Vegetarian restaurants in Rome

Rome is a city of meat-eaters. But some top-notch vegetarian spots are beginning to make a mark.

Photo © Andrea Di Lorenzo

The average Italian is a carnivore, Romans in particular. Veal and beef are the norm as main courses and in pasta sauces. But the city also has plenty of vegetarian options, mainly because mainstream Italian cuisine, which hasn't changed much since the 19th century, leans heavily on vegetable, pasta and dairy products.

So vegetarians visiting Rome don't need to worry... Continue Reading >>>

Zucchine alla scapece recipe

This recipe of Spanish origin (escabeche––the term that Neapolitans under Spanish domination in the 18th century twisted into scapece––means 'pickle' in standard Castilian) is one of Napoli's signature vegetable dishes. These zingy zucchini, known in Rome's Jewish quarter as concia, are commonly served as antipasto or as a side dish. Ideal along side grilled meats, zucchine alla scapece's primary characteristic is the mint-scented vinegar marinade they are steeped in.

I like to pair mine with fresh mozzarella di bufala and lots of warm crusty bread.

500 g (1.1 lb) fresh zucchine (preferably the ribbed "Romanesche" variety)
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup white wine vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
1 sprig fresh mint
A bunch of fresh basil
Peperoncino flakes (optional)
Salt
Vegetable oil for frying

Soak the zucchine in water and baking soda to rid them of any chemicals or field dirt. Rinse well several times and pat dry. Thinly slice in discs and fry them in abundant oil in small batches, so that the oil doesn’t cool down.

As they begin to darken while frying, fish them out with a slotted spoon and place them in a bowl without blotting away the grease.

Marinade the fried zucchini in olive oil, vinegar, garlic and herbs directly in the serving bowl.

Season to taste and let the marinade sit overnight. It is common Neapolitan (and Spanish) knowledge that the zucchini benefit of the intensity of the 'scapece flavor in direct proportion to how long they steep in the marinade.

Roasted olive salad

On Tuesdays my farmer friend and agriculture guru Franco sells his produce on a small makeshift stall at my local produce market. He drives his minivan 25 Km from his coastal country farm, delivering us freshness and health once a week, all year long. This is as local and organic as it gets. 

As I walk up and elbow my way to the front of Franco's crowded display of vegetables, fruits, flowers and freshly laid eggs, I notice the hand painted sign. It reads: "Open on Wed-Thur-Sat too. Thank you, spring."

And indeed I see why Franco has decided to triple his effort, the bounty on sale is virtually amazing. Baby spring zucchini topped with flowers, redolent red peppers, slender eggplant, bright green cratefuls of garden greens–trimmed and already washed, juicy cherry tomatoes the size of a fingernail, fave, chickory, deep purple artichokes, the very last puntarelle of the season, asparagus, radicchio tardivo; and then crisp apples, the curiously fuzzy local kiwi variety, blood oranges and stout pears, warming in the sun. 

When it's my turn finally, Franco smiles, snaps a pod and shells me a tiny handful of exquisite fresh baby peas. The sweet, green globules burst in my mouth bringing back forgotten sensory memories.

Needless to say, even if Franco will be around the neighborhood more often, I ended up buying a large weekly supply of fruits and vegetables. I usually never shop with a list in mind, I just let the ingredients at hand inspire me.

So besides the produce and the bunch of lilacs that now make my house smell like paradise, I also bought some of Franco's homemade roasted black olives.

I soaked them in water and rinsed them well, letting them drip dry.

Tossed them in a bowl with a little olive oil, cracked black pepper, a wee pinch of salt and omitted the peperoncino flakes I usually add to the dressing, because my son wanted to taste them.

Then I chopped in a slice of mandarin orange complete with its rind, and skewered a fork in the largest clove of garlic I could find, and used that to stir.

I then let the whole thing marinate for a few hours and later enjoyed a delicious aperitivo of zesty citrus-flavored roasted olives with a glass of Lacrima di Morro d'Alba, a lovely red wine from Le Marche region.

