Beppino was one of the Italian refugees left stranded in the aftermath of the war, after the fall of the Fascist regime. He had somehow ended up living in the ruins of what became our Tuscan home, La Tambura. The house is on the coast of La Versilia, between the towns of Forte dei Marmi and Marina di Massa, with the Carrara mountains standing proud behind it. When the weather is clear, the mountains almost seem like they are in the garden and, from the beach at the right time of day, if you get the angle spot-on, they can look as though they are rising majestically out of the sea itself.
When my mother and father first arrived at La Tambura in 1953 (with my older brothers, half-brother and a menagerie of friends and relatives in tow), Beppino alone, among all the refugees found eking out an existence in the ruins of the house and gardens, was allowed to stay on. I shall never really know what it was that made my father decide he could stay, but I do know that the influence he had on all of our lives, but most especially mine, remains as true today as it was then.
Beppino was born in the Veneto. His home was in the countryside near Vicenza, where his mother bred geese. Before being called up to fight for his country, he had been a very young chef in charge of risotto at Savini, a lovely old-fashioned restaurant that still exists in the Galleria in Milan. Risotto is a shared regional dish of the Veneto, Piedmont and Lombardy, and Beppino taught me how to make it when I was just a little girl with grazed knees and pockets full of treasures like fresh peas in the pod or a much-gnawed Parmesan rind. He taught me so many things: how to make wine, bread and olive oil; grow vegetables; care for rabbits and chickens; respect the environment; and avoid any “porcherie”, which is what he called any food that had been messed about with and not homemade and traceable in origin. He was my inspiration, and still is in so many ways, especially when I make risotto in his time-honoured way.
On 14 July 1957, Beppino opened the battered green gates of La Tambura so that my father could drive through, at the end of one of our many epic journeys. (My father was constantly moving his entire entourage from country to country, being peripatetic by nature. It was tiresome being packed for long hours in the car, but it did allow my mother to plan what she called “Le Tour Gastronomique”.) Seconds later, I was placed, just 10 days old, in Beppino’s arms. It was the start of a relationship that was to last for many years and, in a way, to launch my career in food.
I have never known anyone who could work as hard as Beppino, or do so many brilliantly useful things in one day. He not only rebuilt the house single-handedly, which had suffered enormously from bombing during the war, but also established our luscious vegetable garden; restored the fruit trees and vines; and created a chicken coop, rabbit hutches and a pigsty. The only time I ever witnessed Beppino taking a break from his work was the day he broke his foot and was taken off to the hospital to be plastered, roaring angrily all the way. I found him hours later in his hut, hacking off the plaster with an axe and binding the poor, broken foot in wet paper instead, all the while assuring me that it would heal much better that way.
In between the chicken coop and the pigsty was the still, where Beppino would illegally distill grappa, his favourite tipple. I would sit for hours on the floor of this little hut, chin in hands, watching the pale, golden liquid curling its way round the spiralling glass pipe, waiting patiently with Beppino for the moment when it would flow out the other end, ready to taste. The logic of putting the still in that location was that the telltale smell of the alcohol would be masked by the all-pervasive pong of the chickens and pigs should any person of authority pay a visit. I would worry endlessly about the still being found, but Beppino would just swig another mouthful of the fiery liquid and laugh at my concerns.
I followed Beppino around from morning to night, helping him work in the vegetable patch; clipping the vines; clearing out the animals’ bedding for manure; sweeping the pathways clear of pine needles; cutting wood; and repairing anything anywhere that needed mending. I would especially love digging over the ground in the chicken coop and watching our hens gobble up the fat earthworms that wriggled up to the light as the earth was turned. Together, we grew courgettes, green beans, salad leaves, tomatoes and cabbages. I would always know when winter had truly arrived because that was when there was nothing left in the vegetable garden except for the tall, frosted leaves of the cavolo nero, immobile and dark in the freezing air.
Andreina and Beppino with me at La Tambura.
La Tambura.
