‘Meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that were charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that frequently has very little to do with the food itself.’
- Anthony Bourdain
Buona festa della liberazione! It’s Liberation Day in Italy, celebrating the relinquishing of Nazi occupation and Fascist rule 78 years ago, in 1945.
Now, rather than dedicate this late somewhat April newsletter to a juicy historical narrative (which will undoubtedly come anyways) I am dedicating it to something I believe celebrates freedom the most: sitting around the table eating ridiculously good food with those of different generations, cultures, and stories.
One special day captured this for me a couple of weeks ago. It was a meal at Nonna Pasqua’s.
In the land of Padova, lives an extraordinary woman - Nonna Pasqua. Yes, her name translates to ‘Grandma Easter.’ So humble, so kind, and an absolute beast of a cook. Every Tuesday in our office in Verona, we receive a torta from this incredible lady, delivered by her grandson and my honorary fratellino (little brother) Davide.
For months, I asked Davide when I could visit and spend a Sunday with his nonna. I cooked him enough pasta to push him to plan it (I’m half kidding.) And, he finally made it happen.
What I didn’t know was how nervous Nonna Pasqua was to meet us. We couldn’t believe it, because for us - this Sunday lunch was like an invitation to dine with the Pope. What was even crazier was that the Sunday was also orthodox Easter, which my dear friend Masha celebrates in Ukraine, making the day extra magical.
Every Nonna has a ragù
Ragù - I’m sure you’ve heard of it once or twice. Either you have a nonna in your life or you’ve seen that horrid jarred spaghetti sauce in a Safeway or Kroger in the States (which is not ragù at all, and is quite frightening to be honest, between the taste and the ingredients.) Apologies, I am not here to start a rude discourse on jarred American tomato sauce. I am here to sing an ode to ragù and make you jealous by how good Nonna Pasqua’s was!
Ragù is a giant umbrella term for meat sauce in Italy. It’s made in several ways (e.a. Neapolitan ragù with hunks of meat simmered for hours or ragù alla bolognese with ground beef and much less tomato.) Regardless, most grandmothers in Italy make their own version of ragù. Often, it’s a super simple meat sauce with a bit of tomato and extra virgin olive oil.
Nonna Pasqua spiced it up for us - first with her homemade tagliatelle. Then, she added a little mix of mushrooms. It was just divine. And, notice how gentle the sauce is - a perfect balance of tagliatelle and morsels of meat and mushrooms. What isn’t pictured - though - is loads of grana padano I was inclined to garnish it with. When in Padova, baby!
Always a Mystery Wine
Two words: vino sfuso. It’s a cornerstone of the Italian table, an ode to this country’s agrarian roots. The mystery wine - as I like to call it - usually comes from down the road. Vino sfuso essentially translates to bulk wine, but not the kind you buy in big bottles or boxes at the grocery store. Rather, it comes from a local producer or a friend who makes wine in their shed or garage (I’m not kidding.) They fill the wine right from the tank or barrel and hand it right over to you. Sometimes you know what you’re drinking and sometimes, it stays a mystery.
Like this wine - no clue what it was. Slight frizzante (fizzy,) definitely fermented in bottle sorta like Lambrusco, but not Lambrusco. All I know is that it tasted fantastic with all the meat that was to come. However, none of it was as fantastic as sitting right across from Nonna Pasqua herself.
There’s no Veneto without polenta
Ok, pasta may be ubiquitous across all of Italy. But, when it comes to carbs in the Veneto, tradition points to polenta and rice.
Polenta (or cornmeal) comes in quite a few varieties. You can have quite the fun with it - eating it soft (like grits for us Americans) or chill it to be fried or grilled to become a sexy crostini, maybe even with some gorgonzola cheese. Sinful.
The dish above is Davide’s favorite - perfectly grilled chicken thighs with hunks of grilled polenta. So simple, so easy.
Unpictured: giant trays of grilled skirt steak and puledro (which is a young horse. Before you get severely offended and/or disturbed, know this is a specialty in the Veneto. More on this later.)
A Reminder that Italians are masters at vegetables
I wish I had a dollar for every time someone told me - ‘I don’t know what they do to the zucchini in Italy, but it always tastes so much better than I can ever make at home.’
That’s just one indicator of how great vegetables can be across the Italian peninsula. Of course, veggies are seasonal (although Italy is a modern country that imports or grows green things in greenhouses year-round.) But, the art of simply grilling, marinating, and sauteeing greens in this country is something else.
Pasqua blessed us with roasted peppers, grilled zucchini, sauteed wild greens, caramelized onions (with the skirt steak - my gosh!), and - of course - roasted potatoes with rosemary.
Before we move to dessert, I have to drop the 1980s Italian spring love anthem:
Maledetta primavera = cursed Spring or - the more honest and emotional translation - this g*ddamn freakin’ Spring. Either way, this song is about love, heartbreak, and about letting go. So, tease your hair, put on some colorful tights, and grab your microphone hairbrush to belt out all the feels.
Crostata of Dreams
What’s that song? Crostata dreamin’ on such a winter’s day?
I’m not sure what divine intervention caused Nonna Pasqua to make the crostata that defined my childhood summers in southern Italy. But, boy was I lucky. Nutella crostata is my biggest weakness. And, I ate two slices of it as proof (after eating a few kilos easily of carne.)
The fresh-cut fruit was just the digestive we needed, and an excuse to stay longer at the table talking all things, mostly picking on Davide not being a morning person. Coffee was served, and everyone was smiling away. Pasqua’s nervousness had long disappeared, just like all the dishes she served that we ate one too many helpings of, with not a single regret.
We tried to play basketball after all this food, and I can say it wasn’t the best idea. Thankfully, we went to the beach after (Padova is just 40 min or so from the Adriatic) and laid out like little baby seals.
Now, that’s freedom to me.
Buona festa della liberazione e buon martedì!
xx,
Victoria
Such a beautifully evocative piece! I want a whole book of your writing! 🙏
Love this. Nonna Pasqua!