Amazing Italian food moments

Millefoglie ciccolato. Even the words look delicious.

My mother is an avid reader of foodie magazines, eg. Gourmet Traveller, Vogue Entertainment, Cuisine, Delicious....

For years (decades is probably more accurate) she has been tearing, ripping and cutting out places to eat, recipes to try and styling to emmulate. The styling and the cooking she can do at her leisure in Melbourne, and has done for as long as anyone remembers. Getting the chance to actually test out some of the amazing foreign locations, however, is a relative novelty.

Finally, she is in Italy, the land of her foodie dreams, and for Florence she has come armed with a 2 page spread from two Sydney gentlemen who run a restaurant together, and frequently return to Florence. The article is EXCLUSIVELY about food and is very specific in what to eat at each place.

There are probably about a dozen places mentioned, and we have so far tried at least 8 of them. Their hit rate is eight for eight. Do you know how rare this is?? I want to travel the WORLD with these dudes, they,ve got some serious flair. The bombolini, chocolate millfoglie, panino bollitos with salsa verde, hole-in-the-wall paninoteca, pasta-free trattorias, gelati and chocolates have all been out-of-this-world delicious. And we are a VERY discerning pair of eaters.

Eggplant Parmagiana. Rich but not too rich, cheesey, hot and fresh. So tasty all propriety went out the window and I ate it fast a golden retreiver. VOMPFF! Gone. I was lucky it was a civilised portion size, cos I would have cleared the plate no matter how big it was.

At the Market Centrale, the Florence food markets rather like Queen Vic or Camberwell Markets. Fresh produced and preserved meats strung high, it looked like Christmas in there. Nerponte (? dont have my notes on my to check atm, sorry) was recommended for their bollito rolls. Ma and I were prepared to order a bollito roll based exactly as we were told, even asking for the recommended swipe of salsa verde not know what "bollito" meant. Boiled, it turns out, is what it means. Boiled beef and they pour the cooking juices into your roll, stack in some boiled beef and if you know what you're doing you ask for some salsa (it's like pesto, but better. This we already knew.) While hanging out at the counter Ma saw a large, steaming tray come out filled with a stew-like meal that smelt and looked amazing. On a whim, she added that to the order with the karafe of vino casa and we looked like locals. Although a little early (11am, haha. How to beat the lunch crowds: eat before lunch!) Anyway, turns out that meal in the bowl, that looks a little like pasta is in fact tripe. Sheep's stomach lining. Which, when uncooked looks like a bizarre kind of fleece.

I was OK with the fact I LOVED boiled beef roll. I was DISTURBED by what a celestial experience the tripe was. From Aus I had promised Mum I'd sample tripe because it was the regional speciality, but it was a WORLD away from what I expected. Do it.

Mixed Crostini. These are actually in Venice. The half-eaten one was the best, just incredible. radicchio, some kind of mayonaise, herbs, white anchovies (I normally detest anchovies). Num num num num. There are very few Italians in Venice, so it can be hard to judge where might be good to eat, but I noticed when paying that some of the gondola crewmen were hanging out there. Good sign. Their macchiato was also the best I've had to date in Italy (good cappucinos are much easier to find.)

This is the home of the chocolate millfoglie, custard bombolini, mini fruit tart, torta della nonna, delicious cappucino/macchiato.....

Given that I've only had 4 days in Florence, the fact that I've returned 4 times should tell you all you need to know.

Things you never want to hear your mother say

"Some friends of mine said that David was disappointingly small, but he looks big to me."

Nicola's Starling memory

I feel it’s a strange string of coincidence, or a bizarre strain of irony, that the novel I’m reading is set among the famous monuments in Florence, and features characters eating strange things they’ve never tried before. On the face of it, this may not be so, but if I explain….

I picked up a novel at Melbourne airport, wanting to have some disposable English reading with me. I wasn’t sure if I’d read the book before, (I read voraciously, but forget frequently, making this a chronic problem of mine) so I opened it at random to sample a few pages. Nope, that sounds unfamiliar.

I settle in for some reading, and most UNFORTUNATELY, the bells of my memory start chiming. Hmmm…it is after all a sequel, perhaps that explains the familiarity? A few more pages and nope, I have DEFINITELY read it already. But, in that happy chain of coincidences, my sieve-like memory has retained only the starch of the story. The details once again appall and shock me.

