This is a tale about my mother Fiammetta’s ancestors, the Sforzas. It is a story my father would regale us with at the dinner table at our Tuscan home, La Tambura. That long, long table was always laid with a beautiful, spotlessly clean and very colourful tablecloth. We had matching napkins, each one in its special napkin ring so that we could always identify our own. There would be a bright bowl of zinnias from the garden, our lovely caramel-coloured china, shiny octagonal tumblers with a dark blue rim for water and wine, and the heavy, well-worn family silver, complete with the Sforza family crest. Dad would only tell the story when he was feeling particularly flirtatious towards my mother, his brown eyes flashing, laughter rumbling in his chest. She would smile back in that enigmatic way she saved only for him.
I am almost certain that this tale of the Sforzas is one of those that, over time, has absorbed elements of other stories. Its location and cast of characters may well have been changed at the whim of more than one narrator to make the tale more dramatic and engaging. I do know, however, that these characters existed, and that I am related to them – albeit distantly. And, although I cannot vouch for its historical accuracy, I love retelling the tale. I believe that insisting on the absolute truth from one’s best memories sometimes only serves to steal away part of their enjoyment.
The story is set in the 15th century during a battle between the Sforzas and a second Milanese noble family. It was at the time of Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, a man who, like all the Sforzas, governed by force and power-politics. My mother’s ancestors were warriors – not bankers, like many of their contemporaries, such as the Medici.
It was during this especially bloody battle, in which the family’s castle was besieged, that one of the noble Sforza ladies appeared on the ramparts. Covered in filth and with wild hair, she brandished her sword and, eyes flashing with hatred, she stood glaring down at the enemy. From below, the leader called out to her, “Desist madam. Give up now or we shall be forced to take your children!” In reply, she waved her skirts at the soldiers, shouting lewdly, “Never mind! Go ahead if you want to, there’ll be plenty more before you know it!”
Later, after a truce had been agreed, a banquet was held in the great hall of the Castello Sforzesco (which can still be visited in Milan today and even has its own Metro station). As the guests sat down to roasted haunch of wild boar, wood pigeon and other fine dishes, they had no idea what their hosts had in store for them. They were satisfied that good manners and noble protocol were being observed, but they should have been on their guard: the Sforzas were infamously treacherous. (At this point in the story my father would give my mother a funny look, smoothing his thumb over the engraved family crest on his knife handle – a rampant lion holding the branch of a quince tree.) As soon as the guests had raised their goblets in a toast, a group of crack assassins, whom the Duke had hidden behind the tapestries in the banqueting hall, leapt out and dragged the guests away to face a grisly end. The rest of the party continued with the feast, calmly, as if nothing had happened.
At the end of the story, my father would lift his own wine glass and drink, never once taking his eyes off my mother. Depending upon who was there, and whether they had heard the story before, slightly shocked laughter might ripple around the table while my mother flashed my dad another of her enigmatic looks before changing the conversation.
Ludovico Sforza ruled Milan from 1489 to 1508. He famously defeated Louis XII’s army at the Battle of Fornovo, with weapons made from the 70 tons of bronze that had been intended for a statue of himself that he had commissioned from Leonardo da Vinci. Ludovico il Moro, as he was also known, was the artist’s patron, and his tomb lies in the church that houses The Last Supper, which the Duke had also commissioned. Through Ludovico’s power and patronage, he left an important political and cultural legacy to Milan at the time of the Renaissance.
I also like to think of my ancestor Ludovico as the unsung hero responsible in part for the creation of one of the most traditional dishes of Lombardy, the ubiquitous risotto. By 1550, rice fields occupied over 550 hectares of land in the Dukedom of Milan, thanks to Ludovico’s decision to flood the area to enable the tender plants to grow in water. His intricate and brilliantly engineered irrigation system is still largely in use today on the flat, wet plains of western Lombardy and eastern Piedmont. For almost five centuries, rice for making risotto has been the main crop grown in the area, with many different varieties being introduced over that period to create this remarkable dish in all its wonderful forms.
Castello Sforzesco, Milano.
It seems inevitable – with Ludovico Sforza as my forebear – that I should have fallen in love with the slow, steady ritual of making risotto. When I was just four or five years old, Beppino, the caretaker at our house, La Tambura, taught me how to make it. Long before I discovered the historical link between the dish and my ancestor, I cared about risotto passionately. But now that I know that the link is there, it makes perfect sense that I have always so loved eating and making the divinely decadent, velvety treat that is a properly made risotto.