The bread is still warm. Birds chirp and the sun is shining.

As Franco so plainly puts it–thank you, spring.

Clementine sciroppate recipe

The marketplace these days is a beautiful winter palette. If you've visited my photoblog Tuesday Jan. 12, you'll have noticed the gorgeous abundance of this season's produce: different kinds of artichokes, broccoli, cauliflower, puntarelle, crisp fennel bulbs, ribbony radicchio, cavolo nero, pumpkins and parsnips; and also wonderful wild kiwi fruits, blood Tarocco oranges, juicy apples and clementines.


Clementines are a very popular smooth and glossy citrus fruit. Initially imported from Spain, Morocco, and other parts of North Africa, Clementines are a cross between a sweet orange and a Chinese mandarin. They are small, very sweet, and usually seedless. Many think of Clementines as small tangerines, but they're a different variety entirely, with a distinctive taste. The y produce a delicious fresh-squeezed juice, but Clementines are mainly an eating fruit. Its small size and lack of seeds make it particularly popular with kids.
They appear on market stalls in the northern hemisphere around November, and they are available for 4-5 months.

Canning them is an excellent way to carry the flavors of winter over into the summer months. The zesty citrus and their syrup are quite pleasant over plain vanilla ice cream, or fresh ricotta, Asiago or goat cheese; or as a topping for spongy chocolate cake.

1 kg (2.2 lbs) small unwaxed, organic clementines
200 g (1 cup) sugar
1 lt (1 quart) non-sparkling mineral water (I use Evian)
4 to 6 10-oz capacity mason jars and capsule screw caps*

Sterilize the marmalade jars and by boiling them in plenty unsalted water for 10 minutes.

During this time, soak the clementines in water and a fistful of baking soda to remove any outer substances from the rind–though very easy to peel, in this recipe the clems keep their skin on.

Put the whole fruits in a large stew pot in plenty mineral water and bring to a boil. Lower the flame and keep at a medium simmer for 15 minutes. Fish out the fruits with a slotted spoon and set aside; saving the water.

Stir in the sugar and resume the boil, at which point add the clementines back to the pot; and boil for 30 more minutes. The sugary water will thicken and become a syrup.

Spoon out the fruits and divide them among the sterilized jars, pouring in just enough syrup to cover them (depending on jar size, you should get 5 or 6 fruits in each).

Firmly close the lid of each jar, turn the jars cap side down and wrap them close together in a warm fleece or woolly blanket in a dimly lit room, away from drafts, overnight. This rather mysterious-sounding procedure is the technique that guarantees pasteurization. Thanks to the heat, jars are hermetically sealed, and through natural vacuum, air is expelled. The result will be that the capsule in the lids of the jars will no longer "pop" when pressed down. If the capsule still pops, repeat pasteurization process with a new lid. Once the jars are vacuum sealed, they can be stored in your pantry for 10-13 months.

Tip: Stir some of the citrusy syrup in one or two tablespoons of mustard (according to taste) as a rascally piquant condiment for bollito misto, cotechino or grilled meats.

*Safe and hygienic preserving is obtained by using new jars and special lids with soft rubber gaskets that ensure a "venting" effect during pasteurization, and that provide an effective, long-lasting vacuum seal. Furthermore, the paint must be suitable for contact with the foods on the inside. The jars and lids I use are The Quattro Stagioni Line by the Italian manufacturer Bormioli Rocco. 

To learn more about the technical features on their website, click HERE

Orange and date salad recipe

I first tasted this bizarre savory orange salad in the splendid town of San Vito Lo Capo, just west of Trapani in Northern Sicilia. Then, years later, on a complicated film shoot in the Maghreb I was fed this delight in a seafront tavern of Tunis. Identical in every way, like two drops of Mediterranean Sea water.

