The Runaway Cook

A diary of culinary adventures

Acqui Terme

Posted by Elizabeth Tuesday, June 15, 2010 comments (0)


By the end of day one, traveling to a city of hot thermal waters didn’t sound like a bad idea. I couldn’t wait to step off the bus and take a dip in the natural waters. As we crept to a stop,
I couldn’t believe that this creamy colored dream was our hotel. Appropriately called Grand Hotel Thermes, this building sits opposite a gorgeous town square which just happened to be filled with venders for a farmer’s market. Ha! Could this day get any more serendipitous?

Surrounding a round stone and plant town centerpiece of sorts was canopy after canopy of all kinds of vendors including: meats, cheeses, a woman who made her own liquers, bakers, gardeners with fresh produce, and even men selling spices and salts. It was amazing to see such a vast array of producers and sellers. Unfortunately my conversation was limited due to locals only speaking Italian and yours truly, the foreigner, speaking English only. Table after table I would be greeted with a smile and a caio or bongiorno then an expression of “oh” ummmm I can’t speak to you and this is probably not a sale so why try . . .All except the woman who made liqueurs. She gave me a sample of the most divine chocolate alcohol. Thick and rich even the hot sun couldn’t melt away the feelings of bliss it produced.


By this point I had thoroughly sweated through my shirt and was ready to take a dip in the pool. Note to all who read this: APPROPRIATE SWIM ATTIRE IS VITAL. My friend and I did not know the swim etiquette so we were sent back to our rooms for having shirts on over our swimming suits and wearing improper pool headgear and footwear. How my hair fit under that cap I don’t know. Once we finally made it past the spa guards, we sank into the water. It was defiantly thermal water. Although the steamy dip made the kinks from the plane fade, it didn’t exactly remedy the
heat exhaustion.

Dinner tonight was at a local restaurant, Vineria X Bacc. This local gem was just a short walk from our lodging around a curved street and past a steaming fountain. As we made the jaunt it was easy to see that Acqui Terme has had some new paint applied. Delicate petal pinks
and minty greens adorned crisp buildings. Over the last twenty years, more than 120 million euros have been invested into the rebuilding this piece of Lombardia. Why so much? Unfortunately, in Acqui Terme’s past there lurk some dark days. Sinking into financial ruin from the time of Mussolini, it was not until the 1980s the she began to be revived. Today however, she seems to be thriving, and personally I would be in heaven to live here.

After a sharp turn into to an alley housing the entrance to Vineria X Bacc, we were led through the restaurant to a small cube a space between neighboring buildings.

Tables for six were set with wine glasses and green plaid tablecloths. We started off the meal with a bouquet of bread sticks and sparkling wine. After a short toast we moved onto the first course, veal ravioli with parmesan cheese. As the proprietor circled our table filling our bowls with the steaming pouches of beefling deliciousness and our glasses with the dolcetta and alborosa, I was found myself in a state of disbelief. This cinematically perfect moment of dining outside under a yellow canopy, sipping Italian wine, and eating home made raviolis, this was my life, my reality. This night was altogether perfect.

Even our next dish, roast lamb with potatoes, was amazing. I usually can’t stand lamb, but this meat tasted mild, without a hint of wool and barnyard. I loved how tender and juicy it was. And the potatoes, don’t even get me started, crispy amber outsides with golden velvety insides, uhhhh my mouth is flooding with the thought of just another bite.



Finally, dessert came floating out on white plates: fresh strawberries oppos
ite a chocolate flan of sorts, a specialty of this region. The slice of chocolate custard tasted and felt like like pudding in the mouth but had the texture of a soft flan on the plate. This course was served with Rosa Regale, my new favorite.

The only thing left to do now was sip a shot of dark Italian espresso then chase it with some grappa. I usually don’t drink espresso plain, but in Italy, drinking milk after 2:00pm is considered unhealthy and is never done. So, asking for a latte or cappuccino is just out of the question. This was my first introduction to grappa, and can I just say holy buckets!

