in thick.When I was a little girl, standing on a chair in the kitchen of my childhood home in Tuscany, I learned to make the most perfect risotto in the world. That memory is one of pure, intense happiness and, most importantly, it is the single moment that established my future occupation. In an instant, I became immersed in the ritual, rhythm, emotion and tradition of cooking, and I have remained caught up in it ever since.
The magical house that wove the spell, La Tambura, is named after the drum-shaped mountain that stands at some distance behind it. Outings to these mountains were a part of my parents’ epic picnics, which they loved to create for us when we were children. There was always a routine to be observed: first, a fire had to be built to cook on; then we would ignite the wood that we had all gathered together. When the fire was ready, we would cook steaks and any fish we might have caught, or toast bread, rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil, over the glowing embers. On our way home from our picnic, we would sometimes stop at a little village café to buy a snack: my favourite was panzanella, fragrant basil leaves wrapped in fluffy pizza dough and deep fried in piping-hot olive oil until perfectly crisp.
At home at La Tambura, we were almost self-sufficient. Thanks to Beppino’s hours of work in the garden, we had all the vegetables we needed; and we made bread, caught our own fish, kept chickens, rabbits and a pig, and made our own wine (there was even a still for grappa). I grew up not just understanding where food comes from, but also taking its cycles and natural logic absolutely for granted.
I thought tomatoes would always taste sun-warmed and sweet, that everybody picked their own green beans straight from the plant and that skinning and gutting a rabbit was a completely normal thing to do.
It was natural for us to talk about food, and the conversation flowed across the kitchen table, the aroma of freshly brewed espresso or simmering stock hanging between the words. I hungered to find out more, asking questions about every part of the culinary processes, about every ingredient and cooking method.
When my three big brothers came home for the holidays, I would spend hours in the kitchen helping to prepare their favourite meals. The boys, who were my childhood heroes, invariably arrived with a girlfriend in tow, and very often a crowd of friends. On some mornings, during the long hot summers at La Tambura, I would wake up, fling open the heavy green shutters, and find that at least three small tents had appeared in the garden overnight. I would know at once that there would be glamorous boys at the breakfast table who had taken up my brothers’ casual invitation to come and visit. Then I would tear off to the henhouse for freshly laid eggs. Knowing we had special guests, I would feed the chickens and rabbits with all sorts of extra goodies to fatten them up. I had a special, rather gruesome, treat for the chickens that involved cooking grasshoppers over an open fire on sticks until crispy. I would explain to anybody who asked that this was my way of giving the hens a nice hot meal.
Late at night, after one of their raucous drinking sessions, my brothers and their friends would make spaghetti with garlic and chilli, their favourite hangover cure. They would try very hard to be quiet as they stumbled about the kitchen at 3am, but I always heard them as my bedroom was directly above. I would come down in my nightie to “help” them and usually ended up eating a bowlful of my own. Their theory was that the pasta soaks up the alcohol; the chilli and garlic help to purify your blood; the olive oil lines your stomach to stop the nausea; and the stink from the garlic will keep everybody away as you recover from the mighty headache the next day!
With so many mouths to feed, the kitchen was kept busy at La Tambura. I spent many hours helping my mother and Andreina, and my passion for cooking grew steadily. By the time I was eight years old, I had inaugurated my first restaurant. It was in the garden of the house, under a thatched bamboo roof over a very large square sandpit. Beppino’s daughter Rossana and I ran this restaurant for family and friends. It had one table, one set of china and cutlery, and many variations on the mud or sand pie, with an extensive grass and leaf salad range. We served our dishes with a pure white cloth draped over one arm, wrote out neat bills, and were as deferential and polite as possible to all our customers (usually, my mother, taking on various roles).
