Sorry this is so late, but there has been a family health crisis; to reduce son Riccardo's involvement he and I are at Versilia, the shore just west of Lucca. The cuisine, as one might expect, is rich in seafood, though the Apuan Alps inland also contribute significantly, with game, greens, and other highland foods such as chestnuts or fresh cheeses. You'll find a collection of recipes (primarily fish-based, and mostly light, of the sort that work nicely in the hot summer months), as well as travel info of one sort and another here. In case you've never heard of Versilia, it's about an hour from Florence and is well worth a visit -- there are nice beaches, marble quarries behind Massa and Carrara that have been in operation since Roman times (Michelangelo got his marbles here), sculpture studios where world-renowned artists transform their ideas into finished pieces in Pietrasanta, wild mountains for hikes, eerie caves to visit, castles and churches, and much more.

As is always the case, spending time at the beach means umbrella gossip; prior to the submarine disaster in the Barents Sea and the millions of young people who have invaded Rome to see the Pope, quite a bit was said about the hiring of new teachers for the public schools. The reason? The Italian hiring mechanism differs considerably from that in many other parts of the world: Anyone who has successfully completed the requirements set by the State is considered qualified and has a right to a post; since the applicant pool is much larger than the number of posts available, thousands of people participate in exams called concorsi. Those who pass the written tests are admitted to the orals, and those who do best in the orals get the posts. Imagine the surprise of one of the failed candidates who got her unsatisfactory exam back and discovered her essays had been switched with someone else's -- as had those of a friend hers. She went straight to a judge, who ordered a handwriting analysis, which confirmed the switch, and at that point began to investigate. Turns out that the supposedly anonymous written exams were anything but, and that most of the winners had coughed up bribes of one sort or another -- cash, a month at the beach, jewels (one of the examiners whose phone was tapped was heard asking a candidate for the jeweler's name because she wanted to exchange a pair of earrings), designer clothes, and so on. The examiners did take the economic condition of the examinees into account, so the sums were for the most part small, but that doesn't change the fact that the results of the concorso were tremendously flawed, and now lots of parents have doubts about their children's teachers -- hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash and jewels were found in the safe deposit box of the head of one of the commissions, so the mechanism has been operating for quite a while. In the mean time the excluded have begun a class-action lawsuit.

It would be easy to dismiss this as the sort of thing that only happens in Italy, but it actually says something about the Italian character -- cheating or lying to beat the system has always been considered legitimate by a large segment of the population (a heritage derived from centuries of misgovernment in much of the country). Professors and other examiners are perfectly aware of this, and that's why written exams are only the first step in the process. The real test is the oral, when the candidate stands up before a commission of examiners and answers questions. It's difficult to cheat with the examiners looking at you, especially because the rest of the people signed up to take the exam are usually in the hall, watching. In this case, the system failed because of corrupt examiners.

My thoughts on oral exams, after taking a dozen at the University of Florence? Harrowing: You can be asked anything covered in the syllabus, and the professor may decide to explore something obscure in considerable depth. But they do teach quick thinking (no skipping a question and coming back to it), how to concentrate under fire, and how to ignore distractions (everyone else who's waiting to take the exam or has stopped by to see what it's like is muttering away in the background). In short, excellent training of the sort I think everyone should go through.

On Mostarda

Moving in another direction, a friend recently wrote to say how happy she was with the volume of fruit flooding the markets, and to say she wanted to surprise her mother-in-law with a jar of mostarda. Did I have a recipe? Lest you wonder at my friend, Mostarda is one of those words translators call a false friend -- though what Italians call Mostarda does contain mustard, it's only distantly related to the yellow stuff that gets slathered over hot dogs and such in the US (and is served with fries in cheap eateries in Paris -- much better than ketchup). Italian mostarda is fruit preserved in syrup that gains quite a kick from a healthy jolt of powdered mustard seed, and is one of the standard condiments served with boiled meats in northern Italy (see the ultimate boiled dinner, fit for a king). Though you'll find it from Piemonte on through the Veneto and down into Emilia Romagna, the best known variation is that from Cremona (Mostarda di Cremona), which is also produced commercially. According to Antonio Piccinardi, the word mostarda derives from the French moustarde, which in turn derives from mout ardent, fiery must, which was made by adding powdered mustard seed to unfermented grape must and cooking it down to produce an invigorating condiment. To be honest, I'm not sure why the passage through French is necessary in this case; jams made by boiling down grape must, for example Piemonte's cugnà, are fairly common in northern Italy. Fresh from the pot they tend to be somewhat sharp in addition to being sweet, and work well as condiments, especially with cheeses (so does a good bitter honey like chestnut honey, for that matter). The idea of spicing something like cugnà further by adding ground mustard seed seems fairly obvious, as does the addition of other fruit to the pot; from thence the idea of using the other fruit in syrup rather than grape must is again fairly obvious, and we find ourselves with the classic Mostarda di Cremona.

But where does it come from? I have a feeling it's quite old. In modern Italian cooking there aren't many sweet entrees or sweet sauces served with entrees. In the Middle Ages and Renaissance, on the other hand, sweeteners were hard to come by and consequently prized; dishes that made lavish use of them were primarily enjoyed by the aristocracy. Mostarda of the kind made in Cremona, with its sweetness and its lasciviously voluptuous appearance, would have been perfect in this role. What, you wonder, do Italians call the condiment known as mustard in the English-speaking world? Senape.

And now for a few recipes, drawn from Alessandro Molinari Pradelli's La Cucina Italiana. We'll begin with Mostarda di Carpi, a town in Emilia Romagna that still includes grape must in its recipe, and finish with a couple of Lombard variations made with syrup rather than must, one from Mantova and the other from Cremona.