That stuff is powerful. It’s like a bodybuilder whisky, strong and buff with enough pow in its punch to make you frown.

Dang!

What a succulent finale to such a surreal first day.

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A Barrel of Fun

Posted by Elizabeth Saturday, June 12, 2010 comments (0)


What’s the best thing to do on an extremely sunny, fiery hot, Italian summer day? Visit a place where wood is charred to perfection using art, skill, and science. What you ask is that place? It is none other than Gamba.


Located in the heart of Monferrato, in a place called Castell’ Alfero d’ Asti, Gamba is one of the most prestigious barrel makers in all of eastern Europe. Since the 1800’s the Gamba family has been perfecting their skill over seven generations. Master coopers, Eugenio Gamba and his son Mauro Gamba continue their fami
ly’s heritage maintaining the level of perfection from traditions handed down and using new technologies to push the envelope for barrel
and cask design and creation.

Within moments of stepping off our nicely air conditioned bus, I realized today was going to be one of the hottest of the week. In the lot of Gamba’s establishment one can smell the faint aroma of sawdust and hear the whisper of sanders and saws. As the sun beat down on our bodies and the “summer snow” of the cottonwood trees teased us of cooler days past, Mauro Gamba began to bring us into his world of flame and oak.

In the front of this seemingly simple building, lay piles and piles of old gray-looking wood. To my surprise, this tired lumber laying here was, actually, going through an essential aging process. You see, oak, just like the skins of red wine, has tannins in it. To lessen these tannins and develop the flavor profile of the oak, i
t must be aged for a minimum of three years. During aging, the rain wets and sun dries the wood. Strangely, this vital process imparts vital development of wood character. Just as any food item needs to be flipped to evenly cook, pallets are flipped upside down for about half the aging to ensure even cooking.



Wood used in these barrels comes from the finest oak trees harvested from the center of France. Young oak, as one could guess, can be harsh, green, and bitter in flavor. That fact makes old, 160-170 year old plants sought after. At Gamba, not only is each barrel made from the best wood, but staves are made by splitting the wood rather than cutting it (except for large casks where wood must be sewn together). This method is laborious, but makes a higher quality stave, in that it maintains the fiber of the wood. At Gamba, the staves are treated with respect and care, even bending them is done in the least invasive way. Wood can be bent either by fire or water. Fire produces thinning of the staves, so Gamba uses water to maintain the thickness and quality.
After the wood is split, cut, and bent, the barrels are assembled. Saves are put together, sealed with a paste, and held in place by rings. Before we go further, I just want to talk about this paste. On the day we toured, Gamba just happened to be making Kosher barrels for the making of kosher wine. You might be asking yourself what on earth is different in kosher barrel from a non-kosher barrel. The answer is found in the paste. In a regular barrel this paste, which acts as a sealant, is made of ash, flour, and water. However, in Kosher barrels the paste is made of ash, honey, and water. Mauro told us that Gamba is the leading producer of kosher barrels. Who would have thunk?

Ok, back to making barrels . . . . Where were we? Split . . cut, bent, and . . . aw yes, held together by rings. To this a hand forged ring is placed around the staves then pressed tightly into place by a giant machine.

What’s next? The part we have all been waiting for, the toasting. Back in a small dark room, lit by the glow of flames and the glimmers of sunlight, is the toasting room. Here, barrels, like loaves of bread, are baked to perfection by coopers and their small pots of fire. Take a look at the video below to see how barrels are made and listen to Mauro explain the most important parts of toasting. This room was my favorite of this tour. It smelled just like bakery, sweet and warm, nutty and delicious. It isn’t any wonder that these barrels flavor the best wines when their aromas are so delectable.

When one looks around this small building, it is amazing to think that the men here produce so many barrels and casks for so many wine makers across Europe. Just about everything here is done by hand, or with limited assistance from a machine. It just goes to show you that even after seven generations, hand crafted details are what make this piece of artwork superior. The blend of technology and tradition here is astounding!

