Spaghetti with Spinach & Chillied Eggs
Recipe
Spaghetti with Spinach & Chillied Eggs
I will never forget sitting down as a young kid at my Nonna’s table waiting for her to serve up a big plate of Spinach & Eggs with whatever main course she had created for us that day, often it came with some deliciously tender pan-fried Veal. And I’ve loved the combination of Spinach and runny Egg yolk ever since.
And it struck me recently that runny and gooey and unctuous egg yolk would probably go pretty well with Spaghetti too. So tonight’s offering is a combo of just that…
While the pasta is cooking sweat down some Spinach in lots of salted butter and fresh ground black pepper. Drain the cooked pasta and combine with some reserved cooking water, lots of butter, fresh grated Parmigiano Reggiano and more fresh black pepper. Set aside to rest while you quickly fry a couple of egg yolks in even more butter with black pepper and whatever chilli you have hanging around – I used chipotle.
Plate it up in any random way you prefer and enjoy your delicious Spaghetti with Spinach & Chillied Eggs with copious quantities of wine.
Fundamental Elements…
- Spaghetti.
- Spinach.
- Egg Yolks.
- Butter.
- Chilli.
- Fresh Ground Black Pepper.
- And enough wine to make you fall over.
For quantities, figure out how much you’ll need for yourself and multiply it by the amount of forks on your table.
Buon appetito e salute.
Ristorante Cavallino - Maranello Modena
Travel | Restaurant Review
Lunch with ghosts of the past, rampant stallions and the beautiful ones.
We sipped our first espresso of the day, surrounded by a clutch of red uniformed, oil stained engineers, high voltage electricians and beautifully tanned, needle sharp upholsterers, taking mid-morning caffe e panini. In the background there was an omnipresent, spine-tingling yowl of screaming V8’s filling the Modenese air as an endless stream of blood red Ferrari’s coursed through the tifosi-lined streets of Maranello. La Dolce Vita, indeed.
It was the Saturday before the final championship deciding round of the 1996 Formula One Grand Prix season and with my two brothers we had just arrived in town, road-weary, sleepless and hungry disciples at the holy grail of Grand Prix racing and womb of priceless Grand Tourers. Traditionally, the factory would celebrate the season finale by erecting a vast screen at an appropriate location in the town in order for their flock to revel, indulge and reminisce. That final, title clinching race was the Japanese Grand Prix and was due to be broadcast live at around 5am on Sunday, so time was on our side as we planned and anticipated our indulgences.
The shops, bars and restaurants tempted us with trinkets, tat and treasures. Beautiful people ventured out from their villas and teased us, piercing our eardrums and satisfying our souls with popping exhausts and pretty girls. We wandered the galleries and exhibitions, spent money we didn’t have and dissolved ourselves into a frenzy of high performance hedonism at this highest of high altars. Then, we thought about lunch. And conveniently enough, just opposite the hallowed gates guarding the earth-tone red factory buildings on Via Abetone Inferiore, is the renowned Ristorante Cavallino.
Although recently refurbished into a genuinely world-class eatery by arguably the greatest chef alive today, it was back then a more humble affair, albeit humble in a very relevant and classically Italian way. A large emblem of the Prancing Horse adorned the wall at the ominously forbidding entrance, where a stern and incredibly handsome concierge granted access to pre-booked, designer clad guests. We three dishevelled and naive young barbarians from the northern lands stood bravely before this most elegant of men and attempted to talk our way in. “A table for three please” my brother voiced in his perfectly toned west country accent and with a cheeky confidence borne of ignorant youth. The concierge dismissed us with nothing more than an experienced and well crafted, yet subtley informative smile.
Our plainly obvious Englishness disguises the fact that we are actually, half Italian – our mother is from a small town just outside Venice. And as a result, I have managed to craft together a mash-up of the Venetian language mixed in with some colourfully vulgar Milanese dialect and a few Italianesque words of my own invention. So, for our second attempt, I tentatively step forward and attempt to convince the Rudy Valentino look-a-like that we are worthy, well behaved, and the 50,000 lire note in my hand is easily and willingly transferable. I’m not entirely sure how my attempt at basic Italian translated, but fifty grand is fifty grand in any language and by the grace of the racing gods, we were in. There was a condition attached to our admission though, we were afforded one hour only, and for one course only. No problem.