When I was about 10, there came the big change from pretend to real food. My parents, with typical nonchalance, gave me several camping stoves, spare gas canisters and a large box of matches. From then on, every penny of my pocket money went on buying real ingredients, and the menu at Il Pino (named after Beppino, of course) improved dramatically, and soon both Rossana and I could cook better than any of our friends. We were soon confident with our signature dishes: pasta al pomodoro (pasta with tomato sauce), scaloppine al limone (veal escalopes with lemon) and Bistecca alla Pizzaiola (Steak Pizzaiola, see page 245). Almost overnight, these simple dishes replaced our sand pies and grass salads.
We also made pasta al burro e Parmigiano, otherwise known as pasta all’Inglese. We learned to mix copious amounts of unsalted butter and freshly grated Parmesan cheese into the pasta as soon as it was drained, realizing the importance of not adding the cheese until the butter had coated the hot pasta, so that it did not clump together. It is still my ultimate comfort food: a dish my family turns to in a crisis, or when they feel ill and need sustenance.
My passion for cooking never did diminish, even during my teenage years when hanging outside cafés with my friends began to fill my spare time. And when I started going out with my first boyfriend, I was still drawn to the kitchen – only this time it was his mother’s, where I learned how to cook Neapolitan food (and I have to confess that her ragu stayed in my memory far longer than he did).
After I left school, my parents enrolled me at the Cordon Bleu cookery school in Rome. It meant that they had me at home for a little longer, but they sensed that once the course was finished I would want to leave Italy to test my wings. With two diplomas tucked under my arm and a head full of recipes passed down from several generations of women in my family (not to mention Italia, Beppino and Andreina), I left Rome for the restaurant kitchens of London. My little garden restaurant at La Tambura felt a long way from me now – in distance and in time. I was making food for paying customers, and I was loving it. My career as a professional cook had begun...
Rossana and I used to make these skewers all the time in our sandpit-cum-restaurant, raiding Beppino’s herb patch for the biggest sage leaves going. Once, Beppino helped us to make them, cutting long, thick sticks of rosemary from the biggest bush, on to which we diligently threaded the chunks of chicken, sausages, bread and sage. If you can, use Italian sausages, but those made with wild boar work well, too. We would barbecue the skewers, but you can also cook them in the oven.
Serves 6
Preparation time: 25 minutes
Cooking time: 15–20 minutes
3 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, each cut into 6 pieces
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus extra for brushing
12 crusty, thick slices of bread, cut into 4cm/1½ in cubes
12 Italian pure pork or wild boar sausages, halved or cut to a similar size to the chicken pieces
24 large sage leaves
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
sautéed potatoes and green salad, to serve
Prepare the barbecue, if cooking the skewers in this way. Alternatively, preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6. Put the chicken pieces in a bowl and pour the oil over. Turn the chicken until it is coated in the oil, then season with salt and pepper.
Thread the bread cubes, chicken, sausages and sage onto 6 long metal skewers, starting with a piece of bread and alternating the meat with the bread and a sage leaf. Finish with a cube of bread to hold everything in place.
Brush the skewers lightly with oil and lay them on the grill rack of a barbecue to cook for 15–20 minutes, turning frequently and brushing with more oil, until cooked through. Alternatively, put the skewers, suspended across a roasting tin, in the oven and roast for 20 minutes, or until cooked through. Serve hot with sautéed potatoes and a green salad.
This is one of the first meat dishes I learned to make as a child, and I have loved it ever since. It was part of the repetoire of dishes that my best friend Rossana and I would make at our first “restaurant” called Il Pino at La Tambura. This is the most basic version of the recipe, but you could also add a few chopped olives and/or capers to the tomato sauce if you want to add some other flavours; it can also be made with chicken, pork or even fish.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 5 minutes
Cooking time: 10 minutes
4 minute steaks, trimmed
3 tbsp olive oil
3 garlic cloves, chopped
125ml/4fl oz/½ cup passata
1 heaped tsp dried oregano
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tbsp chopped parsley leaves and mashed potatoes, to serve
Put the steaks between two sheets of cling film or greaseproof paper and flatten evenly with a meat mallet or rolling pin until 1.5cm/in thick.