Over the past three years of studying wine at Johnson & Wales, they have stressed that barrels are like spices and a wine must have a strong fruit backbone to be able to be seasoned with these spices. Visiting Gamba really hit home how a barrel acts like a tea or spices that are steeped in a liquid, only instead of being steeped within they double as a vessel that holds the liquid. Along with that clearer understanding, experiencing the aromas given off by these newly toasted barrels cause a sort of sensory discovery. I can better understand what oak can impart now that I know what oak’s aromas really are.

So my friends, go burn some oak, or at least grill some oak or just sniff a tree and see what you can sense. It’s amazing to know the ingredient that makes so many great wines taste nutty, dark, and chocolaty.

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Giorno Uno

Posted by Elizabeth Friday, June 11, 2010 comments (0)



I’m here! I’m alive! I’m exhausted! I’m too excited to care that I’ve only had two hours of lousy sleep! Dazed and jet lagged, the thirt
y of us pulled our half-dead bodies into the bus,
which was warm and very stuffy. Most of us have been traveling for somewhere betw
een 12-24 hours by now. By my standa
rds, that fact deserves an “Ufdah!”
The long ride shot us thro
ugh the country. We found our way into a small town down roads nearly too small for our buss to fit on them. We found our first stop: Vingne Rigali. We pulled around to the winery, parked next to a white house fit for a princess with palm trees in the yard and rose coated stone walls. . . . . The buildings here are so beautiful. Roses everywhere, poppies freckle the lush green with orange. Everything seems a little too storybook to be real. The houses are either shabby and quaint or ancient and magnificent. Alleys are splashed with

pastel pinks, greens, and yellows. Everyone has shutters, everyone hangs their laundry to dry, and everyone has plants covering at least a third of every surface. Leaves and petals seem to grown right out of the walls. Trees here look like bouquets stuck in the ground so upright and all in perfectly straight rows. I never want to
leave!


At the winery we meet the director, Alberto Lazzario. Shock and awe permeated the group as he showed us his cellar filled with hundreds and hundreds of bott
les containing wine in the midst of second fermentation. In-bottle second fermentation is the process by which the sparkle is put into the highest quality sparkling wines. Historically called,
Methode Champenoise or Method Classico, this is the same process used in Champagne, France.

Check out the clip below and listen

to Alberto explain how sparkling wine is made.
(Coming soon)

As we moved into the second room, Alberto showed us the machines that turn this fermented treasure into a finished sparkling wine. Machine number on
e: bottles are placed neck down and the tip is frozen. This ice cube of yeast is removed and di
scarded. This process of removing the yeast is called disgorgement. At the next machine, sues reserve, reserved wine, is added to the

bottle to fill in the empty space and in some cases sweeten the sparkling wine.
After learning the complete process of making these wines, the only logical next thing to do now was to taste them. Alberto handed us a glass of sparkling Gavi called Principessa Perlante . . . then a still wine Principessa Gavia . . .. Then we tried what became my fa
vorite of the day Rosa Regale.
This red Sparkling- made from an aromatic grape. Aromatic grapes, unlike other grapes, show the same strong characteristics in both the aroma and flavor. Moscato is an aromatic
grape. It is a dessert red and as much as it smells like a bouquet of roses and a bowl of macerated strawberries it tastes like the lush petals sweet berries straight from the garden. The sweetness in this wine is not overwhelming and cut by strong acidity and zippy bubbles. I recommend this wine to everyone that likes . . . . um well to taste! Everyone in the group loved this wine. AND Good news: it’s available in the states. Although it is a red wine, the taste and aroma make it as approachable as a white
or blush to those who stay clear of reds.

