Ciao, Chow

OK.  I’ve received a number of corrections since I started this blog concerning the spelling “Chow”.  People seem to think I am misspelling the word.  Hello?

I am a dog.  I hear the language of humans through canine ears.  I am Italian, yes.  But I am a dog first.  Just as humans are humans first, then Italian, French, American, second.

When I hear “Ciao”, it is similar to the Pavlov response…(now that was an easy experiment, no?  I mean, show a dog a treat and he drools…duh)

To me, “Ciao” will always mean “Chow”.  And why not?

Who in this country doesn’t think about food all the time.

This IS ITALY.

CHOW!

Sunday Dinners

I was trying to explain to a friend of mine how splendid Sunday dinner was last night and what a wonderful effect it always has on me, from head to toe. 

Pictures are so often worth the thousand words that, as a dog,  I will never speak:

Chow…exactly.

To Market

Grazia is in the kitchen again.  Today it’s hot and muggy and the flame on the stove is gone.  Today dinner will be cold.

 

She and I go to the morning market before the heat begins to rise.  Campo di Fiori is crowded with tourists and Romans, alike.  The vegetable stands overflow with summer produce.

 

Verdant basil, tiny ruby tomatoes, sweet onions, baby green beans: the meal will be simple and sumptuous, the aim of most Italian cuisine. A loaf of fine country bread and a large jar of olive oil soaked Mediterranean tuna.

 

Did I mention I love tomatoes?  I pull the sweet cherry variety off the bushy plants that sit in clay pots around our terrazzo…just the low fruit.  I’m allowed that without being chided.  But the tomatoes on the terrazzo are still green so, today, we buy Campo di Fiori fare. 

 

Here is what Grazia does with her market bounty:

 

Toss together the tomatoes, a handful of torn basil, thinly sliced onions and blanched, chilled green beans.  Add the drained tuna.  Toss again. 

 

While Grazia brushes slices of fresh bread with olive oil, grills them on one side, then rubs them with a clove of garlic, I search the floor below the tossing for bits of anything that might have escaped the bowl….

 

The salad is chilled until dinner time.  The toasts are put to one side in each bowl.

 

Balsamic vinegar and freshly grated parmesan is added over each serving at the last minute.  And the empty bowls are mine….

 

Chow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sauce of the Day

I have management, of course.  There is the Count and there is Contessa.  I am walked regularly and entertained with an orange ball (in summer it is a real chilled orange!).  I have standing appointment with a very attractive bleach-blonde named Chiara, who suds me up and down, rubs me briskly, rinses me thoroughly, then fluffs me with a 600-watt dryer.

But none of these is as satisfying as my cook.  And life on Fridays is very fine.

Grazia comes five days a week (Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons we dine out.)

Friday is Bolognese night.  I sit under the kitchen table and watch her conjure the secret sauce. 

In one pan, Grazia sautes ground beef until it is well-cooked and brown.  This smells like what must be heaven. 

Then she chops one large carrot and 2 stalks of celery and 1/2 an onion and 5 cloves of peeled garlic, fine.  She sautes this in a separate pan in 1/3 cup olive oil until it is all translucent.  Even the vegetables smell like ambrosia…must be the garlic. 

Grazia adds this to the meat, then stirs in 1/3 bottle of Chianti, 2 tablespoons of Dijon mustard (yes, I know it’s French.  That’s the secret: Grazia’s grandmother was from the wrong side of the border…), and 3 cups of the simple tomato sauce she canned last summer.  

 

It stays on a low flame atop the stove until she adds 1 cup of fresh chopped basil and it’s ready.

From here you can use your imagination in pairing the pasta: penne is good, but I find it often sticks in the throat of small dogs.  A good egg fettucine is my pick, but that’s just me.  And grilled polenta is always a good underpinning to any sauce, as well.

Life on Fridays is fine, indeed.

Chow.