Heat the oil in a large, heavy-based frying pan over a medium heat. Add the garlic and fry for about 3 minutes, or until just beginning to colour. Stir in the passata and oregano and season with salt and pepper.
Put the steak into the sauce and cook for a further 4 minutes until just cooked through. Sprinkle the steaks with parsley and serve with mashed potatoes.
This is perhaps my favourite of all the celebration dishes my mother used to make for us. She adored mussels in a way that is hard to describe politely. This is a refined kind of soup, which my mother learned to make during her years in Brussels and that the boys and I subsequently enjoyed at La Tambura.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 30 minutes
Cooking time: 40 minutes
1.5kg/3lb 5oz mussels
600ml/21fl oz/scant 2½ cups dry white wine
1 large leek, trimmed, chopped and rinsed, green tops kept separate
60g/2¼oz unsalted butter
200g/7oz/scant 1 cup arborio rice
400ml/14fl oz/generous 1½ cups light fish stock, hot
tsp saffron powder
4 tbsp double cream
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
snipped chives, to serve
Scrub the mussels 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”. Rinse again and discard any with broken shells or that do not close as soon as they are tapped.
Pour the wine into a large, deep saucepan and bring to the boil over a medium heat. Add the green leek tops and mussels, cover with a tight lid and steam for 6–8 minutes, shaking the pan occasionally and stirring once, until the shells open. Discard any that remain closed.
Strain the mussels over a bowl, reserving the cooking liquid. Take most of the mussels out of their shells (leaving a few in their shells to serve) and leave to one side. Discard the shells. Strain the cooking liquid through a fine sieve into a clean saucepan and warm through over a medium heat.
Heat half the butter in a deep frying pan. Add the white part of the leeks and fry until just softened, but not coloured. Stir in the rice and cook for 4–5 minutes, then add the remaining butter and stir in the hot cooking liquid. Add three-quarters of the fish stock, cover and simmer gently for 10 minutes, then stir in the saffron powder and the remaining fish stock and cook for a further 10 minutes, or until the rice is tender and the soup is thick.
Stir in the mussels and heat through for 1 minute, then remove from the heat and stir in the cream. Season with salt and pepper and serve sprinkled with chives.
This remains one of my favourite soups, and is such a canny way of using up every single little morsel of this superb crustacean. It holds happy memories for me: a kitchen covered in pieces of shell and my brother, Nick, lighting the Cognac and singeing one eyebrow!
Serves 4
Preparation time: 1 hour 15 minutes
Cooking time: 45 minutes
3 cooked lobsters, about 680g/1lb 8oz each
4 tbsp vegetable oil
2 carrots, diced
3 celery sticks, diced
5 shallots, chopped
60g/2¼oz unsalted butter
2 tbsp plain white flour
4 tbsp Cognac
1l/35fl oz/4 cups fish stock
240ml/8fl oz/scant 1 cup dry white wine
1 tbsp chopped tarragon leaves, plus extra to serve
240ml/8fl oz/scant 1 cup double cream
400ml/14fl oz/generous 1½ cups passata
1 bouquet garni
a pinch of cayenne pepper
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Remove the meat from the lobster tails, claws and body, and any roe and tomalley (liver). Remove and discard the head sac and black intestinal tract from each lobster. Put the meat in a bowl and chill. Using a mallet or a hammer, break up the lobster shells into small pieces.
Heat the vegetable oil in a large saucepan over a medium heat. Add the carrots, celery and shallots and fry for 10 minutes until softened, then add the butter and the broken lobster shells and stir well. Stir in the flour and cook for 2–3 minutes, stirring occasionally. Tip the vegetable mixture into a bowl. Add the Cognac to the pan, and either carefully flame it or let it bubble until the alcohol evaporates. Scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan, then return the vegetable mixture, stir, and heat through over a medium-low heat for 5 minutes. Add the fish stock and heat gently for 5–10 minutes, stirring until thickened.
