Frico, soft and brittle - recipe

There are many dishes that most Italians have never heard of, and frico certainly falls into this category. Frico is a traditional recipe hailing from the lovely region of Fruli-Venezia Gulia. It is made with a local creamery cheese called Montasio, crumbled or grated into a flat cooked disk.

Frico's Carnic origin of the Northern alpine part of the region is usually presented in two versions: soft, and brittle. Both are served either as antipasto or an entrée. Although recent history sees frico as a dish eaten during holiday season, its original preparation was intended in utilizing leftover cheese scraps. In a previous post, I mentioned the importance of recycling leftover foods. Cheese hardly remains uneaten in my home, but when it does, frico's the answer.

Soft frico is made with younger Montasio added to onions, potatoes oil and seasoned with salt, blended into a kind of omelet sometimes added with leeks and a juniper-flavored ham called speck.

My Udine drinking buddies passed on this potato-less version, but ask me to mention it nevertheless. Boiled and cubed potatoes are added to the blend.

400 g (2 cups/14oz) Montasio, medium age (4-5 months)
Note: for this particular version of frico, Montasio can be substituted with any mature semi-soft chesse, like Munster or Emmenthal
1 white onion
30 g (1 oz) butter
Salt and pepper to taste

Shred the cheese. Finely chop the onion and sauté it in butter in a medium skillet over mild heat. Before the onion begins to tan, quickly add the diced cheese, sprinkling it evenly in the pan. Raise the heat a little bit and continue cooking, constantly stirring in the same direction with a wooden spoon, carefully making sure the cheese doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Season with very little salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper. Cook for a few more minutes, drain away any excess oil the cooking may have rendered, and when the frico has become a gooey golden frittata, you can dive in.

Brittle frico is instead very thin and is made only with mature grated cheese.

It is very easily pliable, therefore I like to shape this second type of frico into baskets, and fill them with polenta, stewed mushrooms, sauteed zucchini or creamy risotto. It's a very easy technique and very fancy-looking. So if you want to impress your dinner guests with a chef-like presentation, read on.

To make a cestino, Italian for basket, you'll need a pristine non-stick frying pan about 20-25 cm (9 inches) in diameter, a pair of Teflon tongs or a fork that won't scratch the frying pan, and a cup, glass or bowl to drape the cheese over. If the pan is in good condition, you won't need shortening to keep the cheese from sticking.

Which cheese for this frico, you say? If you can't get your hands on 1 1/2 cups of grated 18-month aged Montasio, Parmigiano or Grana Padano can be a good substitute, but any firm grating cheese will work, including aged Pecorino Sardo or Toscano, or Pecorino Romano (what's known simply as Romano in the U.S.).

What's important is that the cheese not be overly moist, or filante - that is a cheese that strings out in ribbons when heated, like for example Mozzarella, Jack, or Fontina.

I'm told even grateable goat's milk cheeses can work well because of their fat content. When dealing with cheese, we have to remind ourselves to ban all thoughts of diet and such similar tortures. So when I call a cheese fat, I am actually paying it a compliment.

In making your baskets, you can add flavorings to the cheese, provided they not be too moist: so, poppy seeds, or red pepper flakes, or even finely minced dry basil.

Heat the non-stick pan over medium heat for 2-3 minutes. It should be hot but not searing. Sprinkle the cheese evenly over the pan. By the time you have finished sprinkling the cheese, it will begin to melt, especially around the edges. Let the cheese continue to melt and begin to bubble.


When the edges brown, use a fork or tongs to separate the cheese a little from the sides of the pan. Another few seconds, and the cheese in the middle of the pan will begin to tan. You don't want it to brown, but simply color a little.

At this point, tip the skillet to let the cheese slide out - it will look like a disc - and drape it, browned side up, over a bowl or glass.


The sheet will set in about 15 seconds, at which point you can lift it off the glass.

The first basket's done, now you can go on to making the next... and the next... and the next...

Linguine with bottarga and hazelnuts recipe

Today I am posting a pasta recipe that here in Italy signals the onset of summer. We're experiencing a wonderful heat wave, and banqueting is my favorite way of celebrating good things. I hate the cold, you see.

Image © buonissimo.org

Salt gets bad press, and it doesn't deserve to. Some of the world’s greatest foods get their flavor from lots of salt. Ever had Malossol caviar (Malossol is Russian for 'a little salt')? What about Prosciutto? Do you like cheese? There is very little cheese that is salt-free. How about baccalà - salt preserved cod for Atlantic crossings? I could go on and on.

