Salvia fritta in pastella
Deep-fried sage leaves
Silvery green and moleskin-like to the touch, with a musty smell reminiscent of a room that has been closed up for a bit too long, sage is a very particular herb. A surprisingly delicious one too, especially when its leaves are dipped in batter and fried until golden. You need prosecco as well, its bubble and acidity contrasting beautifully with the crisp batter, then cleansing the mouth in anticipation of more. This is one of the best ways of whetting your appetite (or stuzzicare, as Vincenzo says), to poke and tease in readiness of the things to come, which I hope is a second batch of fritti. If you can, try to buy a small plant rather than a packet of ready-cut sage. That way, you can pull off the most suitable leaves—not too big and not too small—with a long enough stem to provide a handle for swooping through the batter.
serves 4–8 as part of an antipasti
olive, sunflower, or peanut oil, for frying
50 fresh sage leaves, washed and dried
1 quantity batter (here)
salt
Heat the oil in a deep frying pan or saucepan to 375°F. Use the stalk as a handle to drag a sage leaf through the batter, then lower it into the hot oil. Repeat with 6 or 7 leaves, depending on the size of your pan.
Nudge and turn the leaves with a wooden fork or spoon so that they fry evenly. Once crisp and golden, scoop the leaves out of the oil onto a plate lined with brown paper or paper towels using a slotted spoon. When they have drained a little, slide them onto a clean plate, sprinkle with salt, and serve immediately.
Mela o pera fritta in pastella con pecorino
Deep-fried apple or pear with pecorino
I first had battered and deep-fried wedges of apple and pear dusted with pecorino cheese at an osteria called Iotto in a town called Campagnano di Roma. They came as part of fritto romano (fried things Roman style), which included artichokes, onion, zucchini, and balls of mozzarella. It was all excellent, but it was the fruit, sweet and soft within, crisp on the outside, and dusty with sharp cheese, that got the whole table talking excitedly with their mouths full. Another plate, with extra apple and pear, was ordered immediately. When we have a standing Friday fritti supper, I always make these, one of us frying and lifting, the other blotting, grating over the cheese, and seeing how asbestos-like our mouths are. This is another reason—as if you needed one—for classic prosecco.
serves 4–8 as part of an antipasti
3 apples or pears (I like Golden Delicious apples and Bosc pears)
olive, sunflower, or peanut oil, for frying
1 quantity batter (here)
freshly grated pecorino, to serve
Peel, core, and quarter the apples or pears, then slice them into ¼-inch thick slices, or use an apple corer, then cut them crosswise into rings. Heat the oil in a deep frying pan or saucepan to 375°F.
Dip an apple piece into the batter and lower it into the hot oil. Repeat with 6 or 7 more pieces, depending on the size of your pan.
Nudge and turn the apples with a wooden fork or spoon so that they fry evenly. Once crisp and golden, scoop them from the oil onto a plate lined with brown paper or paper towels, using a slotted spoon. When they have drained a little, slide them onto a clean plate, dust with grated pecorino, and serve immediately.
Fiori di zucca in pastella fritti
Deep-fried squash blossoms
The golden, orange-tipped flowers attached to the end of each squash are female. The slightly smaller flowers with long, firm stems that grow directly, shooting really, from the main stem of the plant, like the ones in the picture here, are male. Both are called fiori di zucca and both can be eaten. The male flower is perfect for deep-frying because the stem provides a tail you can hold on to while dipping the flower into the batter, then lowering it gently into the pan.
In August, when the market stalls in Testaccio are heavy with crates of pale green, blossom-tipped zucchine romanesche and bunches of their delicate flowers, we often have squash blossoms in salad, ripped into green leaves or, even better, into zucchini shavings dressed with olive oil and salt. I like a couple of bright yellow flowers tucked into a sandwich with mozzarella, or added, along with a handful of basil, to zucchini carbonara. But perhaps the nicest and most delicious way to eat squash blossoms is to buy a bunch of male flowers and fry them in very hot oil until they are crisp and golden.