Beppino showed me how to wring a chicken’s or rabbit’s neck, a quick twist against a bent knee and it was all over, the animal ready to be prepared for the pot. Still warm, we would hang the animal upside down on the vine wires, Beppino choosing carefully a spot between two vines that needed extra fertilization. Then he would fetch his big, flat spade and dig a deep hole directly under the rabbit or chicken. Under his guidance, I would then pluck the bird or skin and gut the animal, taking care that everything that was not meat would fall directly into the pit we had dug, which we would then cover over carefully when finished. The chicken, or rabbit, would then be washed repeatedly in well water, one of us pumping while the other did the washing, and then finally carried proudly into the kitchen. It was not long before I could do all of this myself, and always relished the opportunity.
At certain times of the year, by watching the sky and feeling the air in his own inimitable way, Beppino would decree that it was a good day for fishing. So, at sunset, we would ride our bicycles down to the beach and row out on a pattino, a small, flat kind of very light catamaran without sails, the nets piled in a huge coiled heap on the platform between the two prows. I always wanted to be the person responsible for dropping the first flagged buoy, which indicated one end of the net, into the water. Then, slowly and carefully, we would let the net fall into the sea as we rowed expertly round in a horseshoe shape, the pattino seriously overloaded with passengers, finally dropping the second buoy at the other end. Job done, and the sky almost dark, we would return home – sandy, salty and very wet – on our rickety old bicycles, hopefully just in time for dinner.
Next morning at dawn, Beppino would gently shake me awake. Still salty and sandy from the night before, I would pedal behind him (with anybody else who could be bothered to get up so early), back down to the beach. There we would push the pattino into the sea and row out again, coiling the wet nets from the water onto the platform, then heading back towards the shore once we had finished hauling. The sun would just be rising, bathing the Carrara mountains, which form the eternal magical backdrop to this strip of coast. The dawn light was vibrant and the palest violet, covering the surface of the sea with a nacre sheen and making the marble on the mountains glow intensely as though they were on fire.
The only other people ever on the beach at this magical time would be the nuns from the local convent, splashing noisily around in the waves in their wimples and ample, black, knitted bathing costumes. Beppino and the other men would turn their eyes away in respect, crossing themselves as they did so, but the children of the party would gape, open-mouthed, at the frolicking Sisters.
Back on the beach, we would all line up on the bagnasciuga, the wave-lapped sandy shoreline, studded with marble pebbles, each of us with our own bucket. We were instructed firmly to remove only the type of fish assigned specifically to us from the nets. For some reason, I always got to do the squid, and I still have scars all over my hands from where they buried their sharp black beaks into my soft, girly fingers! Hand over hand, crouched low, with our bottoms just dipping in the water, we would pass the nets from one to another, removing the fish with great care so as not to tear the net or damage our precious haul, and safely drop the catch into the buckets, half filled with fresh, cool seawater to keep it fresh.
The biggest hazard was always the sand weever, or tracina. This fish is tasty enough when added to a fish soup, but its defence mechanism entails it burying itself just under the sand at low tide, leaving its nasty spines poking up through the sand. It then spends its time just waiting for a tender foot to press down on the spines before releasing its poison into the flesh, and from there into the bloodstream. It is an excruciatingly painful thing to happen, and many a happy day on the beach has ended for me in the agony of a sand weever accident. The immediate cure is a bucket of hot water in which to soak the foot and draw out the poison, followed by a dousing in nausea-inducing ammonia, liberally poured over the tiny, innocuous-looking puncture wounds. All this administered by the handsome beach attendant – il bagnino – with great drama, and plenty of people watching and adding their opinion. There were always lots of sand weevers in our nets and I always felt really sorry for whoever had the job of disentangling them, as they inevitably got spiked. Sometimes, one of my squid would have a sand weever hanging half in and half out of its beak. I would prise it out carefully, taking care not to touch the dead fish, even though everybody told me it could no longer hurt me.
