In those long hot summers at La Tambura, when I was about 10 years old, it was our custom to retire to the sitting room after dinner to play liar dice or charades, or just to chat. There were always so many people staying at the house that it buzzed; and there was invariably somebody with whom to talk or to persuade to join in the entertainment. Sometimes, a game of Sardines in the dense vegetation and dark shadows of the garden would be instigated by one of my brothers; or we would grab the bikes on ferociously hot nights and pedal very slowly down to the beach to skinny dip. We swam in the almost bath-temperature water, often shining with phosphorescence, under a shower of bright shooting stars, the mountains behind us decorated with apricot-coloured strings of streetlights, far up in the tiny, distant villages.
On other nights, I would long to join my friend Rossana and her brother at the cinema. It was not actually a cinema in the true sense of the word; the films were shown in the church of a boys-only colonia across our street and halfway down a little lane that led to the beach. It was called La Romanina and, like colonie everywhere in Italy, it existed to give children a summer holiday that their parents otherwise might not be able to afford. These institutions operated a bit like summer camps, and used to exist all over Italy, run either by religious orders or by large corporations, like Fiat or Olivetti, to offer the factory workers’ children the chance of a proper holiday. In 1822, the Hospital of Lucca launched the first organized seaside holiday for the street children of Viareggio. The idea caught on and by the middle of the 1800s there were about 50 such colonie in Tuscany and Emilia Romagna, and they became especially popular during the Fascist regime. These days, although they still exist, the actual term “colonia” is rarely used, as it still retains the link, in some peoples’ minds at least, with Mussolini.
The Colonia Romanina was run by fairly modern-thinking monks. On certain nights of the week, epic films of a religious nature, such as Liliana Cavani’s Life of St Francis of Assisi, were shown – although quite often the biblical connection was more tenuous, as it was in Ben Hur, Anthony and Cleopatra, or the marvellously titled spaghetti western: Between God, the Devil and a Winchester. The films, projected against the stucco wall of the little church within the Romanina, were for the entertainment of the boys holidaying at the camp, not for the general public. Our challenge was to get inside to watch the film without getting caught by one of the Brothers.
Rossana is my oldest friend, and Beppino’s daughter. Her mother, Andreina, was the undisputed leader of our little gang, which was made up of Rossana and her brother Antonio, several of their cousins, and me. On cinema nights, Andreina used to love the whole clandestine aspect of our outing, and seemed to want to go almost more than we did.
Andreina was a second mother to me. As our housekeeper, she ran the house with an iron rod, and she was one of those people who never seem to walk anywhere if they can run instead. As a child, I took her incredible, fizzing energy, and that ability to do so many things at once in the course of her day, completely for granted. (Only now I can understand and sympathize with how tired she must have got, and how justified were her complaints of an aching back and pounding head.) But on those nights when she had made up her mind that she would be going to the Romanina to watch a film after dinner, nothing would stop her: Andreina became like a whirlwind and completed her myriad tasks even more quickly than usual.
Although Andreina took care of a hundred different household jobs, it was as a cook that she was most inspirational. Beppino, as a former restaurant chef, had taught her how to make many dishes over the years, although she always got him to make those ones he was especially good at, thereby revealing a tiny, rare chink in the armour she wore as quintessential superwoman. I spent my childhood running in and out of Beppino and Andreina’s house, which was situated on the other side of the huge vegetable garden.
I always offered to help her whenever she needed it, learning all kinds of ways of carrying out household tasks, every one of them like her: perfect and very quick. There is a particular way of making a bed that I have learned from her where you fold a section of the bedspread back over itself before adding the pillows, before quickly flipping it back into place with one swift, neat and specific movement. My rapid shirt-ironing technique, where I always do the sleeves first, is one she taught me; and even the way I mop a floor by wrapping a cloth around the mop head and rinsing it after exactly 15 strokes is hers. I never realized that any of these methods were unusual until other people picked me up on them.
Me fishing near La Tambura.
Despite her insistence that Beppino should often be the one to cook, Andreina made delicious things to eat, and I can still taste them now if I think back. Her pizza – especially the one with the caramelized white onions (see page 193) – is, without question, one of the loveliest things I have ever tasted, even if sometimes she would cheat by leaping on her bicycle and racing off to the nearest pizzeria to buy raw dough because she had run out of time to let hers rise. I do not think anybody has ever made a simple plate of Tomato, Basil & Aubergine Spaghettini (see page 194) taste as sensational; but her own favourite was her Chickpea Flour Farinata (see page 196), a flat baked “pancake”, which she made whenever she craved it.
