Living to Eat - Tito Di Brucchietti Dario, Rieti, Italy

Having driven the Alfa Romeo at breakneck speed along the Autostrada from Rome right up the middle of the boot, we arrived in Rieti, Italy, just across the hill from Montepulciano d’Abruzzo (a fact which becomes quite important later).  I had to go at breakneck speed because (a) I was falling asleep due to excessive jet lag and (b) it was not possible to pass anyone on the two lane highway except by driving on the shoulder, or pushing the other guy onto the shoulder so you could pass.

Napping intermittently, we pulled into the city (founded by the Romans, and still sporting a huge wall), and were claustrophobically funneled through streets exactly three inches wider than the car itself, before being vomited out into an expansive square in front of our hotel.  There the car sat for the next three days, mainly because it was more sane, and more fun, to walk everywhere.

Being in the heart of Italy, I wanted to eat Italian made by Italians for Italians.  Stupidly, we asked the concierge at the hotel where we could go to get such a meal.  “Why, the best restaurant in all Rieti happened to be just around the corner”, he said, with a gleam in his eye that later proved to be caused by the kickback he obviously received from the owner of said “restaurant”, for sending gullible tourists from North America there.  Let’s just say the pasta almost ascended to the culinary accomplishment of Italian master chef  Boy-Ar-Dee, with the pizza coming just short of Little Caesar’s.

This left me pretty disheartened.  I was, obviously, in Rieti to attend an important conference on prevention of biological, chemical and nuclear threats, but secretly, as ever, I was also there to eat.

The next night, my two American and one British colleague and I set off on foot, expertly ducking into doorways at just the right moment to avoid losing a limb to a passing Fiat or Vespa, and eventually finding ourselves stopping in front of “Tito” in garish blue neon.  Being from a land in which bright neon usually advertises American beer and French fries with gravy, we weren’t entirely convinced – but the door opened, releasing a cloud of fragrance so complex and delicious it made my knees buckle.  The quick glimpse inside revealed a place packed to the gills with loud, laughing and obviously extremely satisfied people. 

We went in.  A blond man with Mahatma Gandhi glasses, but obviously Etruscan and therefore utterly belonging there, strode up to me confidently, and parked his face three inches from mine, as is the custom in all Latin-influenced places.  He didn’t have to say a word – before I knew what I was saying, I knew this place was his, and therefore I could brazenly tell him that we were travelers here for but three days, that we were not interested in the menu, but that instead, we just wanted him to please prepare for us whatever would show off the heart and soul of this beautiful region of Italy. 

His eyes filled briefly with the kind of gratitude that happens only when you happen to say exactly the thing that someone has been yearning to hear all his life.  I just got lucky, I guess – and boy, were we about to find out just how lucky.  As he pulled out my chair, I risked another question – were the black truffles by any chance in season right now?  (I had never had truffles of any description, and it was about bloody time, being that the guidebooks were confident that Rieti is a hotbed of truffledom in Italy).  His disappointment was palpable – “No, the truffles are just out of season, but there is another mushroom now coming into its own….ah, I will show you something, please do not worry”.

One of our group, whom I will call Sarjit, (because that is his name), briefly fingered the menu on the table.  He was not entirely sure that throwing ourselves on the mercy of the chef was all that safe an idea…I couldn’t blame him, being that he had been expertly relieved of his laptop by a couple of suave and erudite pickpockets on the train that morning.  No wonder he was jittery.  He asked Tito if he could perhaps have the sautéed prawns instead of whatever other appetizer was coming.  Tito was gracious.

The prawns appeared, in full unpeeled glory, heads and antennae still intact.  Sarjit took one look, and announced to me that he had ‘just remembered’ that he was in fact ‘allergic to shellfish’.  It only took me a second to wonder how someone forgot such a thing before I graciously volunteered to eat his shellfish for him.  They were sautéed in brandy, and utterly, stupendously sublime.