4 Tarocco blood oranges (medium-sized, sweet and juicy)
12 sugared dates, pitted
1 garlic clove (optional), peeled and sliced
4 tbsp organic brown sugar
Dash of cinnamon
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Peel the oranges, trimming away all white pith parts and remove seeds, if any (the Tarocco variety is seedless). Slice horizontally and arrange on a wide platter. Dust with cinnamon and sugar, season with slivered garlic, olive oil, salt and pepper, and garnish with chopped dates.

Serve chilled as tantalizing exotic prelude to fish cous cous and belly dancing dinner.

Panzanella recipe

Panzanella is a fantastic (and easy) summer dish made with bread, it's a Tuscan traditional summer dish and is a great example of how Italians make good use of leftovers. I have posted several recipes that employ leftover foods: Frico, Meatballs, Riso al salto and Torta di Pane.

It's hard to catalog this traditional cucina povera preparation. For as much as the main ingredient is bread, it is not a soup, and not a salad either, even if it contains abundant veggies. It is difficult to place panzanella in the 'antipasto-primo-secondo' Italian meal articulation. Here I have classified it as an antipasto; and considering the amount of carbs, it is best paired with meats or fish and not served before a pasta dish or a Tuscan soup, many of which usually employ the use of bread or pasta in their preparations. Here's what you need for your summery panzanella:

10 slices of stale bread, or rusks, the best is pane casareccio*
6 mature heirloom tomatoes, finely chopped
1 small white onion, sliced
1 small red onion, sliced
1 cucumber, sliced
Fresh basil leaves, hand torn into shreds, the more the better
5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus more as the bread absorbs the condiment
1 tbsp white wine vinegar (not balsamic)
Salt and pepper 

If you're not so keen on the onion front, reduce quantities or omit the white onion altogether, granted you at least employ the more delicate red variety.

Soften the bread in water for 10 minutes while you pour some Vernaccia di San Gimignano dry white in a jug and set it in the fridge to chill.

Wring away water from the bread and crumble it coarsely with your hands in a salad bowl. Add sliced onions, chopped tomato, sliced cucumber and basil. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper, and drizzle with vinegar and abundant olive oil. Toss with your hands and add a little more oil to the mix.

Refrigerate 2-3 hrs before serving along with the jugful of wine.

*Note: The best leftover bread to use for this recipe is the typically Tuscan unsalted kind, but not all ovens carry it, so any healthy, home style whole-wheat kind will do.

Image © cookaround.com

Buon appetito!

Cooking tips - beans

Fagioli––Italian for beans––are the cheapest, most rendering edible leguminous plant found in Italian kitchens. The famous pasta e fagioli soup is a peasant dish, made with leftover bits of pasta and common kidney beans. Very affordable and ginormously tasty.

I'm no fundamentalist when it comes to cooking beans. I use canned beans freely (provided they be well rinsed of their gelatinous storing gunk), but the healthiest, tastiest and most common beans used in Italian cuisine are dried beans. Yes, cooking dried beans takes more time than opening a can, but you’ll be richly rewarded with superior flavor and texture. They will keep almost indefinitely, and a well-stocked Italian pantry always has a selection of two or more kinds of dried beans.

Here are a few of my mother's storing tips:

A) Dried beans should be stored at room temperature in covered containers.
B) Do not keep dried beans in the refrigerator! If stored incorrectly, the beans may absorb water and spoil before you have a chance to use them.
C) The plastic bags beans are packaged in are good for storage if they are airtight. Once opened, the bag can be closed with a twist tie.
D) For the longest storage life, keep beans in a glass or ceramic container with a tight fitting lid.

There is a specific routine when preparing dried beans and other pulse. Here it is:

1. Sort: Arrange dried beans on a sheet pan or wide platter and sort through them to pick out any small rocks, pieces of dirt, beans with holes or cavities, badly misshapen or shriveled ones and those greatly undersized or discolored. Running your fingers through the bag feels great, but is not enough.