The first time I made risotto with Beppino, he took me through the important rules of making brodo, the all-important stock. I remember us choosing the chicken, slaughtering it humanely, then gutting and plucking it. While it was being simmered for hours in salted water with celery, onions and carrot, a beef marrowbone and a meaty veal knuckle, I was given the all-important job of checking and cleaning the rice grains, which were delivered in large hessian sacks every autumn from the Sforza rice fields near the small Tuscan town of Pontedera. Beppino measured out exactly how much rice we needed into a wide, shallow bowl – one fistful per person – and then I pored over it, picking out scraps of chaff and imperfect grains until all that remained was perfectly clean white rice.
All afternoon, Beppino and I checked, tasted and skimmed the chicken stock as it bubbled away. When it was done, he saved me my favourite bit: the chewy gizzard. For himself, he set aside the veal knuckle and the marrowbone. We ate them with our fingers, sitting side by side on the marble back doorstep of the house, a small saucer of sea salt between us. Beppino often told me stories of the time he was a chef at the famous Ristorante Savini in the Galleria in Milan, where he was responsible for the risotto. (Many years later, I was to discover my favourite risotto-themed legend. This involved a 16th-century Master of the stained glass windows at the Duomo in Milan, and the keen workman he put in charge of painting the yellow sections of the glorious windows in the third chapel past the transept. In those days, ground saffron diluted in water was used to colour the glass. The workman was so passionate about his saffron powder that he was nicknamed Zafferano by his colleagues, who claimed that one day he would end up putting it into his risotto. And one day he did: on the occasion of the wedding of the Master’s daughter, he presented two tureens of the golden, saffron-scented risotto as a wedding gift, which was carried into the feast by a pair of pages and accompanied by a triumphant bugle fanfare.)
The stock finished and the washing up done, with Beppino standing at my shoulder and my feet planted firmly on a chair in front of the stove, I began to make my first risotto. Beppino taught me the importance of using the right-shaped saucepan, of chopping the onion so finely that it vanishes into the background of the risotto, of frying it so that it becomes completely soft without colouring and of bravely adding the rice all in one go. Then, carefully, we took the risotto through all its processes. I would give myself up to the rhythm of the recipe, allowing the rice itself to tell me what to do and when to do it, knowing somehow, even then, that Beppino might not always be there to prompt me whenever I made risotto, but that his voice would always guide me.
First, la tentazione: the long, slow, careful toasting of the rice grains without browning, so that the heat from the pan permeates right through each grain evenly, sealing off the inner core to prevent overcooking later, once the liquid is added.
Then, il sospiro: the addition of the first liquid, the satisfying rush of steam and the audible sighing of the rice as it drowns in pleasure, quivers in anticipation, settles again and finally begins to swell.
This is followed by long, leisurely, gentle stirring, waiting for the rice to beg for more hot stock after each addition, until it is time to remove it from the heat, add the last of the butter and cheese and cover the pot tightly. This ensures that the final process, la mantecatura (the essential creaming and stirring to incorporate air into the risotto), can take place just before serving.
I can still remember so clearly Beppino standing at the stove, patiently nursing his brodo. Whenever I was ill he would make me his version of the classic Zuppa Pavese (Pavese Soup, see page 19). I have always loved the story of how this soup was supposedly created. In Lombardy, in 1525, on the very day that King Francis I of France was defeated by Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire, the king declared, “Everything is lost except our honour.” This was, however, not strictly true as the king had certainly not lost his appetite. He is said to have stormed around the Pavese countryside in desperate search for something to eat. Finally, he came upon a farm where a peasant woman was making soup. The king told her who he was and that he was very hungry. The woman placed a piece of old bread in a bowl and covered it with broth poured from her battered ladle. Then, thinking that this food was not noble enough for a king – even one that had been so ignominiously defeated – she went to her henhouse, gathered two eggs and broke them into his soup bowl. Since then, the recipe has become much more sophisticated and elegant, but I love to remember the story of its noble origins, in much the same way as I remember with fondness and gratitude Beppino and my forebear, Ludvico Sforza, when I make one of my most favourite dishes, risotto.
Castello Sforzesco.
