Sunlight flickers through my closed eyelids from the water in the tumbler. I imagine myself beside the sea. On the beach. Close to the surf. I am not. I have this lazy feeling of not expounding much energy. The unusually hot afternoon sun could be the answer. The exhausting early morning session at the gym, maybe. The long walk through the countryside to get ingredients, perhaps. Moisture beads my brow. But cold evening winds and cloudless nights still mean making a hearty meal. Though the ease and pace of preparing this dish provides me with a sense of serenity.
I do get flustered. Occasionally. Work colleagues have taken me outside to get air, such were my panic attacks before an event. Breathe. Sob. Breathe again. Remember that I am a professional then return to my station to start. Overwhelming feelings ebbed and flowed until the first cut, slice, dice and saw. With the meal finally coming together, harmony is restored.
The dog is looking at me. Get-on-with-it looks.
The Duke of Milan once boasted to his rival that he had started mass cultivation of rice to help prevent starvation in his war riven duchy. In his honour the first recipe that came from this was:
Risotto alla Milanese. You knew. The tale is almost certainly apocryphal. I don´t care. It is a good story to tell when I teach my classes this dish, knowing they will remember the lesson better. It was a descendant of the duke that taught me each stage, each process. You cannot get better than that.
I have shin slow braising in the oven.
I started early. My meal will be as rich as it is rewarding to taste. But like exercise, gym work, jogging, the work takes time to get such results: sofrito, white wine, a hint of tomato purée, stock. Meat. A cartouche, some foil, a Dutch oven. Carrot peelings, onion parchment, garlic parchment. Random splashes of random liquids coating the surfaces. Used tubes and empty bags taking valuable space. I am a messy cook. But.
I have shin slow braising in the oven.
Saffron has been infused in a jug, a couple of spoons of hot water, no more. The valuable, brittle, brilliant red stems colour the water reflecting the hues of the setting sun outside my window. I set it aside. Stock has been warming on the hob. It needs to be hot.
My knife starts to chop the onion. The strong odour irritating my eyes. Onions release a chemical syn-propanethial S-oxide when cut. We cry to counter the chemical´s irritant; to flush it out. Such is the ebb and flow of nature in the kitchen. Who knew? The onion is finely cut. The pieces are meant to be as small as the rice so as not to distract from the golden granular star of the show. Mine is close. Garlic is grated and ready to be thrown into the pan. Patience.
Fry. Olive oil shimmers in the pan as the heat warms it through. Sizzling sounds fill the kitchen´s quiet, like a librarian hushing the room, as I scatter the onion pieces in the pan. Tossing to ensure each small square is coated in the oil. I have a friend who can barely eat onions. He cooked them on a high flame, stir frying them to a charcoaled state to destroy any toxins that would affect his digestion. Slowing down the process, lowering the heat, and seasoning with salt helps break down the fibres and render them to a soft, almost biteless state. Their whiteness turning a jewelled pearlescence. Collectively releasing their liquid and become translucent. They become more digestible. Though if you are allium intolerant nothing will help.
Toast. The rice is poured in from its measuring jug. The heat is raised. The oils that once covered the onion now coat the rice. The stirring begins. Always clockwise so as not to invoke the devil. It´s true. The aroma of onions is now overtaken by the smell of toasting starch. A slightly dryer and less yeasty tang than toasting bread but joyous to the nose. A full minute passes by. I toss in the garlic. Always at the last minute. Garlic burns quickly leaving a bitter taste that pervades the meal. It needs only to be heated through enough to take out the rawness.
Sigh. I grab a bottle of white wine. Its condensation glistening in the kitchen light. I have already opened it. A ritual, a rite, that took an irreverent few seconds. Pop. Hollow sounding, resonant. The cork´s release from the neck´s clasp. I pour a glass. That is for me. I tilt the neck, the wine pouring onto the rice and around the pan. A big glass that one. That sigh. That sizzle. That mist. Stirring rapidly, no devils, as the liquid bubbles insanely. My face dampened from the condensation as I tower over the pan.
The saffron liquid is poured in, ensuring the crocus stems, those red hair-like pieces, are not lost in the bottom of the jug. Red turned orange now turns gold. Ironically, saffron´s value is higher than gold. The rice has a distinct glowing colour, as warm as a buttercup. I lower the heat to a less excitable temperature.
The parting of the waves. The wine has all but gone. Stock is waiting to be poured in. Chicken stock replacing the traditional veal. Four times the liquid to the rice. Hot stock so it absorbs better. Cold, and there is less chance of an al dente finish. I often pour in half the stock and slowly add the rest. But I sense I am being watched. Dog aside. So, I will ladle in the stock, one scoop at a time.
