a conversation with Alana Chernila


Alana Chernila is a food writer, author, and cooking teacher based in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, where she lives with her husband and two daughters. She is the author of three cookbooks: The Homemade Pantry, The Homemade Kitchen, and Eating from the Ground Up, all published by Clarkson Potter. She teaches classes through Craftsy and blogs at Eating from the Ground Up. You’ll also find her at the Indian Line Farm stand at the Great Barrington Farmers’ Market on Saturday mornings, a gig that first sparked her interest in cooking and food writing.

In the interview, we touch on her life-changing experience at St. John’s College, how to approach food without fear, and why so much restaurant cooking is disappointing.


Justin Naylor: Thanks so much for making the time to talk today. I’m really excited, among other reasons, because we both went to the same college, St. John’s, which is famous for changing lives. Could you briefly describe St. John’s for those who are unfamiliar with it, and how your time there has affected the person you are now and the work that you do?

Alana Chernila: St. John’s is a Great Books college, and it’s really the only one of its kind in the country. The curriculum covers the history of thought in Western civilization from the Greeks all the way up until the 20th century. Everyone is committed to the exact same curriculum, so the whole school can have conversations about the same works, from philosophy and literature to math and science. Before St. John’s, right out of high school, I went to NYU for theatre. I dropped out really fast, after a semester. After a lot of twists and turns, I was waitressing at a restaurant in my hometown, and I had a friend who was about ten years older than I was. She said, “I went to Harvard, but I really wish I had gone to St. John’s.”

So I went and ended up doing well, but it was really hard and I struggled a lot, especially with math. I remember leaving junior year math tutorial every day and just crying. I hadn’t taken calculus and it just seemed so impossible. But somehow I got through it and ended up being a sort of model Johnnie in my senior year. I actually ended up winning an award at graduation!

After I graduated, I felt like a whole different person from who I was before. I thought of applying for a Fulbright and becoming an academic. I thought about going to medical school, or becoming a lawyer. Like a lot of Johnnies, I walked out and just felt like every option was open because I learned that even if we think we’re one kind of person, if we give ourselves the chance to work through something we can really be any kind of person. And I don’t think I could have ever gotten that lesson without St. John’s.

JN: And that’s the the main takeaway from SJC in regard to what you’re doing now?

AC: Exactly. I felt the world was so opened to me. But then a month later I got pregnant. My husband is also a Johnnie, and we graduated together. We met senior year, so we were newly together, but we had decided already that we would get married. We got pregnant, and then somehow what ended up happening was I had to apply all of that Oh, I can do anything, to OK, I can have a baby and be a mom. And it was the right lesson for that also, you know?

JN: Absolutely. After graduating, how did you end up focusing on food?

AC: It was a pretty wandering path. For about five years, I did all sorts of jobs. I had our second child less than two years after our first, so I did anything that would allow me to be with them and make some money. At one point, I opened a school out of my house for homeschoolers that was a mini-St. John’s, so I was teaching things like Euclid to high schoolers. I did that for a while, then I worked for a film director and traveled around the world with a film. I did all sorts of strange things because I was just open to whatever came to me.

JN: Did you travel with the kids?

AC: No, they were a little bit older, so I could leave. Then I worked for my stepfather, who is an architect, and started studying green building. I was just trying to figure it out; I was going all over the place. Through it all, I was also working at the farmers’ market, just as a job.

JN: Back in Massachusetts at that point?

AC: Yes, we were back in Great Barrington, and I was working at the farmers’ market, just sort of struggling. I was having that thing that people often have in their late twenties when they feel like they have to figure out what they’re doing in the world. I really, really loved working at the farmers’ market because I was talking to people about recipes. I didn’t really know how to cook; I grew up around food, and my mom is a great cook. I wasn’t a great cook, but I was having to teach myself how to cook all these different vegetables, and I loved having these kinds of conversations with people, like, Seven things you can do with a radish. It took me a while to realize that I was coming home from the farmers’ market totally charged and pumped. One night, I’m having a drink with a friend and I’m like, Woe is me, I don’t know what to do with my life; I love the market… and she said, “Well, you should start a blog, and then you can start writing your recipes down.” This was before everyone had a blog; this was 2008. I left the restaurant, and in the car ride home it took me five minutes; I was like, I’m going to start a blog when I get home, and it’s going to be called ‘Eating from the Ground Up.’ I came home and I started a website right there, and I wrote my first post. That became kind of my lifeline. I was starting to keep track of these recipes for vegetables, and I found that writing about food opened me up and gave me a push to be able to write what was going on in my life —  parenthood and marriage and all the things that I lived with. It was like things would magically come together and I would sit down and I would just write. I had about two readers, but even those two readers made me feel like I wanted to create something for them.

I started to get really into this idea of making my own food staples. I started with yogurt, and because I had this forum on the blog to actually talk about it, it inspired me to keep going until I could really get it down. I did yogurt, I learned how to make cheese, granola, just simple things. These posts were the things that people really liked. I thought, What can I make next? How can I make a Ritz cracker? It got really fun. My kids were little, they were 3 and 5, so it was a fun time to be cooking. I started searching around – I feel like this is the origin story for so many books, but this is what really happened – I started searching around for books that could help me figure out how to make more things, and I found that there were very few resources. I was thinking about that, and somebody, again, said, “Well, why don’t you write the book?” and I was like, What? That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know how to make this stuff! One of the jobs I had had was working for someone in publishing, and I brought the idea to her, and she was like, “You’re going to do this. This absolutely needs to happen.” She connected me with a few agents, and one of them was crazy enough to take me on, even though I had two readers and no platform.

JN: That’s really interesting to me, too, because so often aspiring cookbook writers are told that they won’t even be considered without some massive platform.

AC: Well, I got lucky because I connected with a really amazing human being. He’s still my agent now. When people come to me who are feeling excited about trying to write a book, and they get sad because maybe they don’t have a million followers on Facebook, or whatever, I always say that I actually think that even though we hear that platform is everything, the truth is that editors and agents really want good books. They’ll fight for good books, even if it’s someone where nobody knows who they are. I’ve seen that over and over again, not just with me, but with other writers too. They want it; it means that publishing is alive. It’s not just about numbers. When you find something that speaks to you, you fight for it. You have to talk that line, about the platform, but I always tell people not to be scared or intimidated by that. I think there’s a lot of space for writers who might not be coming at it with that sort of platform behind them.

JN: In your first book, The Homemade Pantry, your writing has a really nice balance of confidence and self-deprecation. You’re honest about what you don’t know, and there are a lot of funny stories about that kind of thing in the book. Was it a conscious choice to balance these two things, or is it just who you are? I find it very effective and appealing.

AC: Good, I’m so glad! I think it’s really who I am, and it goes back to my St. John’s days. I think I did well there because I always asked good questions. You know the person at the table who’s like, “Hold on, can we go back? What’s going on?” And then half the room would be like, Oh, thank God somebody asked. [Laughter] So, it’s sort of the same thing, I think, in my writing recipes. There are things that I know, and there are things that I do well, but there are so many things that I don’t know and I don’t understand. I feel like I can often get to more understanding through practice and exploration, but I feel like it’s so important to come to the kitchen with a sense of humor. Because the fact is, the worst thing that’s going to happen in the kitchen is that your food is going to come out terrible, and if you have any sense of experimentation and adventure in the kitchen, it’s going to happen quite a bit – or at least, sometimes.

From the very beginning, it always felt good to me to be writing from a place where people felt like I was in the kitchen with them. You know, I always say, Here I am, I’m right at your shoulder. We have a couch in the kitchen, so say I’m sitting on the couch, I’m drinking a glass of wine, and I’m telling you what you should be seeing or not seeing, or if you mess up, how to fix it – just coming from a place of that sort of beginner feeling and sense of humor, and just not taking yourself so seriously. That always felt like where I wanted to be in the kitchen, and that was always the attitude that I wanted to share.

JN: Do you feel like a lot of cookbooks you see take themselves too seriously?

AC: I do, I do. And I feel like it doesn’t often do a service to the reader, because it so often excludes them from the promise of the book. I feel that way often with a lot of cheffy, restaurant-y cookbooks. It’s like a party that you’re watching from the outside window, you know? It’s not just about the humor; I feel like a lot of my responsibility to the reader is also to be really thorough and clear and really good with my instructions. They’ve taken the time to read my book, and I’d better make it worth their while. I feel like that’s the other side: yes, I’m there with a sense of humor, and I’m trying to make sure that they don’t take themselves too seriously, but I also don’t want to let them down. Hopefully I can give them the tools, all the different words and descriptions that are going to help them learn how to create what they want to make.

JN: I can imagine that a lot of people who see the book think, Oh, I don’t have time. I can’t make pop-tarts from scratch, I can’t even find time to make ricotta, or whatever. What kind of compelling case would you make for why people might really try to find the time to make these things at home that can be so easily purchased?

AC: First, I think it’s important to come to that question without a sense of guilt. I think a lot of people, when they think about making things at home, feel guilty already that they don’t, or they feel self-righteous that they never would, or judgmental of those who do. Because there’s all these self-protections and insecurities. There is this image of that parent, or whoever, who’s home all day and has the luxury of endless time, and just makes everything. Their pantry is a perfect assortment of homemade jars of this and that, there’s the chickens out back, and the garden that all gets preserved in Mason jars. That is a real aspiration, but it’s easy to judge, because it’s like, who has time for that, right? So, I often encourage people to step out of that idea of what they should be doing, or their judgments of things, and then to think about one thing that they might want to create – if there’s one food that they love so much and they feel excited at the idea of making it themselves. Often, yogurt is a really great gateway.

JN: And it’s one where, I think, you actually would save money.

AC: It actually is cheaper, yeah, and it tastes great. Sometimes bread is the gateway for people, because it’s so satisfying to make. Everyone has their own food like that. Then, I see it over and over again: you make that one food, and when it works and you love it, the sense of satisfaction and buzz around that one recipe is so powerful. It’s like, all you need is to make your own granola and you feel self-sufficient. You feel like a pioneer! Whatever it is, it is deeply satisfying. Sometimes all you need is that one thing, and you just stay with that one thing. That’s enough. Or sometimes one thing leads to another, and then because you love to make it, you make the time. I think you have to start with the love, and the time comes. If you try to create the time, then you’re sort of going about it backwards, because you’re always going to find other things to do.

JN: Right! That seems really important to me. I had someone point out to me once that we tend to do the things that we are good at. People always say that they don’t have time to cook, but I always thought, What are you talking about? You find time to work out every day! If you can get someone to feel competent – to actually enjoy something, like you say – then they’re willing to spend time on something that they feel empowered about. But if it’s the other way, it’s not going to work. I think that’s really important and interesting, and I haven’t heard that point made very often in public. So, I’m glad you’re making it.

AC: Yes, and it’s the way that I operate. As humans, we’re so funny: we don’t ever do the things that are good for us. You know what I mean? We all know we should be meditating, and doing this, and doing that, but why are those things so hard to do? Well, because there are so many other things we want to do! If we can start with the want, and just find that one thing that gives us pleasure, then that’s such an easier gateway into that process.

JN: Something else we don’t feel like we have time for, which you also write about in your books, is socializing over food. The potluck, the dinner party, this sort of thing – it has really died, for a couple of reasons. Time is one, but even if people do want to visit with friends over food, it tends to happen at a restaurant and not in people’s homes, for some of the same reasons – they feel insecure, they don’t know what to cook, they don’t feel like their cooking is good enough, etc. It seems like you guys have really prioritized that. Do you have a weekly event, or a monthly event?

AC: Yes, for a couple of years we had a group that met every week, every Tuesday.

JN: Could you talk a little bit about not only the value of cooking for ourselves and our families at home, but the value of sharing our cooking with our friends? What can we do to foster that, in a culture that feels like there’s not time to even cook a simple meal for ourselves, let alone carve away a whole evening to visit with neighbors and friends?

AC: Yeah, I think it is hard to make time for that. Again, it’s so easy to fill our lives with other things. This Tuesday group that we had for a couple of years was started by a friend of mine who was so driven to make it happen – and that really helped, we had this taskmaster. Unfortunately, he moved away, so now we meet every so often, but I’ve actually been thinking that we need to bring it back. I’m starting to feel motivated again. A big part of its success was that you had to go. There was a theme every week, so that would help guide your cooking. But you had to cook. There was no bringing, like, bread and cheese or anything – you just had to do it. Everyone had to host equally; when it was your turn, it was your turn. Unless you were sick, you had to go. There was no backing out. That was really helpful, because the thing is, so often, it would be Tuesday and it would be six o’clock, and I’m struggling to pull my dish together, and then I drag myself there, and all of a sudden my life is just totally different. I’m sitting and drinking a glass of wine with friends, and I’m in this enchanted world because I’m sharing it with people. I would never have been able to pull myself out of my life that way.

JN: How, if at all, is it different from just meeting your friends at a restaurant or a bar?

AC: There’s a couple of reasons. One is that it’s free, which is really important. I mean, it’s not free, since you have to buy the food, but, you know, it’s expensive to go out. We live in the Berkshires, and it’s really expensive to go out. So it’s certainly not something that you do every week. But the thing is, I find that food cooked by friends at home always tastes better. Maybe it’s just because I know a lot of good cooks, but I find that things are fresher and more delicious, and I always enjoy the food more. Also, the experience of hosting is so important, because we, or at least I, get so wrapped up in this idea of having a perfect house and having it be really clean and this and that. It’s important to remember that when you just open up your space to people, people are so happy to be invited over, always. You can invite people over and give them peanut butter and jelly for dinner and they’re going to be so excited that you invited them over and they’re at someone else’s house and they’re not cooking at home and watching Netflix! It doesn’t matter what you cook. It’s really good to remember that. In the end, we might not get together too often these days, like you said, but everybody knows that it’s good to do it – because when you do it, you’re like, This is the best!

JN: You are one of the few people I’ve ever heard say that home cooking is actually more satisfying and more delicious than most restaurant cooking. Because my background is in Italy, I got that lesson early on, mostly from Marcella Hazan, who said the home is always the standard, and that in Italy the best compliment you can give to a restaurant is that its cooking tastes of the home. I’m really interested and excited to hear you say that; very few people seem to believe that. A lot of ambitious home cooks seem like they’re chasing after this restaurant perfection, so I’m wondering why it is that you think that home cooking is not only more satisfying but actually more delicious.

AC: It’s so interesting, what you say about Italy. My theory as to why as to why restaurant food is not so delicious… you know, sometimes I feel – this is a little controversial – sometimes I feel like women make better food than men. So often, the chefs are men in restaurants. Some people get really mad at me when I say that, and I totally understand why. It’s a very gendered stereotype. But occasionally, I’ll find an all-women-owned restaurant, and the food is usually really good.

JN: I tend to agree. What’s the difference, do you think?

AC: I feel – again, I’m going to work on some stereotypes here – that based on my experience, there’s a real ego that men tend to have in the kitchen when they’re in restaurants. I think ego makes food taste bad. You can taste it! And it often comes out as oversalting, or things like that. Weird things. Often, I think there’s less ego from women in the kitchen. Actually, when I went to Italy recently, I got the opportunity to interview this really amazing Italian female chef who teaches kitchen leadership all over the world. She was talking about the difference between men and women in the kitchen in Italy. She was talking about how a lot of it is how you treat your staff, how you relate to your staff, and how the food comes out differently when your staff feels love in being in the kitchen. She said, “I do not scream, and that’s the difference.” So I do think there’s a real gender divide, and it’s palpable in the flavor of the food. But I also think, on a more basic level: say you’re coming over for dinner, and I’m making you dinner. I’m tasting as I go, and I’m making food that I want to eat. So, maybe I know what you like, or maybe we’ve talked and I’m excited to share something in particular with you, and I’m really looking forward to sitting down at the table and eating it with you. I’m tasting it, I’m making sure that it meets my standards. It’s a different process, and I think that process creates better-tasting food. That’s just not what happens in a restaurant.

JN: I don’t think people realize the kind of assembly-line, premade nature of so much restaurant cooking. This is overly harsh, but so much restaurant cooking is basically reheated leftovers.

AC: It really is! Everything has been prepped twelve hours earlier. It’s very different [from home cooking]. Yeah, it’s true, everything was cooked yesterday and then you just, like, put it in the Salamander.

JN: On a different subject, you write in yours books, convincingly and powerfully, about body image and health, especially for women, but it obviously applies to both genders. Specifically, you write about not being afraid of food – you have a whole chapter about that in The Homemade Kitchen. Could you talk about your views on this subject and how they evolved over time?

AC: I’m a mother of two daughters, who are now 13 and 15. I came from a family of round women and inherited that myself, of women with bellies, Eastern European people. And as most people do, I grew up with all these conflicting ideas of what I was supposed to look like and what I was supposed to eat. I went through my own difficult times of trying to control and exercise too much. By the time I realized I was settled in thinking about food, it became a real priority for me to do whatever I could to create a different world for my girls to live in. I just feel like the amount of energy we put into thinking about what we eat and how it makes our bodies look is way too much – this a generalization, but it’s true for most women and probably most humans. It’s so much energy, and it’s such a diversion from what’s important. It sucks up all the energy. I just didn’t want that for them.

I feel that especially in our contemporary food culture, with all these diets and health trends, there are so many people telling you exactly what you should eat and how it will make you feel like a superhero. Making certain foods evil – sugar is evil, dairy is evil, pick your poison – just increases that feeling of obsession about what we eat and what it does to us. I also feel like so many of those diets, although they are really helpful for some people, sort of parade as one thing — but often, weight loss is at the bottom of them, [implying] that if we just could eat this perfect way, we would be so thin and so glowy, and have endless energy. I think it tries to get around the fact that human bodies are painful and mortal, and sometimes dimpled and not smooth, sometimes shaped differently than we wish they were. But also, they work so well, and they have such a capacity for pleasure and good things. I wanted to tap into that. My writing has always been about the pleasure of food, because I think that’s how I can negate [the other attitude]. I eat the things that make me feel joy and pleasure, and I cook the things that make me feel pleasure. It’s hard to live in this world where everyone is a size 0, but it helps to tap into the things that feel good in our bodies.

JN: You write in one of your books that enjoyment itself might be a nutrient, which I think is a great way to put it. But if I could play devil’s advocate for moment, what about someone who takes it too far, as in, I know it’s not good for me, but I really enjoy fast food? I really like having lunch at McDonald’s every day, because it’s quick and it’s cheap and it’s tasty. Where do you draw the line, or when might someone decide to make some changes for the sake of health?

AC: Yeah, I’m married to a fast-food lover. I think that the process of learning what feels good, and eating for pleasure, can help strengthen the skill of intuitively feeling what feels good in your body. Even the most fast-food-loving people that I know, including my husband, can feel when it’s too much. Place and circumstance have so much to do with how good things are. Maybe it’s a Friday afternoon, and I was so hungry after work that I got a cheeseburger from McDonald’s and I sat and ate it, and it was the most amazing thing, and I’ve never had something so delicious. That’s great, but maybe the next day it feels like, Two cheeseburgers in two days? Too much. Maybe I’m being too idealistic, saying that, but I really do think that we have the ability to moderate ourselves if we trust ourselves. Yes, dessert is delicious, but wait, I ate too much dessert and now I don’t feel well. So if we can tune into it and not feel guilty that we ate too much, we can just think, OK, next time I’m pulling back a little bit.

JN: I’m really happy to hear you say that about fast food, because – maybe this isn’t fair – my guess is that most people who are making their own granola and tofu, and so on, probably have a much more judgmental attitude about fast food.

AC: Totally.

JN: I really don’t want my kids to be afraid of any food either, and as long as they can learn to moderate their choices, there’s really no food that is without some merit at some time and in some place.

AC: Yeah, why deny yourself the thing that is perfect in that moment? I have this memory when I was working at a coffeeshop when I was eighteen. I remember there was this woman who used to come in every day with her kid who was four or five. The mom would say, “Do you want a cookie?” and the kid would say, “Yeah, I want chocolate chip,” and the mom would be like, “Are you sure that’s what you want?” and the kid would be like, “Uh-huh,” and the mom would be like, “Are you sure?” – “Uh-huh,” – this mom was teaching this kid not to trust what they wanted! I just thought, I’m never going to do that.

JN: Right on! That’s great.

AC: I just feel like we’re good at understanding what feels good if we can trust ourselves and not feel guilty. I think everything has its place. Gosh, I love a good Five Guys burger and milkshake on a roadtrip. That’s the best! So, yeah, I am very much about every food having its place. Leave it to the person to figure out what feels good for them. That’s definitely what I try to live by, myself.

JN: How successful have you been with your daughters, communicating that message to them? Have they been able to adopt that way of thinking?

AC: I’m so proud of who they are and how they both navigate through the world, so I feel like in that way, yes, I feel successful. But I think, like I said, it’s hard to be in a human body, and even harder to be in a teenage one. They are both their own people, who are navigating food in their own way, but they both really love to cook and they both enjoy eating food and they have things that they love. They both like sharing food with other people and cooking for other people. That feels like success. But especially around parenting, I never can get too cocky. It’s the most humbling experience.

JN: Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, you get punched in the gut.

AC: Exactly! But they’re just such neat people. My older daughter loves to cook more, my younger daughter is a really amazing baker. They love that, and I love cooking and eating with them. They’ve both been cooking since they were little, and that’s a really nice thing. I’ve written about this a lot, but I always felt really intimidated by all the writers who talk about cooking with their kids, because I found that I couldn’t cook with my kids. Especially when they were little, it would just drive me crazy. My only way of dealing with it would be just walking out of the room and saying, I’ll help you if you need it; just call me for help.

JN: So, they cook on their own, with space and autonomy, and whatever comes out, comes out.

AC: And they own it. That’s been really successful for us.

JN: Do you have any advice for parents who are struggling with kids who are really picky eaters and reluctant to try new foods?

AC: I have one adventurous eater and one less-adventurous eater. I guess my only piece of advice is, don’t listen to the advice. [Laughter] Every piece of advice I ever got around picky eaters was just not true. It was like, Keep putting food in front of them, they have to taste it twenty times… none of those things ever worked for me. The truth is, my younger daughter – who certainly eats more and more as she gets older – certain textures just gross her out so much. That’s just not going to change. She’s very sensitive to that, so I trust her. I try not to gross her out. So much of that advice just makes people feel guilty. Like, if they were doing it better, then their kids would be eating quinoa.

JN: It makes parents feel guilty, and it makes kids feel guilty too.

AC: Right, and it puts too much focus on the food, and then at dinner it’s like, Well, just have one bite… argh!

JN: If we could shift focus again… I learned to cook from books, but I often feel that as a result it took me a lot longer than it would have if I had been able to cook at the side of an experienced cook. I love cookbooks, but in some ways it seems like a strange way to learn to cook. Since you also teach cooking, maybe you could reflect a little bit about that.

AC: Actually, I learn really well from cookbooks. I’m someone who, if I watch a video on how to do something, I am lost. It’s funny, because I actually teach with Craftsy, which is an online cooking platform. I have about 4500 students. People love it. But I’ve tried to take Craftsy classes myself, and I just can’t watch someone do something and then feel like I want to do it. For me, I need someone to talk me through it and I need to do it with my own hands, and then I learn it. So, I think it all depends on how you learn. I’m also not someone who would ever take a cooking class, even though I teach them! I need to work through something myself. I have sometimes taken cheesemaking classes to learn more skills – I’ve certainly taken classes to learn things that I didn’t know how to do — but it’s useless for me if I’m not doing it every step of the way.

JN: You have this feauture in many of your recipes called “Tense Moments”, which is fantastic. For one thing, it’s funny. It also really gets at the heart of cooking, because there really are so many tense moments where you’re not sure if it’s right or what to do. You’re making this custard, and it says, Cook it over medium heat for five minutes. It doesn’t tell you anything about what should be going on, or what happens.