Andreina’s mother, Giulia, lived up the road; and she, as far as I was concerned, was the queen of summer afternoon cakes. Her repertoire consisted of only two types; but her moist, eggy, boozy Torta di Riso (Rice Cake, see page 197) is still the best teatime treat I have ever tasted. Whenever figs were on the menu, Rossana and I would have baskets thrust into our arms and Andreina would almost chase us out of the gate on our bicycles to go and pick the ripe green and black fruit from Giulia’s garden. The trees were treacherous to climb, as the trunk of a fig is so smooth and slippery, but once up in the branches, lying flat with our legs dangling – eating far more figs than were good for us and not picking nearly quickly enough – we would lose ourselves in the green canopy of leaves and only Giulia shouting up that we would be late would get us to come down again. Then we would wobble home, our baskets almost too heavy to balance on the handlebars, where the figs would be washed and laid on platters, surrounded by mounds of pink, paper-thin slices of prosciutto. As we hurried to prepare the food, Andreina would scold us for delaying things, especially if it was on an evening she had decided she wanted to go to Romanina.
If I wanted to go to the cinema, I first had to get permission from my dad. He would make me promise that I would be home by 10.30pm, without fail. Once that was agreed, we all had to plaster ourselves in mosquito repellent from head to foot while the washing up and clearing the table was done at record speed. Inevitably, we would turn up at the gate of the colonia after the film had begun, but this made it easier to creep in unnoticed.
We would squeeze through the gate and slip quietly round the back of a hedge, where we would perch to watch the film, which flickered against the stucco, the actors’ faces distorted by the rough-textured surface of the church wall. Behind the soundtrack, which bounced off the walls of all the surrounding buildings, we could hear the sound of the waves crashing on the beach in the distance. It was bliss! And the enjoyment of the actual film was only heightened by the fear of discovery.
There was only one problem: I was often late back. I was always so engrossed in the film – and the other thrilling drama in my own head where I would play out the possibility of our being caught – that I never thought to check the time. Only once we had sneaked out of the gate under cover of the closing titles would I discover that I had broken my father’s curfew, and a cold terror would descend on my high spirits. With my heart pounding, I would fly down the lane in my flip-flops to get to the corner of the street as fast as I could, where I would see him standing on the pavement outside the gates to La Tambura, looking at his watch. A quick buonanotte to Andreina and the rest of the gang, who would slip off to their own house before my father’s temper included them, and I would go and face him, ready for the ticking off and prepared for my punishment, which usually included not being allowed to go the movies again for a while. For a time, I would behave and stay home, but the lure of the Colonia Romanina always proved too much, and soon I would be working on new ways to get there.
Andreina’s pizza, with its thick layer of deliciously sweet white onions, was very special indeed. I also like to top it with some crumbled Gorgonzola.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 30 minutes, plus 30 minutes fermenting and 1 hour rising
Cooking time: 50 minutes
4 large white onions, sliced
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp semolina
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
thyme sprigs, to serve
Dough:
25g/1oz fresh yeast or 1½ tsp dried active yeast
400g/14oz/3¼ cups strong white bread flour, plus extra for dusting
½ tsp caster sugar
1 tsp sea salt
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Put the onions in a bowl, cover with cold water and leave to soak while you make the dough.
Mix together the yeast and 200ml/7fl oz/scant 1 cup warm water in a small bowl, then stir in 2 tablespoons of the flour and the sugar. Leave to stand in a warm place for 30 minutes, or until the mixture begins to fizz or bubble. Tip the remaining flour onto a work surface and make a well in the middle. Pour the yeast mixture, salt and oil into the well in the flour and mix together, adding more warm water if necessary, until it forms a soft but not sticky dough. Knead for 10 minutes until smooth and elastic, then transfer to a large floured bowl. Cover with cling film and leave to rise in a warm place for about 1 hour, or until doubled in size.
While the dough is rising, drain the onions and pat dry in a tea towel. Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a large frying pan. Add the onions and cook for 40 minutes over a very low heat, stirring frequently, until pale golden. Season with salt and pepper, then leave to one side.
Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6. Grease a large baking tray with 1 tablespoon of the oil, then sprinkle with the semolina. Turn the tray upside down and tap to remove any excess. When the dough has risen, knock it back on a floured work surface. Using wet hands, press the dough out into a thin round on the prepared baking tray. Scatter the onions over the top, and drizzle with the remaining oil. Bake for 10 minutes, or until the base is crisp. Serve hot, sprinkled with a few sprigs of thyme.