Our appetizer arrived.  It was scrambled eggs on fresh bread – garnished with black truffles.  I took a bite.  Tito hovered nearby.  Time stopped.  Never, ever have I had anything so intensely, astonishingly powerful in my mouth.  I cannot describe this without becoming exceedingly graphic and intimate – and now I know why people willingly shell out hundreds, if not thousands of dollars for mere shavings of this earthy, sensual, compulsive ecstasy of taste.

Tito smiled knowingly, and disappeared.

Pasta is the next course in Italy – served before the meat course.  Our pasta came with peas and sweetbreads – thymus glands of a calf – (which is why they are called sweetbreads, because merely saying ‘thymus’ tends to put off one’s appetite).  These came in a white wine cream sauce, in a portion expertly sized to make one want more meat.

Osso buco obligingly followed.  Braised veal shanks, to be specific.  This dish made the trip to America with the first flood of Italian immigrants, so therefore its very familiarity might make one pause and wonder if traveling to Italy to experience it might just be a letdown.  No fear of that.  These calves’ calves had obviously never needed to climb any of Rieti’s pitched pastures or cobbled streets.  Coddled for hours in a red wine sauce, the veal practically slid off the bone, and gave up in a meltingly rich burst of meaty essence in the mouth.  Tito served a red Montepulciano d’Abruzzo wine, with no label.  I cavalierly asked him where I might get such a bottle to take back home with me.  “No”, he said, shaking an emphatic finger.  “We don’t send this to your country.  This we keep for ourselves….”

Dessert was vanilla gelato, flooded with espresso made tableside.  A perfect balance of deeply rounded bitterness with exquisitely sweet and creamy vanilla.

The second dessert – because Tito, with eyes shining, told us that he had rarely seen anyone enjoy food so much – was on the house.  A platter of plain, white cookies, each unadorned except for a single hazelnut, arrived.  Tito stopped us from grabbing one, patiently pouring the Vin Santo and explaining that the Italian way was to dip the cookie – like so – into the sweet wine before eating.

We dipped, and ate, and pondered again our very, very good luck.

Then came the bill.  It was my turn, since those around the table represented two companies working together now for many years.  We just took turns picking up the tab.  My palms were a bit sweaty, thinking how I was going to explain this to accounting, and honestly thinking this meal might be worth being fired over.

Sixty dollars (US).  Total.  For four people.

The next night – our last in that city – I tried to convince the group that we needed to return to Tito Di Brucchietti Dario.  I lost.  They said there was no way that meal could ever be equaled.  I beg to differ.  The reason that place has been in that family for over a century is precisely because they CAN equal that meal, day after day.  I’m going back there, someday.

Gaetano's in Brussels

The hotel I stayed at in downtown Brussels did live up to all expectations, but like all apparently seasoned business travelers, I figured the best way to experience culture when all you have in a city is approximately 48 hours is to find a “real” restaurant somewhere in town – where the locals go to get good food.

Jack, my business colleague, and I decided en route that we needed to pick up some souvenirs for the families back home.  There was a little store just down from the hotel, which featured many kinds of liquor and only one kind of souvenir.  A small naked boy urinating.  Some were 2 inches high, and some nearly life size – in bronze, silver and copper.  Teaspoons tastefully decorated with the stream eddying down the handle of the spoon.  Snow globes (though thankfully not with yellow snow). Playing cards, aprons, espresso mugs, shot glasses – all graced with little 'Manikin Pis'. 

Some homework yielded the information that the young Belgian king, while out for a walk with his nanny, felt the urge and demanded the divine right to relieve himself now.  Despite pleas from the nanny, he dropped his pants and went in the street.  Since then, the legend has been embellished somewhat, insisting that the king was in fact instrumental in putting out a small fire that could have threatened the entire capital city, etc. etc.  (Shades of the little Dutch boy and the hole in the dike).   There was duly erected in the center of town a statue commemorating the event, and for added realism and nostalgia, the statue was afforded an additional role as an anatomically correct fountain.  Apparently the statue receives clothing at certain festive times, whether or not these are occasions during which Belgium feels a need for additional modesty is unclear.  In any case, perhaps in defiant support of that which truly sets Brussels apart from other European capitals, the man in front of us on the sidewalk unhitched his belt and irrigated the flowerpot decorating the street. 