But are you familiar with bottarga–that delightful salted product that is treasured in Sardinia and Sicily and even in mainland Liguria and Calabria where it is called ovotarica? It is sometimes also named 'poor man's caviar', but this is a demeaning moniker, as bottarga is bottarga is bottarga!

The first thing to understand about this bizarre food is that it is the salted, dried roe of either Muggine (or Cefalo), Italian for Flathead Grey Mullet (Mugil cephalus) or tuna. Sardinia prefers the grey mullet roe, whereas Sicily prefers tuna roe. Both types are great, provided they are suitably dried; the semi-dried product is in fact not nearly as dramatic.

The roe is expertly removed from the fish and then salted for about a week before being pressed and then hung to be air dried for about 30 days. In fact the length of drying is important.

Now what do you do when you pawn a family heirloom for some of this salty luxury? The answer is to keep it really simple. Either eat it sliced as a vodka appetizer, like during Roman Jewish Seders; or use it to make a very simple pasta dish.

Linguine with Bottarga and Hazelnuts

If bottarga is absolutely impossible for you to obtain, you can substitute it with this little trick an aforementioned chef friend taught me: blend 4 anchovy fillets with 4 tablespoons of olive oil, and 2 fistfuls of breadcrumbs. Toast the mixture in a non-stick pan for 3-4 minutes, and proceed as follows, assembling:

500 g (1.1 lb) linguine
80 g (1/3 cup) bottarga (or its clever substitute replacement)
50 g (1/4 cup) shelled hazelnuts, coarsely ground
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 small sprig of Italian flat leaf parsley (optional), chopped
100 ml (1/2 cup) extra virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly milled black pepper


Sauté the garlic in the olive oil for a few minutes, then discard. Add the ground hazelnuts to the oil, and toast them briefly. Add the chopped parsley (if you're using it) and remove the saucepan from the stove, setting it aside for the moment.

Cook the pasta in a large pot of very lightly salted water. While the pasta is cooking, pare very, very thin slices from the block of bottarga with a vegetable peeler. For a milder effect, simply grate the bottarga into a bowl, add the hazelnuts in their oil, and stir until you obtain a paste. Drain the pasta and pour it into a large skillet; stir in the sauce and cook over a brisk flame for 1 minute, tossing the pasta energetically.

Go crazy with the pepper mill and splash just a suspicion of lemon juice.

Breakfast at Antica Latteria

Vicolo del Gallo in the morning is very silent considering its proximity to Campo de' Fiori, one of the city's trendiest open air farmer's and flower markets.

There, in the 'rooster's alley,' as the small street name translates, further beyond the nobility of Palazzo Farnese and the mundane piazza where Giordano Bruno was burned to the stake, the atmosphere returns to its genuine traditional self again. Here, pilgrims and time travelers will immediately perceive the authentic Roman centro storico feel: folkloristic, busy, aged. It's like turning a corner and bumping into Rome's unmade face, crow feet and marionette lines showing, frayed hair and parched lips. No glamour, no historic ruins or rich churches here to admire, only truth. People. Faces. Aromas. And a small crumbly monument whose entrance is well hidden.

The paint on the wooden frame of the glass paned doorway is chipped. Inside, the senescent universe of the Latteria - one of the last in existence here in Rome - survives the lures of modern design, the newfangled habit of having breakfast on the run, the Anglo Saxon brunch, or the popular fashion of consuming industrial aromatised brews. Latteria means dairy store, and in this specific sense, it is a place where people go to simply have breakfast, shop for cartons of milk, and pass the time.

The tables in the Latteria are the same shaky ones from sixty years ago. The wooden chairs are the osteria-type with sturdy legs and woven straw seats; the sink is an old stained marble basin. This is because the venue is 100 years old, give or take a decade. Walking in the Latteria equals to diving head first in the breakfasts of my Italian childhood. A gift from days past, hanging suspended in an imaginary time, populated by young students skipping the first school bell; workers and artisans on their mid-morning coffee break; '68 revolt activists secretly meeting over a bowl of caffellatte (in the Latteria, magnum cappuccinos are consumed in large cereal bowls). What has remained unchanged over the years is the smile on the elderly signora behind the counter. It still shines the same way today.