It was a rather epiphinous moment for the three of us, sat amongst the chosen few and surrounded by framed images of historic victories, artisanal race cars and the colourful characters of days long gone. We pondered who before us had sat at these chairs and eaten from these plates. Immortal racing drivers demonstrating perfect lines, the most talented of designers and engineers drafting sketches on napkins and cigarette packs, businessmen and intrepid entrepreneurs striking lucrative deals. The rich, the famous and the beautiful. Movie stars, rock stars and fallen stars. All have graced this ethereal dining room, irresistibly drawn by the vision and passion of one great man. We humbly reach for the menu.
Richy chose Vitello Saltinbocca, succulently soft and milky white, jump-in-the-mouth veal topped with prosciutto crudo, a sage leaf and sautéed in butter. Dean opted for the Risotto Zafferano, unctuous Vialone Nano carefully and soulfully teased into earthy life with strands of golden saffron and served all’ onda. I couldn’t resist the Gnocchi Ripieni, perfectly round balls of incredibly thin and soft potato pasta filled with a truffle paste and bathed in a surprisingly light porcini and Grana cream sauce. I clearly remember how beautifully made they were, as precisely engineered as the bearing sets being crafted and ground in the factory opposite. In our naivety and youthfully misplaced wisdom, we stupidly ignored the obligatory Lambrusco and soaked up a Chianti for our chosen lubrication – we live and learn.
The room was heady, it tingled and buzzed with a special kind of calmly chaotic energy. History seeped from the walls and saturated us. Various plates of white polenta, osso buco, bistecca fiorentina, fish and all kinds of pasta were elegantly dispatched to diners nonchalantly waving forks and wine glasses around as they operatically shared mythical tales of speed, fortune and failure. Italian madness at it’s very finest.
As we left the restaurant, the beautifully tailored concierge approached, he’d kept a keen eye on us and recognised how much we’d enjoyed and appreciated our time there, he flashed his exquisite smile one more time, reached out to shake my hand and with a wink, palmed my 50,000 lire back to me. Another great man, another expert at his craft.
By the next morning we had a new – and British – world champion, the Scuderia were about to enter the most successful era of their modern history and we had been blessed with the good fortune to have experienced an incredible lunch amongst the spirits and ghosts of a glorious past, rampant stallions and, of course, the beautiful ones.
Stuffed Venison Meatloaf - Polpettone di Cervo Ripieno
Recipe
Stuffed Venison Meatloaf - Polpettone di Cervo Ripieno
Stuffed Venison Meatloaf.
I made this dish over the weekend, it was my Sunday lunch. I’d been thinking about Venison Meatloaf for a few days as I thought it would be something nice to include in my book, and as I was putting it together I thought I should keep it back and not share it here online, just file it away with a few of the other bits and and pieces I’ve got set aside. But it came out so deliciously nice that I can’t resist sharing it with you, I’ll just keep the story back…
Polpettone di Cervo Ripieno.
I took a couple of Venison Grillsteaks, mashed and mulched them together, flattened them out and filled them with mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes and basil leaves. Then rolled it all up and wrapped it in Pancetta. Roast in a medium oven with some peppers, tomatoes, onion and zucchini.
Ingredients
- 2 Venison Grillsteaks – Available from Waitrose
- 2 Peppers
- 2 Zucchini
- Couple balls of fresh Mozzarella
- A handful cherry tomatoes
- Half an onion
- 12 slices Pancetta
- A few sun-dried tomatoes
- Herbs and seasoning
- Fresh Basil
Team your Venison Meatloaf up with some roast potatoes and at least one bottle of worthy wine.
Buon apetito e salute a tutti.
Analogue 2.0 - The Revival Of Vinyl.
Random Ramblings
Analogue 2.0 - The Revival Of Vinyl.