A couple of blocks removed from any vehicle traffic whatsoever, down a darkened street illuminated only by his vertical sign with arrow lay Gaetano’s restaurant.  As we approached, Gaetano himself leaped to his feet and ushered us inside, to the strains of some particularly enthusiastic gravel-voiced Italian pop star.  We had the entire place to ourselves.  The music suddenly came to a halt, to be replaced by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. 

Gaetano himself did not appear to be a happy man.  Upon hearing distinctly North American-inflected English, he had apparently resigned himself to serving a couple of culinary Philistines. Matters were not helped by our choosing our own bottle of Chianti.  Menus appeared, and a twinge of unease on my part.  They were printed on one single sheet of paper, laminated in the way of most chop suey houses, and advertised a scant selection of pizza, pasta, and meat dishes.  Ah well, at least the prices were reasonable.

Gaetano reappeared, detached and grouchy.  He took our order for an entrée each, and disappeared.  He deposited our pasta before us, and left again.  The tortolli with black truffle sauce was in sharp and wholly pleasurable contrast to the visual quality of the menu. It was frankly amazing, the kind of food which breeds unhealthy obsessions.  He must have heard something in our exclamations, either that or his love for fine dining drove him back to our table, where he declared, “You know, most of my customers allow me to order for them.  Then they have a cold starter, a hot starter, and a meat dish or pasta.”  A few seconds passed.  We could not pass it up, and so, while doing it backwards, we ordered the cold starter – a carpaccio, with shavings of parmiggiano reggiano.  Whisper thin and silky beef, dressed with arugula, not the bitter wilted weed that you must pretend to like in order to be properly cultured, but a muscular, earthy complement setting off both meat and cheese perfectly.

Gaetano cracked a smile, allowing that even Americans can have good taste.

“I’m actually from Canada – he’s from America”, I corrected, pointing at Jack, and ever conscious of my national inferiority complex.

“Ah, it’s all the same,” says Gaetano, “Canada, America – no difference to European people”.

“Oh, so you are from Switzerland, you said?”  I say, maliciously.

A sharp stare.  “NO.  I am from Napoli!”

“Ah, Italian, Swiss – all the same, no?”  Gaetano bursts out laughing, a high-pitched giggle. We compliment the food again, and he describes the history of the restaurant – the waiter whom, unbeknownst to the boss, has been rushing customers through their meals so that he can get out of there by 9:00 until Gaetano, with customer base dwindling away, finally catches him in the act and fires him.  Now starts the rebuilding.  Lunchtime is good, evenings still a challenge.  

He puts his hands on the table, and pointedly tells us that if we had let him choose a GOOD wine, we would have enjoyed ourselves even more.

Emboldened, we decided to ask Gaetano whether there was anything famous about Belgium at all.  He looked offended, and so we had to explain that we really didn’t know why the Manikin Pis thing was so big.  Wasn’t there anything else?

“Yes!  Atomium!”  he said.  Blank looks from the ‘Americans’.  Then I remembered – something I had seen from the train window, off in the distance.  A very large, very shiny stainless steel rendering of the atom, built for Expo ’57 in Brussels, I explained, with very large spheres connected by tubes – probably 10 storeys high.

“What’s inside it?” asked Jack the ever-practical.

“Inside it?  Nothing is inside it!” exclaimed Gaetano, injured.  “It is a sculpture!”  (Culturally deficient Americans!)  And then, a long list of things which we had really never heard of, including a palace to which the king goes every day to work.  These are all glories of Belgium, apparently.