AC: – what happens if it curdles! Exactly!

JN: Why aren’t more cookbook writers including that kind of information, their own tense moments? To me it seems really rare.

AC: Because it shows so much vulnerability.

JN: Yes, that’s right. People want to pretend it’s the recipe that makes the dish and not a cook, a human being.

AC: You have to admit that your recipe might fail. Sometimes people are coming to these recipes being like, I am bringing you a golden recipe that will change your life and will never fail. But every recipe takes a different form in every kitchen, and you have to give people the tools to get through it.

JN: Which really goes back to what you were saying before about ego in restaurant chefs; people don’t want to be vulnerable. Even back at St. John’s, in class, people don’t want to be vulnerable – and yet, if you have the kind of confidence to express some vulnerability, people love it, because everyone’s in the same boat whether they want to admit it or not.

AC: Right, because they see themselves, and they feel invited into your experience.

JN: Speaking of ego: social media. I know it’s a huge subject, but could you give us some brief reflections on the pros and cons, especially surrounding food?

AC: Well, I have to be totally honest with you: if I didn’t have to be on it, I would be out of there so fast. Of course, I don’t have to be, but I sort of have to be. From my own personal experience, I feel like the moment I start to think about how to report about what’s happening in this moment, I’m gone from the moment. So, say I’m in the kitchen, and the light is just right, and I’m stirring something, and everything’s just perfect. And instead of saying, Oh, what a moment, I’m like, Oh, I should share this moment with my readers. It just takes me completely out, and I don’t like living that way. So I try to be pretty careful; I try to shut it off sometimes. But the upside is that it is lovely to be able to connect with people in that way. Social media is often so unrehearsed and unscripted. It goes back to that vulnerability — I think in the best moments, we can connect with people’s lives and feel kindred with them through those moments, and the connections can be really beautiful. I’ve experienced that as well. But I think that I certainly focus, myself, on trying to show “un-beautiful” food. Aspirational living is a trap that is easy to fall into, and I think Instagram really propagates that. I run into that, myself, even beyond social media. In my first two books, there are all these photographs of my family and my house, and people are like, Do you live like that? In a way, sure – that’s my family, and it wasn’t like there was a big movie crew that came in and created our life – it’s snapshots. But no, you know? I don’t live that way! I’m always trying to remind people that stories are coming from a certain angle, and my publisher’s job and my job is to sell a life, but I need that life to include imperfection, because it feels dishonest otherwise. Even so, it still looks beautiful, because it’s on the pages, you know?

JN: I’d like to wrap up by asking about your newest book, Eating from the Ground Up, which has just been recently published.

AC: I started to tell you the story of the farmers’ market. That’s actually when I started this current book. The first two books were sort of diversions. This book is named for the name of my blog, so this is the book that I’ve been working on since the beginning, which is really satisfying for me. It shares much less of my life and my family; I feel like I’ve learned how to write a recipe, and I get to share that now. It’s been an education, and I feel like I’ve gotten to a place where I can really write that book that I started back then.

JN: So, if the first book filled this niche, where you couldn’t find books about how to make these things from scratch, what do you think is the need out there that this book is trying to fill?

AC: Right now there are so many vegetable books out there, because vegetables are certainly having a moment. But I feel like most of the vegetable books are showing us how to elevate vegetables and make them cheffy, or hide them and turn them into rice or noodles, or call them something else, or purée them into cinnamon buns and sneak them into our kids’ bellies. It’s always like, You need to eat more vegetables, here’s how to do it. It’s so painful!

JN: As if eating vegetables is a chore and not pleasure.

AC: Right, we have to call it a noodle or else we’ll never eat zucchini. This book really came from this idea, where I think that most people cook a few vegetables really well. I make really good steamed broccoli; that’s what my mother made for me when I was a kid. I was a super-picky kid. When I make it, I steam it just the right amount, and then I add tamari and olive oil. People love to eat it, and they’re like, How did you make this broccoli? Or somebody makes really great roasted cauliflower. Everyone has those recipes that they make. And so, I wanted to collect those super-simple vegetable recipes that show how to cook vegetables well, so that we weren’t hiding them or elevating them, but just preparing them in a delicious way. You could think of it as a book of techniques and recipes, so you could just look in your fridge – I have kale and Swiss chard, so what am I going to do? I had ideas for cooking them well, and I wanted to just get back to that simplicity, which is how I like to relate to vegetables. They’re just good!

JN: It’s been super fun to talk, thanks so much!

AC: Thank you so much!

a conversation with Rachel Roddy

rachel roddy

Photo credit: Elena Heatherwick

Rachel Roddy is a British food writer, blogger, and the author of Five Quarters (in the US, My Kitchen in Rome) and Two Kitchens: Family Recipes from Sicily and Rome, as well as a weekly column in The Guardian. Rachel has lived in the Testaccio neighborhood of Rome for 13 years, and that neighborhood has been the inspiration for most of her writing. More recently, she and her family have been spending time in Sicily as well, based in the town of Gela, where her partner was born and still has relatives.

Rachel was gracious enough to be interviewed over lunch at one of her favorite trattorie in Testaccio, La Torricella, and the dishes we enjoyed feature prominently in our conversation. In the interview, we talk about what Rachel finds so compelling about Testaccio, why she prefers Roman trattorie to more formal restaurants, and the challenges and joys of raising her son in Italy.


Justin Naylor: Thanks for making time for this interview today, especially over lunch at this beautiful trattoria! What struck me when I saw your first cookbook was that it was very personal, while many cookbooks these days, however gorgeous, lack a strong sense of personality or identity. That was the thing that first drew me to your writing. I was wondering if that was intentional or just a subconscious expression of who you are?

Rachel Roddy: I began as a blogger, so that was where it came from. Sections of Five Quarters are lifted directly from my blog. Everything was edited, and bits were rewritten, and the recipes were tested, but essentially I was a blogger. I arrived in Rome in 2005, and began writing the blog online in 2008. Before that, I was keeping notebooks, and sort of mimicking the food writers that I like. I’ve always read a lot of food writing, as opposed to just recipe books, so I was very inspired by Jane Grigson and Elizabeth David, who always had a sense of narrative. Also Nigel Slater, whose book The Kitchen Diaries is a kind of cookbook in diary form. And the blogs I was reading were mostly American blogs. I still keep an eye on a young woman called Molly Wizenberg, who was a chef. It was narrative, telling a story into a recipe. That’s what my blog was based on, and that’s the strongest vein in Five Quarters. It’s a diary form, with recipes, and history, and geography woven in.

JN: Could you describe what the neighborhood of Testaccio is like, what brought you here, and what has kept you here for thirteen years?

RR: Well, I always say it’s shaped like a piece of cheese. It’s a very distinct geographical shape. This wedge, which is like one quarter of a wheel of cheese, is one of the quarters that I refer to in the title of my book. In 2005, I had been in Sicily and was living in Rome up near Termini, and I’d been going to language school. My best friend came to visit, and she wanted to come to Testaccio. I had read the name in books, but I had never been. I remember looking at it in the book, and I remember thinking of this cheese shape. So, we came to visit. We went to the old market, we sat in a bar called Zia Elena. I was still undecided about what I was going to do, whether I was going to go back to Sicily or go back to England. I was very undecided. She said, “You should stay here for a while.” That afternoon I went to an estate agent, and they had a small studio flat in the block that we had just been near, which was a block from the old market. I had to take a contract for a year, and I thought, Well, OK, I’ll do that.

JN: What was it in that day that was so powerful that made you immediately commit to staying for a year?

RR: Certainly the old market was wonderful. A new market has taken its place now, but the old market was strange, a sort of fortified bus shelter. It had been a street market, and then they covered it in the 1960s and ’70s – it had iron uprights and a glass roof, completely covered in leaves – it had a very incredible light, an almost Caravaggio-esque light, didn’t it? Did you ever go to the old market?

JN: I never had a chance, unfortunately.

RR: It was a wonderful old market, lots of farmers selling their stuff there; lots of butcher stalls, of course, because of the legacy of the slaughterhouse in Testaccio; fish stalls; it was just a very lively, atmospheric market. Lots of local shops; it felt like a little village in the middle of Rome. I think other villages do exist, but it was the first time that I really felt a sense of it, that this was a place, and people lived here. It’s very linear, Testaccio, with straight roads, unlike most of Rome. It’s on a grid system. It’s modern, only 130 years old. So, my initial impression was one of almost shock. But then quite quickly you get the sense of community; there’s lots of schools here, there’s local shops, there’s the market. I see people still every day that I probably saw that first time, thirteen years ago. I suppose you can get that anywhere, but it had a very strong sense of place, and I thought, I like that, and I’ll stay here. Thirteen years later I’m still here, and very settled.

JN: You’ve written that in the first few weeks here you met more neighbors and shopkeepers than you had met in London in five or ten years, which is remarkable. I can understand the appeal of that sort of place.

RR: And I’m quite chatty! I mean, I’m very aware of my own romanticizing of a kind of “something else.” That’s something I do struggle with. As an outsider, the Rome you “want to find” – I found that Rome. But, yes, I did – it’s like a small village really, and it has that mentality. Of course, it’s more complicated than that, particularly as the area changes, but yes, that’s the strongest sense I think you get from Testaccio. And it’s a very inclusive area, it’s always been an area of stranieri [foreigners] – it’s not the real Rome, these were all newcomers. It’s now a lot of third-generation Testaccini, like Augusto here who owns this trattoria.

JN: When you first started meeting people, as a foreigner and guest, you felt welcome, there wasn’t a lot of awkward suspicion of an outsider? Because, as you say, it’s always been a neighborhood of outsiders and foreigners.

RR: Yes, maybe. I suppose there was – there always is – a level of suspicion of newcomers, suspicion of your motive, maybe. But I just didn’t care! Especially when I started writing about it – because I suppose in a way I made my foreignness useful, and gave myself a purpose, didn’t I? So, from quite early on I was observing Testaccio, even though I was living here. My foreignness was a part of it, that became an advantage. And now, of course, it’s become my job. It’s my job to be curious – maybe, in a way, to be an outsider who’s inside. I’m more aware of that than ever, especially since [my son] Luca, who isn’t an ousider, was born here, which is interesting.

JN: What sorts of changes have you seen in the neighborhood in thirteen years?

RR: Lots of changes. Lots of renovation. Lots of shops that have closed, or changed completely.

JN: Gentrification?

RR: Yeah, there is; I don’t want to be kind of “doom, doom,” about it – Italy is struggling at the moment, and there’s a housing crisis in Testaccio. Prices have really gone down. Testaccio has a quite interesting demographic. There’s a lot of council housing, still – and it’s a lot of council housing in the hands of grandchildren. So, grandparents would have rented the house, then they would have had children, one of whom would probably have grown up to live there. Now, there are a lot of empty flats in Testaccio that are lived in by one grandchild. People are finding it’s difficult to sell. There’s quite a lot of empty property; very, very high rents here. So, in a way, I think Testaccio is struggling – but yet, you know, trattorias continue to thrive. Probably most of the trattorias I’ve known and loved for thirteen years are still here. Better ones are evolving. But certain shops still thrive. We live above a bakery called Passi, which is this wonderful Roman forno. That’s still one of the busiest bakeries in Rome, and I think one of the best bakeries in Rome. It’s a working family, opened in the 1970s. And that thrives, and it’s lovely – people drive from Prati to buy their pizza bianca. So, it’s lovely to see traditions. And I join in; I always feel a bit of a cliché, but I do – I absolutely relish these traditions and celebrate them and am happy to spend my money and live, and for Luca to grow up eating pizza bianca and mortadella and carciofi when they’re in season. It’s lovely. It feels important; it feels precious, really.

JN: So when you first arrived, you were learning Italian, and probably working here and there to pay the rent. What led you to start the blog in 2008?

RR: I was keeping diaries, and a lot of those were focused on food. But it wasn’t even a really conscious thing. I didn’t really know what I was doing; I played around a bit. Some posts were just a recipe; I just wanted somewhere to record them. A friend of mine who worked for Marie Claire online said, “Start a blog.” I had never heard the word before, and it took me a couple of years to do it. But I was reading blogs, and it was a combination of factors. I had always enjoyed writing, I had always written, but I suppose in a way starting a blog taught me to write. I had studied English, but then I had gone to drama school. I had quite a lot of experience writing, but not formal experience. I hadn’t gone to university to study English, which was initially what I thought I would do. I felt like a bit of a failure in that sense. But having a blog taught me to write. I still struggle with believing that I’m a writer, really. I don’t really consider myself a writer; I suppose I consider myself somebody who writes recipes with stories. I still struggle with that. But it was quite an organic thing, I think, starting the blog. I read some of those [old posts] and I go, It’s just embarrassing. But it was a document, and I just wanted to write these things down. I was fascinated by the food, and it was such a good way to look at the city; I thought, I have to write this down.

JN: At what point did you realize that people were paying attention, and how did that affect how you thought about the project?

RR: I learned from other people; I copied, I mimicked what other people were doing. Of course, then people start commenting. Quite early on, people obviously saw potential because quite a few people got in touch with me and said, You should write something, you should write your memoir, you should write more recipes. Food is at the heart of it, the recipes and the history and the geography. My number-one inspiration has always been and remains Jane Grigson, who was wonderful. She died [in 1990], but her work lives on. She wrote these beautiful essays about food, and they had everything in them: history, geography, politics.

JN: In moving from the blog to the book [Five Quarters, aka My Kitchen in Rome]: did you work hard to make connections to make that happen, or were you approached with confidence from an agent or publisher to take it to another level?

RR: The book was pretty much done in the blog; there were loads of articles. Initially it was a bit more general, but I was really starting to focus in on Roman food, and it was Testaccio-centric. In the beginning, it was like a black hole. I didn’t even really know what I was doing. Back then I didn’t have a guide book, I didn’t have a smartphone. It was like I was plunging my hand into something without looking. But I was getting a sense of discovering Roman food, and I’d covered a lot of classic Roman recipes, I had a nice narrative around it. When I was approached about doing a book, I still didn’t have a title. I was still doing my blog very devotedly. I wrote a blog post, and it became the introduction to the book.

JN: Someone noticed your work and had confidence in it.

RR: It was Elizabeth Hallett, my publisher, who is just wonderful, wonderful. She’s quite visionary, and she saw it. But it was all there.

JN: I think you imply in the introduction to the American edition that you weren’t that crazy about the title of that edition [My Kitchen in Rome]? Five Quarters is a wonderful title, and it’s exactly right. But I understand why an American publisher would want something different.

RR: Yeah, they were worried. But there are five reasons for calling it Five Quarters. There was the reference to the quinto quarto tradition in Roman cooking; the reference to the shape of Testaccio; the reference to the general resourcefulness of Roman cooking per se; there was a reference to the five parts of an Italian meal; and then the most important fifth quarter is you, because you’re going to cook the recipes.

JN: You mentioned the quinto quarto tradition, and you also mentioned that when you first came to Testaccio, you knew nothing about Roman cooking. Can you tell us about your first impressions of Roman cooking and the cooking of Testaccio, and what you eventually found compelling about it?

RR: I just thought it was so… salty! I thought it was so salty and fatty. I mean, not in a bad way. I always remember being in a restaurant in Trastevere, sitting one very warm night — it must have been the first summer. I had gricia, an old-school gricia. We’d been in a bar before and we’d had peanuts, and I think we’d had prosciutto that day – I remember feeling like a dog! Just so much salt and pork. Then I remember talking to a friend later, a really good cook, and them saying, “Well, that’s the thing, it’s the pecorino, it’s the guanciale, it’s these elements.” But yes, it was so beige! Now, of course, I sit and I tell people, Have a gricia, have a carbonara, Amatriciana, etc. At the time, they were just kind of coming. I remember having artichokes, which were just very, like, that kind of dull khaki – wonderful, but very overcooked. Puntarelle I really like anchovies, all those strong flavors. I couldn’t – it just seemed so kind of plain and functional. I quite liked it, but I couldn’t quite get a handle on it. And then, of course, there’s the quinto quarto and pajata, which I was interested in. Roman food can be a bit dirty in a way – I mean that in a good way.

JN: I know what you mean, yes. Not literally, but —

RR: It’s gutsy, isn’t it?

JN: Yes! Literally gutsy.

RR: For example, those kind of stracotti stews, and really cooked vegetables. Then slowly, slowly, I started eating in people’s homes, as well, and then I started eating at a little tavola calda called Volpetti. That was really a vital part of my education.

JN: Your first reaction to Roman food was, This is salty, it’s porky, it’s beige, it’s plain. How would you define it today if someone asked you, What is Roman cooking like?

RR: Salty, porky, beige. [Laughter] Romans do have wonderful greens because it’s so temperate. Things like puntarelle, the kind of misticanza with little cherry tomatoes in it, the vegetable side dishes. The wonderful spinach.

JN: So the beige starts to turn to green, if you dig a little deeper.

RR: Yes, and then I started to understand the minestra. Because in the beginning, there’s pasta e fagioli, pasta e ceci, all these beige soups. It was almost like I could start seeing detail. There was also something about me being able to start seeing detail in the city I was living in. Before, remember, I didn’t speak any Italian, so it was all a big blur. It was all a big salty blur! Things just got a bit clearer. I think that was how I understood it. I remember thinking about the different sorts of pasta e ceci, some with the anchovies in the bottom, some without, as if things suddenly had color. The artichokes could be cooked differently: they were beige, but they’re kind of purple before they’re trimmed. And then, of course, being very inspired, starting to have courage – I’m quite a capable cook – being able to make recipes my own. For example, the soup I made today; there are many versions of how to make this broccoli soup. I like something quite brothy. I’m constantly inspired; in fact, I’m more inspired than I ever have been by Roman food. I just find it wonderful: I love the ingredients, I love the simplicity, I love the way that Romans make minestra or a broth, whether it’s bits of fish suspended in a broth, or egg yolks and breadcrumbs for the straciatella, or whether it’s the way they do wonderful things with artichokes, or the way they treat anchovies, baked anchovies. I just feel I have more to learn than ever about it.

JN: Could you take one or two traditional dishes that you especially love and say a little more about how they’re prepared?

RR: I do love that whole family of bean, legume, and lentil soups and stews, the various ways to make them. They say there are as many ways as cooks, but with pasta e ceci you cook some chickpeas so you get that nice, cloudy broth, and then in another pan you make a little soffrito. You could use carrot, celery, and onion, or you could just do garlic and anchovies, with the garlic just squashed, so it’s just a very sunny fragrance, as opposed to an angry one. And then, a bit of rosemary.

JN: Almost always rosemary in pasta e ceci in Rome, right?

RR: The thing about herbs is, you do find these recipes all over Italy, and the defining ingredient is often the herb. So, in Sicily you’d put oregano in, in Tuscany you’d put sage – I’m generalizing – and in Rome you often have rosemary. It’s amazing how that can completely transform a dish. Romans use lots of rosemary, lots of mint. So, you’ve got your soffrito, and then maybe a couple of tomatoes or a spoonful of concentrate, and then you unite the chick peas in their cloudy broth, and let that bubble for about twenty minutes.

JN: Using the broth from the chickpeas, as opposed to a separate vegetable or meat broth?

RR: You could make a meat broth, but the fringe benefit of soaking your own beans is that you get this broth. Unite the two, and then in the last ten minutes, throw in a handful of pasta, so you’ve got this enriched, herb-scented broth. You could purée some of the soup to make it creamy, you could pass it through a food mill, you could have it brothy, you could put in more tomato if you want it blushing more. The possibilities are endless. Very similar for pasta e fagioli, pasta and beans – and the same with pasta and lentils. You could, of course, have guanciale in the foundations, if you wanted. I love those.

Of pastas, I love carbonara, Amatriciana. But probably my favorite is cacio e pepe, which is pasta with pecorino cheese and black pepper.

JN: There are different ways to make cacio e pepe; it can be a disaster if you don’t know what you’re doing. The technique, compared to a lot of pasta dishes, is really difficult and important.

RR: It’s really difficult!

JN: Can you walk us through how you make cacio e pepe?

RR: Cacio e pepe is an absolute bugger. In fact, I’m writing about it for The Guardian now, and I’ve been asking around in restaurants. It’s pasta, cheese, and black pepper, and then you emulsify it with the pasta cooking water. It’s really tricky to make. I think the best way to do it is to make it for two. Because the cheese goes into clumps, the best way to do it is this: you get a warm bowl, you cook your pasta and drain it and you save the pasta cooking water. You put a ladleful of pasta cooking water in the bottom of this bowl. You then throw on your cooked pasta – a fresh pasta like tonnarelli, because that’s got very starchy water, and fresh pasta’s got lots of semolina clinging to it. Then you put loads of cheese. You want it grated fine; not using a micro plane, you want that old-fashioned bugger of a grater.

JN: When I first started making it, that’s exactly what happened: I would just used the regular micro plane, and it would clump. It’s really the powder grater that you want, so I’m glad to hear you say that. It’s such a important detail, because without that, maybe some people can do it, but not me. The powder is the essential part.

RR: It’s the bastard side of the grater that you never want to use. So, use the bastard side of the grater. In Felice, a very famous trattoria just where we live, they do it at the table, they do individual servings. So, you toss – more cheese, maybe a bit more water – and a spoon and a fork is the very best for tossing. I want to do a little film; I’ve resisted writing about about it, actually, because it’s really hard to do well.

JN: And it’s hard to learn from a book. I learned to cook from books; I didn’t learn to cook growing up, I didn’t learn to cook in Italy. I mostly benefited from the writings of Marcella Hazan.

RR: Yes, I really like her too.

JN: That’s how I learned to cook. But as much as I benefited from that, it’s no way to learn to cook. Even though I love cookbooks, and obviously you love writing, learning to cook from a book is a very strange way to learn to cook, as opposed to learning to cook at the side of someone who knows what they’re doing.

RR: And of course, here, Romans eat Roman food. Of course, there’s other things, there’s wonderful Indian, Thai, Ethiopian, Japanese food, though not like London. But essentially, Romans eat Roman food, and it’s what’s around, so people are still making these dishes and they have very strong opinions about it. I’m quite self-conscious, I think, because I’m aware that writing for a newspaper and feeling like I say the same thing every day, that I do maybe lean into cliché. But I do go to the market every morning; it’s my job now, it’s my privilege to do that. I go to the same stall, I buy vegetables and every time I buy something there’s some advice, either from Filippo, the guy who sells me vegetables, or somebody shopping. Chances are, the people shopping there will be making Roman-style cooking. Now it’s carciofi [artichoke] season, and everyone’s cooking. Romans cook carciofi alla Romana, and everyone has an opinion. I suppose it’s like the traditional cooking of anywhere, but it still reigns supreme here. I have to remind myself; I’ve had a lot of just going back and listening to people, letting people show me how to cook things. I haven’t done enough of that lately, and I’m about to start doing more again – just going and watching people cook. It’s funny – sometimes people have shown me how to do things that I knew probably better than they did, not because I’m better than them, but just because I make them more. But it didn’t matter, I just need to shut up and watch, because you always learn something.

JN: By the way, this carciofo we’re eating is delicious.

RR: I love this trattoria; not everyone does. It’s never going to be a perfect trattoria, or particularly trendy.

JN: Those who aren’t as enthusiastic about it, what is their criticism?

RR: Sometimes it can be a bit school-dinnerish, maybe, especially if it gets busy, and Augusto can be a bit brusque in his manner if he doesn’t know you. The menu never changes. But I think he does certain things very well. I think his artichokes are delicious, his anchovies. He goes to my fish guy. Really old-fashioned ways of cooking, though, like boiled cod and potatoes, and certain things on certain days. But I like it very much, we come here a lot. Luca’s six, he’s grown up coming here. I think his fried anchovies are some of the best.