Once the nets were emptied of all the fish, they needed washing and cleaning in the sea before being carefully coiled up again, ready for the next time. The contents of our buckets would then be checked over, and Beppino would start the job of deciding how we would cook our catch. Was there enough for a fritto misto? A pasta sauce? A risotto? Zuppa? Or crostini topping? Before the sun became too hot and our catch lost its freshness, we would pedal home again, balancing our buckets precariously on the handlebars and avoiding any bumps, to prevent seawater or the fish slopping out onto the road.
Back in the kitchen, warm fresh bread and bowls of caffè latte awaited us, and all the adults would wave around tiny cups of espresso laced with grappa to emphasize and punctuate their words as they continued the discussion as to what delicious dishes we were going to turn our fresh bounty into. Preparation of the great fish lunch would then begin. There would be herbs and vegetables to find in the garden, potatoes to peel and the table to be set. I would watch Beppino’s knife flying through onions on the chopping board, and try hard to match his speed. There were always jobs for me to do, and very little praise handed out, which made any compliments especially precious. Mainly, he would say things like: “Ha! You’d make a restaurant bankrupt in a day, wasting food like you do!” if I removed too much flesh off a potato as I peeled it, or sliced a lemon too thickly.
Finally, at lunchtime, sitting in my place at the table, I would feel such a sense of pride and anticipation swell within me as the food was brought in, and I would bask happily in everyone’s obvious enjoyment and pleasure. Yet somehow I knew that all the while it would be Beppino who was having the best meal, under a tree in the garden, enjoying his specially chosen morsels – things that nobody else, except possibly me, would really appreciate – and blissfully alone.
This recipe really celebrates for me the memory of the fragrant tomatoes and courgettes that would grow in our vegetable garden at La Tambura, so lovingly tended by Beppino. This is a lighter version of the classic Italian dish, Parmigiana di melanzane, which uses aubergines.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 30 minutes, plus 1 hour standing
Cooking time: 1 hour 10 minutes
4–5 medium to large courgettes, trimmed and sliced diagonally
2 tbsp plain white flour
250ml/9fl oz/1 cup sunflower oil
200g/7oz mozzarella cheese, drained and finely chopped
Tomato sauce:
8 ripe tomatoes
2 tbsp olive oil
½ onion, chopped
1 handful of basil leaves, torn into shreds
a large pinch of dried oregano
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Put the courgettes in a large colander and sprinkle with salt, then leave to stand for 1 hour.
Meanwhile, cut a cross in the bottom of each tomato, using a sharp knife, then put them in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave to stand for 2–3 minutes, then drain. Peel off and discard the skins, then deseed and roughly chop the flesh.
To make the tomato sauce, heat the olive oil in a frying pan. Add the onion and fry until very soft, then stir in the tomatoes, basil and oregano and season with salt and pepper. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes, or until thickened. Press the sauce through a sieve into a bowl.
While the sauce is simmering, rinse the courgettes well and pat dry with kitchen paper. Put them in a bowl and toss lightly in the flour. Heat the sunflower oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat until a small cube of bread dropped into the oil sizzles instantly. Working in batches, if necessary, to avoid overcrowding the pan, add the courgettes and fry until golden brown. Remove from the pan using a slotted spoon and drain well on kitchen paper.
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Cover the bottom of an ovenproof dish with a layer of the sauce, then add a layer of fried courgettes, then a layer of mozzarella. Repeat the layers until all the ingredients have been used. Bake for 30 minutes, or until heated through.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 40 minutes
Cooking time: about 1 hour
500g/1lb 2oz mussels
500g/1lb 2oz baby clams
500ml/17fl oz/2 cups dry white wine
1.2l/40fl oz/4¾ cups strong fish stock
150ml/5fl oz/scant 
cup extra virgin olive oil
250g/9oz raw, shell-on small prawns
250g/9oz raw, shell-on langoustines
½ dried red chilli, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
4 tbsp chopped parsley leaves, plus extra to serve
500g/1lb 2oz/heaped 2¼ cups carnaroli rice
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Scrub the mussels and clams thoroughly with a stiff brush under cold running water to remove all traces of grit, then remove any barnacles or other debris attached to the shells and pull off and discard the “beard” from the mussels. Rinse the shellfish again and discard any with broken shells or that do not close as soon as they are tapped.