2. Rinse: Rinse the sorted beans well in cold, running water. Do this right before soaking, as beans tend to start the rehydration process as soon as they come in contact with liquid.

3. Soak: Soaking beans before cooking shortens cooking time and helps to leech out some of those indigestible sugars that cause, among other things, proverbial bean flatulence. There are two simple ways to get the job done, one involving a longer procedure. Overnight soaking takes time and some advance planning, but needs very little effort.

a) Regular soak: Put beans into a large bowl and cover with 2 to 3 inches of cool, clean water. Set aside at room temperature for 8 hours or overnight; then drain well. (If it's really warm in your kitchen, soak the beans in the refrigerator instead to avoid fermentation, which makes the beans turn sour. Soaking in refrigerator requires a little while longer though, as cold water slows rehydration and the beans will take longer to cook)

b) Quick soak: Put beans into a large pot and cover with 2 to 3 inches of cool, clean water. Bring to a boil and turn briskly for 2 to 3 minutes. Cover and set aside off of the heat for 1 hour; then drain well.

4. Cook: Put soaked beans into a large pot and cover with 2 inches of water or stock. (don't add salt at this point, since that slows the beans softening.) Slowly bring to a boil, skimming off any foam on the surface. Reduce heat, cover and simmer, stirring occasionally and adding more liquid if necessary, until beans are tender when mashed or pierced with a fork. Cooking times vary with the variety, age and size of beans; generally you’ll be looking at about 1 to 2 hours.


Trivia Note: I have to check with Renee about this, but dreaming of beans is sometimes said to be a sign of impending conflict.

Fagioli all'Uccelletto recipe

Beans with a light tomato sauce and fragrant sage leaves: a Tuscan classic side dish. When added with sausage links, it becomes a perfect entrée.

I still haven't found the reason for their name, which translates "beans little bird-style."

Since the temperatures are dropping all over Italy this week, why not cook up some fagioli, watch a sports event on TV and call it an early night?

500 g (1 lb) dried cannellini (white beans), soaked for 3 hours.
50 g (1/4 cup) extra virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
7-8 leaves of fresh sage
1-2 fresh plum tomatoes or a small can of tomatoes (I use half of a 14-oz can)
Boiling water
Salt and pepper to taste
8 Italian link sausages (OPTIONAL see below)

If you choose to serve your fagioli all'uccelletto with sausages, you'll want to choose a kind that won't overpower the beans in terms of spice and oomph. For this dish, I always use 2 or 3 per guest of my favorite sausage, luganega.

Begin by boiling the beans until 3/4 done in lightly salted water. This will take about an hour, though you should begin checking them after 30 minutes. You don't want them to go mushy on you. If you are including sausages, prick their skins lightly with a fork and simmer them separately in boiling water to cover for 15 minutes to render out some of the fat.

Once the beans are almost done, set the olive oil to heat over medium heat, in a heavy bottomed clay pot or Dutch oven. When the oil has become hot but not smoking, add the garlic and the sage (not more than seven or eight leaves; too much sage will make the beans bitter). Cook until the sage crackles and the garlic is lightly browned.

Add the tomatoes and cook for a few more minutes, then add the beans and some of their bean broth to cover. Season with salt and pepper, add the sausages, and simmer everything until the beans are quite soft, stirring occasionally and adding bean broth as necessary to keep it all from drying out.

Which wine? I would go with a simple Chianti Classico.

And just in case, I suggest you sleep with the windows open...

Fave e Cicoria recipe

Broad beans have a long tradition of cultivation in Old World agriculture, being among the most ancient plants in cultivation and also among the easiest to grow. It is believed that along with lentils, peas and chickpeas, they became part of the eastern Mediterranean diet in around 6,000 BC or earlier.

The term fava bean (from the Italian fava) is its most common name in the United States, with broad bean being the most common name in the UK.

