1,000 Foods To Eat Before You Die: A Food Lover's Life List (47 page)

Slice or slather on bread.

A particular favorite in the Marche, the bountiful bourgeois province set between the Adriatic Sea and the Apennine mountains,
ciauscolo
(chee-AHS-cole-oh) is an unctuously seductive pork spread disguised as a sausage, much in the style of German tea-wursts and French rillettes (see
here
). One theory has it that the velvety spread, with its spicing of pepper, garlic, wine, and (variously) grated orange rind, cloves, and mace, was created by French settlers living in the Macerata area of the Marche, where the town of Visso is now the center of ciauscolo worship. Difference was, the French did not pack the spread into sausage casings made of intestines, but rather into earthenware terrines; nor did they gently smoke it over fragrant juniper wood before aging it for a couple of months—these are purely Italian innovations.

With its mild flavor and seductive aroma, ciauscolo may be habit-forming. It can be eaten sliced or spread onto bread or toast. Its name (sometimes
ciavuscolo
or
ciabuscolo
) is believed to have been derived from the medieval Latin
ciabusculum
, meaning small or little food, or what we might call a snack today—and a pretty good one at that.

Where:
In New York
, Babbo, tel 212-777-0303,
babbonyc.com
; Salumeria Rosi, tel 212-877-4800,
salumeriarosi.com
.
Retail and mail order:
In Senigallia, Italy
, Enoteca Galli, tel 39/071-63811,
gallienoteca.it
;
in Chicago
, West Loop Salumi, tel 312-255-7004,
westloopsalumi.com
.
Further information and recipe:
lpoli.50webs.com
(click Formulations, then Ciauscolo).

Slices reveal the colorfully elaborate stuffing.

Tender veal breast meat with a lavish, savory stuffing, Genoa’s delectable and elegant
cima
offers great reward for its complex preparation. Although ingredients vary from one cook to another, at its most classic and best, the carefully
boned breast of veal is filled with a colorful pâtélike mix of ground veal enriched with the calf’s own silky sweetbreads and brains—a mix that is studded with tiny green peas, diced artichokes, grated lemon rind, ivory pignoli nuts, minced parsley, hard-cooked eggs, and tiny dicings of roasted red peppers or cooked carrots, forming a sparkling mosaic when the meat is sliced. Lush seasonings of grated Parmesan cheese, salt, pepper, marjoram, garlic, and, for some, a grating of nutmeg add to the appeal.

The stuffed loaf is wrapped in cheesecloth and poached in a rich vegetable broth, then cooled and pressed lightly between two platters to firm up; for full flavor and the right texture for slicing, the cima is thus weighted and chilled overnight.

It’s a dish that is especially suited to buffet service, pretty enough to be a centerpiece when bedecked with some frilly green garnishes. A rice salad is an especially welcome accompaniment, as are roasted red peppers (if none appear in the stuffing). A dab of Liguria’s signature fragrant basil pesto adds a final bit of flourish to each slice. If it is to be served warm, which is less common, the whole pressed and chilled cima is reheated very slowly in vegetable broth. It is sliced and served with either pesto or spicy mustard.

Further information and recipes:
Giuliano Bugialli’s Foods of Italy
by Giuliano Bugialli (1984);
A Mediterranean Feast
by Clifford A. Wright (1999);
italianfood.about.com
(search cima alla genovese).
Tip:
It is best to have a butcher do the boning so the meat will not be badly torn.

Considered an aid to digestion as well as to sexual prowess, cinnamon was a favorite in ancient Rome, where overindulgence in the gustatory and carnal pleasures would have accounted for its popularity.

We tend to think of fruit when we think of flavored ices. But in Renaissance Italy, especially around Florence and other Tuscan cities where trade with Asia was in full swing, lavishly used spices were extravagant status symbols—so it’s no surprise to see them taking center stage in this simplest of desserts. The exotic, warm, and woodsy-sweet overtones of cinnamon are a teasingly seductive foil for the cool, clear, fine-grained ices that, in the tradition of a true granita, contain no milk or cream. To avoid specks of cinnamon that might be mistaken for dust, cinnamon oil was used to flavor these refreshing treats.

Makes about 1½ quarts, serves 8 to 10

2¼ cups sugar

10 cups water

¼ teaspoon cinnamon oil

4 or 5 drops red food coloring (optional, see
Note
)

1.
Combine the sugar and water in a heavy saucepan and boil gently until a light syrup forms, about 7 minutes. Refrigerate the sugar water until it is completely cool, about 20 minutes.

2.
Stir in the cinnamon oil and pour the mixture into a bowl or a shallow dish. Cover with a piece of heavy-duty aluminum foil and place in the freezer.

3.
As the mixture begins to turn slushy, beat it with a wire whisk or rotary beater to break down the ice particles, then smooth the mixture back into place. Re-cover with the foil and return to the freezer. Repeat every 30 minutes until the granita is firm, without liquid but still icily granular, about 4 hours. Serve the granita in small chilled glasses or ceramic dishes.

Note:
If you would like the cinnamon granita to have an appealing red color, add the food coloring with the final beating. However, be prepared for some wag to identify the final result as granita de Lavoris.

Tip:
Cinnamon oil can be obtained at many specialty food shops as well as from Internet sources and some pharmacies.
See also:
Italian Ices
.