I don’t think I’ve listened to any kind of vinyl since sometime around 1984, when I bought my first ever CD player. Back then, just before the CD player turned up, the old butchers block in my room that passed itself off as a record player would screech and fart as it carved its way through the grooves of my vinyl album collection and scraped my 45’s flat. I’d never listened to a high-end hi-fi before and had absolutely no idea how this stuff should have sounded.
So when the CD came along I was blown away, I’d discovered sonic heaven! No crackles, clicks, lumps, bumps or jumps. No hum, rumble or feedback. I could play it in my room, in my car and on a walkman. There was no B Side to flip and I could skip tracks with the push of a button. I could smear it in kebab juice, use it as an ashtray, throw it around in the car and it would still play!
Before I knew it, I was standing in my local hi-fi shop pointing at shiny electronic things with slidey drawers I couldn’t afford and buttons I didn’t understand. So I bought some. A nice little Yamaha CD Player and Amp paired up to a couple of Mordaunt Short MS10’s. I’d discovered heaven!
Which, of course, immediately led to all kinds of Inflammable Material such as Exodus, New Boots & Panties, Dark Side Of The Moon and of course, Never Mind the Bollocks being carelessly frisbeed from my bedroom floor back into random sleeves and covers as I re-tuned my senses into the crystal clear new world of digital tunes.
In the 10 years or so that followed, the only thing that changed was the kit. I’d ‘popped’ the Mordaunts a few too many times and a friend offered me a pair of Yamaha Studio NS-10M Studio monitors for £30! Then a few years later the CD player started misbehaving so I upgraded the hardware to a Yamaha AX-9 amp and matching CD player. And then a couple of years after that, I somehow managed to swap a gnarly old armchair for a pair of KEF Reference 104/2 floor-standing speakers – deal of the century!
Then of course, CD’s evolved into MP3’s and the internet came along. Apple gave us iTunes, the iPod and 5000 songs in our pockets. We’d sacrificed quality for quantity – streaming hi-dynamic, lo-fi shite from servers half a world away, over the phone. Endless conveniently curated playlists randomly stream through the background of our lives, never listened to, just heard. Lossless audio has helped, and Yamaha and KEF do a pretty good job of making it sound as good as I think I’d heard before – but I wasn’t sure.
I had started thinking again about vinyl a couple of years ago, just about the same time as everyone else. In anticipation, I even grabbed a couple of signed Public Image Ltd albums after seeing them at The Cheese & Grain just before lockdown, and they’ve been sat on my shelf as a constant, nudging reminder ever since. And of course, all that lovely thirty-something year old hard-wired analogue tech in my sitting room was aching for it’s finishing touch.
As I sit here writing this, I’m listing to Dark Side of the Moon, digitally re-mastered. It’s playing on a one-week old Pro-Ject Debut Carbon Evo turntable – a Christmas present to myself, with a little help from a special friend. Dark Side is my favourite album of all time, Pink Floyd my favourite band and Great Gig In The Sky my favourite track. So it seemed only right that the turntable should pop its cherry on the dark side.
Holy shit! I’ve listened to that album a thousand times, tirelessly. But never like this. Big, fat, deep, soft, round, warm and bright. The KEFs never really got along with digital, they’d need a good twist on the loud knob before coming to life, relying on the Yamaha monitors to take care of things at low volume. But the vinyl fires those bad-boys up straight away, I have no idea why, but what an amazing difference!
Technology has brought analogue audio into a bright new era, it’s the 2.0 version of what once was. Forget any rose-tinted nostalgic idioms you may be clinging onto from the past. This is 21st Century heavy-weight, deep-grooved, carbon-fibre tech, scraped by diamonds, balanced on sapphires, sent through gold-plated copper wires, pumped up and pulsed out through big fat cones. It’s sonic viagra.
Digital is great, it serves a purpose. It’s accessible, clean, convenient, disposable, slick and sharp. My issue with it is that it has devalued music, we shuffle it, skip and delete it. We download so much of it that we just don’t have enough time to appreciate and absorb it. There are no sleeve notes or tangible artwork. It lives in the ether, not on your shelf. We don’t even own it anymore, we simply rent it.