After the tasting, we followed our leader into a tall white room filled with shining silver tanks. We

stood surrounded by fermenting juice. Each tank here holds enough juice for hundreds of thousands of bottles of wine. Just before stepping into the holding area, Alberto lets us sneak a sniff of the fermenting wine. I was astounded! As he turned the knob, a
hiss of potent aromas escaped from what will become Rosa Rigale I bent down to the spigot to breathe in the loveliness. To my surprise, it smelled sweet, and not very yeasty at all. In fact, it reminded me of banana laffy taffy! What artistry is must take t
o guide this extravagant and wild juice into the lovely creature I had just en
countered in my glass. As we passed from room to room my amazement only grew. We taste pure muscato grape juice as well as among other juices at the beginning of fermentation. These grape juices were no juicy juice. They didn’t even taste like grapes!
As our tour wound down we walked through the bottling area, saw mushroom corks and how they are inserted, we saw the pasteurizer, walked between stacked pallets of wine, and

ended up in the barrel room. Dark and dramatic this room hits to the myste
riously wonderful liquid that hides behind the wooden veils. This next part was a truly Filled with Alborosa and dolcetta. Alborosa is a cross- not a hybrid of nebiolo an
d barbera. Only four wineries in the world make it, and we taste it from the barrel.
Wow! First wine it Italy, first winery, first glimpse into this world that is not longer just a boot on the map, I
just can’t believe it!
After the wine tour we ate what was called a “light lunch” a disguise fo
r a large lunch of so-called lighter fare.

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The Trek Begins

Posted by Elizabeth Sunday, June 6, 2010 comments (0)

Today has been perhaps one of the strangest days I have encountered in a long time (from the outside looking in, that is). I have felt much too relaxed to be traveling from the USA to (musical build “Dun Dun DUN”) Italy. I should have had a freak out at some point today, but I haven’t. It’s 9:23pm eastern time and I’m still as relaxed as ever.


It all started with a sunny morning. I woke up, and took a shower with extra loud singing. I packed up my odds and ends, painted the face and did up the hair. I hopped a ride to the airport with my landlord, Peter. The deal was he would take me but we had to stop at a nursery. Riding in the loud cluttered pickup to a small farm was even more relaxing. It almost felt like I was back in Iowa, 15 years ago, riding in the truck with dad.


Still very relaxed, I lug a very large new suitcase (thanks to Grandma’s sweetheart Wayne) into the airport. Ok, so the guys at the airport tried to play a prank on me . . .wait, I take that back. They succeeded in pulling a prank on me. It happened like this: I thud the enormous black package onto the scale. Instantly he scale jumps to 50 then 79 then 88.5. Two heads behind the desk begin to shake and I hear moans of “This woman packs too much.”

“Oh, uh jeepers, is that right?”

“Naw, they’re just messin’ with you.” Thank God! After re-weighing it, I had to remove nine pounds. I was ok with this, and having to toss out a $2-pair of flip flops was not even slightly depressing. Still relaxed, I lug 40 pounds of stuff to my gate and wait.


We arrive early to Newark. In fact, so early that the pilot apologized, HA! Excess time equals making a break for the restroom. Suddenly, I feel a rush security and certainty. I feel that I without-a-doubt, I belong here I don’t know why this epiphany came while waiting in line for the bathroom, but it did. Sandwiched between women, all speaking different languages, I thought, “Wow! This . . this right here . . . this is my experience. This place, this now, is part of all our lives and travels. Yes, this is a bathroom, and they may just be going through the line to reach a toilet. However, for me this little insignificant place feels like destiny.


Finding the gate was easy and I decided that since the currency exchange station was conveniently located right by it, I’d head in that direction to trade my dollars in for Euros. As I walked away with my 19 euros, a gentleman in a red shirt and blue sports coat stopped me. “


Here ya go kiddo” He said with a smile. In his had was a the rouge inked piece of paper worth ten Euro (that’s about thirteen dollars). Point taken, God. I know this is where I belong. I have never felt so sure about being in the right place and the right time. Destiny, divine appointment, fate, whatever you call it . . it’s amazing.


