neo-Italian

On walking past the corner of Grattan Street and Lygon Street, there was an overwhelming sense that something was amiss. Where were the white table cloths and wooden chairs, the neatly arrayed cutlery and crockery? What had happened to the Borsari Ristorante? A shiny and bright new electric sign told me what had happened – the Lygon classic, like so many traditional Italian restaurants before it, had succumbed to the pressures of 21st century Australian palates, and the globalisation and industrialisation of the Melbourne foodscape (Benny). It is out with the Borsari Ristorante and in with the neo-Italian Tono on Borsari.

Tono on Borsari still has some of the old features of the Borsari ristorante.

The corner establishment now boasts a new and modern outdoor eating environment -plastic wicker chairs squared around voguish granite tables, that, despite losing their pristine table cloths, are still laden with well-organised cutlery and crockery. The modern look flows over into the restaurant floor, which is neat, clean-edged and lit with warm white lighting. On looking at the menu attached to the restaurant’s outside wall, I noticed that each dish was approximately $5 more expensive than most of the restaurants that I had passed – $23 for a pizza! Thankfully, the restaurant was empty and so the owner offered us a 20% discount.

The interior of Tono on Borsari. Courtesy of Zomato.

I ordered a pizza with mozzarella, salami and capers, and was surprised at just how fast it came out. This speedy service has made me wonder, in hindsight, whether the remade establishment has also succumbed to the “speed [that] has been the obsession of the modern world for the past hundred years” (Jones et al)- what would Carlo Petrini would have to say? Regardless of how quickly it was made, the pizza with its doughy texture and fresh-baked smell, was delicious. This being said, the mixed taste of crusty warm dough, salty capers, spicy salami and gooey cheese was accompanied with no nostalgia; the pizza is not my madeleine (Belasco).

Carlo Petrini, the founder of the Slow Food movement. Courtesy of Grains de Vie.

The Macaron Showdown

Meet the contenders (not the chocolate)…

The contenders of the showdown at a food fair held at the University of Melbourne. Macarons d’Amiens and Parisian Macarons are on the outside and inside of the plate, respectively.

On the outside of the plate and bearing considerable more chunk than its competitor: the Macaron d’Amiens. Arguably, the closest thing to the original macaron, some suggest that this meringue-based confection was brought to France by Catherine Medici’s Italian pastry chefs – it wouldn’t be the first time that the French adopted and, as Caréme would presumably say, “bettered” something that was not actually invented in France (Parkhurst Ferguson) . Regardless of where it originated, the macaron has been permuted many a time within France such that multiple regional varieties now exist. One such regional variety is the Macaron d’Amiens which occupies a special place in the history of the Picardy region of France, and, in particular, the city of Amiens.

 

A map highlighting the Picardy region of France. Courtesy of Wikipedia.

A map showing the location of Amiens within the Picardy region of France. Courtesy of Glogster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I chose to make this dish because it beautifully encapsulates the regionalism that exists in France, whilst also revealing the “dual gastronomic heritage of France” (Poulain) through its position as the progenitor of one of France’s culinary crown jewels: the very haute Parisian Macaroon – the showdown’s second contender.

Me mixing the almond meal mixture used to make Macarons d’Amiens.

Whilst both macarons have almond meal and egg whites as base ingredients, their other ingredients and methods of preparation are quite distinct. The Macaron d’Amiens was by far the easier baked good to make, with the method involving mixing the ingredients together, making a long log of dough, cutting this log into 2.5 cm medallions and then baking these medallions in the oven. The joy of biting into the honey flavoured and slightly gooey centre of the baked medallions was balanced by the frustration of my failed, flat and cracked Parisian Macarons, which have an extremely finicky recipe. Nonetheless, at the end of a food fair held at the University of Melbourne I found myself holding an empty plate – maybe my concentric presentation of the macarons was just too hypnotising to ignore.

Me furnishing a grin after being left with an empty plate at the conclusion of a food fair held at the University of Melbourne.

Panadas – curing peasant Italy’s headaches

Moving away from the Spanish and French seafood of the last two blog posts, we come to an Italian regional classic that has stood the test of history; more on this later. Panadas originate from Sardinia (Italian – Sardegna), an autonomous island and region off the west coast of the Italian peninsula. Exactly where within Sardinia the dish was invented is, however, disputed, with the municipalities of Assemini, on the southern coast, and Oschiri, in the northern hinterland, both offering up stories of origin for the dish.

A map of Sardinia with Assemini and Oschiri starred in the south and north respectively. Image courtesy of Google Maps.

The panada is an appetiser dish composed of fried pastry folded around a nucleus of filling. The ingredients used for the filling vary greatly, and this is where the stories of origin come to be significant. Assemini is situated near a lake filled with eels, and so traditionally the Asseminesi panada has been filled with eel meat whereas, the Oschiresi panada has traditionally been filled with lamb or cheese, which reflects the history of sheep-herding in the municipality. Irrespective of which municipality founded the dish, the varied fillings reveal characteristics of Sardinia and, thus, speak to its regional identity within Italy.