In ancient Rome, beans were used in voting; a white bean was used to cast a yes vote, and a black bean for no. Some people carry a fava for good luck; some believe that a broad bean, in pocket will assure the essentials of life. In and around Rome, on May 1st, families traditionally eat fresh fava beans with Pecorino Romano cheese during a daily excursion or a picnic.

Cicoria is a very interesting green leafy protagonist of Italian cuisine. This relative of the endive has curly, bitter-tasting leaves that are often used as part of a salad or cooked as greens. In the United States, early endive is sometimes erroneously called chicory. I've heard it associated to dandelion greens. Today's trendy radicchio is in effect a red-leafed cicoria.

The baked and ground roots were used as a coffee substitute during WWII when espresso was a luxury item sold uniquely on the black market. When a particular espresso is of inferior quality, it's often compared to the wartime surrogate coffee beverage.

This recipe is typical of the splendid region of Puglia, features the pairing of bitter cicoria leaves and a delicate fava bean purée.

250 g (1/2 lb) dried and peeled fava beans, soaked overnight
500 g (1.1 lb) bitter greens (like black kale, aka cavolo nero, dandelion, or chicory)
optional, 6 slices crusty peasant bread, 1" thick
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Extra virgin olive oil

Drain the fava beans and place in a saucepan. Cover with water, cover the pot, and cook over medium-high flame. Skim the foam that rises to the top once the water boils.

Once there is no more foam, add a generous pinch of salt and cook the beans, stirring occasionally, for about 1 hour, or until they have dissolved into the water and have taken the consistency of clotted cream. You may have to add more boiling water to keep beans from scorching.

Using a hand blender beat in 1/4 cup olive oil and adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper, to taste.

While the beans cook, soak the greens in and baking soda, rinse several times in clean water, and then place them in a saucepan over high heat and cook them in the water that clings to their leaves, adding a little more water if necessary to prevent scorching. Once they are very tender, remove from the pot, squeeze out excess water, and dress with the remaining olive oil and salt and pepper, to taste.

Serve the greens and fava puree in soup bowls over a slice of grilled or toasted bread, drizzled with a thread of raw oil.

Buon appetito!

Friggione recipe

Scarpetta, literally means "little shoe," God knows why. Scarpetta is the word for the act upon which a small piece of hand held bread mops up any delicious food residue in a plate and is devoured. 

Essential. Frowned upon in etiquette manuals. Not the thing to perform at a formal seated dinner. I don't usually care for that sort of table manners, so I do it all the time, regardless of dress code. That is if whatever is left in my plate is worth it and the bread is soft enough.

I'm a huge fan of scarpetta, so my dishes are usually a bit overdressed, in order to enjoy a conclusive good sweep. Be they pasta dishes, fish or meat. I usually clean the plate with the bread so carefully that I have been often called names. Or fed more food thinking my plate had been empty to begin with.

Preeminent scarpetta applies to those dishes that require large amounts of sauce, like for example a slippery plate of Bucatini all'Amatriciana, or homemade tagliatelle al ragù or a very juicy roast. Once you've eaten the food, whatever's left in the plate, is scarpetta material. Otherwise, scarpetta can be performed with those dishes whose sole purpose is being sopped by a spongy chunk of warm bread. Friggione falls into this second category.

Friggione is a tomato and onion sauce typical of Bologna, the epicurean city also known as la dotta (the learned) and la grassa (the fat).

This sauce is exclusively intended for dipping bread as a fully authorised scarpetta antipasto. Rich and absurdly tasty, friggione takes forever to make, and employs politically incorrect amounts of onion.

The time-consuming recipe to exquisite friggione, dating back to 1886, is made with the following ingredients:

1 kg (2.2 lbs) white onions, thinly sliced
500 g (1.1 lb) ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded and finely chopped (or a 28-oz can of preserved tomatoes)
1 tbsp tomato paste
1 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp kosher salt
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

Thinly slice the onion (for best results, use a mandoline) and leave it to macerate with the salt and sugar in a large bowl.