The characteristic furnishings are so out of date to have become actual modern art pieces, appreciated for their dusty, vintage look. The nearby second hand clothing stores match the Latteria style to perfection, as does another one of my favorite Roman places: Anticaja e Petrella, a snaking tunnel of antique furniture and old trinkets for sale, at the far end of which a bar gathers people who meet to watch football matches on the communal TV set.

Folks take their time at the Latteria. Patrons remain well over the hour, often not doing much. Staying enough time to quietly study the details layered about, day after day, cappuccino after cappuccino. Sitting at one of the tables by the large steam-operated coffee machine, one's eye wanders on the mural of theater billboards coating the walls; the glance glides over to the old humming refrigerators, the piled biscotti boxes, the 10,000 packets of sugar. Behind the counter, rows and rows of stacked soda cans line the back panel, creating a continuous yellowed tin surface. At the very end, the back door opens to a small outdoor courtyard leading to an outhouse, its skeleton key dangling from a darkened keyhole.

The Latteria's caffellatte costs a bit more than at your regular cafe. It is best enjoyed in the above mentioned bowl rather than the usual cup or stout mug. Only in this way will you be able to indulge in the complex croissant-dipping manoeuvre. Anywhere else public, this sacred morning ritual is regarded as a wrong to etiquette and table manners. But this is la Latteria, and within these walls, this little sin is forgiven. Rather more, encouraged.

The best thing to do here is stay a little while longer than your schedule allows. Read the complimentary newspaper, chat with the smiling signora, play pinball. Or simply stare at the history peeling off the walls before you, as you slowly wait for your second steaming bowl of caffellatte to cool.


Antica Latteria
Vicolo del Gallo, 4
00186 Roma
Tel. +39 06 6865091

Night fishing in Positano with Mamma

"Destitute pea pickers living in tent in migrant camp. Mother of seven children. Age thirty-two."
Nipomo, California - February 1936 by Dorothea Lange

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing.

~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987

This quote makes me think of my mom. She always says how I am forever her baby. My Mother is the woman I admire more than anyone I know. She is beautiful inside an out, she means the world to me. She is now my son's nonna (grandmother), and it has been a healing rebirth for her. Her name is Emi, short for Emilia. She is about 5'3" with short silver hair, big brown eyes and an intoxicating laugh. She has olive skin that tans quickly and smells like in my childhood. I like it when people say I look like her. Mamma is my best friend, source of guidance and comfort, and the strongest woman I have ever known. There are so many reasons why I admire her that I could go on for days talking about her. Those of you who have been snacking here for a while, know that I have posted about my mother a lot, and quoted her in this recipe roast post.

The episode that follows is one of the million similar events experienced with my mamma. I wish to share it here with you because it also portrays a beautiful moment of my early youth. A time before my own motherhood.

Night fishing excursions in Positano always meant 3.00 a.m. wake up calls and wearing itchy wool sweaters in the middle of summer. My mother would drag me out of bed with the promise of an exciting experience, and indeed it always turned out to be just that. 

On one particularly tense night, the four expert fishermen occupying the boat – who would usually welcome us on their vessel with a silent nod (females apparently bring bad fishing luck) – were oddly silent, casting sideways glances. As I squirmed in my stiff navy wool pullover, the engines roaring beneath us, I noticed one of them looking up at the sky and mumbling as the fishing boat set out to sea in the pitch black of the night. Something to do with foul weather coming in. Not the best way to begin.

We navigated for at least an hour, neither east nor west, just plain out in the middle of the dark Mediterranean waters before us. Our hair blew tangled in the black air and a distant look sank in our eyes, as the town lights behind us became few indistinct flickering pinholes, far far away.

Once we reached the designated spot, the anchor splashed into the deep and engines were turned off, the only sound was the swaying water, its tiny waves lapping against the walls of the boat. The sky was incredibly starry and the salty breeze made my nostrils tickle. The stillness and quiet lasted only a brief moment.

As the frenzy of preparation and excitement grew each minute, my mother and I sat nestled in a corner watching the angling miracle from a secure vantage point. With slow repetitive movements, the men began pulling up the fishing line from the crow's nest. It came up virtually empty. Only a dozen small silvery fish and a lot of seaweed caught in the mesh netting. The mood was not good.

The engines started again and we moved off to a second further location where a flag planted on a buoy signaled the presence of a palamito top line. As the fishermen began to harvest the sea, my mother and I looked at each other and simultaneously shared the same thought. We're never getting invited on board this barca again.

