Italian

I wouldn’t dream of visiting the vast Central Market in Florence without my friend Judy Witts, known throughout town as the Divina Cucina. With Judy as my guide, butchers and cheese merchants greet us like given-up-for-lost family members, and everywhere we turn another oversized platter appears, heaped with Tuscan delights: sheep’s-milk pecorino, candied fruits spiced with mustard seeds, fresh raspberries dotted with syrupy balsamic vinegar, and, gulp, juicy tripe sandwiches (which I haven’t built up the courage to try). And because we’re in Italy, it all ends with shots of grappa taken straight from little glass vials, obbligatorio after all that sampling. This sorbetto is adapted from Judy’s recipe. One of her favorite parts is the little chocolate “seeds” it contains. Since watermelons have a lot of water, take the sorbetto out of the freezer long enough ahead of serving to make it scoopable, 5 to 10 minutes. To pass the time, serve shots of grappa, and if there’s any left by serving time, splash some over the sorbetto too.

My well-meaning hostess, knowing that I had come to Italy to sample chocolate and gelato, planned a special dinner in my honor. As we drove up the mountain to the restaurant, she turned to me and said, “We’ve arranged a special dinner just for you. Each and every course is going to have chocolate in it!” Gulp. Dinner was, um, interesting, and chocolate was indeed incorporated into each and every course—except for dessert! However, the chef presented us with a selection of ice creams, including one flavored with a fruity, locally pressed olive oil. Olive oil ice cream pairs remarkably well with summer fruits such as strawberries and apricots, and if you use a fruity Spanish Arbequina olive oil, you’ll find this ice cream is sublime drizzled with Lean Chocolate Sauce (page 165) too. Be sure to try it flecked with a few grains of coarse sea salt over the top.

Many apartment buildings in Paris, including mine, have a gardienne. Although their official duties are accepting deliveries and overseeing maintenance, they’re equally famous for being a steady (and remarkably reliable) source of gossip about your neighbors. My gardienne is Madame André, who has young children, so she was always quite happy to accept ice cream while I churned out recipes for this book. Of all the ice creams I gave her, this was her absolute favorite, and she went into Gallic raptures whenever she saw me for days and days afterward. I should probably recommend her for a job as my publicist too, since shortly thereafter I got a reputation in the building as being L’Américain qui fait des glaces, toujours! (the American who makes ice cream, all the time!). If you’re a rice pudding lover, this is the ice cream for you. And be sure to spread the word.

True zabaglione—a foamy custard of egg yolks, wine, and sugar—is often made to order in Italian restaurants. Moments after the waiter takes your order, you’ll hear the frenetic “clang-clack-clang” of the whisk hitting the copper bowl in the kitchen. Once it’s reached a billowy peak, it’s heaped into a glass quickly but not necessarily neatly (speed trumps presentation with zabaglione) and served straight up and warm. In season, you’ll often find sliced strawberries buried underneath all that delicious froth. Zabaglione Gelato captures the taste of a true zabaglione in a cool scoop of ice cream without the last-minute flurry of activity, and it’s just as good served with lots of juicy strawberries.

On my first visit to Torino, I arrived in rabid pursuit of gianduja, a confection made from local hazelnuts ground with milk chocolate that is a specialty of the Piedmont region. I’d also never had gianduja gelato at the source. I did not leave disappointed. I watched with anticipation as the gelato maker at Caffè San Carlo smeared dense gelato from his gleaming freezer into a cone. It was hazelnut heaven. Use top-quality milk chocolate with at least 30 percent cocoa solids.

Beans are as much a staple in Tuscany as they are in rural regions anyplace else in the world. Traditionally cooked in an earthenware pot called a fagioliera, this simple bean dish works beautifully in a slow cooker insert. Embellish it with fresh vegetables such as tomatoes or summer squash if you like, then serve with a crusty loaf of French bread and a green salad. Choosing good-quality salt and olive oil will help elevate the dish to something special.

Fondue has provided nourishment to mountain folk in Switzerland and the Italian and French Alps through many a hard, cold winter. Made from what must have been, at times, the only ingredients at hand, stale bread and hard cheese, the communal rites that developed around the eating of fondue sustained spirits as well as bodies. Although Emmentaler, Gruyère, and fontina are fondue classics, you can actually use any kind of “mountain” cheese, such as Appenzeller, Comté, or Beaufort. The slow, even heat of the slow cooker is just perfect for making a smooth, effortless fondue. I suggest using a 2- or 3-quart slow cooker for the fondue. It fits more easily on the table and is more suitable size for this amount of fondue.

Although most Americans are familiar with ground wheat hot breakfast cereals such as Wheatena, few of us consider cracking whole wheat berries at home for breakfast. They are, however, aromatic and delicious, and much like oatmeal (either whole or cracked) in some rural areas of Italy. This recipe works well in the 3-quart cooker that I use for risotto and polenta. Just put it on to cook at night before you go to bed and awaken to delicious breakfast. Be sure to purchase “triple-cleaned” wheat from your health foods store or use a commercially prepared seven-grain cereal if you don’t want to go to the trouble of cracking your own wheat.

Over many centuries, every country in the world has developed ways to obtain much-needed protein by combining the simplest of ingredients. In Italy, the combination of lentils and rice has found just as happy a home as it has in India. The trimmings may be a little different, but this simple dish can make a meal in itself when served with a salad, or as an accompaniment to grilled vegetables or stuffed artichokes.

