We had a dinner party Saturday night. Three guests, all inlingua teachers, crammed into our urban cave to celebrate a birthday. Dana, the half English, half Arabian, half educated in the States, and raised in obscure places like India, Germany and Qatar turned 28 on Thursday. Sebastian, enigmatic and English, and Jody, Canadian and cosseted, joined us.
We spent the morning shopping for supplies at our local market. Fish from the fresh fish guy, the wide silver aluminium trays balanced on upside down plastic blue tubs, filled with freshly trawled octopus, shellfish and shrimp. Half a sword fish was impressively displayed on a damp chopping block, the cross section of raw flesh exposed, a large well worn knife rests nearby. A hack saw leans against it, used to slice through the central bone. The head of the fish faces away from the street, but its sword-like beak, constituting one-third of its total body length, is an arresting sight. Beside it sits a luscious chunk of fresh salmon, its gorgeously coloured flesh flashing amongst the silver scales of the other fish stock on display. The surrounding area is awash with wet, smelly cobblestones as the vendor replenishes the water in the tubs and sprays his stocks of seafood as the morning unfolds.
Gi wandered into the bakery and joined the throng of middle aged housewives intent on purchasing their bread provisions for the day. It’s busy in there and it is some minutes before Gigi was served. He ordered a great slab of ‘pane cafone’, a local style of bread that is crusty to the point of being chewy and, for those with false teeth, sometimes a challenge to eat. With bubbles of air throughout the dough – making it perfect for mopping up pasta sauce – and a hint of sourness that seems to blend beautifully with Neapolitan specialities. Gi also purchased a ‘sfilatino’ loaf, golden and crusty with a white soft inner more in the style of a French baguette, and four ‘maggiolini’, which are basically miniature versions of the ‘sfilatino’.
While he was being served I watched as an elderly lady, pushed to the side of the glass counter by the throng, endeavoured to pay for her bread. Like many women of her generation, she was short in stature, age having drawn her down even further. Obviously independent and proud, she was neatly dressed, a streak of lipstick complimenting her grape jacket, and contrasting with her silver hair. I realised that she was, in fact, shorter than the counter itself, and from the other side one of the bakery assistants called out “Signora, Signora. Where is that Signora?” as she tried to relocate her customer. Hobbling through a gaggle of waiting customers she called back “I’m here. How much is it?” The price was bellowed back, and scrambling with her change she somehow launched herself through the customers pressed up against the glass counter, stretched herself up on to the tips of her toes and pushed the change in the direction of the assistant. Still unable to visibly locate her client, the assistant swept the change into her hand and simultaneously waved the bag of warm bread over the counter in the direction of the shrill but surprising forceful voice. Reaching up, the old lady secured her purchases and turned on her heel, confidently shouldering her way through the crowd. It was marvellous, and clearly demonstrated how she overcame the difficulties of her small stature with a strong voice and self-assurance on a daily basis, in a very Neapolitan way.
An alleyway leading off the main market street is lined with fruit and vegetable stalls. This is where Gigi and I usually buy our fresh produce. At the very end is a stall managed by an amiable local who can only be described as laid back. In contrast to his competitors he doesn’t call for your attention as you walk by. He doesn’t pressure you to hurry in your choice. Instead he greets you laconically, asking what you need, and perhaps making a couple of suggestions on what’s seasonal and good value. We purchased brightly coloured capsicums, onions, fabulous local tomatoes, a bag of mushrooms (with the manure still attached to the stalks), rough bunches of parsley and basil, bundles of friarielli, firm shiny eggplants and crisp salad vegetables. The lettuces were wrapped up in recycled newspaper. The tomatoes are poured into a cone fashioned out of newspaper. There are no little plastic bags. He adds it all up in his head, often rattling off the prices aloud to ensure that you are happy with his calculations. His warmth and friendliness encourage me to go back on my own, and as he works through my list, adjusting to my occasionally poor, or timid, pronunciations, he asks why I’m shopping alone. I’m also enticed by the selection of sub continental vegetables he stocks, clearly catering for the local Sri Lankan and African immigrant population including plantain bananas, fresh coconuts, taro, sweet potatoes and fresh ginger.