My battered ladle, shaped like a champagne coupe, lifts the steaming liquid, and pours over the rice. The grain slightly swimming. Stir. No bedevilment. Stir. It needs to be completely absorbed before the next ladleful. It is ready when you drag the stirring spoon through the rice mix, top to bottom, across the pan, parting the waves. If rice follows the spoon. Wait. Patience. If each side holds, it is time for more. Moses could not have done better.
Parting the waves. The slow process, the hypnotic repetition, the parting, continues. I daydream of hippos. Hippos? Yes. Historians, using the modern calendar, thought the Biblical Red Sea story was just that. A story. Until they discovered that Pharaohs measured time through the life span of a hippopotamus. Those blubbery water horses linked the Prophet, the Pharoah, the Santorini Tsunami, the ten plagues, and the parting of the waves, to a similar timeline. Hippos making history. I sigh and part the waves again.
The dog growls at me. I focus on the meal. The stirring. Still clockwise. Still safe.
Butter. The last of the stock has finally been absorbed. The residual bite that comes from testing the rice means it is time to stop. I lift the pot and sit it on a heatproof mat to rest. I scatter some salt and stir, the seasoning being one of the last things that should be done. Except for butter. I cut a few generous rich ivory pieces and throw them on top of the oozing rice. This is a rich dish, created for a rich man. It should be made richer by the addition of butter.
There is no rule as to how dry a risotto should be, but my own rule of thumb, un-Italian as I am, says: if there is fish, I make it looser. Wetter. A reminder of the sea. Otherwise, I like it unctuous, sticky. This rule is thrown out of kilter by Risi e Bisi, a Venetian dish that is wetter than the lagoon itself. I may exaggerate.
The pace picks up. A stroll becomes a sprint.
Gremolata. While the rice rests I quickly find garlic. Smash. The clove splits under the knife´s blade as the ball of my thumb thumps down. I discard the skin, topping and tailing the pungent nugget and start to rough chop. Vandalising a bouquet of parsley, I tear off the leaves and fold them over into a ball. The knife cutting staccato through the rich green leaves. Furiously chopping. Merciless. The tip of the blade being guided by the tops of my fingers to keep it in place. It seems like there is more chopped parsley on the counter and floor than on the board. As I said, I am messy.
Another rule of thumb. When in company always grin while chopping. People think you are enjoying yourself. You know you are preventing the chin wobbling while you work.
I am working fast. I zest a lemon, its flurry of yellow falls delicately onto the garlic. The parsley, fine chopped and giving a peppery herbaceous aroma, is also mixed in.
The shin, veal shin, has been cooking for such a long time on a low heat, I worry it will fall apart before I get it to the plate, so tender it has become. Lifting it carefully, I remove any remnants of the sofrito with my fingers before moving it slowly to the board. The sensation being one of handling a ticking bomb. Careful movements contrast with the urgent need to pull all the elements together. Kitchen Tai Chi.
Eat. I remove a risotto bowl from the warming oven. It is time. I stir in the butter, small, melted pools on the surface of the glistening rice. I take the ladle. That old coupe shaped, battered family heirloom. I plunge into the heart of the yellow granular mound. Plop. A satisfying sound as the golden rice hits the plate and slowly releases itself, comforts itself into the curves of the bowl. Its yellow brilliance a good contrast to the whiteness of the china. The veal I lift, careful to keep meat and marrowbone together. I place it centred on the rice. It settles like an old man in a comfortable armchair, descending ever so slightly. The gremolata, I spoon and carefully place on top of that. The heat of the veal helping release the garlic and lemon fragrances. My pupils enlarge. My mouth waters.
Eat. In some parts of Italy, they push the rice away from the centre towards the edge of the bowl, creating a trough. It helps cool it down but also allows the eating to appear more delicate, controlled. I doubt the Sforza duke had any such qualms as he dived into the dish made in his honour. Sweet veal, tempered by a tangy gremolata, soothed by a mellow saffroned rice.
Moisture beads my brow. But not from the sun. With the cold evening wind and cloudless night, a hearty meal is just right.
Eat.
Author´s note: Thanks to Chef Valentina Harris for her inspiration and showing me the stages and the way when working with her at a food fair. Apologies for any errors, they are solely mine.
Bellissimo.
Love this Louis! So sensual! I could see every step, and smell every ingredient. Well done! xx