The kitchen is filled with a rare light that turns the darkest corner into a cosy nook. A nook the dog has made his own. And I am cutting. The simplest, most meditative slicing. Back and forth like the waves of the sea. But this is not my kitchen. I have travelled over sea and land to get here. To this kitchen. This street. This town. A small Italian seaside resort that only ever draws a sigh from those who ask where I am staying. Mornings of hushing waves along an endless sea misted beach that hides the horizon. Evenings of bustling bars, caffés, and gelaterias along the high street. Time filled with constant chattering, a noise that never jars. Such is Italian life. But the kitchen, this kitchen, a haven of silence, echoes only with the gentle action of my knife against vegetal flesh. Like the lapping of waves.
I have a pan. Filled with water. Run cold. As cold as is possible from the main´s source. It needs to be ice cold, but the freezer has returned nothing save for a cold sigh as the door opened. The ice tray empty. So, the pan keeps me company until I have finished my work. It is placed beside me. Close.
There is a pile of leaves. A stub of root. Some oddments, unusable parts of a vegetable, that was once almost as flame shaped as Lady Liberty´s torch. The tough, ridged, white bulb tapering to a green tip. A fine frond. But I have torn all these away and am left with the hollow fingers that, once shredded, will make this dish. The pile seems endless, wasteful. However, I am going to add some parts to beef up a ready bought bouillon. I know. I cut the tubed pieces in half lengthways, then in half again. It makes my cutting easier. And I pause to examine the gentle furriness inside the hollow that seems at odds with the bitter flavour that the flesh produces. I resume my work.
Diehards will use a taglia. A square wired appliance that makes multiple slices in one swift action. But this is my first time. And my knife, sharpened in another place, wrapped in cloth and travelled well, is up to the task. The shreds, thin, but not enough to lose any crunch, any bite, will go into my pan. It is slowly filling up. Teased senses. A contrasting feeling, like sea grass swirling and waving, water and fibres, as my fingers lightly push the strands under the surface. The tubular digits are getting smaller. They make more difficult work closer to the core, away from the root. I cut them once, maybe twice. Their more natural shape different from the knife sliced, clean cut, strands. Softer. More pliant. They have yet to be exposed to natures vagaries. They won´t be. All goes into the pot.
From the pile, I finally select a few other cuttings for a stock. More morsels for a broth. Then take a large sheet of paper and roll the rest, the discardeds, the unusables, into a package to become organic waste.
I press down the vegetable strips again. Pushing them under the water. Making sure that nothing is unnecessarily exposed. Then, as I have no ice, take the water filled, shred filled, pot and place it into the mouth of the freezer. Not perfect. No. But it might work. A slightly surreal icy mist in the light filled kitchen floats out of the door as I slam it shut. It will stay closed away in there chilling the water, chilling the salad, for a couple of hours when I will move on to the next part.
Time, in this sunny Italian resort, has passed with a dreamy slowness. Not too much time, but hopefully, enough to allow the chilling water to magically curl the crisp chicory. I am making a salad long associated with Roman cuisine. A tangle of textures. A puckering clash of contrasting flavours. Bitter. Sour. Salty. Tempered with the lightest touch of sweet. But you will see.
I have garlic. Some cloves. I will refrain from saying how many perfumed pieces I am using. But. I. Like. Garlic. I lift off the purple parchment that clings tightly to the ivory flesh. A fingernail, which I normally do not have, digs into that just jutting part at the root. The paper skins float down towards the worksurface, and I am left with plump cloves. I find my grater. Cloth wrapped in my knife roll, along with other well-travelled kitchen utensils. And the corkscrew. Obviously. The fine blades turn clove to paste quickly leaving an aroma that permeates this part of the kitchen. Its oils stick to my fingers and gift me wonderfully scented tips. I tap the top of the grater onto the far edge of a large magenta salad bowl, a bright bowl, and watch the garlic drop in.