Analogue 2.0 is more than just a vinyl blast from the past, it’s a best-of-both-worlds combination of old-school grooves tangled up with current technological advances. It’s different from anything that has come before, it’s genuinely new and fresh. Even the album covers have had a millennial update, with screen-printed artwork, soft-touch finishes, full-on sleeve notes, inserts and goodies.
So where do we go from here? We’ve taken one huge step backwards, grabbed some stuff and then taken two even bigger steps forward. And it’s very cool. I feel like a kid again, but with a little more respect and understanding this time round. Who knows what the future has in store for us now? Spatial analogue maybe, or even some kind of new holographic format?
Whatever it is, it’ll never match the feeling of dropping a needle on an old favourite LP, settling back in the chair with the album cover, a glass of wine and getting lost in time and space. Just like we did more than forty years ago.
Only better.
Egg Pappardelle with Venison Ragu
Recipe
Pappardelle with Venison Ragu
Going through a bit of a Venison phase in my life at the moment and loving it. And rather than starting this Ragu off with a standard Soffritto I use sweet peppers instead.
So, for this particular Venison Ragu, pulse the peppers and half a white onion in a processor until they’re finely chopped and sweat them down in good olive oil, then add a few slices of finely chopped pancetta. Once the pancetta has cooked and rendered most of its fat out add minced venison, brown it and throw in a glass of big red wine. Cook out the alcohol, then add a tin of Polpa. Season with a veggie stock cube and fresh black pepper, then just leave it to simmer down to a thick ragu. Serve with fresh egg pappardelle.
Not entirely sure about weights and measures, but you’ll need roughly this,,,
- As much minced venison as you think you’ll need
- 1 tin tomato polpa
- 1 each small red, yellow & orange pepper.
- Half a white onion
- 3 or 4 thin slices pancetta finely chopped
- Glass of red wine
- Veggie stock cube
- Seasoning
- 100g fresh Pappardelle per person
Maserati Granturismo MC Stradale
Motoring Review
Maserati Granturismo MC Stradale
Neptune's Schizophrenic Child.
It’s loud and it’s fast. The Maserati Granturismo MC Stradale barks and crackles and yowls and howls as it violently sling-shots you towards an ethereal and rapidly shrinking, over-the-horizon, vanishing point. It’s such a mad and vicious assault on your senses that the only thing the limited capacity of your brain can compute is how imminent, and messy, your potentially impending death is going to be.
Constantly testing and teasing your reactions, it squirms and twitches and writhes as the agriculturally mechanical robo-shift gearbox bangs, thumps and smashes it’s way around the rev counter, bouncing off the red-line with a sledge-hammer thump that transmits itself through the body-hugging, alcantara-clad seat-backs, directly up through the spinal cortex and smashes without apology straight into your brain’s already over-worked adrenal gland. It’s a seriously addictive drug.
Eventually your survival instincts step in and you acquiesce to your responsibility for doing your part in ensuring the survival of our species, so you back off and remind yourself that you’re only meant to be popping out for the papers and a pint of milk.
Just because the Maserati is capable of doing it so quickly that you actually get home with the next day’s papers, doesn’t mean you should. Well, actually,,, it does. Of course you should.
But there’s another side to the MC, a calm, elegant and sophisticated side. Jeremy Clarkson once said of Maserati that “There’s no better way to arrive”. Six simple words that beautifully encapsulate everything about Maserati.
The MC is a stunning thing to behold. It certainly has presence, it’s big,,, very big. But it owns it’s space extremely elegantly. It doesn’t shout fast stuff at you, the fast stuff is clearly there on full display, but like a bespoke Valentino suit it’s cut and tailored to be sublime, subtle and sophisticated.
It’s lithe and curvaceous, taught and muscular. It’s Gina Lollobrigida sipping a Spritz, Claudia Cardinale dabbing Gelato from her lips, Sophia Lauren sensuously pouting spaghetti and Monica Bellucci dancing in the moonlight. Directed by Fellini.