The first line came up empty... the second: nothing, as did the third. We began to worry that our presence indeed jinxed the expedition. The men were hissing and panting as they hauled up arm lengths of glistening nylon line. Their excitement, effort and expectations dulling as each bait came up prize-less.

And then suddenly, the miracle happened. A single mute signal and the men alerted their senses. A different weight in the lifting was perceived and the word uttered was a serious, hushed "Ecco." As each dropper surfaced with a precious silvery wiggling creature hooked to it, the men grew more vocal. Their usually comprehensible Neapolitan dialect became an obscure mix of Arabic, Greek and Testosterone in loud manly exclamations we failed to understand. Wet, chilled and slippery calloused hands, chaffed by the wind and cut by the nylon line, heaved up disproportionate weights. Scales and bloodshot gills glistened in the moonlight at our feet, we sat in awe.

The men pulled and pulled, retrieving the booty with glazed eyes and deep incantations aboard our vessel. Each catch was welcomed with a growing roar of pleasure and we became intoxicated with the spreading euphoria, pitching in with applause and squeals of joy. Gigantic groupers with bulging eyes surfaced from the deep, silvery sea bass behemoths, writhing tentacled octopus, slithering conger eels, a 50-pound bluefin tuna... one after the other the sea creatures appeared and progressively crowded the boat floor darting in a wash of salt water, seaweed and blood. The air around the vessel was soon filled with squawking gulls and the water surrounding us, a wriggling pool of silvery anchovies and sardines waiting for delicious bait debris. This went on for several hours.

Dawn escorted us back to shore, exhausted and elated. Docking the fishing boat and landing our crates after crates, full of sea treasures, I felt alive and excited. The exhilaration of the catch had me on a natural high for days.

I have returned many times on board that same boat, the old San Giovanni, again in the heart of darkness, but never was any event as miraculous as that 1978 mid-August night.

Happy Mother's Day to all the brave, wise, young, senior, zany, single, married, gay/lesbian/transgender, lonely, in a relationship, focused, forgetful, busy, lazy, accomplished, mindless, slender, overweight, working, jobless, underpaid, overworked, ill, healthy, laughing, sad, obstinate, flexible, indigent, wealthy, rational, crazy, worried, relaxed, stable, unbalanced, playful, intellectual, bookworm, outdoorsy, pregnant, menopausal, sophisticated, simple, intuitive, caring, devoted, sacrificing, endurably unselfish, compassionate, forgiving, protective, affectionate, superhuman, loving mothers of this world.

The sea in winter

The gorgeous day beckoned us to the beach. We left after a lazy morning of cartoons and late pyjamas, caffellatte and toast.

The gingerly 30-km drive handed us over to the shore in time for a seafood lunch and a stroll on the water's edge. The crisp, windy air in Maccarese was incredibly clear and we could see the coastline vividly for miles and miles. Funny how a clean atmospheric conditions shorten visual distances. 

Everything looked closer.

The lifeguard flags flapped fiery red atop makeshift poles and couples laid half dressed on canvas sunbeds, soaking up the early summer sun. We sat on a canopied deck overlooking the beach, at a corner table. We shared the terrace with few other patrons: a Roman family with dog, a young dad on weekend shift with his joint custody kid, 4 young girls giggling into their mobile phones and the 2 sashaying daughters of the cook who waited tables gracefully.

E. and I shared a seafood antipasto of escabeche anchovies marinated in vinegar and lemon; sauteed wedge clam bruschetta; octopus salad; deep fried moscardini and stewed mussels (E. omitted the shellfish). I felt like beer today, so I ordered a chilled Menabrea beer.

We didn't have to wait long for the divine orata gilt-head sea bream baked along with crispy potatoes and halved cherry tomatoes. We devoured our two definitely large portions so avidly and quickly, that I forgot to take a picture to post here.

E. played in the shade while I closed my eyes on a lounge chair, relaxing. I could feel the past week's tensions seeping out of my body as the beer played its usual narcotic effect on me. I tried to stay awake and keep close watch on E. as he quietly shoveled sand, drew maps and built dams at my feet. I kept nodding off but I was scared of falling asleep, so I drank a piping hot double espresso and spotted the man selling kites.

We flew a little orange borrowed one for 30 minutes, and then headed back to the car as the sun began to bid its farewells among a colony of pink, orange and yellow clouds.

This was a good day. I needed it.