JN: Speaking of Luca, as you said, he’s not an outsider. You still feel like an outsider, but he was born and raised here. What have been some of the joys and also some of the challenges of raising your son here? Did you wonder, when he was born, whether you wanted to return to England?

RR: I suppose it did cross my mind, whether we would stay or not. I never really imagined that we would leave. It’s how I imagined: he’s born into this little villagey world. We live in a very geographically clear area, the boundaries are clear. He now goes to school on the Aventine Hill, so we go out of Testaccio. It’s beautiful; he goes to the most beautiful school right in front of the Giardino Lidia Paranchi. It’s a state school. We walk up there every day, we walk back down, we cross via Mammarata. We come to Testaccio, and the first thing we see is the piazza. The streets are punctuated with bars that we go to. I suppose, like me, he’s been born with this sense of place. We cycle and walk everywhere. He’s very clear about the boundaries, he knows the area. There’s a local library. I suppose children have a clear sense of their surroundings, but he must be very aware of where we live, where the forno is – I think life here, especially around food, is very traditional. Children, of course, often appreciate it more than adults. Children are very welcome in restaurants. They’re expected to behave well, but you know they just are. The children will be fed first – the first thing they say is Red or white pasta for the child? And it will be there. Children are accomodated in that way, so I think Luca has grown up with that sense.

JN: And he’s an adventurous eater? He’s only six…

RR: He’s being a bit of a pain in the ass at the moment, but I’m hoping it’s a phase. But, yeah, he is. Luca loves going to England. He has no snobbism about that and I don’t either, but he says, “Mum, these oranges have no sunshine.” You know?

JN: Is there anything that he can’t get here, that you wish he had, that he would have in England?

RR: I worry about his school; I worry about the traditional nature of the education here. He’s quite rebellious, Luca. I think if you’re good, you can thrive. Luca is quite cheeky, he’s quite naughty, he’s quite rebellious. A good English friend of mine runs the English school; when he met Luca – this was as a friend, not as a headmaster seeing a potential student – he said, “Please send Luca to me.” His view was, Luca will struggle in the state system here. He’s quite a little – he’s a cheeky monkey. And also, he’s bilingual, so he’s struggling. And he’s not reading yet; he’s six, so actually I’ve got all sorts of concerns about that but I’m not letting them get out of perspective. Schools are struggling economically here, massively. They don’t have facilities. I go back and I see my sister’s kids at a school in London – a very, very good one, but a state school – and it almost makes me weep, the kind of facilities the kids have there. But at the same time I know that Luca has other things here, and we have such a good quality of life here. We live a good, good life, and very happy. I don’t find life in Rome stressful, the way I found life in London. The pace of life here is completely different. It’s not just my choice to live a different pace of life, it’s the way life is here.

JN: Because your partner is Sicilian, you now spend quite a bit of time in Sicily. Could you say a little about how Sicily is a contrast to your life in Testaccio and what convinced you all to start spending more time there?

RR: Vincenzo was born in a town called Gela, which is on the south coast, a very industrial town.

JN: I think you said in your book, “…known for the Mafia and oil refineries.” Just to dispel any romantic notions!

RR: Really, really shocking. Interesting town – one of the first colonized towns [by the Greeks]. Kind of disappeared under the Roman empire, but then was very important during the Arab reign and then during the Normans. In the 1950s, they built an oil refinery and it became the tenth-biggest town in Italy in the course of about five years. You can see that – the town exploded. It’s kind of a tragedy, really, Gela. It’s been used as a case study for economic development without any growth whatsoever.

JN: So, the kind of place you usually think of people wanting to flee, whereas you have decided the opposite, to actually make a commitment to that place.

RR: Well, the thing is, Vincenzo’s grandparents were there; his grandfather was a tomato farmer. They farmed, they were incredibly traditional. In a way, they were a typical Gelese family. His mum and dad both went to work for the oil refinery – in a way that was their escape, but in a way it killed the town. The house was empty; all the cousins own the house. It’s an extraordinary town, Gela. I just feel I’ve scratched the surface. We’ve taken over the house. We’d like eventually to live in Sicily, I think. I think we’ll probably move there full-time. This is kind of the starting point. We opened up the house; I want to write more about Sicilian food, Vincenzo wants to spend time there, see some of his elderly relatives. Even though he came to Rome when he was twelve, he grew up with long summers in Sicily. So, yes, we’ve been looking after the house, which is quite a struggle.

JN: That’s remarkable to hear, that as much as you’ve come to love Testaccio, the pull of Sicily is strong enough to even move permanently.

RR: The idea is that we’ll always have a base here. We have this little studio flat here. We’ll hopefully buy something in the country, and start spending more time there. I’d like a garden. Maybe not in Gela but probably on that coast. The temptation is to explore a bit more.

JN: You mentioned the Mafia influence, which of course is a sad reality in many parts of Italy, sometimes on the surface, sometimes hidden deep below the surface. How have you personally come to terms with that aspect of life there?

RR: My experience is very much seeing how a town has been damaged by the last hundred years. I don’t think I’ve done justice to Gela yet, honestly. Good lenses to look at the city through are, for example, what’s happening with tomato farming. Sicily is like a fairground mirror on the whole of Italy: everything is exaggerated, including corruption. The south coast is where all the boats are arriving from Lampedusa; there’s a huge amount of immigration. In Gela, we hear these terrible stories, but in fact the Gelese are extraodinarily accomodating. My brother-in-law, who is such a simple man, such a good man, he’s working with young refugees, and they’ve got them at the house. They’re the ones welcoming boats. Yes, there’s a lot of hostility about refugees but at the same time the Gelese are coping with it every single day. There’s so much happening there, but good and bad.

JN: What’s an example of the corruption in the tomato farming? Is it in the exploitation of labor?

RR: Yes.

JN: So that Romans, or whoever, can have tomatoes cheaper than they should be?

RR: Absolutely. The demand for small, sweet, on-the-vine tomatoes, all year round (by Italians, mainly) has completely transformed farming. It’s an area of intensive greenhouse farming. I was reading in The Guardian about Romanian women being kept in almost slave-like conditions.

JN: And that’s where the Mafia comes in, because obviously it’s against the law to do that, but they find a way to circumvent the law.

RR: Exactly. The Mafia is so part of the fabric of society, and has been since the 1960s and ’70s. Gela was known as being completely controlled by the Mafia, and Vincenzo’s parents left because of it. They will never go back. Sometimes you can look at Gela – and I’m looking at a very negative side of it – when I say I love the town, there’s lots of relatives that live there – but actually when you go, there’s nothing hopeful. There’s no hotels in Gela, there’s all these half-finished projects. You realize that, to keep the status quo, anything that could possibly involve making money is sabotaged. It’s as though people keep things at a base level.

JN: The control comes first, as it might in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan – keeping the status quo, as you say, is more important than anything else.

RR: On one level it’s really upsetting. On the other, there are lots of young people, and there are new initiatives, land that’s been confiscated from the Mafia. There are these new laws by the rather charismatic mayor of Palermo. There are things happening. I have felt, much more than Rome, the need to understand things better there. It feels like such a vanity, but I would like to understand a bit more. The way that I can do it is to write some pieces about tomatoes and oranges – taking the lens of food, but as a way of understanding more [about Sicily]. And also, immigration. It seems now to be the point in my career where I can start trying to understand things better, but rather than trying to understand the whole story, looking at it through a specific lens. Tomatoes seems like one, because Vincenzo’s parents were tomato farmers. Through storytelling: that always seems the best way.

JN: This soup we’re eating is delicious, and you mentioned a few times that what defines Augusto’s cooking here is that it’s no different from the cooking that he or his nonna are doing at home. I wonder if you can talk a little about the importance of home cooking in Italy, and how home cooking differs from restaurant cooking. Maybe in the best cases, it doesn’t differ – that’s my perspective, that I learned from Marcella.

RR: I suppose you would look at the different sorts of places to eat, and their history. In the way I understand it, Rome has always been a city where people have come and needed shelter and something to eat, because it’s a city of pilgrims, particularly in the last 300 years and after the unification of Italy. Osterias, the way I understand it, were originally a bed and a place for your horse. You would probably get something to drink, and you might get something to eat. That was where the osterias came from, and they were essentially places to drink. I’ve always said it’s better to compare osterias and trattorias with pubs and cafes than restaurants. Because they are really functional places. My granny had a pub, a wonderful pub in Manchester. Trattorias remind me much more of that than of a restaurant. Trattorias were, essentially, people’s homes where people had home restaurants in the beginning. They were absolutely extensions of people’s homes; it would be mom or dad in the kitchen, or grandma, and mom or dad out front. They would essentially be serving traditional, local, pub-style, homestyle food, and that’s the spirit that lives on in places like this. And it’s the reason I love La Toricella. It’s still Augusto in the kitchen – with his wonderful Bangledeshi chef, whom he treats brilliantly, another reason to love this place – and he makes homestyle, Roman and Abruzzese food for anyone who cares to come.

JN: Of course, some people in the US might wonder why one would go out to eat if it’s the same sort of food one would cook at home.

RR: Yes, some would say that. I follow a lot of food people in London who are going out to these fancy restaurants and lots of ethnic restaurants. I love that you come here and there are tableclothes and proper glasses, but I don’t mind that I’ll get the food here that I would make at home. There are about four trattorias we come to and I’ve been coming to this one forever, and I love the fact that I eat the same sorts of things.

JN: Sure. Even a talented cook wants to go out and relax and have a night off, and yet enjoy the comfortable flavors of home. And it’s hard to cook and entertain at the same time, of course. A moment ago you coined a wonderful phrase that I think I have to start using: “chef-y” food. How would you define or describe “chefy” food?

RR: Well there are certain techniques. I think of home food as being the most simple and basic preparations, while for a chef the food would be elevated to a more elegant level. There might be double-filtered broths, or instead of poaching a whole fish as Agosto has done here they might pan-fry fillets of fish for a more elegant presentation. That kind of food is lovely, but it is rarely how I want to eat. And [my partner] Vincenzo hates it.

JN: What about it is off-putting to him?

RR: He loves delicious food, but not anything that looks messed around with. I know I’m going to sound like a twat; I love the efforts and the skill of chefs, but when it looks tortured on the plate, it just doesn’t give me any pleasure. I want lovely food and I want it to taste delicious, but not fancy. People sometimes say I’m a sort of pretentious reverse snob, but I can’t stand food that is exclusive.

JN: I get it. There are some people who enjoy wearing tuxedos or evening dresses, but most of us would rather not dress that way, at least not often. I certainly like to dress nicely – not sweatpants or ratty old t-shirts – but you can do that without going to the point that the clothing seems or feels stiff or excessive.

RR: That’s nice, yes.

JN: And of course with both food and clothing there’s a continuum and the edges blur. You used the word “tortured,” which is perfect. It’s just not at ease.

RR: Which maybe has to do with us, doesn’t it? Just our preferences. And I like the tuxedo metaphor. I just happen to loath food snobbism, and in England at the moment there’s a bit of backlash. Of course we need to address food banks and the fact that people are starving, but there’s a great polemic lately. For example, recently there was an article about a place selling “cauliflower steaks”, essentially slices of cauliflower. There was uproar about it, because it did cost about three times what it should cost. It opened up a whole polemic with people being very righteous about the fact that we should be preparing our own vegetables. Then of course, people came in and said, Well, what if you’re old and arthritic? Like any discussion, there were many, many sides to it. Of course I say to people, Prepare your own vegetables! Of course, there are gray areas. There’s my grandma: she’s an old woman and loves buying individual portions of cut-up vegetables. There’s just all these opinions about cooking from scratch. You have to be so careful. I firmly believe home cooking from scratch is a skill we should all be encouraged to learn and teach and share, and I think it’s something that still exists here in Italy. This basic, intuitive cooking.

JN: I completely know what you’re talking about when you describe this sort of cooking as “plain.” But at least in America, if I talk that way, there would be misunderstanding. In America, for example, “plain cooking” might imply something like poorly seasoned, flavorless or tough steak and potatoes. Or overcooked pasta with canned sauce. Or maybe the old stereotype of dreadful, bland English food. That could be described as “plain” too. So how do we distinguish between that and Italian cooking, simple but delicious?

RR: I suppose if you look at traditional English cooking from 200 years ago, you might find it to have more in common with Italian cooking. But one difference is the sheer abundance of types of ingredients in the Mediterranean. There were olives and grapes, grains, sugar from the dried figs and raisins. The riches here are quite extraordinary. It has evolved into having good taste, which is so characteristic of Italians. I see my son being taught it at school. It’s completely different from England. I mean, the kids at school here are given a five-course meal. They have pasta, and it’s red or it’s pesto, and they have their bread and their napkin.

JN: So it’s every day, and it’s five courses?

RR: Yes. You see these little creatures are learning to eat with bread and a fork. They’re learning that bread is always on the table, and water is there, and their pasta will be red, white, or pesto, and they’ll have their secondo, meat or fish, or a frittata. My son says “Fa schiffo la frittata,” [“Frittatas are disgusting,”] but they learn. They’re getting chicory, they’re getting fennel. In some English private schools, they might have wonderful food from organic kitchens, but maybe they’re not taught about food culture the way they are here. And now Luca eats just like Vincenzo. Where’s the fork, where’s the napkin? That’s not me teaching him; it’s his school. And they don’t always like it – chicory for example – but they keep giving it to them. It’s not perfect – I mean, there’s the obesity in the South – but the attempt at developing a healthy food culture and healthy rituals begins at home and is reinforced in the schools.

JN: I wasn’t aware there was obesity in the South. What’s up with that?

RR: I suppose it’s the industrialization of food which is causing problems.

JN: More in the South?

RR: There’s always been a huge dependence on carbohydrates in the South – think of pizza in Naples – but it’s also industrial snacks. Sugary snacks and drinks.

Fish Soup

Photo of our fish soup, taken by Rachel

JN: To wrap up, I’d like to ask about salt. The soup we’ve been enjoying during this interview has been seasoned perfectly. If Augusto did everything else right by choosing the best ingredients and cooking them with care, but if got the seasoning wrong, the dish wouldn’t be pleasurable. I think of this a lot with cookbooks, too. No matter how carefully you write a recipe, if your readers don’t use salt correctly, the dish won’t meet its potential.

RR: Absolutely. For me it’s salting in small amounts but often. That’s something I learned here. When I do my initial soffrito, I’ll always add a little pinch of salt. And I’ll salt all throughout the cooking. I have three types: a very fine salt, a coarse one for pasta water, and English Maldon salt for finishing. I think it’s true: it’s how you bring out flavor. When you salt lentils, it makes them taste more like lentils. It’s a magic moment. I know you admire Marcella Hazan, and she’s such a good teacher on this. When I’m working on something, I might check out the versions from ten different books, and Marcella is always in that group. There’s a good chance I won’t follow any of them, but I’ll look.

JN: Of course.

RR: Her books are especially inspiring, and I’ll often look at her writing if I want to be inspired.

JN: Like your book, her books are personal. You get a strong sense of who she was. A strong voice. And it is inspiring.

RR: She’s a pragmatic writer, but there’s real beauty in the writing as well. There’s no pretention or froth, which makes me seem a little bit frilly in my own writing. But nothing gives me more pleasure than reading cookbooks, both for the recipes and the stories. To see what different cooks think about bay leaves, and what they want to say about bay leaves. It’s always been my favorite sort of reading.

JN: That’s a great place to wrap up, I think. Thanks again.

a conversation with Josh Eisenhauer

Josh 3

Josh Eisenhauer grew up on a farm in Columbia County, PA, just a short drive from our own property. After working as a sommelier in some of New York City’s finest restaurants, he moved to Piemonte, Italy with his wife Sara, and he currently manages the restaurant of the boutique hotel Villa La Madonna.

Josh visited us at the farm last November on a visit home to see family, and we had an opportunity to not only conduct the interview but drink some special wines together as well.

In the interview, we discuss what it was like working in some of New York’s best restaurants, how he adjusted to living and working in Italy, and what makes the wines of Piemonte so special.


Justin Naylor: Good afternoon, Josh. I imagine you might be the only resident of rural Columbia County, Pennsylvania to have moved to Piemonte in order to pursue a career in food and wine. Could you start by giving us the highlights of this remarkable journey?

Josh Eisenhauer: Sure. I did my undergrad at NYU; I had grown up on a farm and my dad was an organic beef farmer in the mid-1980s, really ahead of his time and really into food. Other than that I didn’t have a lot of exposure to restaurants or wine, and certainly not to Italian culture. During college, I approached a lot of restaurants in Manhattan with a cover letter I had written about my passion for food and my desire to learn about it. I said I’d do anything! But I had a bunch of bad luck and no one got back to me. These were all Michelin-starred restaurants. Then I got lucky at Babbo. I met Gina di Palma, who was the pastry chef, and she told me to come back the next day. It was amazing because Babbo was five minutes from my dorm, while most people were commuting from the boroughs. They kind of threw me in the cellar as the cellar rat, just putting the bottles away and doing deliveries. But I was really curious. I was going to college, but drinking and tasting a lot of wine. I was so excited. Some of the sommeliers were Italian, and they were giving me tastes of wine – which I guess maybe they shouldn’t have been doing, but they were – and I didn’t know anything, I mispronounced Dolcetto… I was tasting these wines that no 18-year-old should be allowed to have. They saw that I was passionate and promoted me to wine runner. Through that experience I met Paul Lang, who was at that time the wine director at Il Buco, and he gave me my first sommelier job. I was working five nights a week at Il Buco while finishing up my senior year, and then I went full-time.

JN: Without any formal training, how did you get to the point where you felt confident taking a sommelier job at Il Buco?

JE: I had good teachers. I had really good teachers. Obviously, wine doesn’t teach itself. You have to be exposed to it through someone, whether in a formal setting or on-the-job training, and what was so exciting to me is that I found these people who were really happy to teach me: to take me out to dinner, do blind tastings, take me to importing tastings frequently. And in New York City you just have this constant exposure to these products. I sometimes joke that it seems there’s more Italian wine in New York City than in Italy.

JN: After Il Buco you ended up at Del Posto, the crème de la crème of the Batali/Bastianich restaurant group, at least in certain respects.

JE: It certainly was. In New York, one thing that counts as much or more than the Michelin guide is the New York Times 4-star restaurant list, and Del Posto was, and still is, the only Italian restaurant to have 4 stars. It was a big deal. I was 22 and they hired me. So I was really nervous. Really nervous. But it ended up being a great experience. I had never worked in fine dining at that level before. Babbo had a Michelin star, but it was totally different in its style of service.

JN: In your first weeks there, did you feel overwhelmed and inadequate, or did you feel up to the task?

JE: After two brief panics, I was fine. I wasn’t worried about my wine knowledge, but it was just such a rigorous style of service. It was over the top. Every little thing, every gesture was critiqued. They wanted you, literally, to move your hands in certain ways, which is very simple to learn but if you’re not used to it, it can be unnerving. But it was a really great skill set to learn. That environment was so special, because you have a lot of really important wine personalities coming in. Antonio Galloni, before he was ready to break off from Parker, did one of the first Vinous tastings at Del Posto. He was a regular; all these collectors… so, just all this exposure to wine that a 22-year-old sommelier had no business being exposed to, which was ultimately invaluable.

JN: Why do you think you gravitated to the wine side of the industry rather than the cooking side?

JE: [Laughter] Cooks don’t make too much money in New York City unless they’re the chef, so that’s probably the main thing because I love cooking. Also, I’m pretty social. I like speaking to people and explaining the little things I’ve been taught or learned, and to share this. After a few trips to Italy, after starting to wrap my head around what is Italian wine and culture, I was happy to share even my juvenile understanding with people who knew even less. I liked that contact.

JN: Yeah, definitely. But there are two basic approaches, I guess, to being a sommelier. One is to be a champion for remarkable but obscure winemakers, where you see your job as helping these beautiful artisans sell their wines. The other approach is to focus on making sure people drink wines they enjoy, which may or may not be from great vignerons. How did you and do you balance those two possibly conflicting approaches?

JE: Well, maybe I don’t always do a good job of balancing it! But a good sommelier is like a good DJ. A good DJ isn’t just going to play the top 40. A good DJ is going to mix that stuff in, but a good DJ will also play a song that’s going to catch your attention so that people say, Whoa, what is that? A good DJ on the cutting edge understands, first, who he’s playing to and what’s making people excited. A great sommelier is like a good tennis player. You don’t just take what they give you. You hit it back.

JN: Yes, but it starts with listening, right?

JE: Yes, because it’s a service job. You’re not a crusader or Malcolm X or someone who’s going to change the world. You’re a server. So you’re there to give your customer what they’re looking for, not what you think they should drink. Then you find the people who’ll let you be creative and play, who trust you. And those people you can take on a little journey, maybe aesthetically away from their preferences and what they’re used to. It may or may not be successful, but you can try.

JN: Turning to food, what did you learn about good Italian cooking at Babbo?

JE: Babbo was open in 1998, and I started working there in 2006, so the restaurant was still young. Mario [Batali] was one of the first people to cook real Italian food in New York. Before him, in the early 1990s, Italian in New York was still just red-sauce joints. It still is, in a lot of ways: linguine with clams, pasta with vodka and these strange things…

JN: Sure. The Italian American classics.

JE: Yeah, and some of that is lovely and amazing food, but it has nothing to do with regional Italian cooking. Mario was really a champion of regional Italian cooking. He was the first TV personality, the first really big celebrity, to talk about this and it began to catch people’s attention. In New York, for a restaurant to succeed it’s not enough to have good food. You have to have that something else. So he was doing all these recipes that Americans in the late ’90s didn’t associate with Italy, and it was based not on his interpretation of the culture, but on research, on him actually going there and staying. It was one of the first times a chef was able to do that. They were usually too busy working to take three weeks off to go study for their next book, or whatever.

JN: Yeah, I believe he actually quit his job and spent three years in Italy, at La Volta in the tiny town of Borgo Capanne, in the mountains south of Bologna.

JE: Right. Now these authentic dishes are commonplace in good Italian restaurants throughout America, but he was one of the first ambassadors of dishes like spaghetti alla carbonara, bucatini all’ Amatriciana. Everyone knows what these dishes are now, and everyone in Italy always did, but no one was cooking those in the US in the late ’90s, at least not at his level and with his degree of celebrity exposure. It was one of the hottest tables in New York City. For years, Babbo and Nobu were the two restaurants nobody could get into. It was exciting for me because I was keenly aware of that. Also, using parts of animals that in America we had forgotten about – cheek, offal – these sorts of things. This is what Batali celebrated. We were living a kind of post-1990s, lower Manhattan Wall Street – and these guys just wanted steaks. They didn’t want beef cheeks. And here’s Batali telling you, No, try this. So that was a big lesson for me.

JN: I imagine there was also a big risk for him. In retrospect it worked, but it must have been scary at the time, and I really admire that aspect of his career.

JE: Yeah, and it reminds me that one of the exciting things about working there was that to sell that kind of thing to the public, you have to have a very prepared waitstaff. We would have a service meeting every day that would last about a half hour, and it was about telling stories about Italian culture. About what cotechino is, for example. We had a lot of Italians on staff, and they’d tell us about their culture and where these recipes came from. So that when guests asked us, we had those stories to tell, and I was excited to tell these stories to people.

JN: Do you think Babbo has maintained its character and quality?

JE: Well, the menu is virtually the same. The chef, Frank Langello, has been at the restaurant since it opened, and has been executive chef since 2002, and he’s a partner now as well. He’s been doing that food his entire adult life. I’m most certain that things are going quite well because they actually lost their Michelin star back in 2007 or 2008, and they got it back two years ago — that’s an impossible thing to do.