Everything seems so dreamy and surreal, and yet extremely tangible. I I feel like I’m walking into a photograph. It seems impossible and irrational to think that I will board this plane and land in Italy rather than Iowa. Somehow this object will transport me from my world to this world to one I have only known as a boot and a map, a cuisine I have studied, a place in the movies. It’s real, I can’t believe it! I keep trying to imagine what I’ll feel like when I see the land, buildings, ruins, people . . It’s like seeing Santa in the flesh.



AIRLINE FOOD

On a side note, I have just finished dinner. I was famished! Arriving from rolling airline trays was a three course meal compacted into tiny containers on a pale blue tray. I first notice the miniature metal flatware wrapped in plastic accompanied by a napkin and gray packages enveloping salt and pepper.


First course: salad of iceberg, two slices of cucumber, and a wedge of very under ripe tomato withcaesar dressing


Second course: a 2x5 plastic container of rice, .33 of a chicken breast, and green beans-who still had crunch but by most accounts would be considered dead by their color and taste. The chicken was not half bad, a bit dry but the extra liquid inside made up for that.


Accompaniments: Roll- crusty (as in dried not as in good and hard from the oven) outside, soft inside real butter- I spread this very soft butter on my broken roll worshipfully. Butter fat is holy and although many around me were scarfing their meals down like no tomorrow, I wanted to savor and enjoy this new food experience.


Third Course: Milano cookies and a whole milk, which I savored and dipped every so lovingly into the thick viscous milk. Sadly the cookies tasted like plastic. (hahaha)


Atmosphere: Lovely, the gerrrrr of the plane motor, was the base to muffled coughing, noses being blown, and mumbles in multiple languages. Oh and I had the best seat in the house, cutest guy on the plane next to me. Medium length, shiny, dark hair, dreamy brown eyes, goes by the name of Phillipo, stands about 3’ 8” and if I had to guess, I think he’s about seven.


What a great day. Well I’m going to try to get some rest now. I have a long and amazing day ahead of me . . in ITALY!!!!!


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Home

Posted by Elizabeth comments (0)

This morning, I woke up in my apartment at 6:15am. Falling asleep was tough. However, waking up even more difficult, not because I was tired, which I was, but because my room was no longer mine. All my belongings, all the silly little signs of “home,” were missing, boxed up, and sitting in the living room. I will miss you apartment with no kitchen, room with no door, hole in the shower wall that I fixed with weatherproof duck tape, and toilet that doesn’t like to flush.


For the past few days, I have been mourning my departure, not just from this apartment, but from Rhode Island. As much as I complain about this place and spout off about getting out of here, I’m not ready for that. I love that Thai place that is a 30 minute walk from my apartment. I feel warm just thinking about the Indian food and cute Indian cooks and servers at Rosoi. I love that I know where to get home made ice cream, a cheap beer, chicken salad that’s second only to my mother’s, gorgeous eclectic jewelry, perfect bubble tea, and the best and worst service in town. I adore the places that have become mine. I’m afraid I just don’t want to leave anymore.


I have become as frond of Providence as I am of my friends. I get it now, you can’t love where you live until you get to know it first. It’s like dating. At first impression, he seems alluring: cocky, strong, odd, or even shy. Whatever the attraction, you are caught. Right now you only know part of who he is, a small fraction of the whole picture, but as time passes you know more. Then comes the part where things get sort of uncomfortable. You find differences from what you have know or what you want, you have to chose to either embrace these or let go of the annoyance for the relationship to work. Your fondness blossoms and love grows. You realize you still only know a fraction of the whole picture and you want to find out what the whole picture is . . .see the whole map . . .Sigh. . .My time here is so unfinished. I have so many places to visit and things to try. I can’t leave now; so much is yet to be discovered.


The sad part is I can’t stay. It’s like I’ve caught all these lightning bugs and for a while they hover in my cupped palms, but I can’t keep them. For a time they are mine. Though, for life to continue, we have to separate. They fly away to new places and I walk on. Friends leave, following their own paths. We float in and out of each other’s lives. I guess it’s good that my apartment no longer looks or feels like home. All the easier to follow the path leading to a new place with other glowing floaters. . . and maybe some of the same ones too.


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