Carefully slip inside and you’re drenched in finely stitched Alcantara highlighted with just the right amount of carbon fibre bling, bejewelled with that clock. Oh, that clock! The seats hug, hold and connect you as you smile at the trident taking centre-stage on the steering wheel. It’s temptuous, entrancing and inviting, good things are going to happen.
Twist the key and you’d have to be empty and soulless not to smile as it barks into life and settles into an open-throated snarl. Then, just settle back into the seat for a few moments to savour the sensory antipasto before dining out on the maelstrom-based main course that awaits.
Until the MC properly warms up it’s best to leave the crazy button in ‘Cocktail Party’ mode. A gentle pull on the carbon fibre paddle and a mechanical thud nudges through the car as a not particularly subtle confirmation of engagement. A sign of things to come.
Other than the Alcantara, Carbon Fibre, Paddle Shifts, Race Button, Semi-Bucket seats, solid ride and crazy noise, there’s very little to suggest that the Maser’ might kill you soon.
It’s comfortable and compliant and it just wafts along effortlessly between awkward gearshifts – albeit with an ever-increasing sense of urgency. It really is rather nice.
A stab on the crazy button though, out of ‘Cocktail Party’ mode and into ‘Manic Uncontrollable Grin’ mode and things begin to change. The loudness gets louder and more purposeful, it tightens up and grabs the road, it has intent. It’s like having a yappy Jack Russell constantly tugging and straining at it’s leash, barking and snapping and wanting to start a fight with everything around it.
Given the opportunity to stamp on the violent pedal and the Stradale just reaches forward, grabs the horizon and violently yanks it back towards you. The guttural yowl from the exhaust builds relentlessly into a primal scream as the linear power delivery whips the rev counter into red territory, a flick of the upshift and the primordial gearbox smashes the needle back from whence it came and challenges it to another attempt.
The naturally aspirated Ferrari-derived V8 dutifully responds and rewards as it willingly accepts the challenge, screaming its way back into the red before being viciously smacked back again for another go. It just keeps on hurtling forward, screaming and crackling and twitching and snarling. There comes a point at which your mortality takes priority over one more gear shift, so you back off the gas for a moment or two to gather yourself together and breathe, coast back down somewhere close to legality, relax and contemplate switching to ‘Insane’ mode.
The Race button is a temptress. You know you shouldn’t, you know it could hurt in all kinds of very expensive ways. It’s a forbidden fruit, a no trespassers, tramps or hawkers, no entry, one-way only, buyer beware sign. It has no place on the roads. It should be called the ‘Do Not Press’ button. But the dark forces back at the Maserati factory know what they’re doing, they know damned well that they should never tell anyone not to press a button. Just use an Italian version of the concept – Race.
Hit it, stamp on the pedal, flick the shift, lift off, regain control, slow down and have another go. Race also translates to everything off, all life-preserving technology is disabled. The yappy terrier has suddenly turned into a wild, over-sugared feral child. It has no boundaries, no limiting influences, no respect for others, and the laws of physics are ignored, twisted, chewed up and disdainfully spat out of it’s diabolically sonorous exhausts.
The Maserati Granturismo MC Stradale never was the fastest and craziest thing you could buy back in its day, technologically it wasn’t particularly advanced, or even current. It broke no records and was occasionally derided by motoring hacks for its faults, particularly the gearbox. It’s Old Skool. It perfectly represents the last of the blood-curdlingly, unrestrained by electronics, man and machine era road cars. It’s a guaranteed classic – desirable, fun, scary, exquisitely beautiful, primal, passionate and emotive. It’s a reminder of how good things once were.
Jeremy’s statement about Maserati was succinct. However, with the MC Stradale, before you arrive, there really is no better way to get there – whichever of it’s characters you choose to go with.
Peperoni Ripieni - Stuffed Bell Peppers
Recipe
Peperoni Ripieni - Stuffed Bell Peppers
Had some sweet peppers getting a bit wrinkly in my fruit bowl – if you know what I mean!?
