1,000 Foods To Eat Before You Die: A Food Lover's Life List (51 page)

Scoop out orange halves and fill with Italian ice for an appealing summertime presentation.

A wonderous restorative on hot days, frosty “Italian ices” are a staple of summer street fairs and most Italian pastry shops. Festively floral-colored and flavored with sugary syrup, they are easy-to-like, childish treats, but that seeming simplicity belies the history and pure intensity of an authentic Italian ice.

The tradition of sweet ices is at least as old as ancient Rome. In those days long before refrigeration, slaves would climb the foothills of the Alps and return with barrels and flasks of “drinking snow,” to which various flavorings were added. (The most traditional was fresh lemon juice and zest.) Somewhere along the line, milk or cream was added, resulting in what is technically known as sherbet—
sorbetti
in Italian—a smoother and richer affair. But the simple, pure-water version is still the favorite of true cognoscenti.

Because authentic ices are shaved and flavored as they’re served, they are further distinguished by a texture that lies halfway between grainy and slushy, not as smooth or creamy as sherbet. That’s why
granita
is the official name for the Italian ice—the word means granular or grainy.

By 1686, Italian ices had spread from Italy—first to Paris, courtesy of the enterprising Palermo native Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli, whose Café Procope is still chilling out Paris today. By the time the granita got to the United States around 1900 (along with a wave of Italian immigrants through Ellis Island), it was being sold by Italian pushcart vendors peddling their ices in little paper cups in heavily trafficked Manhattan neighborhoods. But the Italian ice would travel even farther, going on to become a staple at beach resorts and children’s parks nationwide. It remains an enduring symbol of summer and sunshine wherever it is found.

Where:
In Florence
, Gelateria Carabè, tel 39-055-289476,
gelatocarabe.com
;
in Chicago
, Anthony’s Homemade Italian Ice, tel 773-868-4237,
anthonysice.com
;
in New York and environs
, Sant Ambroeus at five locations,
santambroeus.com
; Ralph’s Famous Ices at many locations,
ralphsices.com
;
in New Orleans
, Angelo Brocato, tel 504-486-0078,
angelobrocatoicecream.com
.
Further information and recipes:
The Perfect Scoop
by David Lebovitz (2010);
saveur.com
(search Italian ice; coffee and lemon granita; tart red cherry granita).
See also:
Cinnamon Granita
.

Flavorful little bulbs.

Looking for all the world like small onions or shallots sculpted in amethyst,
lampascioni
are a favorite of the southern Italian Adriatic province of Apulia. But despite their appearance and their monikers—
cipollini amaro
(bitter little onions) or
cipollotti selvatici
(wild onions)—lampascioni are not onions at all; they are the bulbs of the grape or tassel hyacinth, the latter so called because of its early-spring-blooming purple sprays.

The bracingly pungent purple-rose bulbs are celebrated as fashionable members of Italy’s
cucina povera
—“the cuisine of the poor.” Searingly bitter when raw, they retain only a hint of this when gentled by the sugars that develop as they cook. To leach out additional bitterness, the little bulbs are first peeled, and a cross is cut along their root ends to create more surface area for the bitterness to escape from. Generally boiled in salted water or simmered in olive oil, they also can be roasted under the ashes of a wood fire. Once cooked, they are dressed with red wine vinegar and olive oil, to be eaten with appetizers or as a garnish for meat and poultry. In Apulia, they are often served as sprightly accents to
fave
, the regional staple of pureed fava beans. The bulbs are also popular in Greece, where they are known as
volvi
, pickled in brine or packed in olive oil and sold in jars.

Raw lampascioni can be found in markets in Italian and Greek neighborhoods and are easily grown in gardens. As with all edible bitter vegetables, they come with all sorts of alleged nutritional benefits, from probably specious claims of blood purification to touts of diuretic or appetite-improving qualities. Oddly, they have yet to find their way into the Gibson, the ultradry martini usually enhanced with a pickled pearl onion or two.

Mail order:
goitalygourmet.com
(search lampascioni in brine).
Further information and recipe:
Flavors of Puglia
by Nancy Harmon Jenkins (1997).

Lardo is best sliced thin.

Of all the unlikely delicacies that beguile the epicurian, this cured white pork fat is perhaps the least likely to appeal to the uninitiated, at least until first taste. But to simply describe the ancient Tuscan delight as white pork fat would be
as insensitive as calling caviar fish eggs. Thinly sliced into cool, satiny ripples and layered over narrow slabs of lightly toasted bruschetta sprinkled with sea salt—and, if you are lucky, shavings of white truffles—
lardo
is an inimitably sensuous experience for nose, palate, soul, and psyche.

