisa Contini knows a few things about cooking and no less about sweets. Her husband, Conte Ugo, is one of the best producers of Vin Santo, the quintessential Tuscan desert wine. The Tuscan's aren't big on pastries, preferring dolce secche 'dry sweets', like cookies or a simple cake.
Tuscan's are no strangers to doing things their own way, refusing to use salt in their bread to avoid being taxed. Here, they avoid using butter, in favor of using what they have; orci, large terracotta containers full of some of the most flavorful olive oil in the world. Records show that olive trees were first planted in Capezzana over 1200 years ago.
This cake is moist and delicious. I varied the recipe to include almonds, as I adore nut cakes. I have also been known to substitute a cup of honey for the sugar. It deepens the flavor and harmonizes with a glass of Vin Santo, like 'a kiss on the lips.'
Capezzana Olive Oil Cake
Grated zest of 3 oranges, juice of one
1 ½ cups granulated sugar (or 1 cup of honey)
2 cups flour
1 tsp salt
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp baking powder
1 ½ cups extra-virgin olive oil (the better the olive oil, the better the cake)
1 ½ cups whole milk (or milk alternative)
3 large egg
1 cup of crushed almonds (optional alla P.M.)
Preparation:
Center an oven rack and preheat the oven to 350F. Lightly coat the cake pan with olive oil. Set aside.
In a large bowl, rub together the orange zest and sugar until the sugar is moist and fragrant. In a sieve, combine the flour, salt, baking soda, and baking powder and crushed almonds. Sift over the sugar. Whisk to combine the dry ingredients, then make a well in the center. In a large liquid measuring cup, combine the oil, milk, and eggs. Whisk to combine, then pour the dry ingredients into the well and slowly draw in the flour mixture, whisking until incorporated. The mixture should be fairly smooth before you draw in more flour. Mix well.
Pour the batter into the prepared cake pan. It should be no more than three-quarters full. Place in the middle of the rack.
Bake for 35-40 minutes until nicely browned and firm to the touch.
Serve with a fruit compote, Vin Santo, or eat plain with a little dust of powdered sugar on top.
I"m making this cake today for my daughter's 30th birthday. Wheat and dairy intolerant, this is the perfect cake for her, without a compromise on flavor, or making everyone else suffer through a highly processed gluten-free cake mix. I will substitute wheat flour for almond flour and soymilk for the milk. Everyone will be happy.
p.s. I recommend looking for Capezzana's 2009 harvest extra-virgin olive in certain high end stores if there's any left, or putting your name on the list for November 2010 harvest from Manacaretti, fine importers of classic Italian foods.
p.p.s. Lori's book, Beaneaters and Bread Soup, photographed by her husband, London photographer Jason Lowe, is one of the most endearing books on Tuscan food artisans. Lisa Contini Bonacossi's cake recipe is in there, with a charming photo, only Jason could capture.
To be an affineur, is to be an expert on aging. Of cheese.
In St. Remy de Provence, cheese makers bring their cheeses to this shop, where the resident affineur will take their product and put it in the ripening cellar. An affineur is sometimes described as the "foster parent of the cheese," overseeing its development with a keen sense for when its flavors will peak.
Even better, when customers arrive at the Cave d'Affinage, or "The Ripening Cave," they can place full trust in the affineur to find a cheese that will be ripe for serving at exactly the moment it is needed—whether that very afternoon, or three days away.
And if it's lucky, the cheese will end up on a table, in a garden, comme cette:
For more information and a good discussion write Robert Reynolds at www.chefstudio.com.
I visited my first 'cave d' affinage' when visiting Robert in Noir, in the Charente back in 1994. Who knew back then, that every product has an expert. A taster. A Phd in the science of finer nuances of flavor.
In Venice on the vaporetto, I passed this boat with the name of Citta di Chioggia'. Chioggia is a mini-Venice located on a small island at the southern entrance to the lagoon, which I passed coming in from Croatia, amazed how long the lagoon stretched before we actually arrived close to the center. A water world of canals and boats, Chioggia is also known for its unique beet.
Red and round on the outside doesn't mean you can judge a beet by it's color. Upon slicing it, one's eyes marvel at the red and white spirals, not unlike that of a pinwheel that's gotten going. It gives a touch of carnivale to any dish. I like to cut them top to bottom sometimes, so they look like the painting of a flaming heart in the Sacred Heart of Jesus by Jose Maria Ibarraran y Ponce, 1896, that you find in prayer nooks along pathways in Spain, lit with a candle.