For these delicious Stuffed Bell Peppers simply get a risotto going by sweating down a chopped white onion in butter and olive oil until translucent, then add 1 small cup per person of your preferred risotto rice – I used Vialone Nano. Once it’s warmed through and started absorbing the butter and oil pour in a glass of white wine and allow the rice to soak it up. Then add a small ladle of stock (I just made one up with a mix of chicken and veggie stock cubes) again until the rice has absorbed it. Keep repeating until the rice is al-dente and at the consistency you like. The critical thing is not add too much stock each time, keep it ‘thirsty’ and tease the starch from it. When it’s done, set it aside for a minute or two and leave it to rest, don’t touch it! Then gently beat in a knob of good butter and some Parmigiano to create that lovely creamy silkiness.
Fill the peppers with the risotto, top with mozzarella and bake in a hot oven for about 15-20 mins. I made a simple San Marzano sauce to serve it with – simmer down the tomatoes in a glug of good olive oil with some fresh basil and seasoning.
Stuff you’ll need to stuff stuff with…
- 1 small cup risotto rice per person
- Peppers to match
- A big pan of stock
- Couple of Mozzarella balls
- A white onion
- Glass of white wine
- Butter
- Parmigiano Reggiano
Buon Apetito!
Octopus, Grappa & My Friend Knobby
Travel
Octopus, Grappa & My Friend Knobby
Back in another life I would travel regularly to Italy on business with an amazing friend and business partner – Knobby. Now this legend of a man is by far the funniest person you will ever meet in your life, if something crazy is about to happen, you can be guaranteed that Knobby will be at the centre of it. If something can happen, it will happen, and always to Knobby. I love him – he’s my genuine brother from another mother.
So, Knobby doesn’t travel well. He’s okay while he’s in the UK, but get him in unfamiliar surroundings and he kind of struggles a bit – particularly with food. But he’s brave, after 15 pints of lager (easy for Knobby) he’ll eat literally anything. And I really mean anything! And it doesn’t always go in through his mouth!
So we’re down in Bari buying up container-loads of stuff, our supplier is rather pleased with the order we’ve just given her so she invites us to dinner that evening. Which of course we graciously accept. “Do you like fish?” she said. Yes, of course came a beautifully synchronised response (we always worked well together). Now Knobby’s idea of fish is Haddock and chips with a side of curry sauce out of his local chippy, or a fish finger butty. But not necessarily the kind of fish you’ll find in a specialist fish restaurant in Southern Italy. So this was going to be fun.
We go out for a few pre-dinner drinks before meeting up with our host, and as you’ve probably guessed by now, Knobby can actually drink like a fish, so we’re pretty toasted when we arrive at the restaurant. Our host offers to order for us so that we can get a real taste of Bari. Great idea says Knobby as he doesn’t know how to order haddock and chips with a side of curry sauce in Italian. The boy can’t order a taxi in Italian let alone haddock. So far, so good. However, the night is young.
Well, you would not believe what came to the table. When I said earlier about this being a specialist fish restaurant, I should have emphasised ‘Specialist’ – extremely specialist. I could not believe what I was looking at. There was all kinds of crazy fish on the table, little of which I recognised, most of which was raw. Knobby didn’t really notice because he’d disappeared a while ago to use the toilet (he goes every 7 minutes), and was currently in the middle of a crowd of strangers trying to tell a story about when he fell in a river on way home from the pub one night. None of them could understand what in hell he was talking about, but they were still rolling around in fits of laughter. He has a gift.
I drag him to our table, he looks at the food, he looks at me, I smile, he doesn’t know what to do, we eat. Me, I kind of just nibble, “had a big lunch” I said. Knobby, he’s had a skin-full of Peroni by now and gets stuck straight in, like a hero. And the fish just kept coming, we must have exhausted the entire Mediterranean of every living thing that night, all kinds of weird raw fish. I nibbled. Knobby gorged. “That was better than it looked” he said after finally completing his challenge. “You’ll regret it” I said. “No” he said. “You will!”. He was right.
