Too many cooks (but only of the British kind)

Last night, I decided to play with fire and push the boundaries. It was a Saturday night, I'd had a glass of wine and was in the company of good friends. Feeling a bit cocky, I thought it was time to make the move from dish-washer to sous chef. After five months of observing dinner-prep, my housemates had begun to release their apron strings; occasionally I was asked to taste the food, prior to serving. This seemed to be a sure-sign that my opinion, albeit English, was worth taking into consideration. The next step, I allowed my ego to believe, was active participation, rather than passive commentary.

After much deliberation at the supermarket, my friends had decided to forgo the seasonal choice of pumpkin risotto or pasta with artichokes (they almost choked when I told them I didn't know what to do with fresh artichokes, having only used the ones in jars) to indulge my passion for seafood spaghetti. Naturally, this came with the pre-condition that I pay due attention to the creation of artichoke risotto and pasta next week (not one or the other but both).

In England, whenever I eat at an Italian restaurant I opt for seafood pasta. It's my favourite and something I'm well versed in, having cooked it lots of times at home. When I first arrived in Italy, I was dismayed to find that Italian restaurants only serve fish when located near the sea. Although my Italian friends (not trusting any cuisine that isn't Italian) joke that the local chinese restaurant serves fish caught from the Arno (NB very brown and murky!) It seemed the perfect dish for me to impart some knowledge and prove my clinary worth as a Brit who doesn't eat fish solely of the battered form (or out of newspaper). So for Queen and Country, I did it. I tried to dabble in the Italian kitchen.

Whilst my friend was giving the 'sugo' a final stir, I suggested that she add a drop of wine to the tomato sauce. White wine always enhnaces the flavour of fish - doesn't it? They go together like apples and cheese, marmite and crumpets, jam and scones. I was so convinced that I actually reached for the bottle... only to be rapped with the wooden spoon and a series of tuts. Yes, white wine goes with fish but white wine doesn't go with tomatoes. So there we have it, after five months and one baby step forward (white wine does go with fish - hurrah!), I still have a long way to go before dishing out cooking tips, especially to Italians brandishing cooking utensils.

Ammunition to prevent future knuckle-rapping mishaps:

1) Pesto should never be cooked - the rocket is 'crudo' raw. Stir into the pasta, once the heat is OFF.

2) Pasta requires a handful of salt in the water. Be brave.

3) Oil should be added to pasta once it is cooked - not during. Contrary to British belief, the boiling water does NOT require oil. The pasta will only stick if it's bad quality (yes, the British don't know good pasta from bad pasta... hahaha)

4) Stand to attention at all times and man your post. An Italian will never trust the instructions on the packet - test as you wait.

5) Think outside of the box. The pasta will still be cooking after you've drained it. Allow for this and turn off the heat once the pasta is a little hard.

6) Pasta is important; it takes priority. A pasta dish should consist predominantly of pasta, not sauce. My male housemate has two tablespoons of meat sauce MAX to his spag bol. Apparently mine resembled a mud pie. NB: Do NOT aim to tarmac the road with your 'sugo' (shame)

HOT TIP
Sauce-lovers should always angle for the final serving in the pan (whilst getting brownie points for appearing polite...)

New Take, Old Tradition

Apparently today is the Festa di San Martino. This festival celebrates the products of the season: chestnuts and wine. How do I know this? Via Facebook of course. Last night, a friend 'poked' me to ask how I was honouring Saint Martin. Two seconds later and I was 'Asking Jeeves'. It appears that even with age old traditions, one needs a modern-day reminder of what's 'coming up'. In Italy, it's rare to pass a week without celebrating/commemorating something. Last Sunday it was the 'Blessing of the Tractors' - the modern day farmers' version of the original 'Blessing of the Goats' and this weekend the Italians will be dousing their bruscetta with this year's new oil. It's hardly surprising that in between all the toasts, one needs a 21st century prod in the right direction.

Grub's Up!

Spotted in today's newspaper: 'Se io non ci sono o la nonna e' stanca cucina lui' (If I'm not there or granny's tired, he'll cook) and then as an additional aside 'Anche quando va dalla sua fidanzata' (Also when he's away from his girlfriend). Recounted without any form of bitterness, rather in a complimentary tone. The man can cook. Mama mia! Apparently, this Italian mama has a lot to be proud of...

Time to Kill

No man is an island... and yet when we envisage paradise, we imagine just that: an island, surrounded by an expanse of ocean, as far as the eye can see. So why the 21st century fear of solitude? Why is being alone considered something so terrible, so shameful? The phrase 'time-to-kill' says plenty of this mind-set. The realisation that time has suddenly become yours, whether it's for half an hour or more, is something to dispose of as quickly as possible. The indulgence of a few moments 'breathing space' has become something to avoid via the means of Facebook, Twitter, i-pods, mobile phones, lap tops etc. This form of escapism has become the 21st century way of taking time-out; a way to seek solace, without provoking thought.