At the butcher’s Gigi asks for the beef we need for the ragu dish. And at the Vinoteca, the local bottle shop, we decide to try the merchant’s own house wine. We buy 1.5 litres, in a recycled plastic water bottle, for €2.30. The gamble paid off, and it was a lovely accompaniment to the meal that evening, although the plastic bottle did seem to lack a certain degree of sophistication.
We then headed home and started cooking. While I got started chopping vegetables, Gigi popped out and bought a selection of local pastries, in place of a birthday cake for Dana. Her face lit up at the end of the meal when he pulled out the elegantly wrapped tray of little delights, and under the flicker of tea light candles Dana and Jody leaned in close to study the prettiness of the mini cakes.
The menu itself was a typical Neapolitan affair. We had a lovely evening, with a sprinkling of saucy conversation, that, at times, left the more reserved Seb cringing. He commented on how ‘cosy’ and ‘homely’ our place was. It’s amazing what a quick tidy up and a few strategically placed candles will do to create some atmosphere!
Here are the recipes. I hope something inspires you to have a little Neapolitan feast of your very own.
Floured and fried salt water baby mullet (trigliette)
We bought twenty small mullet, just longer than the size of your finger at the fresh fish market in the morning. Gigi coated them in a layer of plain flour and then fried them in vegetable oil. You can shallow fry or deep fry them. Once they are crispy and golden put them on paper towel to drain, and lightly salt before serving. We served them as an entrée, but they could be served with a salad, chunky potato chips (not the Neapolitan custom, obviously) or as part of a buffet. They should be eaten straight after being cooked, and you can eat the whole fish, head to tail as the bones are fine enough. 20 mini sized mullet were ample for four people.
Ragu – two courses in one
Sauté one small or ½ large sliced onion in olive oil until translucent; add a finely chopped garlic clove. Allow to cook for three minutes. Traditionally ragu is cooked in a heavy clay/terracotta casserole-style dish.
Add 250 grams of roughly diced stewing beef (‘spezzatino’). Sear until coloured on all sides. Add half a glass of wine (normally red wine, but Gi used white as that was already open) to taste. Cook until the wine has evaporated.
Add a litre of tomato puree and a couple of teaspoons of tomato concentrate paste. Bring it to the boil, and then reduce the heat right down to the lowest point.
Let the ragu gently bubble for at least six hours on a low heat. The sauce should be plopping with one bubble at a time. This ensures that the meat is tender and that the flavour of the sauce is well developed.
Towards the end of the cooking time add salt to taste, and basil, chopped or whole leaves according to your preference.
You can add a dollop of butter or margarine after you add the tomato puree if you want. It’s not necessary but many Italians add it to act as an emulsifier, although it is not part of the traditional Neapolitan ragu recipe.
Cook penne pasta and drain. If you were just cooking pasta you would normally cook about 100 – 110 grams per person. But for a more elaborate meal about 80 grams is adequate. Use the tomato ragu sauce to coat the pasta and serve as a first course (primo piatto in Italy where pasta is eaten first). Serve with finely grated parmesan cheese (the real stuff, not the stuff that comes prepacked from ‘Kraft’).
Then serve the diced beef chunks with a splash of sauce and lots of crusty bread as a separate meat course.
These quantities serve four adults. Any remaining sauce can be kept for the following day.
This is the time to pause. Remember that the servings are smaller than what we are generally accustomed to, but with fish, pasta, meat, vegetables, bread and dessert it helps to eat smaller portions, slowly and with digestive pauses between courses. Besides there is a whole lot of conversation and music to easily fill the breaks.
Traditionally, after the meat course is served an array of vegetable dishes hit the table. These are called ‘contorni’ and can be served as antipasto dishes, i.e. hors d’œuvrés.