After dinner we thank our host for her generous hospitality and make our way to the bar next door to our hotel and Knobby of course gets stuck in. He’s having a great time, the locals are mixing up all kinds of crazy drinks to pour down his throat, and he just soaks it all up. It gets so bad that they’re starting to lay odds on how long before we need to call emergency services. But he’s my boy, he just keeps on going.
At 2am I remind him that we need to be up at 5am to get to the airport, best to head off back to the hotel. Compliant as always, Knobby throws a couple more shots of Grappa down and we leave. I think it only took us about 45 minutes to find the hotel which was literally next door. It’s at this point where you need to know something rather personal about Knobby. You already know that he needs to visit the toilet roughly every 7 minutes, which is okay if you aren’t Knobby. However,,, I’ve learned over the years that whenever we share a hotel room always make sure that Knobby gets the bed closest to the bathroom, and ensure there’s a clear path to it, and leave a guiding light on. Because when he needs to go, he goes. Especially when drunk. And he has a bit of a reputation for,,, well,,, not sure how to quite put this,,, but,,, not always recognising where the bathroom is, no matter how much effort you’ve made.
You know that sound of water tumbling on a taught tarp? Well, I’m under my bed sheet,,, and I’m awoken by that sound. Yep, you’ve guessed it. I look up, it’s not the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen, but he’s stood over me,,, I’ll say no more, picture it for yourself. It wasn’t good. I’ve since learnt from others in this exclusive club that you can’t count yourself amongst Knobby’s true friends until he’s pee’d on you. I feel honoured. I clean up.
5am. The alarm goes off. Knobby’s gone missing, but that’s not unusual, he’s probably gone off to find a toilet. I take a shower, get dressed and he appears from nowhere. “Where the f**k have you been?” I said. “Don’t know” came the reply. That usually means nothing good, I pretend everything’s okay. We aren’t really in a particularly good state at this point, and somehow we need to navigate ourselves to the airport without bouncing off too much stuff along the way. But we make it.
It’s at this point that the previous night’s fish feast plus 20-25 bottles of Peroni, and at least 10 shots of Grappa (maybe some Limoncello too) begins to have a negative effect on Knobby’s digestive system. He’s starting to feel a little,,, uh,,, loose. Every seven minutes. Very loose. Check-in was fun, security was interesting, Knobby was loose. Poor guy, seriously, he was in big trouble. We boarded the plane. He had to go. We were delayed. The plane can’t take off with Knobby in the toilet. The cabin crew talk him out on the promise that we should be in the air with seat-belt lights turned off within the next seven minutes. They lied. My poor friend. It got messy.
After the longest 3 hour flight ever known to man, we arrive back in the UK. Then a two hour drive to my place with stops at every service station and lay-by along the way. Four hours later, we’re home. Knobby takes a bath. No dinner. Just bed.
So this is just how life is with my incredible friend. A day in the life of Knobby.
A few weeks later we find ourselves back in sunny Italy. Venice this time, and an opportunity to spend an evening with my family. They’ve invited us to join them for dinner. This time Knobby takes a (slightly) more cautious approach to the evening. Of course, he’s got them all laughing like crazy even though they have no idea what on earth he’s going on about, and then my cousin introduces him to a local speciality of fruit soaked in jars of Grappa. Here we go again! When the food comes to the table Knobby suddenly goes silent – Octopus! You can work the rest out for yourselves.
I love my friend Knobby.
Cappuccino - My First Real Taste of Italy
Travel
Cappuccino - My First Real Taste Of Italy
My cheek was stuck to the seat, my brothers were sleeping and I could smell smoke. Other than being stuck-by-jowl to the vinyl back seat of my father’s car, I had no idea where I was. Could be France.
This was back in the early seventies, not quite sure when, maybe ’71. The car seat that I was stuck to belonged to my Father’s Alfa Romeo Giulia and I’d actually woken up in the car park of a small bar high in the Italian Alps, just outside Aosta. I was seven.