Pour a quarter of the wine into a deep sauté pan and bring to the boil over a medium heat. Add the clams and steam, covered, for a few minutes until the shells open, discarding any that remain closed. Remove from the heat, take the clams out of their shells and discard the shells. Leave to one side. Repeat with the mussels, leaving half in the shell. Strain the juices in the pan through a sieve into a jug. Meanwhile, put the fish stock in a pan and warm through.
Pour 2–3 tablespoons of the oil into a frying pan and briefly fry the prawns over a medium heat, turning frequently and basting with some of the wine, until bright pink. Peel the prawns, adding the shells and heads to the simmering fish stock. Leave to one side. Repeat with the langoustines, cooking them for 5 minutes until they turn orange-pink. Take them out of the pan and remove the claws and tails. Open out the tails and remove the flesh, discarding the black intestinal tract that runs along the back. Leave the flesh to one side. Add the heads and shells to the hot stock, cook for 5 minutes, then strain the stock into a pan and keep hot.
Heat the remaining oil in the sauté pan over a medium heat. Add the chilli, garlic and parsley and fry for 2 minutes, then add the rice. Stir until combined, then add another quarter of the wine. Cook for 2 minutes or until the alcohol has evaporated, stirring. Stir in the juices from the clams and mussels and cook until the rice absorbs the liquid. Add the rest of the wine and cook, adding the stock a ladleful at a time, over a medium-low heat for 10 minutes, stirring continuously. Add the cooked seafood, then continue to cook, adding the stock gradually and stirring until the rice is creamy but still firm in the centre, about 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and serve sprinkled with extra parsley.
As Beppino always loved to show me, both the female and the male courgette produce flowers and they are easy to distinguish. The male flower is at the end of a long stalk, which is attached to the stem of the plant, whereas the female flower is attached to the courgette itself. Male flowers are easier to use in this recipe, as you can hold the stalk while you dip the flower in the batter, but both types taste equally delicious. In either case, check the flowers on the inside for bugs before starting, and always remove the pistil, which tastes bitter.
Serves 4
Preparation time: about 30 minutes
Cooking time: about 15 minutes
600ml/21fl oz/scant 2½ cups sunflower oil
12–16 courgette flowers, cleaned and pistils removed
sea salt
Batter:
1 egg
2 tbsp plain white flour
160ml/5¼fl oz/ cup milk, or half milk and half water mixed together
Filling (optional):
4–5 tbsp ricotta or 75g/2½oz mozzarella cheese, cut into 3cm/1¼in cubes
6–8 anchovy fillets in oil, drained and cut into 5mm/¼in lengths
To make the batter, separate the egg into two bowls, then cover and chill the egg white. Beat together the egg yolk, flour and milk in a mixing bowl to make a smooth paste. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg white until stiff, then fold it into the egg yolk batter.
Heat the oil in a large, deep frying pan over a medium-high heat until a small cube of bread dropped into the oil sizzles instantly.
Meanwhile, if filling the flowers, tuck 1 teaspoon of the ricotta (or a piece of mozzarella) and a piece of anchovy into each courgette flower. Holding the flowers by their stalks or ends, carefully dip them into the batter to coat thoroughly. If the flowers have been stuffed, fold down the petals of each flower and use the batter to secure the filling in place.
Working in batches, if necessary, to avoid overcrowding the pan, carefully lower the batter-coated flowers into the hot oil. Fry for 3–4 minutes, turning frequently, until crisp and golden all over. Remove from the pan using a slotted spoon and drain well on kitchen paper. Serve the fried flowers sprinkled with a little salt.
Above, La Tambura in spring. Right, my brothers, Howard (Din) and Nick at the green gates of La Tambura.