During my first long lazy Sunday lunch in Florence, I found myself stealing glances at the Italian woman sitting at the table next to me. Here was a woman who seemed to be utterly un-phased by a lack of dining companion. In fact, she seemed to be wallowing in it. So much so, that she elongated the process by perusing the menu whilst sipping on a glass of prosecco before ordering a starter and main course, accompanied by the waiter's recommendations of wines. I found myself fixated. Not for one minute, did she reach into her handbag to strategically place a mobile phone on the table, or grasp at a book to hide behind. So why do the majority of us struggle to coordinate the use of a knife and fork whilst turning the pages of a book (even worse, newspaper - guaranteed to end up in the gravy)? Head down, eyes glued to the page (or ear strapped to the phone) we use these tools to convince others that we are juggling time, not indulging in it.

Since arriving in Italy, this vision of 'wanton solitude and nothingness' no longer grabs my attention; it’s too ordinary. The commonly used phrase of fare un po’ di niente (to do nothing) carries no shame and is something to actively seek out as highlighted by the unusual use of the verb ‘fare’ meaning ‘to do’. Italians will literally do a little of nothing. Whilst the Italian stereotype of large, boisterous family meals certainly has its place, so does a subtler, but no less enjoyable version. Italians will often enjoy long meals in their own company (without any form of 'phone a friend' life-line). In Italy, there is always a place for the solitary diner who wants to quaff their wine, play with their spaghetti and engage in light conversation with the waiter. Rather than being an isolated island, they're king of their court and enjoying the attention. Perhaps it's a case of the Italian ego enjoying being waited on hand and foot? Whatever it is, phone batteries die, and what then? Maybe we should do as the Italian’s do, stop killing-time, and simply take it instead.

Who's Looking?

Who's Looking?

The Italians, that's who; Italy is the home of the 'spettacolo'. The Italians have no shame in showing their aesthetical appreciation of something that they deem to be beautiful. Walk through Florence on a 'good day', and heads will turn, and turn again and remain that way for a precarious amount of time (chances are, said admirer will be cycling or driving). So what does one do on a good day? Stay inside to prevent a potential collision? No, one struts like a peacock, tail held high. That is if you're Italian of course; a person of another nationality would duck their head and blush (NB Jordan doesn't count).

Now this isn't an earth shattering observation. It's globally acknowledged that Italian life is driven by the aesthetic. One only has to look to the Fashion Houses of Milan and the art in Florence to appreciate the importance of cutting a 'bella figura'. However, what's slightly more insightful is the extent to which this appreciation goes. Far from being a component of the Italian mind-set, it positively engulfs it.

In Italy, bello refers to all number of beautiful things and experiences. For something to be deemed worthwhile, it often requires a degree of referential beauty. While a person will be described as beautiful, so will last night's film and the party held the night before. They too command 'beauty points', if one can refer to them as such. A foreigner may well be flattered to be greeted with 'ciao bella/o' when they enter a shop or cafe. And yet beauty is such an essential component of everyday life, that the reference should be interpreted as just that, a form of reference; not a deeply felt sentiment. Sadly, the barista in the cafe below isn't going to sweep you off your feet with an impassioned declaration of love next time you ask for your usual.

Despite the general use of the word bello, it still holds huge weight. To understand the Italian way, one needs to accept that Italians go about their daily lives with eyes wide open. Far from being rude, it's deemed acceptable to remove a plate of food as soon as the person's taken their last mouthful (and is still chewing). I found this deeply disconcerting at first, especially as I'm a slow eater. My grandpa told me that each mouthful should be chewed one hundred times and whilst I don't pay too much heed to this, my mum would tell me off for 'wolfing' my food down. At first this led to a few blushes on my part; my fellow diners would be free of their plates and I'd still be playing with my spaghetti (god knows what would happen in a Chinese restaurant, I hope the Italians aren't overly adept at using chop sticks). However, I've since learnt to understand that there's no pressure to play catch-up. On the contrary, the Italians will sit for hours allowing their food to digest. It's rather a case of a dirty plate, being considered brutto.

The same rule applies to the food itself. One never mixes components on a plate; an Italian would find it messy and therefore unappetizing (unsurprisingly KFC has yet to introduce the Variety Bucket to the Italian market!). Salads are always served separately, and most often vegetables will come as a side order. Despite being told by an Italian friend that Italian meals are lengthy affairs because eating and talking at the same time simply isn’t feasible (apparently too much energy would be taken up by such multi-tasking – one must eat and then talk), Italian meals are often long because of the number of plates required. Giving yet more weight to the saying that a woman's work is never done in the kitchen!