Capsicum with capers and black olives (Peperoni in Padella)
Cut a large yellow and red capsicum into strips. Heat up a generous amount of olive oil. Rinse a tablespoon of capers (use more or less according to your preference) and roughly chop (to evenly disburse the flavour of the capers through the dish without leaving any visible trace the capers should be roughly chopped, otherwise leave them whole). Flavour the oil by lightly cooking the capers, and then add a handful of black olives. Throw in a finely chopped garlic clove. Shallow fry the capsicum in the olive oil until they soften and wilt (Gigi’s sister told me to add a splash of water into the frying pan intermittently to reduce the amount of oil needed but Gigi is aghast at any such suggestion). Salt to taste (the saltiness of the capers and brine that the olives have been kept in will influence whether or not you need salt at all).
This can be served as this, or you can place it into an ovenproof serving dish and sprinkle with a thin layer of finely ground breadcrumbs. Place under the grill to toast the breadcrumbs and serve. This turns the dish into ‘Peperoni Gratinati’.
Eggplant and tomato (Melenzane a funghetti)
Dice an eggplant. If the eggplant is particularly bulbous and contains a lot of spongy seeded flesh you might like to cut away some of the seeded section to minimise the bitterness. Heat up some olive oil and pan fry the eggplant, tossing to avoid it sticking as the oil will quickly be absorbed. You may need to add more oil as the eggplant cooks. Once the eggplant has softened, add a sliced garlic clove.
Then you have a few options. You need to add tomatoes at this stage. And from here you can either make a vegetable side dish, or a pasta sauce.
Throw in a generous handful of fresh ‘pomodorini’ or ripe cherry tomatoes, or open a can of tomatoes (preferably ‘pomodorini’ (tinned cherry tomatoes) or diced tomato). Obviously fresh tomatoes are better but they must be ripe and suitable for cooking. Toss through the eggplant. Once the tomatoes have collapsed, salt to taste. Add fresh ripped basil leaves before you remove from the heat. Serve with crusty bread.
If you require more fluid for a pasta sauce you can loosen with olive oil or add some tomato puree, and thicken with a squeeze of tomato concentrate paste if necessary. Take off the heat, pour the sauce over cooked penne pasta and add chopped provola cheese (a fresh, soft, cows’ milk cheese with a smoked flavour (at a pinch you can use fresh bocconcini – baby fresh mozzarella available at the deli – but don’t tell Gigi I said that). The provola (or equivalent) will melt from the heat of the sauce and the cooked pasta. This dish is called “Penne alla Siciliana”.
(NB I also like this pasta sauce without the cheese, just the eggplant and tomato, but Gi considers it slightly blasphemous to serve it without the melting, stringy chunks of smoky flavoured provola cheese.)
Friarielli with garlic and chilli
Friarielli is a vegetable that is a member of the broccoli family, but tastes a bit like puk choy, and is only grown in the area surrounding Naples. I bought five generous bunches of it from my vegetable guy at the market. At home I stripped the leaves off the stalking section. The stalks are discarded as they tend to be stringy to eat. The leaves are washed. A very large saucepan of uncooked friarielli will wilt down and be enough for a vegetable side dish for 4-5 people. Instead of friarielli you could use English spinach, perhaps roughly sliced, or a dark leafy Chinese green.
Warm some olive oil in a large saucepan. Cook the friarielli over a moderate heat. Gi tends to toss it using his hand initially, to avoid the leaves on the bottom from scorching. Once the leaf has begun to collapse add a generous amount of finely chopped garlic and either finely chopped fresh red chillies, or dried chilli flakes; salt to taste. Toss through. Leaving the saucepan uncovered allow the vegetable to continue cooking over a low flame. Once the friarielli is completely wilted and well cooked, while retaining its vibrant green colour, it is ready to serve. You can serve this dish warm, or at room temperature. Leftovers are also great the next day.
Ensalata
Wash and roughly tear up lettuce, butter or iceberg. Do the same with an equivalent amount of raddichio (chicory – burgundy and white coloured leaves, bitter flavour). Cut a medium sized fennel in half lengthwise and thinly slice one half, discarding the leaf and any stalk. Mix the lettuce, chicory and fennel in a salad bowl. Just before serving dress with a pinch of salt, freshly ground black pepper, a generous drizzle of balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil. Toss well.