On first consideration, no food appears more antithetical to the Italian palate than sauerkraut, that totally Germanic salt-preserved cabbage—its assertive, pungent sourness seems hopelessly at odds with typical Italian seasonings. But there are many Italys, of course, and in the northern regions, a strong Austro-German influence is a holdover from the sixth to eighth centuries, when the Langobards (hence, Lombardy) held sway. A taste for sauerkraut—
crauti
—remains a minor relic of that period in regions stretching from Lombardy to Emilia-Romagna, Trentino–Alto Adige, and Friuli–Venezia Giulia, which includes the city of Trieste.

How does sauerkraut translate into irresistible and irresistibly Italian specialties? Let us count the ways. In Lombardian Milan, as well as in the Emilian city of Modena, you can bite into scrumptiously juicy sandwiches of warm sauerkraut topped with thick slices of the coarse cooked pork sausage known as
cotechino
(when enclosed in a traditional sausage casing) or as
zampone
(when encased in a pig’s foot). The soft, mild meat and sprightly crauti glossed with mustard or horseradish on a soft-but-crusty bun make for a very particular taste treat.

In the beautifully alpine Dolomite region of Trentino–Alto Adige, restaurants offer ravioli on sauerkraut—but these are not ravioli as we know them. Here, the thin dough pouches enfold richly meaty, earthy bloodwurst, the dark velvety Austrian sausage of pig’s blood
that gets a light spicing of clove, nutmeg, and pepper.

In Emilia-Romagna, home cooks simmer a lusty soup of beans, pork, and sauerkraut. In areas around the piney spa town of Merano, you’ll find the local bread dumplings known as
canederli
(their word and form suggestive of the Jewish matzoh balls called
knaidel
). Tyrolesi canederli include specks of bacon, onions, and parsley; canederli neri, or black canederli, are based on gritty brown buckwheat groats; and yet another variety,
canederli di fegato
, is made with liver. Nestled on crauti fragrant with garlic, bay leaves, and olive oil, all make for a hearty and delicious repast.

Where:
In Naturno, near Merano, Italy
, Ristorante Wiedenplatzerkeller, tel 39/04-7367-3280,
restaurant-naturns.com
.
Further information and recipes:
Italian Regional Cooking
by Ada Boni (1994);
Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking
by Marcella Hazan (1992), see Beans and Sauerkraut Soup.

One of the most justly celebrated appetizers in Florence has got to be
crostini di fegato
—the canapés of crisply pan-toasted bread topped with an irresistible velvety mash of chicken livers that have been slowly simmered in olive oil and are fragrant with sage leaves.

A particularly well-executed version has delighted at least four generations of diners at the authentically rustic favorite Trattoria Sostanza, a no-frills restaurant founded in 1869 and known for its Florentine steaks, these crostini, and little else worth ordering. Here, the liver and sage are simmered with piney crushed juniper berries, a hint of garlic, salt and black pepper, and red wine; for textural contrast, some of the livers are cut in small chunks and added toward the end of cooking. Just before they arrive at your table, the crostini are spread with a thick layer of the room-temperature liver puree and topped with whole sage leaves.

Another classic of the Tuscan kitchen,
crostini di fagioli
, is an iteration topped with little white cannellini beans. Sautéed with heady additions of hot red
peperoncini
flakes, garlic, tomato paste, rosemary, olive oil, and lemon juice, the beans are mashed into a rich puree, sprinkled with emerald-green minced leaves of Italian parsley, and spread on those crispy bread slices as a delectable accompaniment to predinner aperitifs. (Chickpeas can be substituted for the cannellini for a slightly earthier effect.)

One currently popular riff on crostini is bruschetta, based on thicker slices of lightly toasted bread. Often served with chopped tomatoes, basil, and garlic, it’s especially delicious topped with sautéed chunks of chicken livers.

Where:
In Florence
, Trattoria Sostanza, tel 39/055-212691;
in New York
, for bruschetta with chicken livers, ABC Kitchen, tel 212-475-5829,
abckitchennyc.com
.
Further information and recipes:
Giuliano Bugialli’s Foods of Italy
by Giuliano Bugialli (1984);
epicurious.com
(search chicken liver sage crostini).

Culatello di Zibello.

To connoisseurs of Italian cured meats, the real prize is
culatello
, the delicately aged chunk of tender, meaty pork leg. Never mind those who accord first-place honors to prosciutto: The culatello is the most prime part of the pig’s hind legs—the cheeks, or
culo
—whereas regular prosciutto is cut from the whole leg.

Believed to have been created in the mid-fourteenth century, the ham has been a matter of written record in Parma since 1735. (It was the avowed favorite of the poet Gabriele D’Annunzio, who in 1891 specified that it be aged “where the air of the Po is often humid and good for the mold that preserves this fatless cut of meat.”) The meat’s texture is at once supple and firm enough to titillate the palate, with wisps of snowy fat bringing out its luxuriously earthy, nutty flavor.

The best culatello comes from Emilia-Romagna, the province so justly celebrated for its proficiency with many types of hams and sausages. Historically, strict American food regulations meant that very little genuine culatello made it stateside; thankfully, 2013 saw the lifting of the USDA’s constraints on Italian cured meats, with a flourishing of import activity sure to follow.