In Rome, the flowers are stuffed with mozzarella and anchovy before frying. If they are freshly made, as opposed to the ready-prepared and frozen ones you’ll spot a mile off, they are quite delicious things, usually served on a small white plate on a square of brown paper. They should be freshly fried, oddly shaped, and eaten straight from the hot oil, tongue-scaldingly hot. You wait a few seconds, then grab the crisp, golden cocoon with a paper napkin. You bite into the crisp batter, which gives way to the soft, forgiving flower petals—a nice contrast—and finally a soft pool of anchovy-infused mozzarella. For those among you who are dubious about fish and cheese together, I suggest you try these.
Much as I adore the Roman fiori di zucca, though, the best fried squash blossoms I’ve ever eaten were in Puglia, where they were dipped in the lightest batter and fried with no stuffing. Crisp and golden on the outside, the batter puffed with pride, giving way to a soft flower. The secret, the cook willingly told us, was beaten egg whites folded into the flour, water, and olive oil batter. Make sure you coat each flower thoroughly with batter. Again, sparkling wine is a delight here. Ask a trusted wine merchant for a nice, decently priced Franciacorta and see what he gives you.
serves 4
16 fresh male squash blossoms, with stems
olive, sunflower, or peanut oil, for frying
1 quantity batter (here)
salt
Soak the flowers in cool water for 1 minute. Remove and blot them gently, then leave them to dry completely on a clean tea towel.
Heat the oil in a deep frying pan or saucepan to 375°F. Using the stem as a handle, drag a flower through the batter until it is well coated, then drop it into the hot oil. Depending on the size of your pan, fry the flowers in batches of 2–5, but ideally no more. Nudge and turn the flowers with a wooden fork or spoon so that they fry evenly. Once crisp and golden, scoop the flowers from the oil onto a plate lined with brown paper or paper towels using a slotted spoon. When they have drained a little, slide the flowers onto a clean plate, sprinkle with salt, and serve immediately.
Variation: To make the classic Roman fiori di zucca, stuff each flower with a small piece of mozzarella and half an anchovy. Pinch and twist the flowers so that they close. Fry as described above.
Carciofi alla giudea
Deep-fried artichokes
You often hear fritti called sfizi, which comes from sfizio, meaning “whim” or “fancy,” in other words something you really don’t need, but then again do: that golden squash blossom dipped in batter and fried, or a whole artichoke fried twice so that it looks like a bronze flower whose petals break away like crisps, and whose heart is velvety and soft. If you have been to Rome and eaten carciofi alla giudea you will understand what I am talking about.
I thought quite hard about including this recipe, as it really does depend on finding suitable artichokes, like the ones in Rome: huge, purple globes without inedible chokes that can be trimmed neatly and fried whole. “Come to Rome at the right time of year,” I would tell you, “and among other things, eat artichokes.” However, since good artichokes are becoming more readily available, and more of us are overcoming our fear of trimming, they are extremely possible at home. Here is the recipe. The key is the trimming, which I describe below, then frying twice, the first time slowly at a lower temperature, the second time quickly at a higher temperature for the definitive crisp. Unlike the other recipes, a thermometer is vital here.
serves 4
4 whole globe artichokes
2 lemons
olive oil, for frying
salt and freshly ground black pepper
Prepare the artichokes by removing the dark, tough outer leaves, pulling them downward and snapping them off just before the base. Using a sharp knife, pare away the tough green flesh from the base of the artichokes and the stem. Cut the top third of the artichoke off completely. As you work, rub the cut edges with a lemon half, or place them in a bowl of water with lemon juice.
Heat about 3 inches olive oil in a saucepan over low to medium heat to about 300°F. Add the artichokes and fry them gently for about 10 minutes, poking them with a fork every now and then and letting them roll around so that they cook evenly.
