Out-run and out-eaten

After the Notturna di San Giovanni, a 10K in Florence, I left thinking four things:
- Running in Italy is like driving in Italy. There must be rules, I just don't’ know what they are.
- Clocks in Italy are like Saints. These days, their utility is aesthetic.
- Thank God Vivoli stays open until 11PM.
- Racing in Italy can’t get any better than this—what other race will start with a parade (men in tights throwing flags), feature a vocal crowd, and offer views of half the curriculum of Art Hum?

I reconsidered the last point at the finish of a 7-point-something K near Siena, where they gave each participant a bottle of wine. I chuckled to myself and began to think about how my friends would react when I told them this once I got home.

We didn’t go home. Ubaldo had indeed kept his promise to take me with him to races, but, here in Tuscany, “race” also means “dinner” (which is proceeded by a “post-race shower” and followed by “drinks”).

Fast forward to the food: Walking toward the dinner tent, I heard my name. The race organizers were conducting a raffle among participants, and I had won a chocolate pastry! All the participation prizes were food—olive oil, salami, good wine, sweets.

We waited in line to order and get a table. An eight year old served beer on tap, while his mother managed the cash register. As we sat down, one of Ubaldo’s friends uncorked his raffle prize (DOCG olive oil) and poured it over bread for the table. Half a wheel of pecorino rosso appeared (origins: unclear). Then, finally our order: a crostoni platter. Beer. Prosciutto and melon. Pici with ragu. More beer. Mushroom and prosciutto pizza. A pork chop. Orange pastry. By this time, the Italians—most of whom had run sub 2:40 marathons in the last two weeks—started to smoke and speak quickly in dialect. Another round of beer. I checked the time; it was 1 AM.

“Don’t worry,” Ubaldo’s wife whispered to me as she surveyed the mess. “I’ll drive.”

Siena, and more white meat

Part I: Siena - Although Ambra is near many well-known Italian areas (Florence, Arezzo, Chianti), it's really a culinary satellite of Siena.

Here in the countryside, Siena seems to be regarded with a mix of reverence ("bella, bella, bella!") and indignation ("They think they're the center of the universe. That's just how they are."). A few thoughts on my visit:

* The view from the top of the Facciatone is, unlike most towers, not just a way for locals to chuckle at tourists waddling up the staircase. Tuscany's strict building codes have served the city well in preserving a gorgeous landscape.
* Siena has historic quarters that, like cubicle clusters at Bain, have their own colors and mascots. Mascots ranged from eagles and dragons to snails and scallops. Go bivalves!
* The Lord of the Rings movies misrepresented lambdas bread in making it look like a flat empanada. A cake only in shape, Panforte di Siena is the real thing. Eating a piece feels like eating three power bars. Or getting punched in the stomach.
* The bus system in Italy is a pain (we missed our bus and had to wait 4 hours), but fortunately there is no stigma attached to ordering prosecco at 4:00 in the afternoon. (There may be one attached to ordering two in quick succession, but oh well. It had been a long day.)

Part II: Dinner - After returning from Siena, we went to the butcher shop to buy meat for dinner. We selected a package of chicken drumsticks with the intention of sautéing them with pasta.

Hindsight: If the shop sells whole chickens with feet still attached, it's unlikely that they also sell packages of drumsticks.

Each drumstick was in fact a bird about the size of two fists, the species of which is still unclear. It was most likely pigeon though another contender is woodcock.

"See? This is maturity. I'm looking at this and laughing... Haaaaah." Since I was unsure of how to cook hearts and other organs, we removed the meat from the bodies. We dipped the poker-chip sized breasts in egg, dusted them with flour, and sauteed them with shallots and olive oil. They were a tasty entree, though I'm sure there's a better way to enjoy them. Whatever they are.

Bedtime stories for dinner

Adam Gopnik's discussion of food in literature* and one of this week's new dishes made me think of my sister's favorite bedtime story:

ONCE upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree.

"Now, my dears,'' said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, "you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.''

A fan of neither savory pies nor Potter-era English cooking, I maintain that had Peter been Pietro, he would've lost his brass buttons to avoid becoming a much tastier dish:

Braised bunny
Ingredients: rabbit, olive oil, leeks, celeriac, garlic, flour, salt, pepper, white wine.
Heat olive oil in a pan. Add chopped leeks (green part), celeriac, and garlic. Add quartered rabbit, dredged in flour. Let brown. Add salt and pepper. Add white wine (until almost covered) and let it simmer on the stove for about an hour and a half.