Jack, the ever-practical and now perhaps in danger of becoming Jack the little-bit-annoying-to-Gaetano, asks – “Why do they only sell the little boy peeing, then?” 

Gaetano changes the subject.

There was no way to avoid dessert.  Gaetano had poured out his soul – he wanted Belgians to know real Neapolitan cooking, this was his mission in life.  And he hovered to ensure we understood that.  We acquiesced, becoming the next essential players in Gaetano’s dream.  Vanilla gelati with white chocolate chunks, drenched with a double espresso. Sheer decadence, the soul of Italy.

Which was soon spoiled entirely by a grand gift – Gaetano’s grappa, on the house. Innocently clear, like a mountain stream, the first sip brought on the kind of heartburn that makes you wonder about calling an ambulance.  He grinned, drinking in our appreciation and ardor for this wondrous Italian invention.  We sipped more, grinning ferociously.  Hoping to deflect attention from my squirming, I asked him how grappa is made.  A detailed description followed, but basically, it is whisky make of the crap that’s left once the grapes have all been squished for wine.  Mmmm.  Faint diesel overtones, sandpaper finish.

That couldn’t wreck the evening though.  We heard Gaetano in the basement kitchen, singing loudly.  We decided on the spot to come back the next night.  This time, he chose the wine, he chose the entire altogether sublime meal, including an astonishing osso buco.  I asked for the recipe.  He said "No" and – broke out the GOOD grappa, an oxymoron right up there with “pretty ugly” and “jumbo shrimp”.  (Note to self – do not praise falsely, for this may lead to another glassful on the house).  And then he produced the bill - "Look - normally THIS is what I would have charged you.  But look what I do for you - (Slash!, Slash!) On the house! On the house!  NOW, you see what I do for you?"  We did, and we appreciated it greatly.  Our enthusiasm for a long walk to see the real Manikin Pis considerably dulled by Italian hooch, we meandered back to the hotel.

The Celiac Conundrum - Chapter One

So, in the past couple of weeks, the person for whom I enjoy cooking the most got the diagnosis - she officially has celiac disease.  That means no more food with anything related to gluten (wheat protein) in it.  The first time I came across someone with this condition, it was at a pizza buffet - where this poor kid stood with his mom, peering closely at each of the pizzas and side dishes, in earnest conversation about whether or not he could eat this, or this, or this. At the time, I thought it was like a death sentence - I couldn't imagine how you could go through life having to be on high alert before every bite.  Talk about robbing the joy of eating, the ecstasy of tasting, the abandonment of sheer gustatory pleasure.

Apparently, there are a lot of people who suffer from this condition - a lot more now than even 30 or 40 years ago.  I now have five relatives who are celiac, all diagnosed over the past 10 years.  I've quietly watched them pick substitutes, talk to waiters, read the labels on everything while shopping.  What's been most heartbreaking, from a food lover's perspective, is to see the pathetic attempts by small and lonely producers to develop gluten-free alternatives that, if you really squeeze your eyes tight and imagine as hard as you can, kinda, sorta, maybe taste like the "real thing".  Want the truth?  Most of the time, not even close.  And the bewildering instructions on how to make those things, which include fractions of gluten-free flour, an array of exotic gums (xanthan and guar chief among them), wonky baking times, and having to store almost all this stuff in the freezer at all times except when you're ready to eat it puts a depressing blanket over even trying to make something tasty.

But lately, the big producers have begun to notice that there is an expanding market of people who, being required to eat this way, are willing to pay for things that taste good on their own merits - not just as pale copies of what they're trying to copy.  Specialty Gluten Free (or "GF") stores have sprung up, giving dedicated, individual experimenters a place where they can sell their taste breakthroughs to an appreciative and relieved celiac community.  Even the big chain stores are starting to carry not only GF prepared foods, but also ingredients that you can pick up to make your own meals.