[NOTE: Shortly after our interview, both Mario Batali and Frank Langello were accused of sexual harassment and have stepped away from Babbo and the other restaurants in the Batali/Bastianich Group.]

JN: So, you ended up working as a sommelier at Del Posto, which for most people would be a position to keep for the rest of your career. Yet you went in a different direction. What led you to leave and end up in Piemonte?

JE: A woman.

JN: [Laughter] It always is, isn’t it?

JE: There are two reasons men cross oceans: war and women. Fortunately for me, it wasn’t war. Yeah, I met my future wife Sara in New York, she was from a town in Piemonte near Acqui Terme. After two years being together, we were starting to think that maybe this wasn’t just a relationship but maybe a partnership for life. We started thinking about what kind of life we wanted to live. We were making good money in New York, but we always had a small apartment. If we had two days off, it’s like, Where we gonna go, Connecticut? So we started thinking that maybe we should try to work the truffle season in Piemonte. Sara got in touch with a family who had a Michelin star restaurant near Barolo, for the better part of the last century. They said, Sure, we’ll take you on for the season and try it out. So we did, and we stayed there for four years.

JN: What was your position?

JE: Sommelier.

JN: Was it a restaurant which catered to Italians or tourists?

JE: It was in a Relais Chauteaux property, this five-star luxury hotel called Relais San Maurizio. It was very international in terms of clientele, especially during truffle season, October/November. Then during the rest of the year it was a reference point for Piemontese food, a well-known family who know a lot of people in the community; so we were open 12 months of the year, but with more Italians during the non-truffle part of the year.

JN: What was it like as an immigrant working with the Italian clientele? Were they skeptical of taking an American sommelier in their country seriously, or were they receptive and welcoming and all of those things?

JE: Eighty percent of the people were really nice and encouraging, but my Italian was really bad when we first moved there, and as a sommelier you try to be really specific with language, and so it’s really embarrassing at the beginning to be saying things like “a really full red.”

JN: Sure, sure.

JE: So it was difficult linguistically and culturally. Most people were so kind, and I told them about my wife, and they were so happy. But twenty percent of the people were kind of rude, and I remember I had these two old guys and maybe they didn’t think I understood, and they said something like, The Americans sell us wine now. Think about that. They said it right in front of me. But this type of response represented a small minority.

JN: Even though you learned a lot about regional Italian food and wine in New York, when you arrived in Piemonte, did you feel like the things you learned were confirmed, or did you feel like you had to start over again?

JE: A little bit of a mix. Sometimes I had an experience where I realized, Ah, that’s what that means. There are things I’d learned but not really internalized. You see it in practice and you understand it better. And then there are certain dishes and traditions which just wouldn’t work in America.

JN: What would be an example of one of those?

JE: Bollito misto. There are places in New York that do it, but it’s never successful. We had the hardest time selling it at Babbo.

JN: Yeah, I have some friends, actually, who told me once about ordering it at Babbo and Mario himself came out, he was so full of gratitude.

JE: Yeah, same thing with tripe and these kinds of dishes. You can only ever approximate these dishes in the US. Ingredients are just so different. You know this better than I do. It comes down to flour and the eggs and the water in so many cases. I didn’t feel overwhelmed or underprepared, though. I certainly had a very good idea of the cuisine.

JN: How would you characterize the personality of Piemontese cooking?

JE: It’s interesting because, in Italy, Piemontese cooking is regarded as one of the highest forms of cooking in the country. There’s a lot of meat, and a specific Piemontese beef/veal breed that is very lean but very tender. Vitello tonnato, for example, uses that veal with a sort of tuna emulsion, we might say. The agnoletti al plin are a sort of ravioli filled with that meat. And then, braised meat.

JN: Because Piemontese was a more affluent area which could afford the cost of meat, unlike some other regions?

JE: Yes, and that’s still the case today. One thing they didn’t have was access to saltwater fish. But as you mentioned, Piemonte has always been an affluent area and so they could have preserved fish. This is one way they could show wealth. So they could buy canned tuna, but they didn’t know what to do with it.

JN: [Laughter] Sure, it was a foreign ingredient.

JE: Yeah, but they said, Let’s smear it on the veal, you know, and this was a way of showing the neighbors, Hey, we have fish here. You find salted fish like anchovies and baccala in Piemontese cooking quite a lot. Some people say, Well, we’ve always had eel or river trout, but I find that not to be a really big part of the culture. And not a huge amount of vegetables.

JN: What about bagna cauda?

JE: Well, while bagna cauda is very traditional, it is the exception to the rule. Bagna cauda means hot bath and it’s an assortment of seasonal vegetables; you dip them in a garlic, anchovy, and oil bath.

JN: Is risotto quite traditional, as well?

JE: Yes, you have a lot of big rice production in the flatlands, and so lots of risotto eaten. Of course the most famous Piemontese food is the white truffle of Alba – the most expensive in the world. This is shaved over pasta or risotto. You don’t find much dried pasta in Piedmont, mostly fresh pasta with a high percentage of egg yolks, sometimes 45 yolks for 1 kilo of flour. So it’s very rich, eggy pasta. And one of the traditional shapes is tajarin, which could be translated as tagliatelle, but it’s not as wide.

JN: How does that high egg-yolk pasta differ from the whole-egg pasta of Emilia Romagna?

JE: It’s a fresh pasta that can be more al dente, with a lot of spring. That’s the big difference – but also the color, of course.

JN: Moving on from food, how would you describe the culture and character of the Piemontese people?

JE: It’s a big region. Towards Lombardia, it’s flat with a lot of rice production and milk. In Southern Piemonte where I live, there’s a lot of rolling hills and beautiful landscape. We’re close to the Alps – thus the name Piemonte [foothills] – and they look like they’re right on top of us. So you have these rolling hills covered in vines, a little piece of woodlands here and there. Really a quite dramatic landscape and one of the most beautiful places in the world, with these little sprinkles of medieval architecture with these castles looming in the distance. I’m not just saying this because my wife’s from there and I’m living there. It really is one of the most special places I’ve ever traveled to.

JN: How about the people?

JE: There’s a saying in Italian about the Piemontesi, and I don’t like it, though there’s some truth to it: false and courteous. I wouldn’t say it’s an accurate description, but they are guarded. One reason Piemonte isn’t as commercialized as some other regions is that the people tend to be a little more exclusive; not less accepting, but a little less willing to let people in. They also haven’t sold themselves the way, say, Tuscans have. Piemonte for me is much more beautiful than Tuscany, if we’re talking about landscape. The wine is certainly better. No one’s going to dispute that. Yet, Tuscany remains this food and wine destination while Piemonte remains largely undiscovered. And I think this has to do with the pride the people have that the traditions and secrets are passed down by generations, and they’re very hesitant to let people, certainly foreigners, participate fully in them. Now that’s changing. They’ve realized that Tuscany was quite admirable in how they’ve marketed their region, and there’s been some jealousy there too. I think they’re studying the Tuscan model a little bit, but they’re still hesitate to really open up.

JN: In your case, it was easier to find acceptance because you married a Piemontese woman?

JE: Yes, I was lucky to marry into a family that has been so accepting of an American in the family. It’s kind of a novelty. There aren’t many foreigners living in Piemonte, especially Americans. There are immigrants from North Africa, but unfortunately they’ve been marginalized and are sort of a culture apart. I was really motivated to fit in and learn the language and participate in the culture. I had an easier time than maybe some others would have. In some ways other Italians, especially Southerners, have an even harder time.

JN: How long did it take you to become fluent in Italian, and what made the difference?

JE: Necessity. I actually got in a motorcycle accident two months after I moved and broke my hand. I couldn’t work for a month and a half and I spent a lot of time with my in-laws, who speak no English. So that was a turning point. After six months to a year I felt pretty comfortable, and after two years I felt like nothing was getting past me. But then just when you think you know everything you meet someone from the country who talks in a funny way…

JN: Yeah, that happens here too.

JE: Yeah, I’m sure it happens in Benton!

JN: So we’ve covered the food, we’ve covered the people. So now let’s turn to what’s maybe the main attraction for most people, and that is the wine of Piemonte.

JE: Sure. I had traveled to Piemonte by myself back when I was working in New York, and even before I met my wife or imagined living in Piemonte, these wines were the most captivating. I’m speaking above all of the Nebbiolo grape and its expression in Barolo and Barbaresco.

JN: So let’s go through the list, starting with a red wine from Piemonte that almost no one knows: Grignolino, the little light, refreshing red wine that seems to me like such a foil to wines of meditation like Barolo and Barbaresco.

JE: Grignolino, like you said, is always light in body. Refreshing. Fruity. Some people wrongly like to compare it Gamay, but it’s even fruitier and lighter, and sometimes with a cracked pepper sensibility that you don’t find in Gamay. And what’s great about a grape like Grignolino is that – we mentioned the Piemontesi being proud – there’s this idea that just because it’s growing in my backyard, it’s worth being preserved. Unlike in France, where a lot of indigenous varietals were marginalized for economic reasons, the Piemontesi people are proud of what occurred naturally and evolved in their backyards. Their grandfathers cultivated it and so they cultivate it, not for economic reasons but for tradition. They’re so proud of it. Some people like it lightly chilled. They was a lightly sparking version that was very popular in the ’70s and ’80s. It’s a refreshing summer wine. I certainly keep it on my wine list at the restaurant.

JN: Absolutely.

JE: There is one producer of Grignolino for you to check out: they’re called Acornero. They have a vineyard with 80-year-old vines. They make a singular Grignolino that doesn’t really remind you of any Grignolino you’ve ever had. It almost approaches Pinot Noir in intensity, in terms of weight on the palate and in terms of complexity. It’ll totally change your idea about Grignolino. But that’s one wine in thirty people that [make it].

JN: And I love that style; again, like Bardolino, it’s a style of wine that I think actually deserves a lot more respect than it gets.

JE: It’s right for certain occasions.

JN: Exactly, in a way other wines might not be. But now on to the big boys: Dolcetto.

JE: This is my bread and butter. Dolcetto used to be, in the Barolo area, the most cultivated grape, and we’re not talking about a long time ago. We’re talking about fifty years ago. People were making Dolcetto and selling it primarily in Torino. Having a harder time actually selling their Barolo, sometimes they would give the Barolo away if people bought a lot of Dolcetto. Certainly, the farmers – that’s the grape they were drinking on their tables. Everyday wine – really, really dark color, very intensely tannic, which is confusing about it — when you hear “Dolcetto” people think it’s going to be a slightly sweeter wine. Actually, a lot of producers are moving to stop using the name Dolcetto on labels because it’s creating a misperception. For example, in Dogliani, where they make one of the more intense, long-lived Dolcettos, they’ve actually stopped using the word Dolcetto. You can now just write Dolgiani.

JN: What is the history? Was it at one point in its history made into a sweet wine, and thus its name?

JE: The grape itself is quite sweet. The grape itself is one of the more delicious things you’ve ever tasted. As a table grape, incredible – except that it has quite a lot of seeds and tannin. So that’s where it gets the name.

JN: You mentioned the dark color and the significant tannin. What other character does Dolcetto have? What place does it have today? As a sommelier, where do you recommend serving it in the meal?

JE: Unfortunately, Dolcetto is falling out of favor in Italian markets, even in Piemonte, because people see it as the wine that their parents and their grandparents were drinking, because it was affordable and accessible. It’s what a lot of people were drinking at home and in restaurants, so they have this idea about it being an older person’s wine. It’s a great wine, though, perfect but safe for primi courses – pasta, risotto, these kind of things. It has relatively low acidity, which makes it very easy drinking. As a sommelier, you have to be careful where you’re using it, because it has this low acidity, big body. And very tannic. So it works better with richer dishes, but again, when you’re missing that acidity, sometimes then the dish tends to take over, you have too much of a heavy sensation. You want a sense of levity in there. So, Dolcetto can be not as friendly as Barbera, for example. This is a reason that maybe sommeliers aren’t using it so much, which is a shame. I love Dolcetto; I drink it frequently, I order it frequently at restaurants. It’s going out of style on this side of the ocean and on the other. On this side of the ocean, maybe it was never in style; it’s always had a hard time, marketing-wise.

JN: Speaking of Barbera, let’s move on to that next.

JE: As Dolcetto can be a little trickier to pair with food, Barbera is the opposite. It is so friendly, because it has this buoyant, bright acidity, and very low tannin, almost none. It doesn’t fight with foods, it cuts through them. This bright acid stands up to rich pasta dishes. Don’t tell any Italians this, but I like to pair it with pizza.

JN: It’s not too much acidity, the double acidity of the tomato and the wine?

JE: No, I like that. Because, think about the pizza, the dough can be kind of a heavier thing – the Barbera kind of inviting you to eat a little bit more than you would. Barbera is booming. Economically, it’s the most accessible representative of the indigenous Piemontese grapes. Maybe from some of these famous Barolo houses, even their Nebbiolos can be a little pricey, but Barbera will be accessible. That, coupled with the fact that it’s so friendly with food. You can drink it through an entire Piemontese meal. Barbera is having a really, really strong moment, marketwise. Even amongst young Italians – typically, if you see a younger Italian couple at a table, they’ll usually order a Barbera or something if they want to drink local.

JN: For better or worse, unlike Dolcetto, there’s a new tradition – in the last two decades or so – of having the Barbera see some time in barrique, which maybe isn’t the worse thing, seeing as it has this low tannin character, and maybe it picks up some structure from the wood, so maybe it’s not such a bad use of barrique. What do you think of that style of Barbera?

JE: The thing that’s exciting about that is in 2017 producers aren’t as afraid to experiment as in the past, and some are making a barrique Barbera and a stainless steel Barbera and a third one aged in botti, so they’re not tying themselves down to one style. The most age-worthy Barberas tend to be aged in barrique. That tannin which they don’t naturally have, they need if you want longevity in the wine. The complex structure takes more time to break down. So I’m not afraid of those wines, though I don’t like them when they’re young. Just to make a gross generalization, obviously there are producers which make barrique Barbera which you can drink young and others who make barrique Barbera which don’t stand the test of time. Good ones, when they’re young, taste too much of vanilla and these sorts of things, but after ten years of aging, that has fallen away and you’re just left with the taste of the variety. Some are afraid of them because when it started it was so against the tradition – Oh, that’s not what we do here – and some people, for better or worse, cling to that tradition, that uncompromising identity. It’s a problem, but it also makes it interesting.

JN: Sure, and that’s how culture is passed on, right? Without that tenacity or even stubbornness, culture is easily lost.

JE: Sure.

JN: On to Nebbiolo. Let’s start with Nebbiolo, but not from Barolo or Barbaresco.

JE: The grape actually represents less than 10% of vines in Piemonte. So there’s this misconception. Certainly it’s the most important and popular Piemontese red grape, but it represents a really small acreage of vines. In that sense it’s quite rare. The reason it isn’t planted everywhere is that it’s such a temperamental varietal. It’s actually the first grape to flower in the spring and the last to be picked. As such, it’s exposed to the elements for a long period of time, and there’s more opportunity for things to go wrong. It always catches the frost in the spring. Of course, the hail in the summer and the cold in the winter. You can’t grow it everywhere. And Nebbiolo varies dramatically depending on where it’s planted. Barbera, by contrast, is one of those grapes you can plant anywhere and it still tastes like Barbera. When Nebbiolo gets planted in a soil that doesn’t have the right symbiotic relationship and the right nutrients the vine needs, its character will change dramatically. For example, my father-in-law grows Nebbiolo at his home in Bistagno. If you tasted the wine, it’s almost unrecognizable. But if you taste his Barbera you know right away what it is. There are only a few places in the world where you can plant Nebbiolo, for this reason. It has a really temperamental nature. Usually it’s only planted on southwestern-facing slopes because of this problem it has ripening. It needs all the sun it can get. The reason that the ripening is so important for Nebbiolo is that it is naturally so acidic and tannic. Historically these wines were harsh. That’s why the grape needed to be aged before consumption. It was so aggressive on the human palate. You had to wait until they calmed down a little bit. Now that’s changing a little bit with global warming, making the wines a little bit more accessible in their youth, but maybe less able to be aged as long. Of course, the most famous places Nebbiolo is grown are Barolo and Barbaresco, but as those wines continue to increase in price beyond the reach of many, people are looking to other places where Nebbiolo has been grown historically but maybe didn’t have the economic success for a variety of reasons. So regions like Carema, Gattinara, Lessona – cooler climates. Now as the climate is warming up, these regions are emerging as being very interesting for Nebbiolo, whereas maybe 50 years ago it was just too cold. The wines were quite pale and acidic. Now they’re a little fuller on the palate. A little brighter. A little fresher. More satisfying on the palate. People are really starting to invest in these towns. Also, it’s an alternative to these extraordinarily expensive wines from Barolo, which could be $70 or $80. But for a great bottle of Carema you might just pay $35. For someone who doesn’t need to have a famous name, it’s a great alternative. So these other Nebbiolo wines are starting to blossom, but mostly abroad. In Italy they’re really marginalized.

JN: How does the colder climate affect the character of Nebbiolo?

JE: These cooler temperatures generally give a thinner but more elegant body. Also less capacity for aging. They lack the complexity of Barolo or Barbaresco, but they have a greater freshness about them. This isn’t just the climate but also the soil. There’s no coincidence that the white truffle and Barolo grow in the same soil. The soil in the Langhe gives a special thing to the plants, to the fruits, to all the flora that grows in the area. The soil in other areas where Nebbiolo is grown is good soil, but it doesn’t have the complexity. So those wines will never reach the Langhe in terms of intensity, in terms of mystery.

JN: Let’s delve deeper into Nebbiolo from Barolo and Barbaresco, in whichever order you prefer.

JE: I hold that Barolo is the finest Italian wine made. That’s because of a couple of things. It has an extraordinary potential to age, that it has demonstrated. In a perfect year with perfect conditions and a perfect human being sculpting these wines, they can last for half a century. It doesn’t always happen, but it has happened and will continue to happen, and that’s something that fascinates wine lovers – the ability to drink a product that’s more than 90% rainwater that fell half a century ago in northern Italy, that’s still fresh, that still gives emotion, that still tastes good. There’s this myth that wines can age. But most wines can’t age. Only a few special ones can. Barolo is one. And this is something that fascinates the wine community about it. That’s one thing.

The other thing is that it’s so different and so strange, aesthetically, from others. If you look at all the big international varieties – Cabernet, Merlot, you know – dark color, round body, soft supple tannin. You see the wine and taste it, its identity is quite complete. It doesn’t surprise you. Pinot Noir might surprise you. It has this delicate color, beautiful bouquet, gentle tannin, high acidity. Whereas Barolo sort of combines the two, almost. It has extraordinary tannin, extraordinary acidity, but very pale color. You look at this wine and it’s perplexing. It surprises you. It changes very much over the arc of its life. And this is another thing the draws people to this wine and fascinates wine lovers. Compared to Barbaresco, Barolo tends to be more complex, and slightly fuller. It will typically come of age not as rapidly and ultimately age longer.

Barbaresco, of course, is very similar to Barolo. Like Barolo, it’s 100% Nebbiolo, and Barbaresco even has some of the same soil as parts of Barolo. In Barolo the are two main soil types, one a little richer and more fertile – these wines tend to be more aromatic. The other type is leaner, with more shale and marl, and these wines tend to be a little more tannic, fuller, more aggressive, and longer-lived than other Barolos. This first type is exactly the same soil you have in Barbaresco. So Barbaresco tends to resemble Barolo from these areas very much.

JN: Then why was the line drawn where it was, to distinguish Barolo and Barbaresco?

JE: Because geographically they’re quite far away from each other, 10 or 15 kilometers. For this reason, Barbaresco wasn’t considered the same. The royal family, the Faletti, were living in Barolo. Vittore Emmanuelle II, the first king of United Italy [c. 1860] had a vineyard in Barolo and was using it as a sort of calling card. He was pushing Barolo. Slowly its reputation built internationally. Whereas the commercial success of Barbaresco we can attribute almost entirely to the marketing genius of one man: Angelo Gaja, in the late 1950s and early 1960s. He created more of a brand than a wine, and it exploded internationally. Luxury Italian wine become synonymous with a Gaja bottle, and luckily for the people of this little Italian town, the word Barbaresco was printed just below his name. And so people making Barbaresco today are aware of this debt to Gaja. People always knew there was great Nebbiolo coming from this area, but the market wasn’t there before Gaja.

JN: You mentioned the structural components – tannin and acidity – that contribute to the greatness of Barolo and Barbaresco. But what should one expect in terms of aroma and taste of well-aged Barolo or Barbaresco?

JE: That’s the thing that excites me the most about these wines, that they continue to surprise me, even after years of study and experience. Nebbiolo in general tends to be an earthy grape. It has smells of truffle and mushrooms. Amazingly, if you go to a Barolo vineyard and smell the soil, it has that smell. But it’s a special dirt. Not a stinky dirt but a perfumed dirt. So you have these gentle aromas of violet, something floral to it. Toward the end of the bottle it tends to be more medicinal, maybe spicy. Some people say they smell eucalyptus. Whereas when they’re younger you perceive more floral, more gentle spices. The more it ages the more complicated it gets, and the more the wine will change during the period you have the bottle open. This is one thing that’s so satisfying to wine lovers: that you pour another glass and the wine has significantly changed. It’s floral and delicate. Then at the end of the bottle it’s more medicinal. It doesn’t even resemble the wine you opened an hour ago. So it takes you on this journey.

JN: And though all wines evolve after being opened, few wines evolve like that.

JE: Exactly. So that’s the exciting thing about it. It continues to surprise, even those of us who taste it for a living.

JN: For me, Barolo is one of the only wines I prefer to drink without food, so that it can command my whole attention. Yet it is traditional to serve it at the table. What foods do you think pair well with Barolo?

JE: The best food and wine pairing in the world is Barolo with tajarin and white truffle. When you take a wine and food pairing class, they’ll say, Pair an earthy dish with an earthy wine. And as I say time and time again, there is no earth in the world like the earth of Barolo. So when you smell the Barolo and you smell the truffle, they’re reflecting each other, both telling the same story. They both have this really ethereal quality which not many foods have, so those two things together can make a person quite happy. This is the best pairing.

But also, with the high acidity and high tannin, Barolo pairs really well with meat: with Piemontese steak, braised meats. Although there is a delicacy to Barolo, the intense structure – high tannin and aggressive acidity – demand richness. You can’t pair it with something too delicate. Like Barolo and vitello tonnato – a disaster.

JN: Moving on to a very different grape, could we talk about Brachetto?

JE: It’s typical from the valley I live in, and the surprising thing about it is that it is red, but lightly sparking and sweet. There are not a lot of grapes that fall into that category. But it’s really traditional. In the old days, when they were fermenting the Brachetto, it would appear that the fermentation was finished. They would bottle it, but they’d open it in the spring to find that the fermentation hadn’t quite finished and so now it was lightly sparkling – frizzante. Now, by law, Brachetto d’Acqui has to be frizzante. It’s this lovely, fruity, refreshing grape, not something you find a lot in the international world of wine. There’s not a market for red, lightly sparking sweet wine. While in the valley I live in, it’s the most common dessert wine. It’s one of a myriad of indigenous grapes that the Piemontesi have kept alive. Really special. I like Brachetto a lot. It’s not a serious or overly complicated wine, but a satisfying wine. And then, some people make it into a concentrated passito wine using dried grapes, very sweet. You could age this style for 20 years. It really takes Brachetto to a different level. But there’s no market for those wines, unfortunately.

JN: Even in Piemonte?

JE: Yeah, no one says, Give me a Brachetto passito. No.

JN: Unfortunately our time is coming to an end, but I’d like to talk a bit about the few white wines of Piemonte.