 

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Panadas have stood the test of history, in that their production was largely unaffected by Mussolini’s policies of alimentary sovereignty and total self-sufficiency (Helstosky). Whilst the dish would not have received as much Fascist support as similar rice dishes and bread (Helstosky and Dickie), the dish is austere and simple, and so Mussolini would have had little reason to suppress its production and consumption. The austere nature of panadas tells the story of a largely peasant Italy trying to survive the impositions of Fascist food restrictions.

The green writing reads “rice gives strength and health” and and lower encourages people to “eat rice”. This was one of the posters that the Fascist government used to encourage self-sufficiency through the consumption of rice. Image courtesy of Pinterest.

The Sardinian panada is almost completely endemic to the region, and so is rarely found plated up in other parts of the world. This being said, other countries do have their own ‘versions’ of the panada – in Indonesia it is bread snack filled with spicy tuna.

An Indonesian panada. Courtesy of Wikipedia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something Frenchy

Also called the Bourride Sètoise, this French fish speciality originates from the the Southern Town of Sète in the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France. ‘Baudroie’ is the Provencal word for monkfish and points to the influence that Provence Alpes Cote d’Azur culinary culture has had on the dish, and explains partly why it is often compared to the Provence Bouillabaisse. ‘Bourride’ is the name for a fish and aioli stew and describes in part what the dish is composed of: fresh monkfish from the region casseroled with aioli and an assortment of vegetables.

 

A map of France with the Languedoc-Rousillon region highlighted. Courtesy of Wikipedia

A map showing the position of Sète within the Languedoc-Rousillon region of France. Image courtesy of Crème de Languedoc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This use of fish endemic to the region and of garrigue herbs like thyme, rosemary, bay and sorrel gives the dish a flavour very characteristic of and unique to the region, and helps to distinguish it from the more famous and fancy Provence Bouillabaisse. Just as Shannon Bennett states that a Provence Bouillabaisse is never quite the same outside of Provence( 28 Days in Provence), so too is a Bourride de Baudroie quite literally inextricable from the Languedoc-Roussillon region – after all, one cannot procure fresh Laguedoc-Roussillon monkfish outside of Languedoc-Roussillon.

The more fancy and famous Provence Bouillabaisse. Courtesy of Hotty Toddy.

By prescribing local ingredients for the dish and assigning it a name that identifies it as coming from the region, the creators of the dish exhibited protectionism that seems to have been successful in ensuring that the dish has not been subsumed by the homogenisations of French culture that took place during the French Revolution (Poulain and Davis) and the global spread of French cuisine (DeSoucey). Whilst one might find a bastardised form of a Provence Bouillabaisse on plates in Melbourne, Europe and the rest of the world, the same cannot be said for the Bourride de Badroie.

The last laugh is that the fish dish is actually a simpler dish than its Spanish analogue – the Suquet de Peix. Marie-Antione Carême would have surely quipped “More complex, but not better” (Parkhurst Ferguson).

Seafood, Spain and the Suquet de Peix

A smorgasbord of ingredients that can include prawns, white fish fillets, mussels, almonds, garlic, sherry, extra virgin olive oil, parsley, saffron, sugar, fish stock and the more, come together to make this Catalonian culinary concoction. The dish has its origins in the economy of fishermen from the Costa Brava, who found themselves with unsellable offal and fish from their catches, and so decided to make a seafood stew out of the leftovers.

A map indicating the position of the Costa Brava within Catalonia and Spain. Courtesy of Villa Holiday Spain.

Whilst Suquet de Peix is, in its more authentic forms, still served in the cast iron pots and pans (see images above and below) that it once was served in, the dish has evolved so as to mirror the evolution of the Catalonian gastronomic scene. No longer a ‘leftover stew’, the dish is now comprised of purposed and premium ingredients that speak to the move away from the “modest cuisine” that Josep Pla said once characterised Catalonia (Pujol). This change traces the rise of Catalonian gastronomic superstars like Ferran Adrià and Santi Santamaria, who took the homely and utile food of Catalonia and transformed it into the modern and purportedly authentic gastronomic delights that fill the tables of Catalonia’s premier restaurants. Suquet de Peix, is, thus, a dish whose historical development maps the transformation of Catalonia’s regional identity  from one that was home focussed and self-subsistent to one that is cosmopolitan, modern and which has a global culinary footprint (Pujol).

Ferran Andria. Courtesy of the Guardian.

Outside of Catalonia and Spain, one might expect to find the dish served in deep bowls rather than the authentic cast iron pots used within the region, however, considering the haphazard and largely unstructured nature of a stew, the organisation of the ingredients would be largely similar.

 

Another version of the Suquet de Peix. Courtesy of Flickr.

Fancy making yourself a Catalonian culinary artefact? Lauren Aloise’s recipe looks delightful.