Mum and Dad were outside having a smoke and stretching their legs, she was kissing him and making sure he was okay – stroking his face. The drive down through France was a non-stop blur of vineyards, strange road signs and Citroens. The Alfa had some dirty fuel problems as we set off from home in England and it was a nervous start as we barely limped into Dover’s hovercraft port in the middle of the night. But once we’d disembarked in Calais it was as though our beautiful little Alfa had sensed it was going home. It just took off, all Dad had to do was sit back and point it south.
I know from experience that if I time the trip correctly for a night run through France, I can leave my home near Salisbury and drive door-to-door to my cousin’s house in Milan in 17 hours, including the channel crossing and with stops for fuel and coffee only, maybe a a croissant if they’re warm. Done it many times, pre-speed cameras of course and occasionally In a Maserati. But anyway, back in the seventies before glass-smooth autoroutes and warp-drive, my poor father must have taken close to 24 hours just to make it to the Italian border in the Alfa. Mum told me sometime afterwards that at one point she woke up in the passenger seat half way through the Mont Blanc tunnel to see my Father dozing off at the wheel, the tunnel had two-way traffic back then!
As I gently stirred into life and began absorbing the unfamiliarity of the moment, my Mother had instinctively opened the door and let me out of the car making sure not to disturb my younger brothers. The alpine air was icy fresh and needle sharp like I’d never felt before, it was way past midnight, I was seven, and we were in Italy. I didn’t know exactly what it was that I was feeling, but I liked it. Dad finished another cigarette while Mum got us all together and we went in to the warmth of the bar to rest a while – and then comes the moment that I will remember for the rest of my life.
Talk about being a kid in a candy store! All around was a sea of cakes and sweets and colours and sounds and smells that overwhelmed and saturated every one of my senses. I didn’t know what any of it was or what you were supposed to do with it. Mum called me to the table where she’d laid out some pastries and drinks, I sat myself down, looked across at her and then met my true Italian mother for the very first time.
She lovingly caressed that cup with both hands and raised it to her mouth, with closed eyes she paused just before she sipped and drifted away for a moment, she was back home and I could see memories flooding back to her. She’d been away from Italy for such a long time. She drifted back from her thoughts of family and sunshine, raised her cup and delicately tasted home once again, then turned to me with foamy lips and handed me her cup. All I could see was a milky froth with a dusting of chocolate powder that had been disturbed only by her lips. “What is it?” I asked. “Cappuccino” she said, and smiled. She knew.
Mum is Italian, she came to England in the fifties with her parents and three of her four brothers and had probably only been back home once since. We were about to see where and who she came from, and although we’d already been on the road for close to 40 hours, our journey really only started with that cappuccino. I was a very young boy but I could feel what it meant to her.
I’ve carried that feeling with me all my life, I’ll never forget my first ever cappuccino. Every single thing that I was ever going to learn about Italy was waiting for me there at that border, and item number one on the list had just been ticked off. We walk back to the car holding hands and I asked my mother if everything was going to be that nice?
She said yes.
Zuppa Di Nonno - Stale Bread Soup
Recipe
Zuppa Di Nonno
Zuppa di Nonno – this humble little bowl of stale bread soup is the cause and reason behind my fascination and love of Italian food. My Nonno would often make it for his lunch and if I was around he’d always share it with me, it’s nothing special, but it is Cucina Povera at it’s simplest and finest. Particularly when seasoned with happy memories.
There was always a tray of old bread drying out and going golden in the bottom of his range cooker, he’d break up a big handful into a bowl, crack and egg over the top, grate in some Parmigiano and pour a couple ladles of stock over the top – if there was no stock simmering on the range then he’d just sprinkle a chicken stock cube over the bread and add boiling water. He’d gently fold it all together, the egg would cook in the hot stock and form a kind of Stracciatella and the bread would soften but still be firm. Grate a little more cheese on the top and a drizzle of good olive oil.
He’d sit me on his knee, share his lunch and a story, let me sip his wine and coffee, and have absolutely no idea how precious those moments would one day become to me.
Stale Bread Soup Ingredients.
- Large handful dried stale bread.
- One egg.
- Couple ladles of hot stock, or a crumbled cube with hot water.
- Parmigiano for grating.
And happy memories.