JE: White wine doesn’t have a long history in Piemonte. The commercial wines we think of in Piemonte really only came about in the 1970s, made possible by technology that they didn’t have before. Temperature controlled fermentation. Stainless steel fermentation. People weren’t making wine with these things until the 1970s. This coincides with the first generation of true Piemontesi oenologists. Barolo producers after World War II who were starting to make a little money could send their kids to school to study winemaking. These kids enjoyed a technological boom and had new toys to play with which they didn’t have a generation ago. So they started experimenting with white wines. At first it was the international varieties like Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. Still today, Piemonte has great Chardonnay. But the Piemontesi were always a little unsatisfied with these wines because they were French grapes. There was a lot of money invested from the Regione Piemontese to identify indigenous Piemontese grapes and to see what you could do with them. The most famous has become Roero Arneis, this kind of fresher, fruitier wine. But today the style is a little different – they’re trying to coax a little more salinity out of the soil – and a little more mature. That’s the trend: not to make these fruity, international wines, but to make more saline, mineral wines.

The most interesting trend in white wine in Piemonte is Timorasso from eastern Piemonte, on the border with Lombardia, near the town of Tortona. There’s only about 150 acres of production at the moment, from about 30 producers. The greatest champion of the grape has been Walter Massa, who starting promoting it in the early 1990s. He demonstrated that not only is the grape extraordinarily unique, aesthetically speaking, with this dark color and big body, lots of intensity and minerality – but the more interesting thing is that he demonstrated that it is a white wine which can age, without being aged in wood. I’ve had examples of 15-year-old [wines] which have been extraordinary. People caught on to Massa’s genius and are starting to make really interesting wines. They’re quite unique. They have this big, oily body. Lots and lots of minerality. Sometimes a little bit of petrol. And a bright acidity. You taste them and you swear they’re aged in wood, but they rarely are.

JN: Timarasso is the name of the grape, I assume. So the wine is 100% Timarasso?

JE: Yes. Some people don’t want to use the word Timarasso on the label. I’m not sure exactly why. There’s some marketing confusion there. I assert that the most interesting white wine being made in Piemonte today is the Timarasso from the winery Marina Coppi. It’s a really young winery, only open since 2007, so they’re just beginning to see what they can do. They make this Timarasso called Fausto, only aged in stainless steel. His 2007 – this is a 10-year-old white wine that no one’s ever heard of – it’s just insanely good.

JN: Imported to the US?

JE: Yes, I was trying to connect him to an importer friend, Jan D’Amore, because I was obsessed with the wine. That didn’t work out, but it did get picked up by another importer, so it’s available in the US.

JN: Unfortunately we should end there, but thanks so much for your time.

JE: No problem. I really enjoyed it.

a conversation with Katie Parla


Katie Parla is a Rome-based food and beverage educator and journalist. Originally from New Jersey, she has spent the past fifteen years in Rome, writing and giving tours on such diverse topics as underground Roman archeological sites and the modern craft cocktail scene.

Katie has been my own mentor in all things Roman since my first visit to the city in 2010, and she continues to be my most trusted resource there. She is the co-author of the recently published Tasting Rome, and she is currently finishing up two new books, one on the cooking of Southern Italy and one on the home-milling of flour for baking.

In our conversation, Katie discusses how Rome has changed in the past fifteen years, what she learned from being trolled online, and why people should start planning a trip today to Southern Italy.


Justin Naylor: Good morning, Katie! You’ve been living in Rome full-time now for fifteen years, and I imagine that’s been long enough to really see some significant changes in the city, both gastronomic and otherwise. Many people probably think that things don’t change much in Italy, but of course they do. So maybe we could start with some of the changes since you relocated from the US to Italy.

Katie Parla: Yeah, for sure. There have been so many changes – and you’re absolutely right, that there is this romantic idea that Italy is this place where the food culture and its food system is sort of trapped in amber, pristine and preserved. In reality, the past fifteen years have been pretty heavily influenced by the economy, which makes sense if you think that a little over fifteen years ago the Euro became the currency and the price of everything went up. That affects how people can shop and also how restaurants can source. In both cases, there’s plenty of data to support that whether people are buying for a restaurant or for their homes, they’re very frugal and often choose conventional products over artisanal ones out of economic necessity.

We had a number of difficult years, financially. Although on paper Italy is out of a recession, most people would report that they don’t really feel as though there’s been much relief. The 2009 financial crisis was really devastating, and not just for people’s finances – I think, also, for the morale of Romans, and Italians as well. I think part of that romantic stereotype of Rome is that people go out and they’re at restaurants and they’re spending time together and lingering over really long meals. That perhaps was the case for some people pre-Euro, but in the crisis economy people couldn’t go out as much, and if they went out at all, they were looking for deals or looking for value or looking to save where they could. Going back to that romantic stereotype, the idea that when people go out they eat an antipasto, primo, secondo, contorno, and dolce, a wine-fueled meal that concludes with coffee and disgestivo – that’s like a special occasion today. It used to be more of the norm, and now when people go out, they go out for a couple of dishes. They might split a dessert, a carafe of wine rather than a bottle. People have to be really savvy with how they spend at restaurants. And this sort of carries over into other dining, as well. Fast food – which is a term that I use to describe the sort of indigenous custom of eating pizza by the slice or suppli’, as well as the more globalized brands – has become a really big feature of the local food panorama. We have both grim fast food options these days, as well as some really exciting ones.

JN: How have the chefs responded to this change? Is there anti-EU sentiment like in Britain?

KP: I think there’s not quite the same anti-European Union sentiment that there is in the sense of the Brexit debacle, but it’s not as though Italians went to a vote recently to see if they want to stay in or out. Romans, in general, have survived financial difficulties for 27 centuries. It’s not a new thing for them. They adapt, just like anyone else. And that also applies to chefs. I think that in Rome there are restaurants and trattorias where the places exist to serve really great food. Sometimes the owners are exceptionally bad at business, so rather than getting the cheapest raw materials they go for the more expensive things, the more time-consuming items. Those are the places that I really love, and I know you do, too. So, bad at business, great at food.

JN: Right!

KP: Whereas, the restaurant business since antiquity has been driven by demand for cheap food. I don’t think there’s been necessarily a cataclysmic shift, because there were lots of place serving not-great food before, and I think that continues to be the case. I think that people’s response ranges from indignant – some people have straight-up retired, preferred not to have to navigate the difficult margins that are the reality today in the business more than ever. But the silver lining is, you do have a lot of young people who went away from Italy to find work abroad, had experiences in the food industry and the beverage industry, have come back and put their knowledge and lessons to work back home, investing the money that they earned abroad, and also, I think, a bit more conscious of what Roman flavors are, what Roman food is. When you leave a place and then return to it with a little time and distance, you can actually reflect on things that as a full-time resident you may have taken for granted. I definitely see that happening in the craft brewing industry, in the street food industry, in the cocktail and bakery category. So that’s really exciting, and I think it’s also part of the very natural evolution of Roman food. Roman food has constantly been changing; if we were doing this interview forty years ago, we would be talking about a totally different food culture; thirty years ago, 130 years ago. The city’s food culture and the realities around it are constantly shifting.

JN: How have your own tastes changed in the last fifteen years? Are there restaurants that you really enjoyed when you first moved to Rome that now you’re sort of embarrassed to admit that you enjoyed? 

KP: [Laughter] I realize I don’t have the capacity for shame, so I’m not afraid to admit that when I got here, every gelato tasted amazing. I would go to, like, Giolitti and Della Palma. I spent a summer doing thesis research here during college and all those terrible, exceptionally bad trattorie on Vicolo del Cinque served what is objectively disgusting food, but it tasted so good to me at the time.

JN: Since you work with a lot of tourists who are in Rome for the first time, I imagine those experiences help you relate to where they’re coming from, when  everything just seems amazing.

KP: Yeah! Food tastes better when you’re in a beautiful street that looks like a natural movie set. But I think I did arrive here with already two decades of conscious food experiences. I did grow up in the restaurant business, I was always working in restaurants, I spent most of what I earned working in high school and university on food. When I went to college, of my work-study funds, half went to my Italy fund, and the other half went to eating Ethiopian food and Indian food and all sorts of cuisines. I learned by eating various national and regional cuisines that, yeah – maybe that first chicken vindaloo that you have blows your mind, it’s the best thing you’ve every eaten, but then you try another one and you start to create a frame of reference. The same is true for carbonara or trippa alla Romana. While I might have been predisposed to be thinking about the quality of food, I did grow up in America, where we don’t judge food based on its digestibility factor, which is certainly something that people consider here. So, yeah, that plate of tripe might have tasted really good, but if it sits heavily in your stomach, was it really a successful dish?

JN: Do you think that is was mostly just experience, or did you have a mentor along the way who helped you distinguish good cooking from mediocre?

KP: You know, it was kind of a combination of factors. Almost as soon as I got here, I enrolled in a sommelier certification course, and that came just before my Master’s in Italian Gastronomic Culture, so I was already thinking of food in a more formal and academic way than most recent arrivals. I worshipped, and continue to worship, Maureen Fant, who is the smartest human. I read every word she ever wrote, she was an incredible resource, and I’d like to think of her as a mentor. She’s been really generous with me. I learned a lot from her; I still do. It was a number of factors and ultimately a personal decision to treat food as a discipline, and not just as the object of some review or article or travel piece or blog post.

JN: You’ve written about how it was not food but archaeology and history that took you to Rome in the first place, but that you quickly got entranced by the city’s gastronomic culture. Once your interests shifted toward food, what kept you in Rome as opposed to another Italian city?

KP: Rome for me is a relationship with a city that sort of transcends any explanation. I am utterly obsessed with the urban decay of this place. The things that keep me here are actually not the archaeology and the food and the wine, it’s more like I feel really at home in dilapidated 1960s failed experimental housing projects.

JN: So not the famous tourist center, but the periphery that the tourists never see.

KP: Yeah, I mean, what is so fascinating to me is that just short of 150 years ago, Rome’s population was under 150,000 and it saw these huge booms in population. So you have all this stuff that’s happening beyond that central nucleus where very few today Romans even live. Like the Borgate, the housing projects of the ’30s, they could have been monstrosities or hideous but instead they are so elegant. All the tensions, immigration, and  political movements that drove the development of the city, I find that thrilling.

JN: How soon after you moved to Rome full-time did you start the blog?

KP: I started my very primitive Apple first generation website in 2006. It wasn’t anything like what it is today. It was about underground archaeological sites, and wine, and random trips, and museums, and snacks, and all sorts of random things, and no one read it. While I was doing my Master’s the following year, I bought the domain parlafood.com, which was meant to be the website that accompanied my thesis, and once that was done I thought, I should probably use this for something. The name was super dumb, but, whatever, who cares? What did I know at the time, that it was important to have a cool name? So, in 2007 that’s when Parla Food was born. Back then, I didn’t think my name had or would have any type of real recognition, so I also had a personal website, katieparla.com, and eventually – this is probably about four years ago – I ditched Parla Food and moved all the content to katieparla.com. This might be a really boring part of the interview.

JN: People are really interested in this, though – we live in this strange age where, as you say, you start writing, you have no reputation, no one knows who you are, and it’s very difficult. But once you reach a certain tipping point, things go viral, and someone can go from being completely unknown to being well-known very quickly. What do you think the turning point was for you?

KP: It had to be in 2009 when I had my first by-lines in the New York Times, which came about because I had been writing so much on my blog and for some other smaller publications. I was banging out so many articles about so many Rome things, and that got the recognition of a New York Times editor, and that really catapulted my public profile. Back in 2009-2010 I was filing a lot of travel stories on Italy and Turkey and the US, just writing whatever I could for them. That led to a lot of other writing gigs. So it really snowballed, and now I write for a pretty wide swath of the food world.

JN: How did you connect with the New York Times initially? Was it the result of good luck, or did you reach out to them?

KP: I had zero confidence that I would ever write for the New York Times. It never occurred to me even to ask. In 2008-2009 they were developing their now-defunct In Transit website, and the travel editor was talking to one of the Metro section editors, saying, “I need a Rome stringer, do you know anyone in Rome?” and the editor responded, “Yeah, Katie Parla.” I got an offer and I was like, What the hell, this is crazy. Of course this is insane. Unbeknownst to me, people were actually reading my blog and the articles that I had been filing for other publications. I didn’t know that anyone had been reading them. So, that was a nice surprise.

JN: And I imagine your advice to anyone in the position you were in then would be to keep working and make sure your content is super high quality, and just keep at it?

KP: This is probably terrible advice, but I would say never say no to a paid writing gig as long as you are able to maintain your integrity. Never say no, and write until you are on the brink of mental breakdown. Forsake a social life. Something good might happen. Again, this is very bad advice! [Laughter]

JN: As you developed a more prominent reputation and profile in Rome, how did Romans eventually react to this when they figured out there was this American woman writing about Roman food culture, developing a lot of influence in the English-speaking world? 

KP: It totally depends on the venue, because there are some restaurants that are very much online, following the food press, and others that literally don’t care that I write about them for major publications – all that they care about is that I’m a regular and I have been for a long time, so my occupation is completely unimportant to them. But, yeah, I had a pretty violent entry into the Italian food press world. [In 2010] I wrote a take-down of a restaurant called L’Arcangelo; I wrote what I thought was a super-funny, very interesting take-down of the place. Then, a year later, one of the big food blogs basically wrote an article saying, Who is this bitch writing about our food? Clearly, Americans should be eating spaghetti with ketchup on it. I’m not joking – this is basically what the article said. And the response in the comments section was basically, Who does this person think she is? She can’t know anything; This restaurant is untouchable; She ordered wrong – that last part is actually true; in Roman restaurants you don’t order what you want, you order what they’re good at. I got really, really viciously trolled by a lot of men – I now know who they are because I figured it out – anonymous avatars who just like nothing more than degrading women, foreign women as a bonus. That was a very painful moment, and this trolling lasted a good two weeks, with all sorts of personal messages to my email. It was really f—ed up.

JN:  I know you have a thick skin, but it must have been really difficult. I can’t even imagine. 

KP: The reason I do [have a thick skin] is because this happened. I was like, OK, that sucked, and now I’m totally over it. I’m disappointed that it had to take something like that. I didn’t sleep for two weeks; it was a nightmare. But then I was like, I don’t care what anyone thinks about me. These people didn’t read what I wrote, they don’t know where I come from, they don’t understand me, they have no interest or intellectual curiosity in my origins or my credentials. While maybe at first my confidence was shaken a bit, I now can take anything. I think that’s important, because I don’t work for L’Arcangelo, I don’t work for trolls. I promote Roman food culture as I see it, and try to teach people about it. I work for my editors and my readers, not for anyone else, and I’m not trying to impress people who have no interest in fairly judging what I do.

JN: There’s a happy ending, though, insofar as you eventually developed a very good working relationship with Arcangelo, right?

KP: Yeah, I mean, no one really wants to be in a long-term fight here. They want to be in a short fight, and then make peace. People are into arguing, they’re into drama – especially in this very incestuous food world – but they don’t want long-standing feuds, they just want a passionate fight and then some sort of resolution. And that’s exactly what happened.

JN: I watched the presentation that you did at Google a few months ago, and in the question period someone described you as their hero. I understand why this is, especially to a lot of young people who are interested in writing about food and wine as you have. You’ve been very successful, but I imagine that you’re not really comfortable being anyone’s “hero”. 

KP: Sure. Yeah, being someone’s hero, I feel completely unqualified for that. However, if I take a step back for a moment, I have worked very hard in a sometimes-toxic place, and, yeah – I work my ass off. I write a lot. I don’t do press trips or go to openings or accept invites in exchange for access or free food. I’m proud of that. In terms of my output, I know I could do more, I could always improve, but I hope that the fact that I’ve really, really tried to make it in a difficult city and have succeeded can provide some sort of hope to other people wanting to do the same. I could be a better role model, and a better hero, but taking myself out of the equation, it’s really important for people to have someone to look up to. It’s not a given that someone has this dream career and someone has that career already, but if a younger or less-experienced person can look at what I have accomplished and find some inspiration in that, awesome. I always am looking to friends and colleagues and assessing how they’ve been able to achieve what they’ve done, because working is hard, freelancing is hard. Just surviving can be hard sometimes. So, having heroes is important. I was super uncomfortable being called a hero, but I’ll take it.

JN: You were at Google as part of your book tour for Tasting Rome (2016). Could you talk a little bit about how that book came about?

KP: So, I was at lunch with Kristina Gill, who is the photographer and co-author of the book. She told me about a book that she had been trying to sell for four years, about the favorite recipes of Roman taxi drivers. I thought, That’s a terrible idea, no one likes Roman taxi drivers. So I was like, “Hmmm. Why don’t we do a profile of the city of Rome through its food instead?” I had been writing about those very topics for years, so it seemed like a great opportunity. We got together a proposal – actually, on my website there’s a very detailed post about how to write and sell a cookbook proposal – our agent, Alison Fargis, gave us a template, and so we basically said, this is what the book is going to look like, this is what the book is going to sound like, these are some of the concepts we want to cover, and here’s how we’re going to sell it. That was a really important feature of the proposal, and really critical to selling it for a very nice rate. Because one way to become extremely impoverished is to write a cookbook. Getting paid for it is very important. But I digress.

JN: So, one reason that you were able to get a good rate – not only was the proposal good, but you already had a pretty significant platform. People I talk to who would like to do something similar are frustrated because the first thing any agent will say to them is, “Before we develop any proposal, you need to have a pretty massive platform.” Is that your experience as well?

KP: I think if you have a massive platform, you can sell a book that is not a good idea. Having a massive platform gives authors a lot more in the way of leverage in selling a not-interesting idea. But if you have an interesting idea and you can argue in favor of being able to sell it, that’s important too. Selling isn’t just having 1 million Instagram followers. In the proposal, I wrote, “I’m going to go on a very aggressive book tour, selling this book through events.” I already had lots of experience running and selling out events, so I knew that with some organization and planning, and a lot of caffeine, I could sell the book, which is exactly what I did. In my next proposal, I’ll have to add that my mother will sit in front of Whole Foods with a trunkful of cookbooks and hand-sell them to people, because that’s basically what she does! [Laughter] She should get a cut.

JN: I love it – there’s nothing like mom. So, speaking of social media and having a significant platform, do you enjoy that aspect of your work, or do you feel it’s a necessary evil?

KP: I love Instagram; I’m an instant-gratification person. I love Twitter, but for politics more than food – if there are any readers that are easily scandalized, do not go on my Twitter feed. And Facebook for me is a necessary evil. It is absolutely the number-one way that Italians communicate, especially Italian food businesses. I don’t have a passion for it, but I do use Facebook. I use my personal page to post the larger articles that I write, and then I do a lot of visual stuff on my Katie Parla professional page, and some event promotion there too.

JN: I’m sure you’ve been gratified by the success of the book, and you put obviously a lot of effort into the book and the proposal as well. Have you been surprised at all – I guess no matter how much you believe in a project, it’s always a roll of the dice as well. Have you been pleasantly surprised by the success of the book?

KP: I was completely delusional, so I thought we were going to sell 100,000 copies. I’m very happy with the sales now. The reason why Clarkson Potter bought Tasting Rome is that they saw this as a book that will be relevant for a long time. The sales have been really consistent, I continue to tour – I’ve got events coming up in the summer, so two years after the book came out, there’s still interest. I’ll be able to sell the book, and share the book with people. But honestly, when you write your first cookbook, you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what good sales are, what bad sales are, if your launch is successful. All of that stuff is stuff you figure out later. In retrospect, yes, I learned a lot, definitely, marketing and selling Tasting Rome. I’ll hopefully be able to apply some of those lessons to future publications and do even better numbers.

JN: Especially for a cookbook, in a completely inundated market. It’s interesting to me, because when I started paying attention to Italian cooking about 15 years ago, around the same time you moved to Rome, there were books on Tuscany and books on Italian cooking in general, but Rome seemed to be under the radar. In 2007, Maureen Fant’s great book came out, published by Williams-Sonoma, and it seems in the last ten years, and especially in the last five, interest in Rome has exploded – there’s yours, there’s Rachel Roddy’s wonderful book that I love so much. How do you account for the sudden explosion of interest in Rome?

KP: Rachel’s book is so good! I attribute it to two things. In cookbook publishing, a book is considered a “competing title” if it’s been published within ten years. So, there weren’t many Rome books with large distribution that had been published within ten years. Maureen Fant’s book is such a good book, but it’s so hard to find – Williams-Sonoma makes it hard to get. But it’s awesome – I love that book so much, it’s my most-stained cookbook. So, it was time for another Rome cookbook. I love Rachel’s book as well, but the fact that it was a British title meant it wasn’t seen as a competing title in the American market, even though it now is available in the US under a different title [My Kitchen in Rome]. And then Jerusalem was a really transformative title – that’s Ten Speed’s book about the city of Jerusalem, really using the city as the anchor for the subject, for the recipes. In 2013 and 2014, a lot of books about places and regions and subregions were coming out, and so it was sort of the right time. Definitely, those two things.

JN: How do you distinguish Tasting Rome from some of those other books?

KP: I think Rachel said it best: her book and my book are friends. There are maybe a few recipes that overlap, but they’re really different stories of Rome. Rachel’s is her personal story, rooted in her life here, her building a family here, her partner and his relationship to Testaccio, her relationship to Testaccio. Instead, Tasting Rome – it’s not academic, of course, but it’s a little more rooted in history and interviews, and it’s really connected to individual people, like Flavio de Maio’s carbonara or Claudio Gargioli’s gricia – individual stories. While Rachel’s book is more of a personal account, Tasting Rome gives a voice to some of the people who really define Roman food but don’t know English or don’t have a platform. So, the book speaks on their behalf.

JN: Chefs are traditionally protective of their recipes. Were the chefs you profiled happy or reluctant to share with you?

KP: Both. The reason people are so generous and open with me is because I go to their restaurants. I don’t take free food, I pay for everything, I am a devoted regular, so they’re willing to share their recipes with me. Except Arcangelo, who deliberately gave me the wrong recipe, so I made him go into the kitchen and make gnocchi in front of me while I followed him around with a  scale.

JN: And now you’re just finishing up a new book. I would love to hear about that book, and when it’s coming out, and anything about that process you’d like to share. 

KP: Actually there are two!

JN: That’s even better news. Do tell!

KP: My solo title – are you ready for it – is called “Untitled South Italy Cookbook”.

JN: It’s been untitled for a while, I think. Is that changing soon?

KP: No. It won’t change soon, because the publication date has been pushed forward. In the publishing world, they don’t decide or sign off on titles until a certain period before the book is published. “Untitled South Italy Cookbook”, which is finished – the photographs are shot, all that is done – will come out in Spring 2019. The titled Flour Lab cookbook, which I am coauthoring with my friend the chef, miller, and baker Adam Leonti, formerly of Vetri, is coming out in the fall. It’s about milling flour at home for pasta, pizza, bread, and pastry. The photos were shot in January and I’m just about to receive my copy edits back.

JN: That’s so exciting!

KP: It’s about 25 archetypal recipes, so there’s how to mill flour at home for certain shapes of pasta in order to get the best extensibility, or whatever the characteristic is that you need. You can mill at home or go to your local mill – like Castle Valley in Doylestown – and choose the grain based on what you need to make or bake. The South Italy cookbook, on the other hand, is similar to Tasting Rome, in that it’s about 85-90 recipes, each preceded by a headnote, and then lots of features. But rather than focusing on a single city, it focuses on various aspects of Southern Italian food culture, and I define “South Italy” as the lower peninsula – Molise, Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, and Puglia.

JN: The Rome book took a lot of research, I’m sure, but it was also very familiar already. This book, I imagine, required a tremendous amount of research, travel, etc. What are some of the main takeaways of the experience?