Of course, examples of such ‘aesthetical infiltration’, don't simply apply to eating etiquette. I took great offense when I was told off for walking behind the bar at the restaurant I work at. Apparently it's not acceptable to do this whilst carrying a handbag. At first, I thought my boss was implying that I could steal something and sneak it into my purse. However, after further investigation I realized that it was considered visually displeasing to the clients. Next step? Trial run of recently acquired fuchsia pink nail varnish? Only if I want to leave with my P45 in hand.

Learning the Lingo

The other day, I was told that Italian is the second hardest language to learn (after Chinese). This claim may have no truth behind it whatsoever, and yes I could google it if I wanted to ascertain whether its fact or fiction, but I'm not going to. When you decide to learn a language you have to expect a roller-coaster ride of ups and downs; you have days (most often evenings, post-apperativo) when you can parli like the best of them, and others when you want to stamp your foot and say ‘but in English...!’ At these points, gratifying nuggets such as the above are like gold dust. You suddenly feel a whole lot of better if you believe your goal is something Bear Grylls would blanch at.

You see, learning a new language turns you into a whining, hollering baby. You constantly feel like you want to throw (sometimes catapult) your toys out of the pram and go running home to mummy, and your mother tongue. You become defenceless, and vulnerable, like Superman minus his fetching cape and oh so tight get-up (imagine him minus his leggings - knock-kneed, white, hairy legs…you get the picture.) Learning a language means starting from scratch. You actually need to think before you speak - something we rarely do in the fast paced world of the 21st century. For the first time, since you were a baby, you have to carve your own path.

This process is slow and requires lots and lots of baby steps - one after the other, after the other. When you tumble, mummy isn’t on hand to ‘make it feel better’. No, you have to pick yourself up and start again; something that requires stamina and a Mary Poppins-sized dose of patience. Yes there are grammar books to ease you through the trauma but languages aren’t static – they’re constantly evolving. As soon as a rule is written down, it’s broken in the next breath. And who wants to sounds like a grammar book anyway? Yes it may be rather sweet to sound like Romeo asking Juliet out on a first date, but when it comes down to the date itself, you want to be able to banter like the best of them and not sound like the Queen, taking tea.

So what do you do? You change. You have to. Patience is a necessity, not an unnecessary condiment on the side. And for the first time, in this fast paced-world, you learn the importance of being very, very humble. Without a cloak to hide behind, the raw nudity of exposure leaves you blushing like the English rose you really are.

Like Clockwork

Italians love routine. They love it like they love their mother's spaghetti bolognaise, for its comfort and simplicity. The thought of mixing it up, breaking with tradition and experimenting with something new is madness in their eyes. What's the point of adding dark chocolate to a perfectly good bolognaise? Play with the ingredients and you'll have your Italian guests pushing their plate away. That's if they've even tried it. Most will shake their heads and reach for their coats. Heston, take note never to to attempt bacon and egg gelato in Italy.

To experience a slice of the real Italy, a degree of routine must be applied to daily life. Not only to avoid paying jumped-up price tags for foreigners who'll never be seen again, but for a place in the ever-whirring machine that is Italy. No man is an island and nowhere is this more poignant than in Italian culture. Whilst many acknowledge the importance of the aesthetic to the Italian mind-set, few realize the emphasis placed on routine.

In England the term, 'local' applies to the pub that one goes to most frequently (perhaps at the end of the week for a cheeky post-work pint before the missus gets home). In Italy, the term local doesn't hold the same connotations because it could be applied anywhere - the grocery store, the cafe below, the restaurant opposite, the list goes on. Everything is local because Italians don't venture far enough to make it anything else. Where do Italians most like to go on holiday? Italy. Where do they go year after year? The beach. Where at the beach? The place they went to last year (and the 10 years preceding that).

Whilst a foreigner might frequent their nearest cafe for a cappuccino at the weekend, their Italian neighbors will pop in before work, during their pausa and most often on their way home. Frequent, for an Italian, means daily or more so. If you ever find yourself waiting tables at a local Italian restaurant, rest assured that your clientele won't change regularly, if at all. Franco will always want a mezza portion of spaghetti pomodoro, with pepperoncino on the side. Every day but Saturday, he will have a soda (lemon, no ice). His lunchtime reading material will always be the Republican and he'll want to finish his meal with a macchiato (cup, tazza grande). Sadly if all the above is adhered to, like clockwork and without prompting, Franco still won't tip. He never does. And what happens on Saturday? He brings his family of course. They take the corner table (because they need room for the dog) and he has a glass of wine, instead of his usual soda.

The best thing to do, as a foreigner, is embrace this sense of routine and do as an Italian would - establish your own. Try spending your pennies at the same venues, and not only will you be purse be fuller as a result, but you'll be met with a smile, an acknowledgment and before long, you'll be handing over your first name with a warm handshake. The only warning that comes with this piece of advice is that your usual will be ready and waiting for you. Do as Italians do and you'll be treated like one (whether you like it or not).