Long before I discovered a historical link between risotto and my ancestor Ludovico Sforza, I fell in love with this simple dish. This recipe is ideal for beginners because it is easy to observe the changes in appearance and texture of the rice grains during the whole cooking process. To make a successful risotto, the pan used should be deep enough so that the liquid does not evaporate too quickly, be heavy-based to allow the cooking process to be relatively slow and must have a lid that fits tightly. You could also add all sorts of other ingredients to this basic recipe, such as herbs, cooked pancetta, chicken or whatever takes your fancy.
Serves 6
Preparation time: 10 minutes, plus 4 minutes resting
Cooking time: 35–40 minutes
75g/2½oz unsalted butter
1 onion, finely chopped
500g/1lb 2oz/2¼ cups risotto rice, preferably vialone nano
1.5l/52fl oz/6 cups good-quality chicken, meat or vegetable stock, hot
100g/3½oz Parmesan cheese, freshly grated
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Heat half the butter in a deep, heavy-based saucepan over a very low heat. Add the onion and fry for 10 minutes until the onion is soft but not coloured. Increase the heat slightly to medium-low, add the rice and toast the grains for 4–8 minutes, stirring, until they are opaque but not coloured.
Add a ladleful of the hot stock and stir it in, letting the rice hiss and tremble as it absorbs the liquid. Continue adding the stock 2 ladlefuls at a time, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon and allowing the liquid to be absorbed. Do not add more stock until the spoon draws a clear wake behind it as you draw it through the rice. Cook for about 20 minutes, or until the rice is creamy but still firm in the centre.
Remove the pan from the heat, stir in the Parmesan and remaining butter and season with salt and pepper. Cover and leave to rest for 4 minutes, then stir again and serve.
This recipe reflects an earlier style of making risotto – as it would have been made in my ancestor’s Ludovico’s time – before the habit of toasting the rice grains in the soffritto (gently sautéed chopped onion and other vegetables) was introduced. It is meant to be quite soupy and wet, and should therefore be served in deep soup plates or bowls. Preferably use carnaroli rice, which is from the Piedmont region.
Serves 6
Preparation time: 10 minutes, plus 4 minutes resting
Cooking time: 25 minutes
2l/70fl oz/8 cups good-quality beef or veal stock
500g/1lb 2oz/2¼ cups risotto rice, preferably carnaroli
60g/2¼oz Parmesan cheese, freshly grated
60g/2¼oz unsalted butter
60g/2¼oz finely shaved white or black truffle or 1 heaped tbsp truffle butter
sea salt
freshly grated nutmeg, to serve
Put the stock in a large saucepan and bring to the boil. Stir in the rice and return to the boil, then turn the heat down and simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until the rice is creamy but still firm in the centre.
Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the Parmesan, butter and truffle. Season with salt, to taste. Cover and leave to rest for 4 minutes, then stir again and serve with a little nutmeg grated over the top.
Traditionally, bone marrow is used in this recipe, but you can leave it out if you prefer, adding an extra 40g/1½oz of butter instead. As the dish is from Lombardy, the cheese used is Grana Padano, not Parmigiano Reggiano; and saffron powder is more often used throughout Italy than the strands.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 15 minutes, plus 10 minutes soaking and 4 minutes resting
Cooking time: 30 minutes
½ white or brown onion, very finely chopped
100g/3½oz unsalted butter
40g/1½oz raw beef bone marrow, chopped (optional)
400g/14oz/scant 2 cups risotto rice, preferably vialone gigante or carnaroli
1.5l/52fl oz/6 cups strong veal, beef and/or chicken stock, hot
tsp saffron powder
60g/2¼oz Grana Padano cheese, freshly grated, plus extra to serve
Put the onion in a bowl, cover with cold water and leave to soak for 10 minutes (this will soften the flavour of the onion and make it sweeter, but this stage is optional). Drain the onion and squeeze it dry in a clean tea towel.
Heat half the butter in a deep, heavy-based pan over a low heat. Add the onion and beef marrow, if using, and fry gently for 10 minutes until the onion is soft but not coloured. Increase the heat to medium, add the rice and stir thoroughly to coat it in the butter mixture until crackling hot but not coloured.
Add a ladleful of hot stock and stir it in, letting the rice hiss and tremble as it absorbs the liquid. Continue adding the stock, a ladleful at a time, and cook over a medium-low heat for 10 minutes, stirring continuously and allowing the liquid to be absorbed before adding more.