My friends who live in the countryside were surprised one morning to wake up and see me climbing their walnut tree in my pajamas, swiping the rock-hard, unripe green orbs off the branches. Once I’d picked enough, I climbed down and confessed that I could barely sleep the night before in anticipation of collecting enough of them to make a batch of nocino, an Italian liqueur made from unripe walnuts. It took a while for them to figure out what I was talking about. When I returned a few months later with a tub of Vanilla Ice Cream (page 143) and drizzled inky-brown nocino over each scoop, no one questioned my early-morning motives. If you know someone with a walnut tree, give this liqueur a try. And be sure to give them a bottle as a thank you, so you’ll get invited back to gather more green walnuts the following year.

Sabayon is the French version of Italian zabaglione, an airy egg-and-wine custard. It requires a certain amount of energy—and strength—to whip up a batch. If you’ve ever heard a frenzy of whisking coming from the kitchen at an Italian restaurant, you’ve heard why many Italian cooks (especially the sturdy grandmas) have such well-developed arms. But one lick of the boozy, frothy dessert is enough to make you forget those few furious minutes of whipping. If you don’t think you’re up to the task, you can use an electric handheld mixer. But I always feel that if I’ve worked hard to make something, I’ve earned the right to eat it. You can serve the sabayon hot from the stove, although here, it is cooled and whipped cream is added so it can be held before serving.

These cookies are like supersized biscotti, but, unlike biscotti, they’ve never gained wide acceptance outside their native Italy, probably because their name is a bit more of a challenge to pronounce. Thankfully, they’re just as easy to make, and every bit as good.

I love chocolate. But sometimes I want something that’s packed with intense chocolate flavor yet not outrageously rich. These biscotti certainly fit the bill. Italians often add a dash of black pepper to desserts and give them the designation pepato. I share their affection for a hit of peppery flavor in desserts, but feel free to omit the pepper if you’d like.

These barely sweet crisp little cookies are the definitive Italian nibble. Not only do I serve them as perfect bites alongside a ristretto (a “tight” espresso), but I also crumble them up and use the bitter almond-scented crumbs in desserts. They make a perfect topping for Lemon Semifreddo (page 65) and give a decidedly Italian touch to Peach-Amaretti Crisp (page 102). True amaretti are made with sweet apricot kernels rather than almonds, but since apricot kernels can be difficult to find and not everyone’s keen on eating them (they contain cyanide), I call for almonds in this recipe.

It seems during the last decade or so, America has gone completely crazy for coffee drinks. All sorts of overpriced caffeinated concoctions are foisted on the public under the guise of coffee. But there’s nothing you can buy that can beat this simple coffee dessert. Blanco y negro is the Spanish variation of affogato, an Italian creation consisting of an innocent bowl of ice cream drowned in hot espresso; affogato comes from the Italian verb affogare, meaning “to drown.” I’m not fond of dessert names that reference morbid things like drowning and death (as in “death by chocolate”), so I opt for the kinder, gentler Spanish interpretation that refers to snowy, white (blanco) sherbet mingling agreeably with the black (negro) espresso that’s poured over the top. They come together in an unexpected, but very winning, way.

American cheesecake is to Italian cheesecake what slouching around the house in a sweatshirt and jeans is to stepping out on the town in a tailored Armani suit. When I stopped comparing Italian cheesecake to its comfy American cousin, I was finally won over. Made with ricotta cheese instead of pounds of cream cheese and sour cream, it’s lighter and leaner, and perfectly accompanied by fresh fruit compotes or colorful sauces. For best results, use whole-milk ricotta cheese. Or even better, seek out fresh ricotta from a local producer. And be sure to watch it carefully during baking, taking it out when it is just barely set.

While certainly decadent enough on its own as a dip for crusty baguette or chewy ciabatta, this pesto is right at home as a base spread for all sorts of panini. Of course, it’s also a natural tossed in with penne or fusilli pasta (hot or cold), and it makes an excellent marinade or finishing sauce for chicken, salmon, or any delicate whitefish.

I cooked for a lot of crazy signoras when I lived in Italy, and one of them whipped me into shape by insisting that the tomatoes for tomato sauce be put through a food mill first. For the uninitiated, it’s kind of like an old coffee mill, but with a more tightly geared hand crank. In would go the roasted tomatoes, and each crank by hand would squeeze them through holes in the side of the mill. I needed a tube of Bengay for my arms after the first batch, but the result is a far lighter sauce than any store-bought variety. If you’re not up for the workout, just lightly pulse the tomatoes in a food processor.

The Italians are beautiful because they’ve turned what is essentially peasant fare into an internationally renowned cuisine. Take pappa al pomodoro. Fancy, huh? Can you say, “Day-old knot of stale bread in tomatoes and water?” A staple there, a delicacy here. The same goes for minestrone, which I’ve always claimed is Italian for “Whatever is in the pantry goes in the pot!” Actually, minestrone comes from the array of dishes known as cucina povera or “poor kitchen.” It’s a bit of a misnomer, though, as minestrone is rich in vital nutrients, most notably lycopene, a phytochemical in tomatoes that has anticancer properties, especially with prostate cancer.

Like minestrone, this is an Italian standard. Serve it with Bruschetta (page 159) or fresh garlic bread.