Remove the artichokes with a slotted spoon and transfer to paper towels to drain the excess oil. Once cool enough to handle, gently open out the leaves with your fingers, remove the hairy choke if there is one, and press the artichoke head down on paper towels to flatten it slightly. Heat the oil again, this time over medium-high heat, to 375°F, and deep-fry the artichokes, head down, for 2–3 minutes, or until they are crisp and a deep golden brown. Tongs are helpful here. Remove and drain on paper towels, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and serve immediately.
Crocchette di patate e parmigiano
Potato and Parmesan croquettes
I’d never really considered the croquette before coming to Italy. I’d eaten them, mostly in St George’s School dining room between 1984 and 1989, straight from a catering-size pack and fried two hours before consumption. They were floppy and soggy with a suspiciously orange coat that concealed a gluey, unctuous filling, which inevitably resulted in mild heartburn. Similar digestive challenges were presented by the potato cylinders I insisted on buying from dodgy fish-and-chip shops in London after long nights at the pub. There were some good ones in France, during a traumatic exchange holiday when I was 14, but like everything else to do with that trip, I try not to think about them.
I discovered the true potential of the potato croquette in a pizzeria in Naples when one was deposited in front of me at such speed that the plate spun round twice. I knew straight away it wasn’t your average croquette, but even so I wasn’t particularly excited by the prospect of a cylinder of deep-fried mashed potato, however golden it looked. Then I tasted it, and the shell gave way to an extremely soft, well-seasoned, cheese-spiked cushion of mash. This high was followed by various lows, during which I encountered much croquette disappointment. It seems that many of the pizzerias in Rome, even some of the best, aren’t much more discerning than St George’s School dining room. Just as I was about to give up all hope, I went to La Gatta Mangiona in Monteverde and there it was, the second: a modest little roll, reassuringly wonky, with a golden-brown texture like the sun, a hot, crisp, crunch on the outside, then a soft pillow of mash inside, with a sliver of mozzarella hiding in the center. There are variations using salt cod, others with herbs and other cheeses, reminding you that the possibilities are many.
Simple they may be, but it took me a while to settle on a recipe at home. I experimented with butter, with dipping in beaten egg, and with various methods such as mashing, ricing, and grating, until I settled on this: grated potatoes enriched with lots of Parmesan and an egg, seasoned with plenty of black pepper, dipped in polenta or bread crumbs, fried until golden, and eaten immediately. I repeat, immediately: gather guests around the stove and eat, ideally with other fritti and cold beers. Please note that my croquettes are wonky because, as everybody knows, very neat croquettes—like very neat people and houses—are suspicious.
makes 12
3 large russet potatoes
1 cup grated Parmesan
2 eggs, lightly beaten
salt and freshly ground black pepper
flour, for dusting
1 cup fine dried bread crumbs or instant polenta
2 cups olive or vegetable oil
lemon wedges, to serve
Scrub the potatoes, then cook them whole in a pan of well-salted boiling water until tender. Drain well. Once they are cool enough to handle, peel off the skin and then either grate them, press them through a potato ricer, or pass them through the largest holes of a food mill. Mix the potatoes with the Parmesan and one of the eggs and season with salt and pepper. Mold the potato mixture into 12 croquette shapes or cylinders, roll them in flour, then the other egg, roll them in the bread crumbs or polenta, and sit them on a plate lined with wax paper.
Heat the oil to 375°F in a small shallow pan, or until a cube of bread takes about 40 seconds to turn golden. Fry the croquettes 3 or 4 at a time for about 2 minutes, or until they are golden all over. Use a slotted spoon to lift them out onto paper towels to drain the excess oil. Serve immediately with lemon wedges.
My norcineria
In 2013 we moved from one side of Testaccio to the other. It was only a matter of 400 yards, give or take a corner, but everything felt different. The bar where I have my coffee each morning and the stall where I buy my fruit and vegetables felt entirely different approached from another direction. Streets rarely walked became suddenly familiar. Courtyards peered into from one side appeared entirely different from the other. A drinking fountain I’d only drunk from a handful of times became my local. A bakery, a launderette, a minuscule sewing shop, a pet shop whose window we spend at least 10 minutes a day peering through while Luca barks, and a norcineria I’d never noticed became part of my daily stroll—or grind, depending on the day.