In a nearby store, a short walk from the kitchen activity, not far from the sound of lapping waves, I have found a large jar of anchovies. Dark, salty slivers swimming in a light olive oil. Like me, these tangy fillets have travelled to be in this kitchen. Albania. Who knew? I have come from the other direction, so, we meet on centre ground as I prepare this dish. I delve my fingers into the sea scented oil, pulling out a couple of fillets. More. I dive in again. More. I pull out a final few. Why not? A brine and salted slap from my salad will challenge the palate, pucker the cheeks and leave the diner feeling content. Well, hopefully. The fish is leeching its oil. I unfurl a sheet of kitchen roll. Absorbent paper that will stop my chopping board becoming a slick rink. I bring down the blade of the knife, roughly chopping the piscine pile. Using the side, I flip everything over and chop again. The portions are getting smaller, but I want a paste. I touch the tip of the knife with one finger and paddle the sharp blade over the pieces. Flattening the fish, shredding the flesh until it becomes almost transparent. Then I repeat the process to ensure it really is a paste. Some people use a shop bought tube. Where is the satisfaction? The purée joins the garlic. The heady nasal sting of fresh garlic merging with the more subdued fish and brine. But. There. Is. More.
Vinegar. That piquant wine infused with acetobacteraceae? You may ask. Indeed. I have white where a purist may say red. Worse. I have white balsamic vinegar. My sins keep accruing. I unscrew the cap. The plastic insert that limits the flow long gone, I eye-ball a measure I think will be about right. Two glugs into the salad bowl to mix with the fish and garlic. Two good glugs. In a panic I re-lid the bottle worried I may be tempted to pour in a bit more where I may have already poured in too much.
Whack! The garlic on the tongue. Whack! The anchovy on the palate. Whack! The vinegar on the inside cheeks where the merest thought of the acid moistens the mouth. Whack. Whack. Whack. I need to mellow this pugnacious condiment with something more subtle. More gentle. Kind. I flick off the cork of a just opened bottle of chilled Trebbiano. Trebbiano, a grape that I have always seen as a filler. A temperer. A cooking wine. My time in France infused me with these little prejudices, their variety deemed worthy only to make Armagnac. Strangely, it is the most widely grown grape of this area, and I should improve my opinion. One quick flick of the wrist as the splash goes in. No more. I have already caused ructions with this version of my dish. I may want a spikey sauce, but I also need to taste the transgression. The subtle transgression.
Olive oil. As grass green as just mined amber. The green sort. Flavours of capsicum and herbs that temper the salty sea, the tart and tainted vine. Flavours that muffle the raw noise of the allium´s roar. I pick up a small whisk I have found in a drawer nearby. Normally too small for my daily needs, it seems to fit well in the bowl, as I do, here in this kitchen. I pour the oil liberally into the bowl, holding the bottle high, whisking the contents as I drizzle. Watching the green stream fleck gold in the sunlight. Watching the whisk fuse the elements of this dressing. Of this salad.
I remove the pot from the freezer. The chicory has barely curled. I sigh. From failure comes learning. Iced water stuns the slivers into curling. Shocks them to shape then holds them for enough time that the fibres will set. Cold or cooled water will not. Fortunately, it only took one attempt to learn this. I. Am. No. Edison.
I find a colander in the cupboard. A bright red colander. Colour in this apartment is a kaleidoscopic contrast to the more sedate hues of my salad. But the flavours will dazzle the palate and outshine any plastic pot or vivid wall paint. I lift the pot and release the slightly bent, slightly curled chicory into the day-glow drainer. Watching the water drain away. Shaking slightly, before placing the succory slivers on a linen towel. I do not want any liquid to water down my dressing. I spread the fibrous strands out, so each is touched, patted, pampered by the cloth. Lifting the towel by the corners and releasing two ends they tumble into the salad bowl. Using my hand, ensuring each puntarella piece is coated with the piquant sauce, I start to stir. Mix. Massage. My fingers coated. Lickable. I do not. With my clean hand I reach for two plates that are on the table nearby. Then lifting up one handful at a time, using the strands to brush, to mop up, the sauce, I place the coated salad centred on each plate. Each orange plate. This kitchen is bright. A fork for eating up. Bread for soaking up. Was Italian bread made for anything else?
The swell of chattering voices rising up from the piazza below marks the time to eat. Each one vying to dominate the conversation through laughter and cajoling. Here, in the kitchen, away from the balcony, here, on the plate, ingredients scuffle in a friendly fight to dominate the palate. The kiss, smack, crunch of this dressing, this salad, is a glorious encounter of flavours ebbing and flowing with each mouthful like the endless lapping of the nearby waves.
Inspirational. You should cross half of Europe to the Adriatic coast more often.
Wonderful!! X