And I ‘discover’ what I’d forgotten: the book is in part a caper about Florence and the protagonist eats the finer things in life such as sweetbreads, truffles, and has a particular penchant for liver.



But I really do need to work on my memory- I mean, who forgets that they’ve read Hannibal? And forgets enough of the plotline to enjoy reading it again???

*And for the record, tripe is delicious
** Clarice Starling is the lead female character

Cosi cosi

SAN MARCO


The Doge’s Palace was not something that had made it onto my little historical radar (key word being ‘little’.) It was, as any edifice carved in white marble with gilt-framed paintings at every turn will be, impressive. Sheer scale and age will do that. So will a lack of expectations.

Palazzo San Marco, however, and the Basilica San Marco, was entirely underwhelming and overrated. It is dark and gloomy despite the gold mosaics proliferating on every horizontal service. One can neither sit nor walk in the main body of the church. While I understand WHY this is so, given its significance as a tourist attraction and the troubles in upkeep, it made it difficult to get a sense of it as a place of worship. Much more to my taste were some of the white, airy, simpler churches we stumbled across at every second or third campo.

Once again, while I understand the role of ‘awe’ in the history of religion, and the role played by the intense pictorial representations that abound in Europe’s ‘grandest’ churches, I find them stifling. For me, with my more fluid and spiritual ‘beliefs’, I look upon churches as a place of reflection, to listen, not worship. To open up my mind and let it float and bob along the vaulted marble ceilings. To let the light fill my vision, the quiet fill my ears, the votives tickle my nose…it’s just me and my tranquil soul. No queue required.

Boo-yah!

Sometimes, I leave my brain behind (see previous post.) And at other times I feel so on point I could do a happy dance.

The book....
Wandering around the bookstore of the Museum of Modern Art, very little took my fancy or looked like a book I hadn’t seen at the airport. Until a little, square, brown cardboard cover caught my eye. Bound with black linen tape, and with a simple charcoal-esque drawing of a spoon standing up on its mermaid tail. ‘Venetian Cuisine’. The introduction goes through market shopping tips on choosing your fresh seafood, a Venetian specialty. The recipes are clear, straightforward, accompanied by wine recommendations and more charcoal sketches. The book feels lovely underhand, light enough to hold with just one and quite a stand out in the glossy, luridly colourful world of the modern cookbook. But it gets better. After purchasing the book, we discover they’re the coveted recipes of Al’Trieste, a Michelin Guided restaurant on the island of San Marco. Determined to dine there, we ask our penzione hostess, Maria, to call them for us. She in turn recognizes the publishing house; the owner lives in the same building, just floors above us. The response from Al Trieste (about our Saturday night impromtu plans) is that they are fully booked, but if we call back at 7pm, they may have something available for us.

The eyes...
Not wanting to take any chances, baffled by the possibility of explaining what we wanted in Italian, and fully aware from my restaurant-hostessing days of the power of showing up early with pitiful faces, we rocked up in person. Shining puppy-dog eyes in place, we pinch ourselves at having found the restaurant. Mum whispers to me as we’re standing in the doorway, “Tell them we have the cookbook, tell them we came here especially because we bought it today. Tell them it’s just two of us.” I turned to Mum, who’d obviously gotten used to me speaking French with our Italian hostess, and reminded her that I don’t ACTUALLY speak Italian, thus she was just as capable of saying that as I was!

Regardless, puppy-eyes won out and the waiter, in his IMPECCABLE English (and infinite wisdom) found us a table in the tiny space (just 20 people can be seated at any one time.) His product knowledge was incredibly, and he laughed when we said we only wanted to eat items from the cookbook: “Ahhh. You already know all of our secrets!!” To his immense credit, he eyeballed the menu (printed out fresh every day, based around the catches of the day) and took us through everything that was in the book.

The restaurant...
We watched people show up and get turned away, even some who had bookings, but had failed to confirm them. One American lady on her own tried valiantly to bully her way in, based of course on American customer-service principles. More fool her, she was swatted away and was NOT invited to come back in a few hours. The couple seated next to us had booked months in advance, and duly confirmed IN PERSON two days earlier.

The food...
My entrée was Pilgrims Scallops with peppermint and lemon (gorgeous tiny scallops, 15 of them!) Mum had mussels and razor calms with a fresh ginger broth. Her wine was white and fruity, mine was a refreshing rose. Main course was pumpkin puree ravioli with scampi sauce and baby shrimps. Mum’s was a simple grilled sole. The vegetables of the day, to my surprise and minor dismay, were served in quite a French style. Not a fresh, crisp, glossy salad of riddicio, artichoke heart, eggplant….nope. All buttery and well-cooked. Well, you win you win you win and then you lose some.