KP: In a way, the Rome book was already written in my head, because I had been researching so many of these topics for so long. Naturally I had to spend some time tracking down recipes and developing recipes. That was not super time-consuming; I wrote Tasting Rome so fast. The South Italy cookbook, on the other hand, was a lot of travel, a lot of driving, a lot of taking photos of terrain and really trying to distill a very, very vast and varied landscape into a sort of South Italy 101 container. I want people to read the South Italy book and immediately start planning a trip, and feel immediately connected to those places and their flavors. It was a bit challenging to stuff a lot of information into the same amount of space as Tasting Rome.

JN: Despite the diversity of these Southern regions, which have their own character, what are some things that tie those regions together? Does anything unify the cooking of the regions you wrote about?

KP: There are a lot of vegetables, a lot of dishes that are just inadvertently vegan, tons of pulses and legumes, and pulpy, brothy soups. Until the mid-1800s, all the regions I mentioned were under Bourbon rule. Now, of course, they’re under Italian rule for the moment, but who knows what’s going to happen next. I think the intensity of flavors – especially from Calabria – I like to communicate that; the variety of things you might find on a Pugliese table, with lots of coastline with interior land; Campania having a tradition of pork, but using it as a flavoring – there are individual characteristics of each region, and of course of the subregions. It’s a veggie-driven society.

JN: Which I guess is connected historically to the fact that these regions were often poor, compared to some of their Northern counterparts, and of course meat is expensive. So it makes sense that veggies and legumes play the dominant role. 

KP: And a lot of the meat dishes were holiday-oriented.

JN: Is there a lot of hot pepper as well?

KP: There is quite a lot of pepperoncino, especially in Calabria and parts of Campania, and they’re sort of smoky peppers in Basilicata, but a lot of the ingredients that you find are the New World ingredients. There are the things that define the South – peppers and tomatoes, eggplants that came from North Africa and the Middle East, artichokes – those things that now have been absorbed into other parts of Italy, but really have been rooted down in the southern regions much longer.

JN: And you hope your book convinces people to go to these places, which could really benefit from more tourism. 

KP: Completely. Rome, Florence, and Venice have become so insanely packed. I think visitors to Italy are looking for an experience that feels, for lack of a better word, authentic and real. And with full insurance coverage, you can do anything to the car! You can drive it down a mountain if you want to.

JN: [Laughter] Good to know!

KP:  That’s going to be maybe the subtitle of the book: Get a car, get full coverage. You can drive to all these incredible places. Literally, all over Cilento, you’ll encounter more cows than humans, on the road, free grazing. It’s so amazing. There’s all this crazy delicious food. The interior of Basilicata is so unspoiled. These are regions that have been depleted of population, so there’s this sort of haunted mystery around them. They’re really, really special, so I do want people to travel there.

JN: Speaking of grazing, what did you learn about mozzarella di bufala for this book? 

KP: Mozzarella di bufala is produced in several parts of Campania. The flavor of the cheese is the product of the fermentation and the diet of the buffaloes, and the salinity of the cheese, which can be manipulated by the producers. I actually don’t eat that much buffalo mozzarella because there are only a few places where I know it’s coming from very happy animals. But when I do, you can taste it – the flavor of the mozzarella changes throughout the year. It shouldn’t be too acidic or too tangy, but it should have a little bit of that brightness to it. It should be juicy, and milky, and squeaky almost. It’s something that we can’t even get here in Rome, with very few exceptions. It’s a process that’s best experienced at Taverna Penta, where the animals are eating wild herbs and a sort of cocktail of different things that grow on the property, as well as Tenuta Vanullo.

JN: When I’m talking about mozzarella di bufala, I often find myself defending the wonderful city of Naples. I realize it’s not for everyone, a little rough around the edges, but I know you love Naples too. What would you say about Naples to someone who has never been there, and is thinking about visiting? How would you describe the city and characterize its food and culture?

KP: Naples is like all those great cities on the water: there’s chaos but also calm at the same time, in a strange way. It’s the global pizza capital, so people are into carbs. And it was the capital of a kingdom, so it has palaces and chapels and avenues, all the things that went along with being not just an administrative capital but a culture capital, an art and music capital. It’s so amazing and has such terrible PR, it’s kind of shocking. Admittedly, on my first trip I was a little nervous, because it was very chaotic, it was a lot. But with every trip, I become more infatuated with the city. It has more character and more soul than Florence could ever dream of having – no offense to Florence fans.

JN: I often find myself defending it for those who think it’s a dangerous place.

KP: It’s not. Have you been to Philadelphia?

JN: [Laughter] Fair enough!

KP: I love Philly, but Philly’s more dangerous than Naples, a million times over. But if you are afraid of encountering organized crime, don’t come to Italy at all, because it’s absolutely everywhere – whether it’s the stereotypical mafia goons, or the incredibly entrenched extortion for protection racket that is absolutely pervasive, to the deep corruption within many levels of government controlled by mafia families. It’s absolutely ubiquitous. Maybe because of Gomorra and because these stories that come out in the media, Naples seems to be more wild and dangerous than it is, but it’s not as though every other part of Italy is mafia-free. On the contrary.

JN: Does the presence of that sort of corruption – at this point, you’ve been there fifteen years – are you stoic about it, or does it still kind of creep you out, knowing that these things are going on? 

KP: I mean, I think about it all the time. You know, in Italy you can’t really change things, except with your consumer choices. So I like to go directly to things, I like to see the land they come from, I like to have an understanding of how things are being made, and I know that that is a really time-consuming endeavor that not everyone can handle, but I think it’s really important to acknowledge that if you’re eating food, you’re probably contributing to the mafia at some level, and all you can do is try to lessen it through specific choices. So, when you go to a market and you see that oranges cost 1.5 Euros a kilo, that’s probably because the mafia has enslaved African men to pick them. If artichokes are super cheap, the ones that come from Puglia may have been plucked out of the ground by enslaved Romanian women. So, understanding the food system, understanding the extent to which the mafia is involved in the food system, and making your choices accordingly, acknowledging that it’s going to cost more to avoid that system, that’s the only way to do it as a regular consumer.

JN: We haven’t talked yet about wine, even though that’s a huge part of what you do; as you mentioned before, you have your sommelier certificate. I know this is a big topic, but how would you describe your approach to wine in general? For people who are new to Italian wine, how would you describe the Italian wine landscape at the moment? What kind of wines do you seek out, what philosophies of winemaking do you most admire and try to promote?

KP: I do offer wine tastings; in addition to the private food tours I offer, I also do private wine tastings for groups up to six people. My approach to wine is to give a panorama, not necessarily of the whole Italian wine scene or market, but more to get people comfortable with the geography, and the grapes that come from the geography of Italy — because Italy has twenty regions, they are vastly different economically, linguistically, topographically, and not everyone is going to be able to visit all of them and see where grapes are grown and see how the food and wine interact with each other. I try to lead people through a tasting that focuses indigenous grapes, that focuses on how wines are made, and to some extent tries to demystify wine. I like to stick to really traditional wines, ones that haven’t been manipulated by a lot of intervention from the winemaker, whether that’s a lot of wood in aging or the use of reverse osmosis to change the alcohol by volume or the acidity levels. I personally drink almost exclusively natural wines, wines that are made not necessarily in the total absence of sulfur dioxide, but with very small, minimal amounts, and indigenous yeast, rather than lab yeast. My natural wine palate can even tolerate some volatile acidity, so sometimes more extreme wines, but also really clean wines that you might not think fall into the category, because they don’t have some of the defects that you associate with natural wines. And in the US right now, because a lot of sommeliers are interested in these smaller, artisanal producers who are using less intervention and really showcasing local grapes, you find tons of examples of natural wines in smaller shops, especially, like Moore Brothers, which you know well.

JN: We probably should wrap it up there, then. I really appreciate your time, Katie, I appreciate all the mentoring you’ve done for me over the years. 

KP: For sure.


spaghetti with pancetta & onion


We don’t serve much dried boxed pasta – spaghetti, penne, etc. – at the restaurant. This isn’t because it’s inherently lesser in quality than fresh pasta like fettuccine and ravioli (it’s definitely not!), but its long cooking time makes it hard to fit into the context of our multi-course meals, modest kitchen, and decision to work without employees.

When we’re cooking for ourselves and the family, high-quality dried pasta can be just the thing, especially at the end of a long, busy day. Even we can’t always find time to spend an hour preparing dinner. The most important thing when buying dried pasta is to make sure to buy imported Italian brand. Although there is a wide range of quality, even in Italy, Italian-made pasta is far more likely to cook correctly than domestic. I’ve always taught this in my classes, but my conviction was strengthened recently when I had no choice but to cook a famous domestic brand and ended up with gluey mess impossible to properly toss with its sauce. The brand De Cecco is available at almost every supermarket these days, and though it’s not absolute top quality, it’s very good and readily available.

When I was first learning to cook from Marcella Hazan‘s wonderful books, I loved one of her sauces made with slow-cooked onions. A heaping mass of onions are placed in a covered pot and slow-cooked for an hour, then quickly browned over medium-high heat and tossed with parsley and parmigiano. It’s a great sauce, and wonderful for vegetarians.

I hadn’t made it in probably 10 years, but something got me to thinking about it the other day. But I didn’t have an hour, and I also had some lovely home-made pancetta in the fridge as well. I decided to make this variation, and I’m so glad I did! This is one of those sauces that cooks so quickly you can begin it after putting the pasta in the water to boil.

Spaghetti with Pancetta and Onions (Serves 2)

  1. Begin by by dicing about 25 grams (¼ cup or so) pancetta, the best quality you can get hold of.
  2. Brown in a little olive oil and then add about a cup of thinly sliced onion and ½ teaspoon or so hot pepper. I cook exclusively with sweet onions, but it’s not make or break.
  3. Stir everything around and add a generous pinch of salt. Salting correctly really is the most important part of cooking after all. Reduce the heat to low and cook for about 10 minutes.
  4. When your pasta is nearly ready (100 to 120 grams for two people, cooked al dente in luxuriously salted water), raise the heat to high on the onions and cook until they’re lightly browned but not too dark. Add a tablespoon or two of the pasta cooking water to loosen things up. Add some parsley, chopped or whole.
  5. Drain the pasta and immediately add it to the sauce pan, quickly tossing the pasta with the sauce to make them one.
  6. Garnish with parmigiano-reggiano and a little benediction of fresh olive oil, and serve immediately!

tiramisu, a new approach

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A lovely Italian moka pot

One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was on tiramisu. My introduction to making Tiramisu came through the recipe of Giuliano Hazan in his useful book Every Night Italian. What I liked about it so much was its use of Strega as a liquor, which Giuliano says is classic, even though I’ve never come across anyone else using it. I made that tiramisu for years. I loved it, friends loved  it, and customers loved it.

But it’s natural and healthy to evolve, and over the years my approach to tiramisu has been transformed significantly. I no longer use any liquor. I make it in individual serving goblets instead of a large cake.  I have reduced the ratio of ladyfingers and increased the ratio of mascarpone cream. And finally, I found a workaround to the problem of using raw eggs (even though fear of raw eggs is largely unfounded). All of these changes, except perhaps the last, reflect changing practices in Italy as well. More and more the tiramisu I make resembles the tiramisu I’m served in Rome, Bologna, and Venice.

There’s nothing wrong with the version I used to make, but change and variation are usually healthy. Here’s how I make it now.

Tiramisu (Makes 18 portions)

  1. Begin by beating 6 large eggs yolks with the whisk attachment in a stand mixture until thick and pale yellow, about 3 to 5 minutes.
  2. While the yolks are whisking, heat 150 grams sugar with 100 grams water over high heat until boiling vigorously.
  3. Very slowly, drizzle the boiling sugar syrup into the egg yolks with the whisk going at high speed. This should raise the temperature of the yolks to 140 degrees or so, cooking them without curdling.
  4. Turn down the speed one or two settings, and beat for a full 15 minutes until light and very much expanded.
  5. Add 2 half pound packages of mascarpone, and then add 100 grams of sugar dissolved in a cup of cream (225 grams).
  6. Mix until thick, about a minute or two depending on the speed. Turn off the mixer.
  7. Scoop about 2 tablespoons of mascarpone cream into each of the 18 dessert goblets. I use a small ice cream scoop.
  8. Prepare a cup or so of very strong coffee, preferably with an Italian moka pot, a staple of home coffee making in Italy.
  9. Cut 18 dried ladyfingers in half and briefly soak 2 halves at a time in the coffee, adding a little milk if desired. Then place each pair of halves in each of the 18 goblets. Each brand of ladyfingers varies in how much soaking is needed. The temperature of the coffee also makes a profound difference. Sometimes 2 seconds is too much. Other times 5 seconds is not enough. It just takes a little practice and experience. What you don’t want is for the ladyfinger to be sodden at this point. If it is moistened on the other portion but still hard inside, the moisture will wick its way into the center and tenderize the whole cookie over the course of several hours.
  10. Add about 1/4 cup of mascarpone cream (I use a large ice cream scoop) on top, smoothing it out with a spoon.
  11. Finish by dusting with cocoa. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerated for 12 to 24 hours.
  12. Serve cool, but not right from the fridge.



ten years on…

Ten years ago tonight – December 31, 2007 – Old Tioga Farm was open for the first time as a restaurant, though I’m quite sure we didn’t yet claim that lofty name for it. We had purchased the farm almost a year earlier, and we’d moved in August 2007, with a one-month-old infant in tow, Peter, whom some of you might have met on one of the rare occasions that he’s helped Dillon during service in the past year. I was teaching full-time off the farm, a 45 minute drive away in Kingston. Dillon was home with the baby, adjusting to a new and unfamiliar home, life with a newborn, rural isolation, and a husband gone for 10 hours a day. It was cold in the drafty old house, and oil to heat the radiators was expensive. I slept with a winter cap on at night.

It wasn’t, perhaps, an auspicious first winter. Indeed, toward the end of it we considered a return to our former city life. But a vision had brought us to the farm. We saw so much potential and character in the old empty house. Would it be a B&B? A venue for cooking classes? I had a dream to raise vegetables, and Dillon’s family lived only a mile a way. I  began offering cooking classes to friends, and friends of friends. Word spread a little, and we received a request to cater a private family dinner at the farm on New Year’s Eve. I don’t remember what we served or how it went exactly, but somehow within a month or two we’d repeated the experience, this time open to the public. The details are hazy, but we kept at it, and soon enough when we advertised an event it would sell out rather quickly.

We had no extra money, so we used the same old rickety secondhand furniture we used for our family meals. Italian cooking is home cooking, so we didn’t see any need for a fancy stove or expensive equipment. Dillon had little service experience but excellent instincts and a natural desire to make people comfortable and feel cared for. At first we offered a choice of dishes for each course, but soon enough people were expressing confidence in the cooking and were happy to eat whatever we wished to prepare for them. There was a wonderful community of local farms from which we could source meat and dairy, and we were growing our own vegetables. We doubted there would be enough people in our rural area to support a restaurant like ours, but we learned that there are all kinds of people everywhere, and that good, straightforward cooking appeals to people from many different backgrounds.

By 2014, we were doing about 30 events a year: too many to do justice to both the restaurant and my teaching. We knew we could survive without my teaching salary if we could be open 100 nights a year — every Friday and Saturday — but trying to triple our business in one year seemed like a suspect proposition. At some point you have to jump, though, so I resigned my position that year and committed to full-time work on the farm:  the restaurant on the weekends and our small vegetable business during the week. Miraculously, we’ve been sold out every night since.

Old Tioga Farm has been a gift, certainly a gift to us who are blessed to make a living dedicated to such a special vocation. But I hope it is also a gift to the community, an opportunity for fellowship, hospitality, and cooking that comes from the heart, that has soul. Our business has been made possible only by the support of so many customers, customers who believe in our vision and who value it enough to spend precious time and resources dining with us. Some customers we see only once. Others have become friends. Still others have helped us weed vegetables and skin a plastic greenhouse. We’re grateful for all of them.

If you’d asked us ten years ago if we’d be doing what we’re doing now, we’d have thought you crazy. Life is always full of surprises. I can only imagine what the next ten years will bring!


From an early event, circa 2009.




a conversation with Luca di Vita


Luca di Vita is the co-proprietor, along with his friend and business partner Bruno Gavagnin, of Osteria alle Testiere, a tiny 22-seat restaurant in Venice. It was an honor to interview Luca because Alle Testiere is my favorite restaurant in all of Italy, which I’ve written about here and here. For more about Bruno, see this 2015 profile in The Wall Street Journal.

I interviewed Luca back in September, when we met for aperitivi and cicchetti at Aciugeta in Venice. I hope the fellowship and camaraderie comes through in the text below. During the interview, Luca and I discussed his childhood in Venice, how tourism has transformed the city, and why Bruno’s cooking is so spellbinding. Enjoy!


Justin Naylor: Luca, thanks for making the time to meet this afternoon. I’d like to begin by asking about your childhood. Did you grow up in Venice? 

Luca di Vita: Yes, I did. I was born in the Vivaldi church, in the Chiesa della Maria della Pieta. Then, in fact, I was living here with my parents, just around the corner near San Zaccaria. From there I lived for a few years in the Giardini, and then back here. I am living just in the front of my birth house.

JN: What are some of your earliest memories of the city, as a child? 

LD: First of all, I remember when we used to play as children. Where are the playgrounds of Venice? The squares! Santa Maria Formosa, that you know very well, San Zaccaria – they were our playgrounds. It was like a wild football game all afternoon. This was the 1960s-’70s. I do remember some strange presence around us, some people speaking strange languages. Looking around you, you say, Who is there? Sometimes wearing strange colorful dresses or shorts in the middle of the winter… who are they? They were tourists. That was the very beginning of the whole thing: a few lost people around Venice that you could notice. You could say, These are not of ours. Venice at that age had at least 100,000 inhabitants.

JN: Now it’s 60,000, correct? 

LD: Yes. So you can imagine all the shops that now are transformed into tourist stuff, they were shops for inhabitants, for the city. Shops where you could buy milk or salami, where you could repair your shoes, all things that now you cannot do anymore because all of these things are transformed, due to the massive attack of 20 million tourists a year.

JN: Was that a gradual change, or was there a time when it really exploded? 

LD: I think everything happened in fifteen years, 1980-1995. At that time, we had a very big house on two floors. I remember when I was eight or ten, there was a small hotel that is still there, that is slightly bigger. The owner of the hotel, who was a lady going to the mass with my mom – so they were very good friends – asked my mom, “Why don’t you give me two or three of your rooms? I often have some requests. You have a big house, only three at home, your big son has left.” My mom said OK. We started our B&B thing related to this hotel, because of their request in the middle ’70s. There were so few hotels. As you know, the phenomenon of tourists in Venice started in the Lido as a residential holiday area for tourists in the 1920s, ’30s. In that age, the Lido was very popular, very chic. The upper class has been always traveling. But something else was moving – the middle class and the cheapest class. That’s why people were looking for cheap rooms. I remember the length of the stay was something like 12 days, 20 days, or a month and a half.

JN: A longer trip, whereas now it’s a week or three days? 

LD: You know, now it is less than one day.

JN: [Laughter]

LD: So you can imagine how the whole thing has changed. Do you know how many visitors we have now in Venice each year? 20 million.

JN: There’s probably no city in the world that has so few residents compared to so many tourists. 

So when you and Bruno [Gavagnin] opened Alle Testiere in the mid ’90s, what did you want to do with that place? What was different about it, what was your vision when you connected with him and decided to open a place of your own? 

LD: The older things of Alle Testiere started with Bruno; I started a little later. The first steps are dated from 1993. When he found the place, at that time he was leaving Corte Sconta. We got together and we started to talk. I said, “What are you doing?” Bruno said, “I’m opening a place.”

JN: You met him then for the first time? 

LD: We knew each other since military service; we [served] together, in fact. We had a bunch of common friends, all in the food and wine – it wasn’t business at that time, it was more like fun, a way to enjoy sharing nights and experiences. I was in the hotel business; I was working for a big Italian Hotel Chain opening several hotels in Venice, Florence, Rome. But my big passion was food and wine. So I started to study wine and I became a sommelier and then a professional sommelier, then Degustatore Ufficiale, all the degrees. I was very excited, I was very young. I started to invite people home every night, to drink beautiful wines and share experiences. One day I thought, I’m working! This is like, work. It’s a beautiful work, it’s a beautiful matter. We had a small little group of good friends, food lovers. We were traveling in Italy, but not only in Italy – like, one day in Catania to have lunch, and come back. Go to Lake Garda, go to not only the Michelin restaurants, but also to the simple, amazing trattorie that you find.

I didn’t have any experience of cooking, but then when I was working in the hotel, they discovered my passion and they said – in the last year I was working at the hotel – “Okay, you are in charge now to make lunch.” Because the restaurant of the hotel where I was working wasn’t very good. So they gave me one hour free to go the market, buy stuff, come back, and cook lunch for them. They were covering me at the reception. It was fun, it was like a mix-up of your life in which you discover a new talent. And then I found Bruno, who had the talent inside him already. After a few years’ work at Corte Sconta and some other very, very hot restaurants –

JN: Are those Venetian restaurants? Are they still around? 

LD: Certo. Two of them, very still around. So, we started a new life, a new experience.

JN: What was different or distinctive about the alle Testiere? What did you want to offer to your customers? 

LD: First, at that time, I must admit there were no bad restaurants in Venice.

JN: Really, that recently? That’s amazing. 

LD: The number of restaurants was probably one-tenth of what it is now. But a restaurant was a restaurant. Their job was very professional. There were the historical places, that were maybe too expensive to go to, but they were all serious. Very serious. Everything was very, very – I would say, stylish, also. No crap. No bad offers. There was no reason, because you were working for locals ninety percent. Locals, if they don’t like your business, they don’t go, so you get empty. I mean, it was a completely different kind of offer, kind of concept.

So, we started to say – I knew Bruno from friends and I knew how serious the place was, where he was working, Corte Sconta. An excellent restaurant. So, I had no doubt. I knew exactly that he was doing the right thing. I was probably just a good host because of my job after 18 years of hotels and reception.

JN: Plus, your passion for wine. 

LD: My passion for wine, and for food. I was sure that was the right place. What was changing in Venice – and I think I was the right person at the right time – was to know languages. That’s what I did in my life; I speak English, German, French, Spanish, a bit of Japanese. What we really needed was to go and to agree on our concept without thinking too much of the final result – just put your energy together and see what happens.

JN: So, from the beginning it was a tourist-friendly restaurant? It had very high standards, as it does now, but it was also tourist-friendly in the sense that you were going to speak fluent English? 

LD: We could explain what we were doing.

JN: How else was it similar to and different from other Venetian restaurants at the time that it opened? As you say, at the time there were very few bad Venetian restaurants. It’s hard to believe, but that was such a different time. 

LD: I think that the key of this was the communication. We had excellent communication immediately, from the very beginning. The people who worked in the restaurant business until that time, they mostly had a restaurant background, which didn’t ever give them the possibility to do this communication. As you know, chefs often are very closed, very much in their world. They’re not extremely – how can you explain – they’re normally not very able to communicate with people. They often are shy, so that even if they have a lot to do and a lot to say, and they’re very talented, they don’t have the possibility to inform the world about that. So, I think our meeting was the right combination, the right moment in which we could put together Bruno’s ability in the kitchen and my ability in offering it.

JN: Customer service, as we say. 

LD: We had so many other restaurants opening at that time; I’m not here to talk about them. They’re still there and they’ve been adjusted. And then the internet started to change everything.

JN: In good ways and bad ways! 

LD: In any case, it’s a beautiful way to inform and interest me to your message, so it’s absolutely very, very helpful. Sometimes it’s too tight, I would say, it’s not enough to write two or three lines to describe the life of someone else. What is really bad for me – and I’m talking about guides, more or less, now – is to reduce an entire life of 15-18 hours of daily work for many years to a number. How can you describe my work with a number? What do you know from it?