Once the salad is dressed any leftovers should be thrown out. To avoid this you can simply dress with salt and pepper and place the vinegar and oil on the table for guests to dress their own individual servings.
We spent the morning shopping for supplies at our local market. Fish from the fresh fish guy, the wide silver aluminium trays balanced on upside down plastic blue tubs, filled with freshly trawled octopus, shellfish and shrimp. Half a sword fish was impressively displayed on a damp chopping block, the cross section of raw flesh exposed, a large well worn knife rests nearby. A hack saw leans against it, used to slice through the central bone. The head of the fish faces away from the street, but its sword-like beak, constituting one-third of its total body length, is an arresting sight. Beside it sits a luscious chunk of fresh salmon, its gorgeously coloured flesh flashing amongst the silver scales of the other fish stock on display. The surrounding area is awash with wet, smelly cobblestones as the vendor replenishes the water in the tubs and sprays his stocks of seafood as the morning unfolds.
Gi wandered into the bakery and joined the throng of middle aged housewives intent on purchasing their bread provisions for the day. It’s busy in there and it is some minutes before Gigi was served. He ordered a great slab of ‘pane cafone’, a local style of bread that is crusty to the point of being chewy and, for those with false teeth, sometimes a challenge to eat. With bubbles of air throughout the dough – making it perfect for mopping up pasta sauce – and a hint of sourness that seems to blend beautifully with Neapolitan specialities. Gi also purchased a ‘sfilatino’ loaf, golden and crusty with a white soft inner more in the style of a French baguette, and four ‘maggiolini’, which are basically miniature versions of the ‘sfilatino’.
While he was being served I watched as an elderly lady, pushed to the side of the glass counter by the throng, endeavoured to pay for her bread. Like many women of her generation, she was short in stature, age having drawn her down even further. Obviously independent and proud, she was neatly dressed, a streak of lipstick complimenting her grape jacket, and contrasting with her silver hair. I realised that she was, in fact, shorter than the counter itself, and from the other side one of the bakery assistants called out “Signora, Signora. Where is that Signora?” as she tried to relocate her customer. Hobbling through a gaggle of waiting customers she called back “I’m here. How much is it?” The price was bellowed back, and scrambling with her change she somehow launched herself through the customers pressed up against the glass counter, stretched herself up on to the tips of her toes and pushed the change in the direction of the assistant. Still unable to visibly locate her client, the assistant swept the change into her hand and simultaneously waved the bag of warm bread over the counter in the direction of the shrill but surprising forceful voice. Reaching up, the old lady secured her purchases and turned on her heel, confidently shouldering her way through the crowd. It was marvellous, and clearly demonstrated how she overcame the difficulties of her small stature with a strong voice and self-assurance on a daily basis, in a very Neapolitan way.
An alleyway leading off the main market street is lined with fruit and vegetable stalls. This is where Gigi and I usually buy our fresh produce. At the very end is a stall managed by an amiable local who can only be described as laid back. In contrast to his competitors he doesn’t call for your attention as you walk by. He doesn’t pressure you to hurry in your choice. Instead he greets you laconically, asking what you need, and perhaps making a couple of suggestions on what’s seasonal and good value. We purchased brightly coloured capsicums, onions, fabulous local tomatoes, a bag of mushrooms (with the manure still attached to the stalks), rough bunches of parsley and basil, bundles of friarielli, firm shiny eggplants and crisp salad vegetables. The lettuces were wrapped up in recycled newspaper. The tomatoes are poured into a cone fashioned out of newspaper. There are no little plastic bags. He adds it all up in his head, often rattling off the prices aloud to ensure that you are happy with his calculations. His warmth and friendliness encourage me to go back on my own, and as he works through my list, adjusting to my occasionally poor, or timid, pronunciations, he asks why I’m shopping alone. I’m also enticed by the selection of sub continental vegetables he stocks, clearly catering for the local Sri Lankan and African immigrant population including plantain bananas, fresh coconuts, taro, sweet potatoes and fresh ginger.