By the way, to all you poultry-eating vegetarians out there, rabbit is white meat.

* Thanks, Elise!
Photo credit: Mark Bridge
Original caption: "Cute enough to eat (but not quite large enough)"
http://flickr.com/photos/markbridge/147757763/

Walter Mitty needs to grow a pair (pasta fresca)

Ubaldo Artini is the relative of a fellow who works with me at the restaurant. He smokes Marlboro cigarettes, drinks Becks beer, and likes to run. A past marathon winner, he has also run four ultra-marathons. In the past few years lower back pain has made him shift his focus to half marathons, the upside of which is that he has more time to spend with his three-year-old grandson, Marco

Marco's dad works with me at the restaurant, which is how I met his father in law. Right now, Ubaldo is in Antartica (running a half marathon), but when he gets back he has promised to help me join the local Italian running club and to take me with him to races on Sundays. He always rests on Saturdays and trains in the evening after work.

Ubaldo works in a warehouse.
...
Anyway, in preparation for next fall, I've been spending my afternoons making fresh pasta (and running a bit). The ingredients are simple (flour + egg) but the proportions must be flexible. Because the humidity affects the moisture retention of the flour, it's better to allow the flour to be drawn into the dough, rather than forcing it to incorporate. Thus the "bowl of flour" method.

If you decide to buy pasta at the store, you'll come across three types: teflon, aluminum, and bronze-pressed. The metal refers to the material used in making the pasta machine, which affects the texture of the pasta. For optimal sauce retention, go for bronze (most texture), but aluminum is fine. Avoid teflon. Pasta made without egg (i.e. barilla) yields a lighter noodle and less-starchy cooking water.

Pasta shape is also key to transporting the sauce from plate to mouth. In general:
- Thinner, lighter noodles will allow you to taste the subtleties of the sauce (good for truffles)
- Shaped pasta should be paired with sauces that complement their size. (i.e. sausage and broccoli rabe go well with orecchiette)
- Taglitelle goes with anything

Finally, don't break or cut your pasta into pieces. Eating broken pasta is like drinking melted ice cream.

Farmers Market, Every Tuesday

The Food Network has never made me want “to crawl up to the[] television set and lick the screen,” but the veggies here are so fresh that I will savor pictures of them for years to come.

To the right: Vine-ripened tomatoes, cut into slices, drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, and sprinkled with salt and pepper. (For caprese—layer in fresh mozzarella and basil; For crostini pomodori—place chopped tomatoes on toasted bread, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and drizzle with olive oil.)

Dessert first.

Signora Regoli left a little treat for me in my fridge. Sandwiched between two layers of whipped cream was sponge cake soaked in strawberry liqueur.

Italian hospitality is delicious!

Once upon a time . . .

I am charmed by the castle-like homes sprinkled throughout Europe. Walking around Ambra, I was taking pictures of said homes when I heard a voice.

“Ciao, Ciao, hello! Do you like?” A wiry man with thinning hair walked out of his backyard. I put down my camera apologetically. “Do you speak English? Italian? If you like, you should see the backyard!” he said.

He had built over his backyard a canopy of grape vines. To the left of a stone path was a small pond, with fish. Tables, chairs, and a view of the Tuscan countryside--he had a photogenic backyard, indeed. I walked through the gate.

“I painted my house blue. Everyone here thinks it’s odd, but I like it. It’s like the sky!” He smiled as he raised his arms toward the heavens. “Come into the house. This way!”

(Now, it gets strange.)

“I just came back from Melbourne. I don’t like it here. The people are all too political. Communists.”
(Oh. Why did you leave Melbourne?)
“I’ve just divorced my wife. So now I am back in Italy working on my backyard. She was crazy. Skkkrrrrtttt Skkrrrrttttt. Skkkkkkkkkkrrrrrrrrrttttt”
(Um. Okay.)
“See that shed? My cats live there.”
(Uh. Cats?)
“I have 16.”

I solemnly swear to joke no more about growing into a hypoallergenic cat lady. I also allege that Hansel and Gretel entered the witch's house only to be polite.

During our conversation, I started thinking of ways to fend off a batty man and his army of attack-cats, but in the end, this was unnecessary. As I left, he gave me a jar of homemade grape jam and told me that we should become good friends. Because everyone else here is a communist.

When I told the Italians about it later, they laughed and said he was strange--very strange--but harmless. And the jam? Oh, eat it. E' solo marmellata.