Stir in the saffron powder and continue to cook as before for a further 10 minutes, or until the rice is creamy but still firm in the centre.
Remove from the heat and stir in the remaining butter and the Grana Padano. Cover and leave to rest for 4 minutes, then stir again and serve with extra grated Grana Padano for adding at the table.
This is my version of the classic soup that Beppino would make for me as a child when I was feeling unwell. It never failed to make me feel better.
Serves 6
Preparation time: 30 minutes, plus cooling
Cooking time: 2½ hours
90g/3¼oz unsalted butter
2 tbsp vegetable oil
6 slices of Italian-style bread
6 eggs
85g/3oz Grana Padano cheese, freshly grated, plus extra to serve
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Chicken broth:
1 large ready-to-cook boiling fowl or chicken, with giblets
2 carrots, trimmed
2 onions, halved
2 celery sticks
2 tomatoes, halved
2 cabbage or large lettuce leaves
1 handful of parsley sprigs
First, make the broth. Rinse the chicken and giblets under cold running water, then put in a large saucepan with all the remaining broth ingredients. Pour in 2.5l/88fl oz/10 cups water and add a little salt. Bring to the boil, then turn the heat down to low and simmer gently, part-covered, for 2 hours. Remove from the heat and leave to cool completely. Once cold, remove the chicken and giblets from the broth and discard. Strain the liquid through a fine sieve into a jug. Leave the broth to stand, then remove any fat from the surface and strain again. If not using immediately, chill, covered, and use within 3 days or freeze for up to 1 month.
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Pour 1.5l/52fl oz/6 cups of the strained broth into a saucepan and bring to a gentle simmer. Meanwhile, heat the butter and oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat. Add the bread slices and fry on both sides until golden and crisp. Remove from the pan and drain on kitchen paper.
Put a slice of fried bread into each of six ovenproof bowls and make a hollow in the bread with the back of a spoon. Crack an egg into the hollow in each slice, being careful not to break the yolk. Sprinkle each egg with the Grana Padano and season with salt and pepper.
Carefully ladle the very hot broth onto and around the eggs. The extreme heat of the broth should just cook the eggs. If the eggs are not cooked to your liking, put the bowls on a baking sheet and put in the oven for 2 minutes to set the eggs a little bit more. Serve the soup with extra grated Grana Padano for adding at the table.
In Lombardy, stuffed wood pigeon was once the preferred dish of the nobility and the origins of this dish date back to the early Renaissance. If you can’t find bitter almonds, use hard amaretti biscuits or simmer a handful of blanched almonds in water with a leaf from an artichoke plant for 10 minutes before draining and drying. The stuffing can also be used in chicken and guinea fowl.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 40 minutes, plus 25 minutes standing and 5 minutes resting
Cooking time: 45 minutes
4 prepared large, plump wood pigeons, with livers
100g/3½oz unsalted butter
1 small onion, finely chopped
50g/1¾oz/scant 1 cup fresh white breadcrumbs
1 egg, beaten
2 bitter almonds, chopped, or 2 amaretti biscuits, finely crumbled
35g/1¼oz Grana Padano cheese, freshly grated
125ml/4fl oz/½ cup chicken or game stock
80ml/2½fl oz/
cup olive oil
1 rosemary sprig, needles roughly chopped
100ml/3½fl oz/generous cup dry white wine
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
watercress and chargrilled polenta, to serve
Clean the pigeons, removing any tiny quills, and leave to one side. Carefully clean and trim the livers.
To make the stuffing, heat a third of the butter in a large frying pan over a medium heat. Add the livers and onion and fry for 4–5 minutes until browned and the onion is well softened. Spoon the mixture into a blender with the breadcrumbs, egg, almonds, Grana Padano and half of the stock. Blend briefly to make a coarse paste, adding more stock if necessary. Leave to stand for 20 minutes, and season with salt and pepper.
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Fill the cavity of each pigeon with the stuffing, then sew or tie the pigeons closed with cook’s string, or use small metal skewers.
Pour the oil into an ovenproof dish, lay the pigeons in the oil and spread the remaining butter over the breast of each bird. Add the rosemary, wine and any remaining stock. Roast for 40 minutes, basting frequently, or until the pigeons are cooked through. Leave to rest for 5 minutes, then remove the string or skewers. Serve with watercress and chargrilled polenta.
Me with my Nonna Valentine.