Of the many amazing pasta sauces that Beppino and Andreina would prepare for us at La Tambura, this is one of the most memorable and delicious. It is a really treasured recipe, and one that I have made many times over the years.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 25 minutes, plus 1 hour standing
Cooking time: 45 minutes
1 large aubergine, cubed
1kg/2lb 4oz ripe tomatoes, halved
1 large celery stick, quartered
1 large carrot, quartered
1 large onion, quartered
1 handful of basil sprigs
1 handful of parsley sprigs, including the stalks
2 tbsp olive oil or 30g/1oz unsalted butter
250ml/9fl oz/1 cup sunflower oil
450g/1lb spaghettini
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 tbsp freshly grated Parmesan cheese, plus extra shavings, to serve
Put the aubergine in a colander and sprinkle with salt. Cover with a plate and weight it down. Put the colander over a bowl and leave to stand for 1 hour to drain out the bitter juices.
Meanwhile, put the tomatoes, vegetables and the herbs in a saucepan over a low heat, cover and simmer very gently in their own juices until pulpy, about 30 minutes. Leave to cool, then push the mixture through a food mill or sieve into a clean, large saucepan. Alternatively, whizz together in a food processor, then push through a sieve into a large saucepan.
Put the pan over a medium heat and cook the tomato sauce for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until it is reduced and thickened. Remove from the heat and stir in the olive oil or butter, then season with salt and pepper. Cover and keep warm.
While the tomato sauce is cooking, rinse the aubergine well and pat dry with kitchen paper. Heat the sunflower oil in a large frying pan. Add the aubergine and fry for 10 minutes, or until browned and slightly caramelized. Drain well on kitchen paper and keep warm.
Meanwhile, bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Add the pasta and cook according to the packet instructions until al dente, then drain and return to the pan. Add the tomato sauce and toss together, then add the aubergine cubes and toss again. Stir the grated Parmesan into the pasta and serve topped with the Parmesan shavings.
This was something that Andreina used to buy for us at the pizzeria as a snack, after shopping at the market. It is a type of thick “pancake” with a fragrant and creamy interior and delicious crispy edges. We would eat it out of brown paper, scalding hot and flavoured with just a little black pepper. If she made it at home, Andreina would wrap it, piping hot, around big, very cold blobs of stracchino, a sour, stretchy curd cheese that I just adore. This recipe makes a sheet of farinata about 3cm/1¼in thick.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 15 minutes, plus 1 hour standing
Cooking time: 30 minutes
220g/7¾oz/2 cups chickpea flour (gram flour)
4 tablespoons olive oil
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Put the chickpea flour and 1.5l/52fl oz/6 cups water in a large bowl and mix together thoroughly. Season with salt and pepper, then add half the oil and leave to stand for 1 hour.
Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6 and grease a large, shallow baking tray (a copper baking tray is traditionally used) with the remaining oil. Pour in the batter in an even layer and bake for 30 minutes, or until crisp on the outside but still soft in the middle. Serve hot or cold, cut into wedges.
I have tried hard to recreate Giulia’s wonderful rice cake without her recipe, trying to recall from memory how she made it. Yellow and rich, and deliciously moist and sticky, it contains, among other things, a generous amount of brandy. Do not use a loose-bottomed cake tin for this recipe or the liquid will ooze out.
Serves 8
Preparation time: 30 minutes
Cooking time: about 1 hour
150g/5½oz/heaped 
cup short-grain or pudding rice
1.25l/44fl oz/5 cups milk
1 small strip of unwaxed lemon rind, plus finely grated zest of ½ unwaxed lemon
30g/1oz unsalted butter, softened
2 tbsp semolina
8 eggs
250g/8oz/heaped 1 cup caster sugar
3 tbsp brandy
Put the rice, about two-thirds of the milk and the strip of lemon rind in a saucepan and bring to the boil, then boil for 12 minutes until the rice is tender. Drain and discard the lemon rind. Leave the rice to cool slightly.
Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Grease a deep 25cm/10in cake tin generously with the butter, then sprinkle with the semolina to coat the bottom and sides. Turn the tin upside down and tap to remove any excess semolina.
Whisk the eggs in a mixing bowl with an electric hand whisk on a medium speed for about 15 minutes until thick and pale yellow. Add the sugar gradually, whisking continuously, then add the brandy. Stir in the lemon zest, rice and all the remaining milk.
Pour the mixture into the prepared tin and bake for 50 minutes, or until golden brown and a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean. Serve warm or cold.
Clockwise from top right, Dad, Eileen (my father’s secretary), Aunt Leonora, my cousin Michael and my brother Gerard.