It’s not surprising that I’d never noticed the norcineria, as we both moved to via Galvani at more or less the same time. The shop used to be about a mile away before Bruno and Sergio, the two brothers who own it, decided to come back to Testaccio. A norcineria is a shop that specializes in cured pork products, which may also sell cheese, salame, and other dried goods. The name derives from the town of Norcia in Umbria, whose inhabitants (or some of them, at least) are historically renowned and much sought after for their meat-curing skills. Norcinerie are places of pink flesh and seasoned fat, of pancetta, guanciale, lonzino, coppa, ciauscolo, shoulder steaks, loins, fillets, and air-dried delights.
Norcineria Martelli is a neat, pleasing place, with a meat counter to the left, dried goods to the right, and the altar to porchetta—a large boneless pork roast seasoned with salt, black pepper, garlic, rosemary, and fennel seeds typical to Lazio—straight ahead as you come through the door. Which I do most days, with Luca in tow shouting loudly enough to arouse concern. Bruno and Sergio are amicable and honest, as are their pork and products. On Fridays they have ready-soaked chickpeas and salt cod, and on Tuesdays and Saturdays they also have a nice, naturally leavened bread and a dome or two of the best sheep’s-milk ricotta.
I am disproportionately fond of ricotta: brilliant white, compact but wobbly enough to remind you not to be so serious, and embossed with the ridges of the cone it was molded in. We eat it several times a week, its creamy, sweet-but-sharp, and sheepish nature indispensable in both sweet and savory dishes. I shape it into lumps, stir it into pasta, smear it on bread (which I then finish with lots of salt, black pepper, and olive oil), slice it over beans, spoon it next to fruit, nuts, and honey, whip it into desserts, and bake it into tarts and cakes.
I also mix it with wilted spinach (I never fail to be impressed by the way that disobedient spinach, once disciplined in a pan, wilts so obediently), lots of freshly grated Parmesan, an egg, a nip of nutmeg, salt, and plenty of black pepper, to make polpette di ricotta e spinaci.
Polpette di ricotta e spinaci
Ricotta and spinach fritters
This recipe is inspired by the polpette we eat as often as possible at what is probably my favorite tavola calda (a kind of self-service café) in Rome these days: C’è Pasta e Pasta! on the other side of the river on via Ettore Rolli. The key is to make a relatively firm mixture of ricotta and spinach—and the key to that is to make sure you drain the spinach meticulously. Drain, then squeeze and press until you have an almost dry green ball. The ricotta, too, should be drained of any excess liquid. If the mixture is firm you shouldn’t have any problems shaping it into polpette, which you then flatten slightly with the palm of your hand. Why this is so satisfying I’m not sure, but it is. Then, the triple roll: first in flour, next in a bath of beaten egg, then in fine bread crumbs.
Once rolled, you fry them in hot oil; these days I prefer olive oil, but vegetable oil works well too. They take just minutes to shimmy in a disco coat of bubbles until they’re deep gold and crisp. Polpette di ricotta e spinaci or bon bon di ricotta e spinaci are best eaten while they are still finger-scaldingly hot, while their coating is sharp, decisive, and shatters between your teeth before giving way to a soft, warm filling of cheese and spinach.
makes about 15
about 1 pound spinach
1½ cups ricotta (ideally sheep’s milk, but cow’s milk works well too)
3 large eggs
½ cup grated Parmesan or pecorino
freshly grated nutmeg
salt and freshly ground black pepper
flour, for dusting
1 cup fine dried bread crumbs or instant polenta
olive or vegetable oil, for frying
Soak the spinach in several changes of water. Discard any wilted or bruised leaves and trim away any very thick, woody stalks. Put it in a large pan with nothing but the water that clings to the leaves, cover, and cook over medium heat until it has collapsed and is tender. This should take 3–5 minutes, depending on the freshness and age of the spinach.