Add the wine, tarragon, cream, passata, bouquet garni and cayenne and simmer for about 5 minutes, then pass the soup through a fine sieve or chinois into a clean saucepan, pressing down with the back of a ladle to squeeze out every bit of flavour. Heat the soup over a low heat until just below boiling point, then add the lobster meat, tomalley and roe. Heat through until hot, season with salt and pepper and serve sprinkled with extra tarragon.
Yes, I know, this is a very simple recipe indeed, but I wanted to include it because it is so evocative of those mad, happy times spent with my big brothers at La Tambura, especially at 3am when they would often make it after too much of a good night! Timing is quite crucial in this recipe, as you don’t want the oil to overheat and burn the garlic or chillies, yet it must be very hot when it is tossed with the spaghetti.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 5 minutes
Cooking time: about 15 minutes
400g/14oz spaghetti
100ml/3½fl oz/generous 
cup extra virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, unpeeled and left whole, then lightly crushed
1–2 dried red chillies, very lightly crushed
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp chopped parsley leaves, to serve
Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Throw in the pasta and stir. Cover and return to the boil, then remove the lid and cook according to the packet instructions until al dente.
Meanwhile, heat the oil, garlic and chillies in a frying pan over a medium heat until the garlic browns slightly, but take care it doesn’t burn or the oil will become bitter. Remove the garlic and chillies using a slotted spoon, then discard. Keep the oil hot.
Drain the pasta and return to the pan, then pour the hot oil over and toss together. Season with pepper, stir in the parsley and serve.
This was the classic cake that my mum would always make in anticipation of my brothers’ return from boarding school during the holidays. As I recall, I seemed to make it more often than she did as I got older, although it never quite came out as well as when she made it for her sons.
Serves 8
Preparation time: 25 minutes, plus cooling
Cooking time: 50–55 minutes
115g/4oz unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing
115g/4oz plain dark chocolate, broken into small pieces
175g/6oz/heaped ¾ cup granulated or caster sugar
3 eggs, separated
350g/12oz/heaped 2¾ cups plain white flour
2 tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
5 tbsp milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
whipped cream, to serve
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4 and grease a 25cm/10in deep cake tin with butter. Put the chocolate in a heatproof bowl and rest it over a pan of gently simmering water, making sure the bottom of the bowl does not touch the water. Heat for 4–5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the chocolate has melted. Leave to cool.
Meanwhile, cream together the butter and sugar in a mixing bowl until light and fluffy. In a separate bowl, beat the egg yolks until pale and thick, then stir gently into the creamed butter and sugar. Stir in the cooled melted chocolate.
Sift together the flour, baking powder and salt in another bowl. Mix together the milk and vanilla extract in a jug. Add the dry ingredients and the milk alternately to the chocolate mixture, beating well after each addition.
Whisk the egg whites in a clean bowl until soft peaks form, then fold them carefully into the cake mixture.
Pour the mixture into the greased tin and bake for 45–50 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. Leave to cool in the tin for 5 minutes, then turn the cake out onto a wire rack to cool completely. Serve with a generous spoonful of cream.
Making desserts at our “restaurant” Il Pino was always tricky, as we did not have a fridge in the garden! This simple ricotta cream was something Rossana and I would make when we got bored with making fruit salad in various guises. We enjoyed beating the egg yolks until they were pale and creamy, and used a corner of the household fridge that we were allowed to chill our dessert.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 20 minutes, plus at least 2 hours chilling
3 egg yolks
3 tbsp ricotta cheese
2 tbsp caster sugar
3 tbsp amaretto liqueur
4 amaretti biscuits, roughly crumbled, plus extra to serve
100ml/3½fl oz/generous cup thick double cream
Beat the egg yolks and ricotta in a mixing bowl until very pale, then beat in the sugar. Add the liqueur and amaretti biscuits and gently stir together.
In a separate bowl, whip the cream until soft peaks form, then fold it into the ricotta mixture.
Spoon into small sundae dishes, espresso cups or small wine glasses and chill for at least 2 hours. Serve chilled with extra crumbled amaretti biscuits sprinkled over the top.