I found it puzzling that something as earthy as a beet could have come from a place that seems to be all water and concrete. "There must be earth here somewhere," I thought. If I hadn't been recently invited into a home with a small garden, I would have remained skeptical. Chioggia is also known for radicchio and other sea-faring gastronomic pleasures, like deep-fried baby soft-shell crabs.
Outrageously delicious and entertaining, I quite like to eat these bull's eye beets alone. I'm not one to fuss all of the time, especially when jet-lagged.
Just a day after arriving home, I popped into the Boulder Farmer's Saturday market and bought a few things, including carrots and beets from my friend Pete of Oxford Gardens. When I got home and cut into the marvelously heart-shaped beet, it spoke to me. Talk about alluring. It drew me in like the snake's eyes in the Jungle Book that hypnotizes with the song..."trust in me"...only my beets sang in Italian. Too tired to give it a party, I threw it into the pot with a few of O.G.'s carrots.
I wanted only to drizzle them with olive oil and salt, eat them quietly and go to bed. Which is what I did.
If you would like to cook some beets of your own, go see Pete at Oxford Gardens. If you would like to have them cooked for you, go see Dakota at Café Aion, his new restaurant on the hill . He roasts them and crumbles goat cheese on top with a few pumpkin seeds, if I remember correctly. A drizzle of e.v. olive oil is mandatory.
I think the next time I'm in Venice, I will prepare a bowl of beets to take on a gondola ride. The stripes will match the shirts of the gondolier. I'll appreciate the singing of both.
Uscio e Bottega: A Glimpse into a Florentine Café.
On a rainy day in May,
I stepped into Cibreo Café
after eating at the Teatro
with friends from Santa Fe.
There was nothing more for me to eat and nothing more that I could drink. But I could not pass by Cibreo without un salutino. The café is a world of its own, a vortex that draws me like a favorite chair.
I come home to myself just by stepping in the door. The barman and waiter are standing in the doorway discussing politics, something close to religion here. They greet me kindly to come in.
“Un caffe? Un te? Cosa voi?” Isidoro asks.
“Niente. Grazie,” I say.
I'm too full to consume anything. I just want to stand here for a minute, soaking up its familiarity. I often visit in the afternoon, when there are hardly any customers, to sit and write, read or talk to a friend. But today I am simply passing.
Isidoro says, “Questo posto e un uscio e bottega.” Uscio e Bottega, a Florentine expression for “home away from home.” E come casa: like home, but also a place of business. He says cafés were originally conceived as places where people could relax, read the paper, drink a coffee and have a taste of something. They were made to be places of belonging outside of the house, in community, where passing a few hours, conversations about politics, children, the weather, was the norm.
“Now,” he says, “people hardly have time to stop. They are in a rush. No time to stop and talk, much less savor a taste.” Dreadful, I think. Surely it’s our (fast-paced American) fault. Do we all want such a place to go? Or just certain types of people?
Cibreo's interior is lined with dark wooden wainscot half-way up the walls, with butter yellow paint to the ceiling, which is unusually carved with dark wood protuberances and flecks of gold. The floor is chestnut and looks like it’s been there for centuries. It creaks when you walk on it. All doors, windows and wood slabs were recycled from churches and villas from the surrounding country- side. The café looks and feels like it’s been there 100 years, but really only 30.
Small round tables are covered in cream-colored cloths. Fresh yellow daisies grace a vase on each. Red velvet theater chairs, whose seats go up and down, offer an inviting touch of elegance. I sink into a chair and become a hedonistic phlegmatic, not wanting to move but to sit and sip and chew, complacent and happy, steady as a tree trunk, drunk on the ecstasy of that moment.
From where I sit, each arriving customer begs study, whether morning, noon, afternoon or night.
The cappuccini and caffé latté contain the perfect balance between milk and coffee. Coffee is tapped just so in the bowl, pressed with the right amount of force for the right amount of seconds, then hooked into the machine. The crema comes out perfetta, milk steamed just so for the consistency of foam. These things are not as simple as they sound.
I can't really drink coffee. I love it, but it doesn't love me. I don't miss it until I am in the cafe and notice Isidoro’s modo di fare. His way of making it.
Standing in Cibreo's doorway, a flood of memories come. I am reminded of how many meals I have eaten here. How many times I've heard the menu read to me, out loud like poetry, though I already knew each dish by heart.