Drain the spinach, and once it is cool enough to handle, squeeze and press it gently with your hands to eliminate as much water as possible. Chop it roughly, then transfer it to a large bowl. Add the ricotta and stir gently but firmly with a wooden spoon. Add 1 egg, the grated Parmesan, and a grating of nutmeg and season with salt and pepper. Stir the ingredients until they are evenly combined, then taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary. Let the mixture rest in the fridge for an hour.
Prepare 3 plates, one with the remaining eggs, beaten, one with seasoned flour, and one with the bread crumbs or polenta. Using a teaspoon, scoop out a golf-ball-size lump of the spinach-and-ricotta mixture. Shape it into a ball and flatten it into a patty. Dip it in flour, then egg, and finally roll it in the bread crumbs or polenta until evenly coated. Put the polpette on a plate lined with parchment paper while you prepare the rest.
In a deep frying pan or saucepan, heat the oil to 375°F (I judge this by eye, using a cube of bread—see here) and carefully lower in 3 or 4 polpette at a time. Cook for about 2 minutes, or until crisp and deep gold. Use a slotted spoon to lift them onto a plate lined with paper towels. Once drained, slide them onto the serving plate, sprinkle with salt, and eat immediately.
Supplì al telefono
Rice croquettes filled with mozzarella
When you break a golden supplì in two, the mozzarella hidden inside the cylinder of rice doesn’t tear but stretches like an old-fashioned telephone cord, hence the name. Luca, who is nearly three and whose favorite food, after pizza rossa, is supplì, will never fully understand this concept. Supplì are another example of resourceful fifth-quarter cooking—traditionally, they would have been a way of using up leftovers, whether leftover rice, cheese, bread crumbs, chicken livers, or ground meat from ragù. Although that would be delicious, I usually make these vegetarian, which is why I would favor stock over water and be generous with the seasoning.
Supplì are what I would call a kitchen project. Not that they are particularly complicated, it’s simply that they require time (ideally a night) and organization for molding, dipping, and frying. However, when I do get my act together and make them, ensuring there are plenty of cold beers in the fridge, I make not just Luca but everybody else extremely happy. It is always the case that you don’t fry the first couple of supplì for long enough, and the mozzarella is warm but not fully melted. But then you fry the third and someone tears it in half and there it is, the cord stretching before your eyes.
makes about 15
1 onion
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
14.5 ounces canned plum tomatoes
salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 cups light stock or water
2½ cups Arborio rice
4 tablespoons butter
½ cup grated Parmesan
4 eggs
7 ounces mozzarella
flour, for coating
fine bread crumbs or instant polenta, for coating
olive or vegetable oil, for frying
Dice the onion. Heat the extra-virgin olive oil in a deep sauté pan over low heat and cook the onion gently until soft and translucent. Pass the tomatoes through a food mill or sieve or blast them with an immersion blender, and add them to the pan with the onion. Season with salt and plenty of pepper, then stir and leave to bubble away for a few minutes.
Warm the stock or water in a small pan. Add the rice to the pan with the tomatoes and stir. Now, cook the rice as if you were making a risotto; in other words, add the liquid gradually and let it bubble away gently while you stir. As the liquid is absorbed, add another ladleful of stock or water and stir again. Keep stirring and slowly adding stock until the rice is swollen and tender. This should take about 17 minutes.
Remove the pan from the heat and, using a wooden spoon, beat in the butter, grated Parmesan, and 2 of the eggs, lightly beaten. Leave the rice mixture to sit in the fridge for at least 5 hours or overnight. Cut the mozzarella into ¾-inch-long, ¼-inch-wide batons. Using a tablespoon, scoop out a ball of rice mixture. Using your finger, make a hole in the center and tuck a mozzarella baton inside. Use your hands to mold the rice over the hole and shape the ball into a stout croquette. Arrange the flour, bread crumbs, and remaining eggs, beaten, on separate plates. Dip the supplì in flour, then egg, then roll in the bread crumbs.
In a deep frying pan or saucepan, heat the oil to 375°F. Fry the supplì in batches until golden brown and crisp, then remove with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. Serve immediately.