Pour the onion – and the resulting maceration juice – in preferably a terracotta stewpot (not iron, non-stick, copper or enamelled) with the oil, and over a gentle heat, cook it slowly stirring with a wooden spoon.

Keep cooking at a very low simmer until the onions wilt, making sure they don’t stick to the bottom of the pot. Add a little broth or hot water should the onions dry. This could take a while.

At this point, add the chopped tomatoes over very low heat, stirring for 2 hours. Yes, maybe even 2 and a half.

No, I'm not kidding.

Adjust seasoning and keep moist with water (or a little vegetable broth) if necessary.

When your patience has completely run out and the onion and tomatoes will have become a lovely geranium-colored purée, the friggione will be ready. And it will have been worth the wait, believe me.

Buon appetito!

Pomodori al Riso recipe

Today I'm posting an Italian summer standard: rice-stuffed tomatoes. This is a refreshing and portable summer dish, perfect for a tasty picnic on the beach.

For it you'll need: 

8 medium heirloom tomatoes
150 g (7/8 cup) Carnaroli or Arborio rice
1 bunch of fresh basil
1 pinch of dried oregano
1 clove of garlic, minced
2 large potatos, peeled and cut into small wedges
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven at 200° C (390° F).

Cut off the stalks at the top end of the tomatoes without discarding, you'll need them later. Spoon out the pulp and seeds and save. Place the empty tomatoes in a greased pan, cavity up, seasoning each with a pinch of salt.

In a mixing bowl, add a fistful of rice per each tomato, minced garlic, oregano and coarsley torn basil leaves. Dress with oil, season with a dash of freshly ground black pepper, and mix.

Put the tomato pulp through a food mill and fold in half of it in the rice mix. Fill the scooped out tomato shells to the brim with the dressed rice and top with the saved stalks, and pour over them the remaining tomato sauce and a little more oil. Scatter the potato wedges among the tomatoes, and season them with a pinch of salt and pepper.

Cover with aluminum foil and bake in a preheated oven for 40 minutes or until the rice is no longer al dente, but soft.

Done. Go pack the cooler with the chilled wine and the fruit salad.

Pappa al Pomodoro - Tuscan bread soup recipe

I crashed the wrong wedding. I was supposed to sneak into a much sought-after VIP social event wedding banquet in a Villa in the outskirts of Florence with three friends who had invitations. We inevitably got lost in the dirt roads creeping around a verdant hilltop and ended in what we ignored was another Villa, where a lavish wedding reception was being grandly celebrated. It was not the one we were aiming for, but when we found out it was too late. We were welcomed at the gate, escorted in the garden and immediately introduced to the bride and groom, who waved us in courteously and fainly aloof. Just like the characters in the 2005 film Wedding Crashers, my friends and I were somehow able to bluff our way through the wedding party when guests and relatives asked who we were. I pretended to be a wealthy American oilman's daughter, while Bruno, Emanuela and Cesare played the fashion industry card.

I was young and carefree, then. Just out of university and high on life. The excitement of sneaking into a forbidden realm, and acting out a part like in a film, had me all worked up. I started hovering over the champagne buffet quite soon. When I was informed that this was yes an Italian nobility wedding, but without any slim connections to any of the guests, and our foul play surely soon to be discovered, I downed a few bubbly flutes in a row. Needless to say, I got very drunk. Very quickly.

I made a total fool of myself, as I always do when Dancing Under the Influence.

I did the following things, before being chased off the premises by a well-upholstered bouncer, complete with earphone and Armani tuxedo.

I walked away from the buffet and dropped my 'all-you-can-eat' heaped plate 2 feet from the bride and groom's table, spattering food everywhere. All I remember is the luncheon gazebo going very silent. It was an instant which to me lasted a geologic era.

I fell in the pool.

I lost a Ferragamo sandal.