Although relatively new as a food fashion in the United States, having been introduced at New York restaurants in the early 1990s, lardo was cured by the ancient Romans who worked the marble quarries around the Tuscan cities of Colonnata and Carrara. The pork’s excellent flavor was the result of the pigs’ opulent diet of chestnuts, acorns, and herbs foraged from local woodlands and fields.

To cure this richly flavored pork, white fatback is cut in bricklike slabs from the freshly slaughtered pigs. Vast, porous marble tubs are rubbed down with garlic, and the pork—cleaned and coated with sea salt—is layered in. Rosemary, pepper, and fennel are sprinkled on in profusion before heavy marble slabs are pressed on top of the fatback, all to be stored in cool caves for at least six months. The salt draws water out of the fat to create a bacteria-killing brine, preparing the fat to absorb a light glossing of olive oil when it becomes firm.

A growing interest in artisanal cured meats has seen quite a few examples of American-made lardo appear in upscale Italian delicatessens and restaurants. But none match the depth of flavor of the authentic Lardo di Colonnata, which bears an Indicazione Geografica Protetto (I.G.P.) label protecting it from impostors. Trendiness has left lardo open to much misuse, most especially as a topping for pizzas, on which it melts to gooey liquid in the oven heat. Have it cool atop an only slightly warm bruschetta—and then don’t go in for a cholesterol reading for at least a week.

Where:
In New York and Chicago
, Eataly,
eataly.com
.
Further information and recipe:
johndellavecchia.com
(search lardo).

There is no better fate for fresh tomatoes and basil.

The baked pasta dish known as lasagne may be a red-sauce-Italian-restaurant cliché, but it can also be utterly delectable, and to try one of its many authentic regional variations is to cease taking it for granted once and for all.

As with most riffs on the dish, the lush and eminently recognizable version made in Naples begins with wide, silky dried pasta noodles layered with two or three tiers of sliced meatballs or crumbled meat (beef, pork, sausage, or prosciutto), enhanced with a basil-and garlic-scented tomato sauce and luxuriously oozy with ricotta, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheeses.

For a more elegant interpretation, in Emilia-Romagna the lasagne noodle is generally tinted a pretty spring green with spinach, its mild, seductive filling of assorted meats, sausage, and chicken livers lushly moistened with a rosy
cream-and-tomato-tinged Bolognese sauce. Parmesan is the only cheese.

Similarly, Abruzzo, the Adriatic province famous for its culinary prowess, prefers lasagne made with whole, olive-size meatballs that combine beef, veal, and prosciutto and are sautéed in butter before being layered in a light white-wine-flavored tomato sauce. The cheeses in this version are the dried mozzarella called
scamorze
and a showering of grated pecorino.

For something quite different, you must go to the Marche, that peacefully bourgeois Adriatic region set between sea and mountains, to sample
vincisgrassi.
The lasagne was created in 1799 by the chef to the Austrian prince and general Windish Graetz, who was stationed in Ancona with his troops during the Napoleonic wars. The general’s name was assigned to the dish, eventually morphing into the Italianized vincisgrassi. (Say Windish Graetz a few times fast and you’ll get it.) For his creation, the ambitious chef had combined tender nuggets of organ meat, such as sweetbreads and minced chicken giblets, and seasoned the mixture with carrots, onion, white wine, a touch of tomato sauce, chicken broth, and a light drizzle of milk. Layered with noodles and spread on a nutmeg-scented béchamel sauce, the end result is a thinner, crunchier pasta dish with a teasing bite from the unusual meats and a light Parmesan topping, all glazed with a final brushing of melted butter as it comes bubbling hot from the oven.

Where:
In Macerata, Italy
, Da Secondo, tel 39/0733-260-912,
dasecondo.com
.
Further information and recipes:
Naples at Table
by Arthur Schwartz (1998);
The Splendid Table
by Lynne Rossetto Kasper (1992);
saveur.com
(search lasagne layers of history).
See also:
Pastitsio
.

In the kitchen, the
diavolo
, or devil’s, work generally consists of adding fire—in this case by way of the pungent dried red chiles called
peperoncini.
And to the devil thanks be due, for with a garlic-and chile-zapped tomato sauce imparting a red-hued kick to its snowy, tender meat, lobster achieves a special kind of splendor.