Balsamico di Modena

There were smells that seeped out of the oven and from the pots on the stove. Anatomically speaking the heart was next to the stomach, and when we all sat down to a meal the stomach was the heart. I called our group “The Amici di Ambrosia” because most of our meetings were in some way a celebration of cooking and the good things in life. The restaurant Bible, Le Guide Rouge de Michelin was very prestigious and its recommendation and stars sought after, but when we shopped or went out to eat, we joked with one another and asked how many stars the restaurant or shop had in the Guide d’Amici di Ambrosia. The recommendation of our discerning friends was, in our eyes, the most reliable.

The Amici were not only gourmets knowledgeable in the selection of good wine and the choicest ingredients, they were adept at maintaining the delicate balance of the give and take that was the mainstay of friendship. Our discussions about food and its preparation were interesting, intense, and for me, always informative, even if at times the comments could be both dismissive and blunt. Someone could say," what eat tortellini with tomato sauce, only a barbarian would do that", or "what do you know about food, you come from Trieste", but mostly however, the conversation was amusing and enlightening. Recipes were handed down from generation to generation through the centuries and were unique for every family and village. People were proud of their traditions and not a little chauvinistic. Not long ago, we were eating “cacio e ovo” egg, bread and Pecorino cheese rolled into balls and fried in olive oil and served in a light tomato broth. Always curious, I asked about the consistency of the breadcrumbs used in the mixture. After a lively discussion with contradicting opinions, the Amici couldn't reach a consensus as to which bread to use, let alone how it should be grated, which proved my point that recipes were like family heirlooms.    

I saw that the genius of  Italian cooking was like a form of alchemy in its combination of simple ingredients. It wasn't art on the plate with a sprig of this and a squirt of that for decoration intended to seduce the diner. The secret is its honesty, a cuisine speaking of places and origins, not only the bounty of the fertile fields and hillsides but food enriched by the generous spirit of the Italian people. Whenever the opportunity arises I try to glean new recipes from whoever is cooking, or at least pick up a few tips. I stood in the narrow, no frills kitchen of our hostess for the evening, Lucia, and watched her as she prepared one of her specialties, “risotto di zucca,” pumpkin risotto, a deceptively simple and elegant dish, but one that requires patience and attention. As usual I learned more by observation and osmosis than I did by listening to her instructions, rendered in melodious, rapid Italian, most of which sailed on past me. She lowered the flame on the thick bottomed pot and stirred Arborio rice into the bubbling oil, then added the vegetable stock that she had made earlier, a little at a time, until the rice was bathing in a milky bath of starch. She stirred adding more stock, repeating the procedure a half dozen times as the grains absorbed the liquid, and in between tended to the thick slices of pumpkin sprinkled with oil and a touch of  garlic and rosemary that she had simmering on another burner. 

When they were soft she mashed them with a fork, and mixed them into the rice and added more of the stock. As the ingredients blended, the rice changed hue from a light yellow to pale orange.   She stirred for a few more minutes, scraping from the bottom up, unhurried and watchful so that it didn’t stick: if the flame was too high and the rice swelled too quickly it would lose its creamy consistency and became pasty and heavy. To illustrate the point she described a perfect risotto by saying, "that it should flow supply from the pot like lava down a mountain side."

We ate and chatted warmed by the fire in the stone hearth and by the wine. Franco a charming and knowledgeable raconteur with an abundance of anecdotes about food and cooking, reminded us that risotto was a dish from Northern Italy where the best rice used in it was grown. To spark the conversation he implied among this group of Southern Italians, that nowhere in Italy meaning the civilized culinary world, could the food equal that of his native Modena and the towns and villages of the Po River valley. He gave as an example, balsamic vinegar, one of Modena's many delicacies. He described the first distillation when the juice from choice grapes is concentrated: then elaborated on the annual transfer of the must, painstakingly filled into smaller sized casks of oak or acacia as it was reduced over the years, and the decades, due to the slow dissipation of vapors through the pores of the wood. The "acetaia" as it is called is aged, not as you might imagine, in a sheltered and regulated wine cellar, but in the attic under the eaves exposed to the changing temperatures of the seasons. As the volume of the liquid decreases, its density and fragrance increase until it reaches puberty after twelve years and can legally be titled tradizionale, but sixteen years of aging is preferable, and after twenty five years it is darkly thick and syrupy, superbly mature, and can be titled “extra vecchio”.  "You don't rush balsamico" he said.

After we finished the risotto, a local Pecorino cheese and a smooth ventricina salami from a butcher in Guilimi a village in the nearby foothills, Pino, Lucia's husband, served a salad of ruccola and fresh oranges from his garden with tomatoes that had ripened in the sun, and sin of sins, industrial made balsamic vinegar with caramel coloring and E additives in a plastic spray bottle. I think, but I’m not quite sure, that it might have been a practical joke just to tease Franco. With a conspiratorial wink Franco took the bait, got up from his chair, opened the door to the garden, and tossed the abberation into the shrubs. The next day he presented Pino with a small bottle with the official government imprimatur guaranteeing the origin of the contents and its authenticity. It was Balsamico Extra Vecchio, aged for 25 years. The Amici admired it as it passed reverently from hand to hand as in a benediction. The  typically round, long necked bottle  filled with syrupy, dark nectar seemed almost too precious to open, but Franco burst out, “Enough! Let’s taste it,” and Pino broke the seal with a flourish and pulled out the cork.

San Lorenzo, March 2015