I cried, and my eye make up bled even more, making me look like a 1930s silent movie diva.

I hit on the caterer chef.

And subsequently dated him for a while.

The dish that stole my heart on that roller coaster evening was a poor man's soup. I loved the idea of attending a blue blood event and watching the bejewelled guests ceremoniously sip on what Tuscan housewives fix to re-employ stale bread. I found this a touch of genius.

I asked to be introduced to the caterer to give him my regards and compliment him on the tongue in cheek menu choice. The rest is slurred kudos, clumsy flirtation and quite a number of great intimate meals.


Here's the recipe to that wonderful soup, I had way of obtaining it during our brief liaison.




Pappa al Pomodoro is cucina povera at its utmost. This summer Tuscan bread-and-tomato 'pappa' (Italian baby talk for food) sounds like a kid's dish, and in fact it is – but for kids of all ages. In the past it was also very much an unpretentious meal, a tasty and clever way to use leftover bread that no housewife would ever dream of serving to a guest. Now it's on the menus of Florence's trendier restaurants. And socialite wedding receptions.

To serve 4 (or less, expect guests to want multiple servings) assemble:

2-3 garlic cloves, whole
1/4 cup olive oil
250 g (1 cup) unseasoned tomato sauce
500 g (2 1/2 cups) day-old Italian or sourdough bread, crumbled
1 liter (1 quart) of vegetable broth, or more as necessary – heated
2-3 sprigs of fresh basil
2-3 sprigs of fresh sage


Prepare a bouquet garni by placing herbs and garlic in a knotted gauze.

Put all the ingredients––except the broth––in a large stewpot.

Simmer adding heated broth for about 15 minutes, or until the bread has fallen apart, then season to taste.

Remove the herbal pouch and whir the soup in the blender, adding more stock if necessary.

Serve sprinkled with more freshly torn basil and good olive oil dribbled in abundance.

That's it, so simple.


Buon Appetito.

Carciofi alla Romana recipe

Artichokes are one of the nicest things about winter in central Italy. They appear with the leaden skies of December and accompany us through the beginning of spring, in April. They come in a tremendous variety of shapes and colors, from tiny delicate ones well suited for being eaten raw in Pinzimonio (a dip made with simple olive oil and salt) or preserved sott'olio (in oil); to purplish green grapefruit-sized ones suitable for sauteing, stuffing, salads, making pasta sauce, frying and whatnot. Since this is the end of this adorable bounty, why not use up the last artichokes for something sassy and palatable?

The globe varietal is considered throughout the world as the true artichoke, in Italian food classification however it is the Roman. No matter which variety you select, you have to do so with great care, because a fuzzy choke is a tremendous disappointment. Like any good orange, a good carciofo will feel firm and solid when you pick it up. It should squeak yet shouldn't give if you clutch it gently, nor should it feel light. If it does, it probably has air (and thistly fuzz fiber) in its heart. Pass it by.

Once you have selected your artichokes and gotten them home, stand them in a vase with water until you're ready to use them (they are flowers, after all). If need be you can keep them like this for a day or two, but they do tend to toughen with time.

The secret – admitted it can be called that – for preparing an artichoke is knowing how to trim it, that is how to free it of the tough leaves, bitter outer stem part and inner fuzz we Romans call with the generalizing term barbe, for "beards".

First of all rub your hands and fingernails with lemon juice, to avoid them from blackening, artichokes do that. Next, slice off the tough, pointy spiked tips and the outer coriaceous leaves, working inwards to where the leaves are more tender and light colored.

This is much like peeling an apple. In the process the artichoke will become spherical.

Be sure to keep rubbing it with lemon juice as you trim it along.

When that's done, the stalks need cleaning, trimming away the ridged outer part while leaving the heart intact. If you look at the end of the stem you will see a ring; trim away the outside og that ring, without shortening the stalks: if properly cleaned, the stems are the sweetest, best tasting part of the artichoke!