JN: Absolutely. It’s not unlike the terrible American contribution to wine, which has been to take a wine – which is ultimately mysterious and indescribable – and put a number on it. You say it’s a 94, whatever the hell that means. It means nothing. It’s ridiculous, right? It’s ridiculous. 

LD: What do you think, a 94 is the sum of my work on my land, or how I grow these things against the weather using maybe organic or biodynamic, or risking the emotions I have… this is 94?

JN: And how do you compare Barolo and Bardolino? 

LD: How can you put the same classification on Osteria alle Testiere, which has ten tables – ten people working for ten tables? As you know, we do the pasta, we do the dessert, we do everything else. We give the possibility for these six families to survive, so it means that we work to earn money to survive. A two-star Michelin, or a three-star Michelin, behind it there are investors. The place is opening just to get there, to get the stars. There’s no profit at all, sometimes they lose up to one million Euro a year to be there, because obviously they store hundreds thousand wines in the cellar, use dishes that cost 150 Euro each – but the thing is, they don’t do this job to live. They do it to show off, to see how good they are, and they pay maybe 100,000 Euro for the best chef to be there. You put us in the same line and you say, OK, these people are 92 and these people are 89? I’m sorry.

JN: It means nothing. Yeah. 

LD: So, the whole thing regarding internet, or following up guides, or classifications, for me it’s absolutely meaningless. That’s why I don’t follow it. I really don’t care.

JN: I’m surprised to hear that in the early ’90s there were very few bad restaurants in Venice. Obviously, things have changed. How would you describe the state of Venice today, both the restaurant and also Venice in general, how it’s changed since Alle Testiere opened fifteen years ago? 

LD: I must say that the number of restaurants probably has multiplied twenty or thirty times.

JN: That’s an amazing change. 

LD: I don’t have the real number, but it’s not less than 1500, and as you know, Venice is a small place, you can walk from one side to the other in 40 minutes. The offer is basic because the offer must be – it’s based on prices. There are some areas in the city where you can open a place even if maybe the day before the chef was a shoemaker, and the waiters were working in – I don’t know, a plastic can business – and the day after, you open a restaurant. This incredible legend around architects becoming chefs – there’s no relation, but it’s cool. People, they say, “Ah, after my career, my dream is to open a restaurant.” Why? What do you have to say? It’s just because you cook good pasta e fagioli at home, and you think of doing it? So, I think that the big mistake there is to not recognize  a professional register.

Like lawyers or doctors they are part of a limited number of professionals who work because they have a background, because they know what they’re doing. Our work is extremely delicate. We are putting things inside the body of somebody else. It’s so delicate.

JN: It’s very delicate, yes – intimate, personal. 

LD: Absolutely. So, I think quality things have been lost, due probably to the business. How can you work well in a place that’s just a business? I want a very severe selection for people doing this job. I want people to understand what they’re doing. Not just following instructions. There’s a big difference with people like the restaurants in our association, who are working on ingredients, who are looking for local fish or meat or vegetables. Like all the other friends you have, they are getting ingredients from Sant’Erasmo, La Giudecca. You know these guys. And, obviously, these things require work, to be attentive. You receive your fish, you have to check it, fish by fish, clean it, wash it if something is wrong. And try to keep these materials, these ingredients as healthy as you can. The moment that you have a doubt, just throw it away. And now you have people in Venice who’ve decided to be a restaurateur just buying frozen, ready food and warming them up. So now you have places called ristoranti that don’t even have a kitchen. It’s a big problem. In Venice there are plenty of these places.

JN: How many, would you say? As a percentage? 

LD: It’s a very sad number. It’s for sure that more than half are pure crap. The rest is half and half, but if you walk along San Marco, the places that you know, and you find a restaurant every twenty meters, not many can be very good.

I went to Japan during last Easter, and I was absolutely amazed by the quality of the street food. The street food was even better than the restaurant food. Every single door was a kind of surprising, beautiful artisan work. Cutting properly the fish, lovely sauces – it could be a place like this, no? The people were just following a kind of law of passion. Most of the restaurants in Venice now, they don’t follow their passion, but they’re just a business. They’re there to do some business.

JN: I find Bruno’s cooking to be absolutely spellbinding. In about six or seven visits to Alle Testiere, eating multiple courses each time, everything that he’s ever cooked for me has been perfect. I can’t think of a single exception. But in some ways I would focus on the grilled radicchio tardivo. 

LD: Wow.

JN: It’s easy to be impressed by cape sante, or cape lunghe – these things are just amazing. It’s even harder, I would think, to make radicchio tardivo spellbinding. 

LD: Certo. [Definitely.]

JN: So I’m wondering what it is about his cooking, why is it so spellbinding? Why is it so mesmerizing? Because it’s so pure, right? 

LD: Certo.
JN: It’s pure and perfect. How does he produce that result? 

LD: What do you think? Probably also in America you say, È come la cucina di casa, come la cucina della mamma [It’s like home cooking, like your mom’s cooking]. 

JN: Absolutely. 

LD: Alle Testiere is in fact una piccola cucina della mamma. Bruno, when he was a child, his mom was a chef in a private family. Private chefs at that time – we’re talking about 50 years ago – didn’t mean like you can imagine now, a rock star. The private chef was a chef – un cuoco. The word “chef” didn’t exist. Era una cuoca [She was a cook]. Cuoco means someone who makes his best in preparing some food for some customers. And this is the key. Bruno is not a rock star. Bruno is not a chef. E un ottimo cuoco. He’s working with piedi per terra – how do you translate that? With feet on the earth. He’s working naked food in a naked way, because this is the only thing he knows.

JN: Even though he was working at some of these impressive, high-end restaurants, his grounding was still in the cooking of the home, of his mother? 

LD: Yes, because when he was a child there was no Papa attending him at home, so the idea of him – I see him, agrappato… 

JN: Just hanging on, right. Overlooking. 

LD: And looking at his mom doing things. So I have this idea still now. If I do a little drawing of Bruno, I will draw a man with a chef hat like this peeking over at his mom cooking with two big eyes.

JN: Just peeking over, and observing everything. 

LD: Exactly. This is my description of this man. As you know, he is not a big traveler.

JN: He also was born and raised in Venice, and he has lived his whole life in Venice. He’s Venetian, through and through. 

LD: He likes, obviously, to try other things, but what I’m doing in these years is, I’m exactly the opposite, I’m the one who is running around the world. I’m just bringing him influences, spices – that I know he likes so much. Now, you know, it’s very easy, when you are in Portugal, you can just take a picture of what you are having and send it to Bruno and say, “What do you think of that? What do you think it is?” Things are very immediate.

JN: I learned this lesson from the writings of Marcella Hazan, that in Italy – at least of her generation – the cooking of the home is the standard. It’s very different from America, where the cooking of the home is dismal and the restaurants are OK. What is it about the cooking of the home that is superior? Why is it the home cooking that should be imitated? How is home cooking different from “restaurant” cooking? 

LD: Do you think my mom, who was born in 1929, ever bought some gnocchi?

JN: No, of course not! 

LD: She never did. Do you think my mom ever bought a can of ragù? Do you think that Bruno’s mom ever bought any dried tagliatelle? I mean, this is the point: we grow up with this background. There’s no way to buy something that is made from the others. If I’m doing ragù, I know that I will occupy this fire for the next four hours. Obviously, they had the mentality of housewife. They were staying at home all day. Do you think that my mom – because I see that you like this – do you think that my mom ever made la spesa – shopping – for more than two days? Never. What happens now? Now, you go to the market with your car and you fill it and you say, for a week I’m OK. I was going out of the school and meeting my mom at the maccelaio’s [butcher’s]and buying meat fresh to be eaten that day. This is the same thing we do now. We buy the fish we need every single day, the vegetables we need every single day, the fruits we need every single day, and we put them together.

JN: Right, whereas in many restaurants, if you’re serving ragù, for practical reasons you might make it on Sunday and then every day you’re basically reheating it. It’s basically leftovers. 

LD: Assolutamente. [Absolutely.]

JN: That’s what passes for restaurant cooking. And you can taste it! 

LD: Certo. The key is there. For us it’s not understandable, but not because we are VIP or because we are particularly chic. It’s just because our experience in our blood, in our life – we never saw that differently.

JN: I love the idea of la cucina di mamma. But earlier you stressed that restauranteurs and cooks should approach their work professionally, like a lawyer or doctor. How do we balance the idea of la cucina della mamma with the idea of serious professional training?

LD: When I say that Bruno is cooking Mama-style I mean that his kitchen is very simple and clean based on fresh ingredients and season. But his talent is more on being able to reproduce his dishes 10, 100, 1000, 10,000 times always in the same way while he’s doing 1000 of other dishes; that is not granted for any good home cook.

JN: That helps explain Bruno’s work in the kitchen. Could you explain a little about your philosophy in the dining room? Why did you set it up to have ten tables, twenty people max? What is your philosophy? Because oftentimes, to me, as great as the cooking is – and I adore Bruno’s cooking – people overemphasize the cooking of a restaurant and don’t think enough about the experience of the dining room. So I’m curious what your philosophy is and how you think about your work in the front of the house. 

LD: My work is, again, naked. In fact, the easiest way to offer the welcoming of a family. We provide this twenty square meters room in which everything happens, and that makes people feel very much friends and close to each other, and that helps also. My idea of my job is hosting people in my home, my dining room.

JN: So, although it’s a restaurant, I think you told me once before that you don’t even think of it as a restaurant. You described it once with the French word atelier [studio]. 

LD: Without being fancy, it is no more than a room. It’s something happening in there, and often you get people eating very close to each other, not knowing them at the beginning of the night, and going out being the best friends ever. You know these things, atmosphere and change, it’s bustling and moving from one table to the other table, and it’s a very friendly and I would say informal atmosphere.

JN: Really comfortable. 

LD: I really hope so. It seems like people love it.

JN: Because it seems to me, a lot of restaurants I experience – especially in the US, but even in Italy too – they might get the cooking right, but they screw up the front of the house. Either they’re too formal, or maybe they don’t care enough. You know, you often get the sense from a server that they’re just doing a job. 

LD: What we really like to declare is that we treat all customers in the same way. There’s another little defect in Venice – but not only in Venice, it’s probably more – there are different kinds of attention for different kinds of people.

JN: Yes, because you get all types – you get people who know nothing about Venetian fish, for example. 

LD: Or you have locals, you have friends. We like to keep them all on the same level. And we like that everybody feels the same way in there. The person who has been traveling 12,000 kilometers to get there, and waiting for his great experience – we have the same treatment for the friend who lives upstairs on the second floor who comes every night there. I don’t think it’s right to treat people in different ways. In fact, it’s a nice little room where people are trying to enjoy themselves. It’s my space,but it’s also their performance when they’re there. It’s one thing. I think that it’s a good theatre act when actors and public are good actors and public.

I have so many people, wine lovers and producers who come there, and since we started to feel very much friends and very much inside this world we’ve been respected by these producers and we still have so many of them coming from all over the world. What I always like to say to my customers is that there is no one producer of any bottles from my cellar which I don’t know personally, with whom I never had a lovely drink, with whom we never had fun together. All the people that you see here represented by a label are friends, or at least people that we know and that we can talk about, so we can explain.

JN: It’s personal. 

LD: I would say it’s closer to the philosophy of Bruno, who knows his fishermen, who knows his producer of vegetables. Sometimes we visit, we go to Chioggia to see the fishermen’s boats, they invite us out. And we go out in their boat for the Redentore. How can I compare this kind of absolute feeling we have with these people to someone who buys frozen fish, unknown bottles of wine and just pours them? It’s not pouring, it’s not serving – in fact, together we are having an experience, a moment. We’re sharing some life, no? Different lives, together.

JN: In the US, once a chef has a successful restaurant, it seems like the first thing he/she does is open another, even if it means less personal attention for the first. This doesn’t seem to happen in Italy. Why have you chosen to be content with a single restaurant?

LD: Who is the crazy investor who will invest in a country like Italy where your pay 62% of taxes and you have 22 tax obligations now? It’s too difficult a moment to invest!

JN: I’d like to transition to talking about wine. How do you choose the wines for your list? In addition to having a relationship with the producers, what approach are you looking for? 

LD: For the first time, a couple of years ago, I started to write something about wine.

JN: Just for yourself, or to publish? 

LD: It’s for myself, but it has been requested, so maybe one day. The first thing I wrote was a kind of small introduction to my wine list. Being in this exciting moment of orange wines, or biodynamic wines, or unfiltered wines, to many people it seems like all the others are shit. I just wanted to make the point on my position. The first line of this little introduction says, first of all, that I like good wines – wines that give me emotion, that tell me something, that are in the position to transmit something to me. Then, obviously, we have a preference for wines that are definitely naturali, definitely respecting the environment, which is something that is extremely important for us and for our children. But I am not a Taliban sommelier.

JN: [Laughter] Of course!

LD: I know so many producers who have worked in biodynamic since they started, and they never say that. They never need a flag.

JN: They let the result speak for itself. 

LD: I know a big number of extremely good producers that are just producing incredible wines. When you talk to them and you say, “What about biodynamic?” They look at you and they say, “What are you saying? That doesn’t exist. Non existe. È una cosa impossibile. If you don’t want to eat and drink vinegar, you cannot do this. There is no sense.” I know them all. I know so many people, so how can I exclude their work and their life?

JN: There’s room for different perspectives. 

LD: Assolutamente. Obviously, who is not in my list? The massive industry wines. The word industry doesn’t match with the word wine, in my opinion. I would never buy an Italian wine that’s produced by someone who does 4 million bottles. Which is not valid for all over the world; for example, as you know, in Champagne, there are some very, very, very good things of which they produce one million excellent bottles. But here, it’s not possible. I like people who produce biodynamic, organic, unfiltered, orange, in long maceration, in amphorae, as long as it gives me some emotion. But sometimes a producer who works conventionally – how we like to describe people who are not following those kind of natural practices – produce a wine that gives me beautiful sensations and beautiful emotion. So, I have a place for everybody in my list. Obviously, being a ten-table restaurant, I exclude producers who make ten million bottles, because there’s no reason for it. I really don’t need them.

JN: Do you have room for a modern producer, however, like Angelo Gaja? Victor [Hazan] said in our interview that he drinks a Gaja wine when he wants to drink something beautiful and well-made, but Gaja wine doesn’t taste like an Italian wine, and he described it as having “no soul,” because it’s made in an international style which doesn’t reflect the place it comes from. 

LD: Gaja has never been on my list, in fact. I never had a bottle of Antinori Tignanello, either, on the list.

JN: And those wouldn’t work with your fish menu, either. 

LD: I sell 75% of reds, so there would be a place for them.

JN: OK, there would be. 

LD: But, the fact is, either you sell a brand or you sell the fruit of your work. It would be the easiest thing to do to sell a bottle of Gaja Barbaresco, but I honestly prefer to give an alternative to my gastronomes, who have been choosing Alle Testiere instead of some more known and famous restaurant. I think I need to respect their effort of searching a place like mine, offering them my effort of research on wines, for example. I like, in a certain sense, to be able to help this effort. So, no big names, no big labels, but just true people.

JN: True people, yes! My interview with Victor affected me very much; one thing he said that was so profound is that he’s looking for cooking and wine that forgoes image for identity. 

LD: Bravo. Yeah, I totally agree.

JN: It’s a great way to put it. We’ve talked about how tourism in Venice has been a blessing and a curse. Venice, a town of 60,000 people, would be hurting without tourism, but the tourism that exists is a problem as well. I was wondering how you would describe your ideal responsible tourist. If you could communicate to people coming to Venice how to behave, how to approach their time in the city – you mentioned that many stay less than a day, right? What does it mean to you to be a responsible tourist in Venice? 

LD: I think that Venice is such a delicate environment, that people who are managing all of these massive attacks – you see, I live just on the corner here, and I open the windows and I see this massive flock of people day and night going up and down. It’s an attack, it’s like one of those movies where the monsters are coming from other planets and invading all your spaces. During the last Carnevale, I said to Virginia, my smaller daughter, “Let’s go to San Marco and see Volo della Colombina,” – she had never seen it before. It’s a lovely thing, a lady with a costume coming down from the Campanile to the end, opening the festivities.

JN: How old is your daughter? 

LD: She’s thirteen. She said, “Papa, are you crazy? You know how many people are outside?” I was the child on this occasion, and she was very sure, saying, “You would never get there.” I said, “Virginia, it’s the Volo della Colombina, it’s at 12:00.” She said, “It’s 10:00, we’ll never get there.” It’s normally a four-minute walk. I said, “You know, let’s do it. Let’s go and try.” And she was right. We got there fifteen minutes late. So, two hours and fifteen minutes – instead of four minutes – from my house to San Marco. Imagine!

JN: Unbelievable. That’s why I’m bringing my clients in January! 

LD: Assolutamente! I mean, you are a clever guy. And we thank you very much, because you want to make people live in and love this place. That’s why you bring them in the right moment of the year.

JN: How would you like my customers, or other tourists, to approach the city so that it feels respectful? 

LD: I’m not in the position to ask the people to be respectful, because I do feel it’s a little offensive. I think that the major Venice has been perfectly communicated, but wrongly controlled in the point of view of the visitors. The problem is not the people who are coming here, but the number of people who are coming here. The solution can be found only from the people who are managing all this.

JN: So you don’t blame the tourists, you blame the Venetian government. 

LD: Absolutely. The tourists, they have no responsibility at all. The tourists are doing exactly what they will do in other places in the world. If you see any damage – which I normally don’t see, in fact – what can you see, a little bit of garbage? The problem is, there are not enough garbage containers. The problem, when you see people peeing in streets, is that there are no public toilets! The problem is not at all on them, it’s here. But it’s not possible to split anymore, apparently, because the number of visitors is growing and growing and growing and growing and growing. How can you start to say to these people, “No, you cannot come to Venice”?

JN: About two months ago, when I was planning this trip, I tried to make a reservation at Fiaschetteria Toscana. I had never been there. I got an email back saying that they were closed, and they said that they “didn’t want to adjust to the new style of tourism.” That’s interesting to me, and I’m hoping that you might comment on that. You’re basically saying that the tourists are not the problem, it’s that Venice hasn’t really found a way to manage it. But could you say a little about the closing of Fiaschetteria Toscana? 

LD: I think it’s the final act of a restaurant who’s been there for a hundred years. There’s a normal lifespan to a place. Nobody was able to continue what Albino did in his 77 years. His son has another kind of business; one of them was working in the kitchen, but he wasn’t in fact interested in doing this. It’s not written anywhere that a restaurant must be there forever. I’m of the same feeling; I think that especially in this work, as long as your taste, your energy for doing this, is there, as long as you have things to say, you can do it. When you’re too tired, or old, or nobody is in fact doing it the way you like, it’s the moment to give up.

JN: So the tourism was a little bit of an excuse, maybe? 

LD: I think so. It’s a little disappointment for the end of almost a hundred years.

JN: And yet, I’ve told a lot of people since then, the symbolism of it – I’ve heard that the business taking their space is Burger King. 

LD: Esatto [Exactly].

JN: Which is disturbing!

LD: We have Burger King, McDonalds, Old Wild West. They’re already here.

JN: And not just for tourists, but even for Italians. 

LD: Absolutely. I really, honestly – going back to the thing I said at the very beginning of the interview – I have more confidence in those products coming from a huge, organized, and very controlled system of food like a big Burger King or McDonald’s, or like the other, very famous Hard Rock Cafe. The point of view of the control and safety of the materials, there is no doubt. I have much more confidence in one of those chains than in Venetian restaurants owned by people who were, until yesterday, who knows where. I honestly would go for a burger instead of a fritto misto there.

JN: That’s interesting! Let me wrap up by asking a little more about ingredients. Obviously, that’s at the heart of everything you do. So I was wondering if you could speak a little about the quality of the ingredients, and why the quality is so high. 

LD: I think that the secret there is – I’m talking obviously from the point of view of a restaurant like ours that works with the catch of the day. What you do is, you go to the market early in the morning. You have some fish supplier that just called you at night when they arrive in their boat at 2 AM to the landing; they call you in advance and they tell you what they have. You do your little project for the day after. Half of the project is done at the market when you’re there, because it’s there that you see the local vegetables, the things that you may use, you may like to combine that day. Season is season, so they don’t change enormously day by day during the same period of the year. But you are in the position to choose what you really like. We, honestly, having ten tables, making 40-50 covers a day, really don’t need a big amount of anything, so we are in the position to choose only local fish. Local fish means obviously freshest – it means, as we say, more tasty. It means from the Adriatic. You know, the depth of the Adriatic, there’s no much depth.

JN: And that affects the flavor? 

LD: It affects the flavor, because there’s a concentration of plankton, of elements which the fish eat. The water is not so cold here, it’s quite warm, and that affects the size of the fish. As more concentrated, it’s also visually better. The fish lives in a very food-concentrated environment and he can eat better. He can run and have better taste, because he’s better fed. So, the fantastic thing is, the Adriatic has this beautiful tide every six hours that goes up and down from the Mediterranean. It’s a big wave; it’s the same that goes up and cleans the lagoon. After six hours coming, it stops for one hour and then comes back. So there’s always a big change of water in this beautiful, not-deep sea. You have fresh water coming up and down continuously, differently from an enclosed sea. You have a deep concentration of new energy and food. And an enormous variety of fish. From the market, you can see, only from the lagoon we have five kinds of clams. That’s why we have to call them with their proper names, to understand what we are eating. So I think we are extremely lucky to be able to go to the market, choose what we like, and put it on a daily menu. Most of the restaurants, unfortunately, do the opposite: they have a menu, it’s printed, it’s there for one, two, three weeks, or until the end of the season, and half of those ingredients, how can you have them? You can have them only if you get them frozen or preserved. I like to start from the opposite side.

JN: How about vegetables? Do you have any insight into why the vegetables from Sant’Erasmo and some of the other islands are remarkable? 

LD: This is something interesting. I’ve been talking to Michel Thoulouze from Sant’Erasmo. And also some people from the Giudecca. There is a fantastic young group of guys who are recovering a nice piece of land on the Guidecca, that’s a place you should go. They say that the presence of the salted water gives to the vegetables and to everything that is grown a very special touch of minerality.

JN: How is that salt communicated? Is it in the soil? In the air? 

LD: It’s in the soil. It’s in the soil because the soil of the islands is sand and salt. So, the salt comes from the water. It affects the soil, which obviously affects the plants and the fruit. It’s a very peculiar little taste. Very often when we do our little side dish of local vegetables which are following the seasons, customers look at me and it’s fantastic to see their expression. “Hey, but these vegetables, they all taste the same [at home]. They all taste different [here]!” At home they will all taste the same because they’ve been processed the same way. But our local vegetables are, you know, cut in the morning, brought to the market. So, the freshness is amazing. It’s half an hour, by boat.

JN: I’m going to look forward to visiting Michel on Sant’Erasmo on Wednesday. We should probably stop there. I can’t thank you enough for making the time to talk. It was so delightful. 

LD: It’s been my pleasure, Justin.

annapolis and venice


I recently wrote about falling in love with Venice. It reminded me of another city I fell in love with once and still love, though we’ve been apart for a long time: Annapolis, Maryland.

I spent four years in Annapolis while a student at St. John’s College about 20 years ago. After getting married in 2004, Dillon and I lived in Annapolis for a brief but special two months, but until this past September I hadn’t been back since.

On my recent trip back to Annapolis for my first-ever college Homecoming, it dawned on me how much Annapolis resembles that other city so dear to my heart: Venice.