"Crème of yellow pepper soup"
"Zuppa di pepperoni gialla… "
"La Polenta cremosa con burro sfuso e Parmigiano Reggiano sopra”
“La Parmigiana”
"Zuppa di pesce piccante”
“Baccala monticato”
"polpettine con una salsa Livornese”
"Salsiccia e fagioli”
“Inzimino”
“Budino di cioccolato”
“Baverese con salsa di fraggole.”
I can taste these dishes in my mind. How many sunny seasons have I sat outside, watching the chefs move back and forth from restaurant to café and now to the Theater? How many cool days have I sat inside with a glass of red wine over a heated conversation? With or without company, I am happy to sit, often staring out the window to the striped awning across the street, "Ristorante Cibreo da 1986. Via del Andrea Verrocchio, 11."
No matter how it’s framed, from the doorway, or the window, this awning appears to me as a sign of affection. No lover has lasted as long or won my affection as deeply. An alignment of the senses are arranged and balanced. It resonates as a temple, not of worship, but something closer to simple human aesthetic satisfaction.
I’ve been coming to this door for 18 years. I remember old entrances, old kitchens, old personnel. And Franca, the female rock of Cibreo.
Franca had a funny way of welcoming, but welcome she did. “Oh Peggy! where have you been? In Portugal dancing with the King?” She was a chiacherone—someone who talked constantly, greeting everyone who came through the door, often with nicknames. Regulars like “Chamomila,” the short, round, bald man, well-dressed with a sweater thrown just-so around his neck, who stopped by for a martini every day at 10 am. Franca reminded me of the timeless barmaids of yore. Tightly dressed, hair coiffed, with perfect makeup.
From her pulpit bar, Franca spouted Florentine philosophy in her Fiorentino accent, orchestrated caffé, cappuccini, martinis, bicchiere di vini, panini, biscottini, all the while joking with everyone and keeping the barman on his toes. We loved her for it. In a way, she was un punto di referimento, a point of reference, not only for the people of the neighborhood, but for the family who worked at Cibreo.
Her sudden passing at 63 was shocking. Franca was not well, but we didn’t realize how unwell. She orchestrated even her own demise. We lost her to the Arno River. Her comedy in the end; a tragedy.
Josef, the handsome Marochino, dresses always in a suit, pumped to perfection. A bright and cheerful fellow, he can relate to anyone and make them feel comfortable. Girls and women of all ages swoon, a hug and kiss follows, and he never forgets a name.
Umi, the slight Japanese woman with the wide smile. Abrazac, the Moroccan pasticiera (pastry chef), whose consistency in holding the note for the beloved dolce is still alive and well.
Alfonso, who’s charming Pugliese curls and mysterious demeanor has graced the grounds for half his life. He knows what you need before you do, having a 6th sense for most things, especially reading people. He once put a tiny sliver of flour-less chocolate cake in front me before the thought fully escaped my mind.
And then, there is Fabio Picchi. The mastermind and chef owner of it all. He's a character bigger than life, a Marx look alike and a Socialist to boot. No detail goes un-seen in his kitchens. There is little time to waste on mediocrity.
Fabio falls in love with everything he sees, reads and tastes or...doesn’t. If he does, he uses the kindest touch to bring whatever it may be alive with affection. The restaurant, the trattoria and the café are like his grown children. The newest addition to his domain, the Teatro del Sale, is his newest love, which he built for his wife, comic actress Maria Cassi. This is where you will find him, yelling out the upcoming dishes for the buffet from the kitchen window. Unless you are up at six in the morning at the market, or catch a glimpse of him making his triangle rounds between restaurant, café and Teatro. If you look carefully, you may also see his heir apparent, Giulio, one of his grown sons cut from the same artistic cloth, wielding a clever smile like Prince Charming's, cutting straight to the heart.
The café is a place for the amuse buche, Something to amuse the palate. Throughout different times of the day, there are delectable things to choose from, like, the doughnut called Frate, first made by monks and perfected by Abrazac. Their cake-like consistency holds up
beautifully to be "dipped" not "dunked" into the consummate cappuccino. The panini, some so small they look the size of an egg, cut in half with butter and anchovies. Schiacciata so thin
you can’t imagine how anyone cut it to lay a slice of mortadella in between.
Whatever your fancy, you can find it here.
A trip to Florence is not complete without a
visit to Cibreo~ where the center of the universe is delicious in every way. There you will find your 'uscio a bottega'~ your "home away from home" in a bustling Renaissance city.