Mostarda di Carpi

• 4 1/2 pounds (2 k) grape must, filtered though a cloth bag
• 2 1/4 pounds (1 k) apples
• 1 1/2 pounds (750 g) pears
• 1 pound (450 g) quinces
• The zest of an orange, shredded
• The nutmeats from 2 walnuts, ground

Begin by setting the must in a deep pot with the ground nuts and simmer the mixture for at least 10 hours, skimming away the froth every now and then, especially at the beginning. When the must is almost done simmering, wash and peel the fruit, then slice it thinly. Then stir the fruit and the orange peel into the must, which will have thickened considerably by this point, and simmer everything for an hour more. Transfer the mostarda to clean sterile jars, seal them, and store it in a cool dark place. Serve it with boiled meats, cold cuts, and roasts.

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Mostarda Mantovana

• 1 1/3 pounds (600 g) tart apples
• 1 1/3 pounds (600 g) tart pears
• 1 pound 2 ounces (500 g) sugar
• 3 to 6 drops of mustard essence (an oil I believe; you may have to visit a spice shop for this) per pound (500 g) of mostarda obtained

Peel and core the fruit, then slice it finely and put it in a bowl, sprinkling sugar over the slices as you go. Cover the fruit with the remaining sugar and let it macerate for 48 hours, covered, in a cool dark place. At the end of this interval you'll find a syrup in the bottom of the bowl. Transfer the syrup to a pot, bring it to a bowl for a couple of minutes, then pour it back over the fruit. Let the fruit rest 24 hours more, repeat the process, and then do so again the day after. The day after the final boiling of the syrup, transfer everything to a pot and simmer the mixture gently to drive off most of the liquid. When it has thickened, let it cool, stir in the mustard essence, and transfer it to sterile jars. It's perfect with boiled meats.

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Mostarda di Cremona

This is what most Italians think of when they hear the word mostarda. It's voluptuous, and though something of an acquired taste (like fine whisky, for that matter), can be addictive. Since the fruit is not finely sliced, you should select pieces that look perfect.

You'll need:

• 12 ounces (300 g) pears
• 8 ounces (200 g) quinces
• 6 ounces (150 g) cherries
• 8 ounces (200 g) apricots
• 10 ounces (250 g) figs
• 8 ounces (200 g) peaches
• 3 tablespoons powdered mustard seed
• 3 1/2 cups (800 g) sugar
• 2 cups white wine vinegar

Begin by preparing the fruit, keeping the individual kinds separate. You need simply wash the cherries and figs. Wash the apricots and make slices in them to extract the pits; do the same with the peaches, or cut them into halves or quarters if they're large. Peel, core and quarter the pears and quinces.

Heat about a quart of water in a large pot, and when it begins to simmer slowly stir in the sugar. When it has all melted, add the quinces. Simmer 20 minutes, then add the pears. Then the peaches, apricots, and cherries & figs, at five minute intervals. When you've added everything, simmer the mixture for 10 minutes, then turn off the flame and let it cool.

In the meantime, heat the vinegar, and stir in the mustard, then let the mixture cool.

Transfer the fruit from the syrup to sterile jars with a slotted spoon. Mix the syrup and the vinegar mixture, pour the resulting sauce over the fruit, seal the jars, and store them in a cool dry place. Perfection with boiled dinner!

Last thing: If you visit a well stocked delicatessen you will likely find commercially prepared mostarda di Cremona on the shelves. Be forewarned; since many non-Cremonesi like the idea of mustardy hotness much better than the actuality, commercial mostarda is generally toned down.

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Hope for Traditional Foods!

Winding down, a few months ago I discussed the assault that the EEU health people have launched against traditional European gastronomical specialties, for example cheeses aged in caves (unsanitary, say the inspectors, despite the centuries-old traditions). Something is beginning to move on the conservation front; the Italian regions have assembled a list of traditional foodstuffs that will (we hope) be exempted from European sanitary codes; we can hope that the new laws will also prevent agribusiness from making cheap surrogate versions of the specialties. Tuscany tops the list with 302 specialties, ranging from specific strains of beans and peaches to Pienza's pecorino cheese and the testaroli made at Pontremoli (which are ideal with pesto sauce. For the complete list, see http://www.arsia.toscana.it.

Pan Pesce

Finally, this week's issue of Panorama magazine mentions Lino Bottoni, the mayor of San Remo, a city on the Ligurian coast (west of Genova) that's famed for its flowers, and for hosting the annual Festa della Canzone Italiana, a major songfest. Turns out that Mr. Bottoni is well liked by the press because he speaks his mind; when asked about the conspicuous consumption that's all the rage among vacationers visiting San Remo this year, he said it was time people rediscovered pan pesce (fish bread), one of the standard frugal Ligurian dishes of Yore. And gave the recipe:

Take a nice gilt head bream (in the past people used fish scraps, he noted) caught in the sea rather than raised, boil it until done, and then pick over it by hand to remove all the flesh, leaving bones, skin, fins and whatnot behind. Set the flesh to soak with crumbled bread and milk (you'll want the same volume of bread and fish, I'd think, and enough milk to moisten the mixture well). Add to the mixture a hint of minced garlic, a small bunch of minced parsley, salt, Ligurian olive oil (since he's from the Riviera di Ponente, he'll be using Taggiasca oil, which is quite delicate), and two egg yolks. Whip the whites to fairly firm peaks, fold them into the mixture, and pour the mixture into a greased oven dish. Bake the pan pesce in an oven preheated to 360 F (180 C) for about a half hour. It will be good hot or cold, and will keep for a couple of days. The wine? A Vermentino di Ponente.

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A presto,

Kyle
Webweaver, About Italian Cuisine

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