Now we're talking!  Here's a chance to get back to the joy of eating, even though you are celiac!  So - while I am not celiac myself, I love nothing more than watching people enjoy good food (except enjoying it myself, that is).  Life really is too short to eat bad food - and that goes for making bad food as well.  I'm going to accept the challenge of making homemade GF taste great.  The blunt and honest critics living in my house will be the judges - and judge they will, for which I am deeply appreciative.  For the ones that pass the test, I shall post the recipes here - maybe they can help someone else looking to turn food from enemy to friend again.

Here's the first one - Five-Cheese Meat Lasagne

Ingredients:

1.5 lbs. lean ground beef
2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
3 large cloves of garlic, crushed
1 tbsp seasoning salt (Hy's is GF)
1 tbsp paprika
1 tsp allspice
1 tbsp poultry seasoning
1/2 cup Port, Madeira, or other dessert wine
1 tsp fresh ground pepper
1 lb. fresh white mushrooms
2 cups cottage cheese
2 cups freshly grated Parmesan or Grana Padano or Asiago cheese
2 jars Catelli Four-Cheese Pasta Sauce (any four-cheese pasta sauce will do)
2 eggs
1 box Rizopia Brown Rice Lasagne Noodles
4 cups grated cheese (Mozzarella, Colby, Marble, Cheddar, Monterey Jack - whatever you like best)

Preparation:

• In a large, heavy saucepan over medium-high heat, heat olive oil till it starts to quiver - not till it smokes - and add onions and garlic.  Stir-fry until just soft, then add ground beef.  Season with paprika, seasoning salt, poultry seasoning, fresh ground pepper and allspice.  Stir-fry the meat just until the pink is gone.  Add Port (or other wine).  Add two jars of pasta sauce.  Turn heat down to medium-low, and let the mixture boil gently, stirring occasionally.
• In another bowl, beat two eggs, and blend in the cottage cheese.  Season with pepper and salt, and blend in one cup of Parmesan (or Grana Padano or Asiago) cheese.
• Slice fresh mushrooms into 1/8-inch slices.
• Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
• In a 9 x 13 lasagne pan, scoop in enough meat sauce to cover the bottom to about 1/4-inch deep.  Don't skimp.
• Lay in the first layer of uncooked Rizopia Brown Rice lasagne noodles, leaving about half an inch of space between the side of the pan and the noodles, and between the noodles themselves.  You'll fit three in lengthwise, and one crosswise (breaking the crosswise one to the right length).  NOTE:  Rizopia brand, available in Canada, makes outstanding rice pasta for lasagne - they have a great al dente bite to them, with none of that unfortunate, gummy, sloppy mess that too many GF pastas have.
• On top of the noodles, spoon all the cottage cheese/egg/grated cheese mixture.  Cover everything - not just the noodles.  
• Lay in all the fresh mushroom slices on top of the cottage cheese mixture.
• Spoon in another layer of meat sauce, to cover.
• Lay in your second layer of lasagne noodles.  Cover them completely with meat sauce.
• At this point, depending on how deep your lasagne baking pan is, you might have to stop, and put the cheese on.  If you have a deep pan, go ahead and put in a last row of noodles, and cover with sauce.  N.B. - it is vital that you thoroughly cover the noodles with sauce - it's the liquid that cooks the noodles to an edible state, so don't leave them to bake out in the open.  If your pan is shallower, you will have sauce left over.  Save it to eat on something else.
• The crowning layer is the cheese.  Put it on thickly - your grated mozza, followed by the rest of the Parmesan.
• Cover the pan with tin foil.  Bake in the oven for 30-35 minutes, then remove the foil, and bake for an additional 15 minutes, until bubbling.  For the last minute or two, turn on the broiler and brown the cheese on top.  Careful not to burn it.
• Let stand for 10 minutes before cutting and serving.  This should comfortably serve six to eight people, especially with a nice salad.

Try it, and let me know what you think....