At the butcher’s Gigi asks for the beef we need for the ragu dish. And at the Vinoteca, the local bottle shop, we decide to try the merchant’s own house wine. We buy 1.5 litres, in a recycled plastic water bottle, for €2.30. The gamble paid off, and it was a lovely accompaniment to the meal that evening, although the plastic bottle did seem to lack a certain degree of sophistication.
We then headed home and started cooking. While I got started chopping vegetables, Gigi popped out and bought a selection of local pastries, in place of a birthday cake for Dana. Her face lit up at the end of the meal when he pulled out the elegantly wrapped tray of little delights, and under the flicker of tea light candles Dana and Jody leaned in close to study the prettiness of the mini cakes.
The menu itself was a typical Neapolitan affair. We had a lovely evening, with a sprinkling of saucy conversation, that, at times, left the more reserved Seb cringing. He commented on how ‘cosy’ and ‘homely’ our place was. It’s amazing what a quick tidy up and a few strategically placed candles will do to create some atmosphere!
Here are the recipes. I hope something inspires you to have a little Neapolitan feast of your very own.
Floured and fried salt water baby mullet (trigliette)
We bought twenty small mullet, just longer than the size of your finger at the fresh fish market in the morning. Gigi coated them in a layer of plain flour and then fried them in vegetable oil. You can shallow fry or deep fry them. Once they are crispy and golden put them on paper towel to drain, and lightly salt before serving. We served them as an entrée, but they could be served with a salad, chunky potato chips (not the Neapolitan custom, obviously) or as part of a buffet. They should be eaten straight after being cooked, and you can eat the whole fish, head to tail as the bones are fine enough. 20 mini sized mullet were ample for four people.
Ragu – two courses in one
Sauté one small or ½ large sliced onion in olive oil until translucent; add a finely chopped garlic clove. Allow to cook for three minutes. Traditionally ragu is cooked in a heavy clay/terracotta casserole-style dish.
Add 250 grams of roughly diced stewing beef (‘spezzatino’). Sear until coloured on all sides. Add half a glass of wine (normally red wine, but Gi used white as that was already open) to taste. Cook until the wine has evaporated.
Add a litre of tomato puree and a couple of teaspoons of tomato concentrate paste. Bring it to the boil, and then reduce the heat right down to the lowest point.
Let the ragu gently bubble for at least six hours on a low heat. The sauce should be plopping with one bubble at a time. This ensures that the meat is tender and that the flavour of the sauce is well developed.
Towards the end of the cooking time add salt to taste, and basil, chopped or whole leaves according to your preference.
You can add a dollop of butter or margarine after you add the tomato puree if you want. It’s not necessary but many Italians add it to act as an emulsifier, although it is not part of the traditional Neapolitan ragu recipe.
Cook penne pasta and drain. If you were just cooking pasta you would normally cook about 100 – 110 grams per person. But for a more elaborate meal about 80 grams is adequate. Use the tomato ragu sauce to coat the pasta and serve as a first course (primo piatto in Italy where pasta is eaten first). Serve with finely grated parmesan cheese (the real stuff, not the stuff that comes prepacked from ‘Kraft’).
Then serve the diced beef chunks with a splash of sauce and lots of crusty bread as a separate meat course.
These quantities serve four adults. Any remaining sauce can be kept for the following day.
This is the time to pause. Remember that the servings are smaller than what we are generally accustomed to, but with fish, pasta, meat, vegetables, bread and dessert it helps to eat smaller portions, slowly and with digestive pauses between courses. Besides there is a whole lot of conversation and music to easily fill the breaks.
Traditionally, after the meat course is served an array of vegetable dishes hit the table. These are called ‘contorni’ and can be served as antipasto dishes, i.e. hors d’œuvrés.
Capsicum with capers and black olives (Peperoni in Padella)
Cut a large yellow and red capsicum into strips. Heat up a generous amount of olive oil. Rinse a tablespoon of capers (use more or less according to your preference) and roughly chop (to evenly disburse the flavour of the capers through the dish without leaving any visible trace the capers should be roughly chopped, otherwise leave them whole). Flavour the oil by lightly cooking the capers, and then add a handful of black olives. Throw in a finely chopped garlic clove. Shallow fry the capsicum in the olive oil until they soften and wilt (Gigi’s sister told me to add a splash of water into the frying pan intermittently to reduce the amount of oil needed but Gigi is aghast at any such suggestion). Salt to taste (the saltiness of the capers and brine that the olives have been kept in will influence whether or not you need salt at all).