On the most superficial level, both cities are defined by water. Although I never took advantage of the abundant opportunities to sail or row in Annapolis (definitely a regret), water still played an important part in my experience of the city. Early morning walks down to the city docks, taking a short walk down to the Severn River bordering an edge of the College’s “back campus”, exploring the campus of the US Naval Academy (bordered on two sides by water), following a quiet residential street until it dead-ended in water, following the road that hugs the jagged coast of the peninsula, with water lapping disconcertingly close to the pavement with the imposing Bay Bridge in the background, sitting on a quiet bench facing a little cove while holding the hand of my future wife for the first time. All of these experiences of water defined my experience there.

Just as significant, both cities are largely defined by tourism. Main Street in Annapolis is beautiful as one walks downhill toward the water, with a gorgeous vista of the bay straight ahead, but the businesses on that street are mostly focused on tourism. There one finds commercial restaurants, trinket shops, overpriced clothing and jewelry —  businesses that cater to visitors rather than residents. But leave the main streets behind, and one finds a different Annapolis: homes and churches, playgrounds and schools. As I found as a student, spend enough time in Annapolis and its tourist veneer quickly wears off. Avoid the popular spots in the height of the season while going about one’s business. After a while, the tourist nature of the city starts to seem like a thin skin, easily overlooked for the living soul beneath. After a while, I didn’t even really notice the tourism because I was there for other reasons and focused on other things.

Both cities have at times been defined by the pursuit of vice. After Venice lost its maritime empire and began to decline in the 17th and 18th centuries, it survived by attracting visitors from elsewhere in Europe, and it developed a reputation for being a playground for the affluent. It was in the pleasure business, and prostitution and gambling became as much of a draw as art and architecture. Before I even set foot in Annapolis, a friend of my father’s who seemed to be speaking from experience described Annapolis as the sort of place people from DC go to misbehave and not get caught. Indeed, people do misbehave there. Visitors are loud; they drink too much. They do things on their boats that they might not do on land. Every morning feels like an unwelcome wake-up call from the outrageous party raging the night before.

But of course, these cities are not simply dens of vice. Indeed, although that character definitely is felt, it is perhaps more accurate to focus on the daily life of its residents, focused on shopping and living, raising children and working, not on partying and excess. For a while I dated a woman who attended daily AA meetings in Annapolis, a contrast to the party if ever there was one. One could attend mass at St. Mary’s and see not vice but a striving for health.

Perhaps the greatest lesson is that both cities are real places beneath their superficial veneers. Annapolis is not just a place to misbehave, but a place to raise a family. For me it was a place to study ancient Greek and the history of science. Venice is not just a place to see a few sites before moving on, but a place to learn deep lessons about self-government and the fragility of civilization.

There’s nothing wrong with making a brief visit to a place, merely scratching the surface of what it has to offer. But it’s good to know that even the most touristy places have living, beating hearts beneath the surface for those who can invest the time and effort to discover them.





a conversation with Giuliano Hazan


Giuliano-Hazan-BW-PrintGiuliano Hazan is the son of Marcella and Victor Hazan. Like his parents, Giuliano has dedicated his life to teaching and writing about authentic Italian cooking. Although he lives in the US, he travels to Italy several times per year to offer week-long cooking courses near Verona. He also teaches classes at his home in Sarasota, Florida.

In our interview, we talk about how Italian food has changed in both America and Italy, the differences between restaurant and home cooking, and what it was like growing up with a mother who became the most famous Italian cooking teacher in America.


Justin Naylor: Good morning, Giuliano, and thanks for taking the time to speak today. I’d like to begin by asking what it was like growing up in the Hazan household. After all, before Marcella became famous, to you she was your mother first.

Giuliano Hazan: First of all, I would have to say we ate very well. Mealtimes were always important, and discussions about food were always important. It was something that I grew to enjoy being a part of, very much. As far as her becoming famous – it did happen fairly early in my childhood. The book came out in 1972, and she had been teaching already for a couple of years at that point. I was thirteen years old when the book came out. To tell you the truth, I really don’t remember home life before she was involved in food. That was really the normal thing: she was teaching, and she was writing the books, and so forth. Eventually, my father became involved in that full-time, but I certainly remember very well when he was working at my grandfather’s fur store and juggling both things.

JN: Were there dishes that you remember disliking as a boy, that it was a struggle for your parents to get you to eat? Or did you have a charmed palate from the start?

GH: No, no… liver was certainly one thing that I really didn’t like. I’m not incredibly fond of it, still. Occasionally I’ve had really good, tender calves’ liver that I did like. In our household I learned that I never said that I didn’t like something; I wasn’t ready yet. Raw oysters, raw mollusks in general are things that I’m still not particularly fond of. Other than that, I think I pretty much ate everything. Pasta was, and still is, one of my favorite things to eat.

JN: When did you actually begin to help in the kitchen?

GH: I mostly watched in the kitchen. I seem to remember there was a stool I would sit on; I would just watch what she did. Occasionally I would help out with something; one of the things that comes to mind is risotto stirring. And then, there was this dessert that she always made, called the Diplomatico, which is basically a rum- and coffee-flavored chocolate mousse cake. You have to whip the eggs, sugar, and egg whites to make the mousse. I remember helping out with that as well. Everyone always asks me, “So, you grew up cooking with your mother…” Well, not really. I grew up watching my mother cook, and mostly eating.

JN: These days, people emphasize ‘doing’ so much, but watching can be just as powerful in a certain way. I think watching a master at work doesn’t get quite the respect it deserves. There’s a tremendous amount that can be observed.

GH: I definitely absorbed a lot. If you’re watching something that is of interest, then you’re going to retain a lot more, as well.

JN: Even more than if you’re doing it, sometimes – just to have complete focus on observation.

GH: Yes, definitely.

JN: And of course, one of the most important things about these experiences were the taste memories that you were developing as a child and then as an adolescent – to have a sense from your earliest years of what certain things should taste like. I imagine that was the greatest gift of that experience.

GH: Yes, absolutely. Developing a palate is key to cooking, I think.

JN: One of the other interesting things about your childhood is that you spent time both in the US and in Italy, back and forth quite a bit. Could you talk a little about those experiences, whether as a boy you felt more American or Italian?

GH: It really felt like I was growing up in both places because when my parents moved back to the States I was about 8½ or 9, and at that point I was going to the school in the States, but the entire summer vacation every summer was spent in Italy in Cesenatico with my grandmother, so I was equally comfortable in both environments. This was pretty much through the end of high school.

JN: After high school, you didn’t decide initially to pursue cooking or teaching cooking as a career. What did you end up studying in college and how did you eventually transition to cooking and teaching?

GH: Well, I’d always been interested in theater. When I first went to college I started out as a biology major.

JN: Like your mother.

GH: Like my mother. But I really wanted to do theater as much as I could. There just didn’t seem to be enough time for lab and rehearsal times. And biology didn’t really inspire me that much, as much as I thought it would. So at that point I sort of switched gears. I went to Swarthmore College, and at that time they didn’t have a theater major, so I ended up becoming a French major. I’d studied French in high school and spent time in France as well. It seemed convenient, and I continued doing theater as well. After college, I ended up at a professional theater school in Providence, Rhode Island — Trinity Rep conservatory.

JN: What drew you to theater and made it so captivating for you?

GH: I enjoyed both the directing aspect of it and acting too. I liked the creative part of it, especially from the director’s point of view. I was always fairly shy, and being on stage kind of allowed me to be out there in a safe way because you were playing somebody else. You weren’t yourself.

JN: Absolutely. I think that’s true for so many actors.

GH: That was the draw of it, for sure.

JN: Yet you decided not to pursue it as a career. What were the factors in that decision?

GH: I did realize that the odds of really making it in the theater were pretty slim. I’d been exposed to cooking schools because my mother’s school in Italy started when I was 17, and I’d been involved in that every summer. When I was in Providence, I started teaching classes at the Barrington Community School, and I thoroughly enjoyed that. I always tell people I started in theater and switched to food, but in a way I never really left theater because I think teaching has a lot of the theater in it, and my theater background has also helped me a great deal.

JN: I believe you also spent a gap year after college with your grandmother in Cesenatico.

GH: Yes, I wanted to spend more time in Italy. I’d gotten used to being there and had friends there and wanted to see what kind of work I could do there. I ended up doing interpreting and language work there. I worked for the tourist department in Bologna. Actually, that’s when I first met Matt Lauer.

JN: Oh yes.

GH: He was one of the anchors for a show in Providence, and they were doing a segment in Italy. So the producer who was familiar with my mother and knew me from Providence as well, asked me if I’d go along and be their interpreter in Italy.

JN: Although you spent many summers with your grandmother in Cesenatico, living with her for a year must have given you a wonderful opportunity to know her better.

GH: Vey much so. I was very close to my grandmother. She was an incredibly sweet, generous, and wonderful nonna. She was a very good cook, and she really encouraged me to cook too. She let me do a lot of the cooking and appreciated the things that I cooked.

JN: Was there anything you learned from her that you hadn’t already learned from your mother?

GH: I’m sure there were, though it’s hard to pin down exactly what it was. Little things you learn along the way and absorb. But definitely she was an influence.

JN: Before you settled into teaching and writing as a career, you also made a foray into restaurant cooking. I’d love to hear some stories from that time.

GH: This was when I was in Providence, after I’d completed the two-year theater program. My mother had been asked by a group of ex-students who were investing in a restaurant in Atlanta to be a consultant. The restaurant was Veni, Vidi, Vici. So she did, but she was always a bit hesitant about this sort of stuff. She said, “Well, I’d really prefer it if my son were part of this project, to be on-site since I can’t be.” So that’s how I ended up getting hired to work in that restaurant. I had no restaurant experience, so I was kind of thrown into it. I ended up setting up the homemade pasta station. I also did desserts for a little while, though doing desserts has never been something I really enjoy. I like cooking much better. But then they didn’t really know what position to put me in. I was sort of a chef’s assistant. Mostly my responsibilities were to work on creating the daily specials and regular menu, making sure they were in the same style as my mother’s cooking.

And then, I went to my second restaurant directly from that. There was a call that came in and the chef was not in the kitchen. I answered, and it ended up being a head hunter. They asked who I was, and they knew my mother, and they said, “Maybe we want to talk to you instead.”

JN: [Laughter]

GH: So I ended up being hired to open an Italian restaurant in Portland, Oregon as executive chef. So I sort of zoomed from having no restaurant experience to being executive chef in just over a year. Both of these experiences I learned a lot from. There’s a lot about producing food in a restaurant that’s different from home cooking and useful to know if you’re producing food in larger quantities. I learned a lot from the experience, but I also learned that I really didn’t enjoy the restaurant life. I really enjoyed much more having direct contact with people, the kind you get from teaching. It was during my time in Portland that I wrote my first cookbook. When that was published I decided I wanted to devote myself to teaching full time instead of doing a restaurant. So I just wrote to a bunch of cooking schools across the country, and pretty much everyone said, “Yes, come and teach.” So I started doing the traveling teacher gig.

JN: One theme your mother wrote about extensively was how it was the cooking of the home, not the restaurant, which gave Italian cooking its soul. This fascinated me early in my own cooking education. Could you describe the difference in your mind between restaurant and home cooking, both from the point of view of the kitchen but also as an eater?

GH: A lot of it is the demands of a restaurant, especially in the States where everything is expected to happen instantly. You have to find ways to adapt so you can make things in a way that allows you to put out an order quickly when it comes in. In Italy, it’s not always as much. People are used to being a little more patient. That’s definitely one of the challenges in restaurant cooking.

JN: What would be an example of a shortcut like that?

GH: Well, precooking pasta, which is an awful thing. Or risotto. There’s just no way to cook it halfway and then try to revive it. That really doesn’t work. To me, doing restaurant food successfully meant choosing the right things to serve. For example, slow-cooked braised dishes, things like that. Those are perfect because they were work well to be done ahead of time. Whereas other things are a little trickier.

JN: When you dine in restaurants today, even in high-quality ones, does the food often taste like “restaurant cooking”, for lack of a better term? Do you feel like you can taste that in a restaurant?

GH: More than that, there’s the fact that in restaurants there’s a feeling that you have to put a lot of different ingredients into a dish, otherwise it’s too plain. People here [in the US] expect restaurant cooking to be more sophisticated, whereas in Italy a restaurant where you can say, “My goodness, this is as good as it is at home,” is the highest praise.

JN: Do you think that’s still true in Italy today, that restaurants are still trying to match the standard of the best home cooking?

GH: It depends what kind of restaurant. The small family-run trattoria, that’s still the goal. But as an effect of globalization, there are high-end restaurants in Italy where the food is expected to be much more sophisticated than something you would make at home. That’s not to say that kind of cooking can’t be very good.

JN: What are some other ways Italian cooking in Italy has changed in your lifetime, either in restaurants or in the home?

GH: I don’t think there’s been a huge change. One thing is an emphasis on preparing raw fish, which you didn’t see as much in the past. An increase in famous chef restaurants. And then the very sad trend toward finding more and more fast food. I believe you talked to my father about the closing of Fiaschetteria Toscana?

JN: Yes. Burger King is taking their place, which is the perfect symbol of some of the sad changes taking place, even in Italy. I tell people all the time that it’s not just tourists eating fast food in Italy. It’s very much Italians.

GH: Yes, it is. One of the sad things about Italians is they really try to emulate and imitate particularly American customs. The great example is the outlet: in America they try to create the Tuscan, Mediterranean look, which then the Italians imitate the Americans imitating the Tuscan look.

JN: That’s so sad!

GH: It’s very funny and sad at the same time.

JN: So how about the state of Italian cooking in America today?

GH: You find the more sophisticated, high-end type of Italian cooking, but you still don’t find the down to earth home-cooking type of cooking that you’d find with family-run trattorias.

JN: Yes, and when you do find it, it’s invariably of the Italian-American style.

GH: Yes.

JN: Speaking of Italian-American tradition, where did that cooking tradition come from exactly?

GH: [Laughter]

JN: It’s a real puzzle to me, the way Italian-American cooking is often the exact opposite of Italian cooking in Italy. For example, Italian lasagne is light and delicate, while Italian-American lasagne is heavy and… whatever.

GH: I don’t pretend to have an authoritative answer to it, but you can have my opinion. Mostly the Italian immigrants had come from a life of poverty in Italy, where they couldn’t afford meat or the sauce for pasta was precious. When they started being able to afford more, kind of as a reaction to that, the reaction was I can add more meat, thus the meatball on pasta. I can afford more sauce, thus the drowning of pasta in sauce. A lot of it had to be with being able to have more.

JN: And as you said a moment ago, though we Americans tend to idolize Italy, Italians are often more interested in imitating Americans, and I think you see that in the Italian-American cooking tradition. So, if you’re an impoverished immigrant from Naples in 1905, you’re more interested in embracing the new American abundance than in preserving the “cucina povera” of your past.

GH: Absolutely. You’re trying to get away from scarcity, and so you get a reaction.

JN: What are some restaurants in the US that you admire or enjoy eating in, either Italian or otherwise?

GH: Rather than naming places, I think I ‘d rather talk about what appeals to me in a restaurant. It’s really when you find true, genuine flavors. The skill in finding the best ingredients and just bringing out their flavor without covering it up, without feeling like you have to have a whole bunch of ingredients to make it good. It could be Japanese restaurants where the freshness of the fish in the sushi just melts in your mouth, and you have this feeling of freshness and purity of flavor. Purity of flavor is the key.

JN: When you travel and spend time in Italy, do you find it hard to find restaurants that meet your expectations or standard? For example, in Rome or Venice or Florence, do you feel like you have to pick restaurants very carefully, or do you think there’s a high and consistent standard?

GH: It used to be you could go almost anywhere and have a good meal. I think it’s gotten harder nowadays. You do have to search out places more carefully, talk to people and get recommendations. And in big tourist cities like Venice, unfortunately, it’s harder because of all the tourists. The restaurants cater to the tourists, and they find they don’t really need to be so careful and spend so much money on the ingredients as they can be. They can get away with a lot of stuff.

JN: Is it mostly tourism driving the changes, or is even the Italian palate becoming less discriminating?

GH: Italians eat at mediocre places too. I would say there are fewer restaurants that are up there, that are very, very good.

JN: Speaking of tourism, it’s something I think about a lot, because I take clients to Italy and encourage people to visit Italy.

GH: I rely on tourism too.

JN: Right, and it’s a complex subject with no clear answers – no simple heroes or villains. How would you describe, or how might we foster, what you might call “responsible tourism”? How does one approach tourism so that it’s a blessing and not a blight on a place?

GH: I don’t know how you get people to be responsible tourists… but certainly, to encourage respect for the places they’re in and seek out the local traditions, and culture, and flavors, which is really a way to learn about the people and place you’re visiting. That’s what we do with our school in Italy, to expose people to the best expression we can find of that particular place. We take people to food producers because it’s a food and wine course. The producers we take people to are passionate and proud of what they do, and they’re proud to share it with people we bring to visit them. That’s really the best way to learn and experience a place. But I’m not really sure how to get people to do that.

JN: What do you think a place like Venice can do to preserve itself as a real place, and not simply become a theme park, so to speak?

GH: Ultimately, it’s the pride of the people of the place. Sadly, the population of Venetians is dwindling, so it’s hard. But I think they’ve done a good job, considering the masses who descend upon the place.

JN: You mentioned your own cooking school in Italy. For those who aren’t familiar with it, would you like to give a brief overview of where it’s located and what the activities are, for those who might be interested in joining you on one of those trips?

GH: Sure. We’ve been doing this for close to 20 years now. The area is the Valpolicella wine region, near Verona, and we’ve been collaborating with the Allegrini winery, which has grown tremendously in the past 20 years. They’ve really made a name for themselves as a wine producer of the highest quality. I don’t know if you know that Marilisa Allegrini was featured on the cover of Wine Spectator a few months ago, but it was a big deal because not only was she the first woman to be on the cover of Wine Spectator

JN: Oh, my. Doesn’t speak well for the industry, does it?

GH: If nothing else, it’s speaking a lot about the appreciation of Italian wine as top-quality wine.

JN: So I imagine that every day there’s a cooking class with you at the villa?

GH: Yes, and we take field trips. We go the food market in Padova, which is one of the few thriving open-air food markets still around. We go to visit an olive oil producer. We go to an ancient rice mill, which produces rice exactly the same way with the same equipment since 1648. It’s a mortar-and-pestle system. Rice is placed in these red marble bowls, basically, and these pestles which are powered by water wheels and wooden gears work the rice so that rather than being perfectly polished, as machine-polished rice, there’s a little bit of skin here and there, which adds depth of flavor to the rice and you don’t lose as much of that precious starch.

JN: Is that unique in Italy to this producer?

GH: There are two, but I have done taste tests and this one is the best.

JN: And it’s the one you import, is that right?

GH: Yes, it’s one of the products from Italy we import under the Giuliano’s Classics label.

JN: Also olive oil and vinegar, is that right?

GH: Yes. Another of the field trips is to Emilia-Romagna, where we go to a parmigiano-reggiano factory. You know, there are all these tours that go to parmigiano-reggiano factories; there’s something a little different about when we bring people. I used to bring groups from my mother’s school in Bologna, and so I’ve had a relationship with the consortium for a long time. We’ve been going so long that the person who originally guided us later became the director and has now retired. The cheesemaker there, who is very passionate about the work he does, really appreciates the groups we bring and the importance I give to parmigiano-reggiano when I explain it, so that when they leave they have a newfound appreciation for it. One thing he does that I don’t think he does with many groups is he’ll go and choose a wheel and open it for us. Part of the same trip is going to a minuscule town near Parma where the Spigaroli family runs a farm and restaurant and produces culatello, which you’re familiar with?

JN: Yes, I am, but few readers of this interview will be, so please go ahead and introduce it.

GH: It’s a precious product, entirely made by hand. To give an idea of how precious it is, it’s often four or five times the price of prosciutto di Parma. Massimo Spigaroli, who’s in charge, takes us around and shows us the cellar where they’ve been aging culatelli for 700 years, almost without interruption. You can see the labels which have been pre-sold, with names like Prince Charles and so forth. It’s a special experience. Then we do a tasting and we eat there at the restaurant. When I first met him twenty years ago, there weren’t many people going to visit him. Now there are several groups a day. When I come, Massimo always guides us himself. It’s a mutual appreciation.

JN: How would you describe the difference of flavor between culatello and prosciutto di Parma?

GH: I would say there is a richer and deeper flavor in the culatello. There are also different levels of aging. One thing Massimo has done is rescue historical breeds of pigs close to extinction. When we first started going there were just twelve pigs. Now there are hundreds and hundreds. The black pig of Parma is one of them, and the culatello meat from the black pig is a different flavor than that of another breed. Also it makes a difference whether it’s been aged 15 or 16 months or 39 months.

JN: Let me shift gears a little to ask about your writing. You have several cookbooks on the market today, and of course I’m interested in whether you have a new project you’re working on. But also, if you could reflect a little bit on how cookbook writing has changed during the course of your career, and maybe say a little bit about the state of cookbook writing today.

GH: I think today there is more of an emphasis on the writing part. Cookbooks have become much more personal, with stories behind the recipes. It’s not just a collection of recipes anymore. After all, with the internet, if you need a recipe it’s pretty much easy to find. As far as working on a book, I have a half-idea, but I’ve put it on the back burner. I’ve really focused more on teaching. I do a lot of classes in Sarasota as well.

JN: In your home?

GH: Yes, in our home. It’s sort of a mini-version of our school in Italy, but without the field trips.

JN: I suppose trips to the local supermarket wouldn’t be quite the same.

GH: [Laughter] Right.

JN: But kidding aside, where do you shop for ingredients? Are there farms or farmer’s markets near you?

GH: I shop some at the supermarket, but there are some good local markets, one run by an Amish family that brings in good produce and really fresh fish. During the season, which is the winter here, there is an organic farm that sells the produce they grow on the farm.

JN: Any good options for non-industrial meat?

GH: Not as much. I haven’t found anything particularly satisfying in that respect.

JN: Another thing that has changed during your career is the rise of social media and how it has affected food culture. Instagram, for example, has changed how a lot of people think about and perceive food. Could you say a little about that phenomena?

GH: The fact that it promotes more interest in food is great. There are more people inspired to cook at home, and good, genuine food is becoming more important. Organic and non-GMO to a certain extent may be a little bit of a fad, but it’s also a good trend, and it means that people put more importance on the quality of food.

JN: When I interviewed Samin Nosrat, she stressed that in her book there are no photos, even though she loves beautiful food photography, in part because she has suggested that some people might find such photography discouraging rather than encouraging, because it would be so hard to match. I thought that was an interesting observation.

GH: It’s important to me that the photography in all my books was not there to show how beautiful it is, but as a way to help people reproduce it. I didn’t want the dishes to look like something you couldn’t reproduce. It was a little of a fight with the food stylist because they want to be artistic and go overboard. To me, the most important thing was to reproduce it as accurately as possible.

JN: Let me end with this question: you’re raising two girls, and so I wanted to ask you to reflect on modern parents’ struggle with developing a mature palate in their own children. Any insights into successes and failure about raising kids and teaching them to eat well?

GH: If you expose them to good food, they will recognize the difference and be able to tell the difference between good food and not-good food. You try to set a good example as a parent, just as with good behavior and so forth. At the same time, kids have their own personalities. There’s only so much you can actually control and do. Our two daughters are a good example of that. One is much more adventurous and open to all kinds of different foods and flavors. But at the same time, with the one who is less open – things that she does like, she is really able to distinguish between when it is prepared well and when it isn’t.

JN: Is either interested in pursuing a career in food?

GH: They’re both pretty adamant that they’re not. The oldest one in particular sees that cooking is a necessity if one wants to eat well, which she’s become used to.

JN: Well, thank you, I think our time is up. I appreciate your generous giving of your time and everything you and your family have contributed over the years.