Now that the hard part's over, here's how to cook carciofi, Roman-style. This is one of my all-time favorite side dishes. I have to thank my eldest sister Amy, for that. She's the one who taught me to appreciate artichokes when I was 8 years old. I never stopped eating them since. There's a quick "how-to" video at the end of the recipe.

5 artichokes, trimmed
2 garlic cloves, unpeeled, smashed
1 small bunch of mentuccia
1 glass of water
1/4 cup olive oil
3-4 new potatoes, quartered
Salt

Place the trimmed artichokes standing stems upward in a pot whose sides are high enough to keep the artichokes upright in a single layer as they cook. My pot fits 4-5 depending on their size.

Pour 1 glass of water and the olive oil, the garlic, the mentuccia and potatoes. Season with a pinch of salt. Set the covered pot to simmer on medium-low heat.

The trick is to place a sheet of brown paper between the lid and the pot to create a barrier that will seal off any steam from escaping the pot.

Cook for 10-15 minutes without ever uncovering.

The artichokes are ready to be served hot, though they're also excellent cold the next day.

Mamma's Pasta e Ceci

Dinner and a Movie, this month's installment features 1987 Norman Jewison hit Moonstruck. In Italy this film was called Stregata dalla Luna.

I remember watching this film and drooling over its many food-related images. The sequences taking place in Brooklyn restaurants, the fornaio oven (tended by a young Nicholas Cage) churning warm Italian rosette buns and sfilatini baguettes, home-cooked meals and one particular scene where Cher and Olympia Dukakis (playing her mother) prepare breakfast during a heated conversation: eggs fried in a crumbless slice of sourdough bread, a dash of tomato concentrate, a jug of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling strips of greasy bacon. Hardly the Italian iconic prima colazione that first comes to mind, but oh, so yummy looking. Most of the comedy’s dialogue scenes take place with the family gathered around the kitchen table, and Grandpa dispensing wisdom and humor with each bite.

I wish to honor that same homey Italian family tradition that fills my household, by contributing my mother's famed Pasta e Ceci. The Italian thick creamy chickpeas mixed in with pasta is among my favorite soups for all seasons. A steaming bowl can replete lost energy and warmth in frosty winter nights; while the chilled version refreshes with each spoonful during sweltering Roman summers. My mom's rendition is by far the best I've ever tasted, and I know my ceci.

4 cans (200gr / 14 oz each) chickpeas (also called garbanzo beans), rinsed
2 tbsp unbleached flour, leveled
2 garlic cloves
2 sprigs rosemary
1 liter (1 quart) vegetable stoc
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 pot of water
150 g (3/4 cup) maltagliati or mixed pasta

Prepare a mazzetto odoroso (or, bouquet garni) by placing the rosemary and the garlic in a knotted cheesecloth or gauze.
Whir one of the cans of chickpeas in the blender and set aside.
Put all the ingredients – except the stock and blended ceci – in a large stewpot, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer lightly for 1 hour over a gentle flame, seasoning to taste.

In a small saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons each of olive oil and flour and cook for 10 minutes, stirring constantly over very low heat. Add 1 ladle of vegetable stock to obtain a creamy, white sauce. Stir this into the simmering soup, along with the blended chickpeas. Remove the herbal pouch and add the pasta, cooking it directly in the soup, until done. Serve piping hot with a thread of raw olive oil and freshly ground black pepper.

Note: For the cold, summer version, simply reserve 2 cups of creamy broth aside, cool the soup down before refrigerating, and then add the re-hydrating broth back before serving (otherwise the pasta will continue to absorb the liquid long after cooking and become too cement-like).



Loretta Castorini: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.
Priest: What sins have you to confess?
Loretta Castorini: Twice I took the name of the Lord in vain, once I slept with the brother of my fiancee, and once I bounced a check at the liquor store, but that was really an accident.
Priest: Then it's not a sin. But... what was that second thing you said, Loretta?