The dessert...
As for dessert, the only match up between availability and the book was Tiramisu (“pick me up”, as in “cheer me up”). Ah life’s hard when you HAVE to eat Tiramisu. I’ve come to it a little bit late in life, but the lusciousness of marsala soaked sponge, marscapone, chocolate sauce and dustings of cocoa is addictive. And this one was, officially, the best I’ve ever eaten. SOMEHOW the chocolate sauce was still liquid. And it came served with what they call sauce spoons, ie. Spatula-like spoons with angular edges so you can get them nice and close to the plate, scooping up every last sauce drizzle, sponge morsel and cocoa speck.

Perhaps the best I can hope for in the balance of life is that I have one of these on point moments for every few ‘betise’ I make. I think Ma may have even forgiven me for forgetting the guide book….

left, left, left my brain in New Orleans with 45 cents and a can of beans

What a ceremonious start to three weeks in Italy. I leave it until the last minute to pack my bags (literally. I went out the night before, not getting home until about 5am...by 6.30 it was barely worth going to sleep but i try anyway.) My packing philosophy was to put everything I wanted to take with me onto the bed, quick eyeball, and then if it all fitted into the case dammit it was all coming. Including the latest h&m wardrobe additions. I tried so hard to do the maths on what time I needed to be at the airport, thus what time i needed to leave home, but it was actually impossible: my little gin-addled tete couldn't figure it out. Erring on the side of caution, then, I arrived rather early, especially for a flight that was delayed by an hour.

Unfortunately, the last minute rush meant I forgot a couple of things. Like one of my guide books. And my italian-english phrase book. Dammit. All the more embarassing because I'm not holidaying alone, I'm gallavanting with my mother for 3 weeks. Upon arrival at venice airport the meet-mum back up plan kicked into action. Despite having 3 simcards at my disposal, it seemed i couldn't get the correct combination of credit/network reception/general functionability. So as planned, I waited at the tourist desk. For half an hour. Given mum arrived well before me, and i was running late, this concerned me a little. Apparently, after doodling around trying to problem solve, the water taxi dsk is not also the tourist desk. The tourist desk, just a few booths away is. And sure enough, there was mumma, waiting patiently. We rolled off to our waiting water taxi and our Venice escape began.

La Nourriture

Given my love of all things edible, I feel it's time to share some of my favourite foodie pics. I have a mountain to choose from, thanks to my predeliction for snapping everything I'm about to eat, and many more generally drool-worthy morsels.

And, instead of wishing you were here with me in person to share the deliciousness, be glad, be very glad that you are far, FAR away from the buttery, calorific minefield that is Paris. Sometimes vicarious is better....

Bon appetit!


I enjoy the general prettiness of the experience. The high-quality, silky-soft china, the quaintness of pouring tea. This is made on WILD strawberries. Outrageous.


Everything in this store is tiny. Tiny tarts, tiny cupcakes, tiny tables, tiny stools, tiny karafs of water. Such a glorious selection of tinies, it's tough to know where to start. Luckily at this particularly tiny pit stop I had two of my Aussie ladies with me, so we could trade mouthfuls.


Meet Kevin. He joined my sister and I for our romp together around Paris in February. Here we are at a serendipitous find. We were actually tracking a resto found in a magazine, but it didn't look any better than anything in Melbourne. But wouldn't you know it, this lovely modern-but-traditional boulangerie was on the corner. The drinks came with dense, fruity friands (little cakes often made on nut-flour instead of wheat flour) and the berries are always so fresh!


At some point home cooking really should be done. This is a jar of organic supermarket cassoulet, with sausage, beans and stewed meat. Sure it might not sound great to you as you chow down a fresh sushi roll, but over here cassoulet with lightly steamed asparagous is a light, healthy dinner.


I'm so tickled by the packaging in Europe, whether it's the paper bread bags, the sardine tins, the vegie papers (eg. asparagus feature above) or the fruit wrappers. This dude's gone to the trouble of tesselating his oranges. Awww. I bought some of the glossy blood oranges for their papers, but was warned to wash them well. Why? Because they papers (with too-cute drawings of a lady on them) are infused with insecticide. Who knew??