This can be served as this, or you can place it into an ovenproof serving dish and sprinkle with a thin layer of finely ground breadcrumbs. Place under the grill to toast the breadcrumbs and serve. This turns the dish into ‘Peperoni Gratinati’.
Eggplant and tomato (Melenzane a funghetti)
Dice an eggplant. If the eggplant is particularly bulbous and contains a lot of spongy seeded flesh you might like to cut away some of the seeded section to minimise the bitterness. Heat up some olive oil and pan fry the eggplant, tossing to avoid it sticking as the oil will quickly be absorbed. You may need to add more oil as the eggplant cooks. Once the eggplant has softened, add a sliced garlic clove.
Then you have a few options. You need to add tomatoes at this stage. And from here you can either make a vegetable side dish, or a pasta sauce.
Throw in a generous handful of fresh ‘pomodorini’ or ripe cherry tomatoes, or open a can of tomatoes (preferably ‘pomodorini’ (tinned cherry tomatoes) or diced tomato). Obviously fresh tomatoes are better but they must be ripe and suitable for cooking. Toss through the eggplant. Once the tomatoes have collapsed, salt to taste. Add fresh ripped basil leaves before you remove from the heat. Serve with crusty bread.
If you require more fluid for a pasta sauce you can loosen with olive oil or add some tomato puree, and thicken with a squeeze of tomato concentrate paste if necessary. Take off the heat, pour the sauce over cooked penne pasta and add chopped provola cheese (a fresh, soft, cows’ milk cheese with a smoked flavour (at a pinch you can use fresh bocconcini – baby fresh mozzarella available at the deli – but don’t tell Gigi I said that). The provola (or equivalent) will melt from the heat of the sauce and the cooked pasta. This dish is called “Penne alla Siciliana”.
(NB I also like this pasta sauce without the cheese, just the eggplant and tomato, but Gi considers it slightly blasphemous to serve it without the melting, stringy chunks of smoky flavoured provola cheese.)
Friarielli with garlic and chilli
Friarielli is a vegetable that is a member of the broccoli family, but tastes a bit like puk choy, and is only grown in the area surrounding Naples. I bought five generous bunches of it from my vegetable guy at the market. At home I stripped the leaves off the stalking section. The stalks are discarded as they tend to be stringy to eat. The leaves are washed. A very large saucepan of uncooked friarielli will wilt down and be enough for a vegetable side dish for 4-5 people. Instead of friarielli you could use English spinach, perhaps roughly sliced, or a dark leafy Chinese green.
Warm some olive oil in a large saucepan. Cook the friarielli over a moderate heat. Gi tends to toss it using his hand initially, to avoid the leaves on the bottom from scorching. Once the leaf has begun to collapse add a generous amount of finely chopped garlic and either finely chopped fresh red chillies, or dried chilli flakes; salt to taste. Toss through. Leaving the saucepan uncovered allow the vegetable to continue cooking over a low flame. Once the friarielli is completely wilted and well cooked, while retaining its vibrant green colour, it is ready to serve. You can serve this dish warm, or at room temperature. Leftovers are also great the next day.
Ensalata
Wash and roughly tear up lettuce, butter or iceberg. Do the same with an equivalent amount of raddichio (chicory – burgundy and white coloured leaves, bitter flavour). Cut a medium sized fennel in half lengthwise and thinly slice one half, discarding the leaf and any stalk. Mix the lettuce, chicory and fennel in a salad bowl. Just before serving dress with a pinch of salt, freshly ground black pepper, a generous drizzle of balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil. Toss well.
Once the salad is dressed any leftovers should be thrown out. To avoid this you can simply dress with salt and pepper and place the vinegar and oil on the table for guests to dress their own individual servings.
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