Marco_Polo

What that sounds just sensational, Kay-Four-Three. I will definitely try this. I can just imagine that glorious, meaty, spicy perfume! We cook oxtail quite a lot here in England. Yes, there is quite a lot of bone to meat, but the large pieces are very meaty, and the best thing about oxtail is slow cooking until the meat is virtually falling off the bones, and then taking up a piece and sucking the meat and bones to get it all off. The bones go very sticky and gelatinous. It's real winter comfort food. At this time of year, we love to do the vigneron's favourite method, slow braising oxtail with bunches of wine grapes added to the pot. The sweetness from the grapes mixes with the sticky gooiness of the meat in a combo that is simply incredible. The key of course is slow cooking, say at 120 degrees C for upwards of 4-6 hours.

Sorry, vinobiondo, but this is snapshot generalisation is not necessarily what happened throughout Barolo. My guess is that you were talking to Barbaresco winemakers! I was in Barolo at the end of September and many were picking Nebbiolo already, which is actually quite early (last year the harvest went on until the first week of November). Certainly in both zones there will be those who left it too late, but the Barolo vintage is by no means going to be a wash out. On the other hand, no one is saying that it will be an exceptional year, either. Too much rain in the summer, after a very promising start. As for dining, we enjoyed a truly exceptional and memorable meal at Cesare's L'Angolo del Paradiso - as we entered through the kitchen that is really no bigger than a domestic kitchen, the kid was roasting on the spit over a wood fire. We had the most relaxed and slendid meal and it is a wonderful place, void of all the trappings that high end establishments inevitably feel they must provide. Here, the food is everything and it really is as if Cesare is simply cooking for you personally (well, in fact he was, as we virtually took over the whole place - it is very intimate!). Marc

In Piedmont's Le Langhe, agnolotti al plin are a favourite pasta, small, little sacks of stuffed pasta about the size of a dime. The filling is usually veal, sometimes vegetables and cheese. My winemaker friend Mario Fontana's mother Elda made these for us on a recent visit to Barolo - the 'al plin' indicates that the stuffed pasta (they really are one of the smallest of all ravioli type paste - almost more like tortellini in size) are pinched by hand. I'll ask Mario if his mother will share the recipe - and, most importantly, the method. Incidentally, they can be served con burro e formaggio or in brodo. We had them simply bathed in butter, and over this we spooned finely chopped black summer truffles which added a wonderful earthy flavour as well as a toothsome crunch.

Bravo, Kristin, beautiful mandu (and a beautiful pic of them, too)! I could almost taste them. When I used to return home from college, my grandmother would make mandu for me to eat, served always in a rich chicken broth (manduguk). But I liked them even better leftover, that is, first poached in broth then simply pan-fried lightly (the little dumplings just need to go brown a little) and served with cho jang (vinegar dipping sauce). I could eat a hundred! As for homecooked Korean favourites, apart from the obvious (bulgogi of course, which I have enjoyed at least once a week throughout my life and see no reason why this will ever stop), two very simple homecooked dishes to me represent the soul of Korean home cooking, at least as I grew up eating it. Tubu tchigae is a simple hot pot of tofu made with strips of pork, zucchini and lots of fresh chilies, flavoured with kochujang (of course!). While we usually had kimchi and various panchan at hand for meals, I don't these days. So this one-pot meal, together with a big pot of proper sticky Korean rice, is simply a delicious desert island meal in itself that gives the greatest comfort and satisfaction! I'm imagining eating it right now, seated on a stool at my mother's butcher block kitchen counter in Cambridge, MA (how I miss that kitchen!). I eat with a long handled metal Korean spoon - taking a spoon of piping hot, steaming rice, dipping it into the chili-tinted broth, then a mouthful of still-firm tofu, a bite of pork, a crunch of chili... Another iconic homecooked Korean food that it is equally simple is changjorim - soy-braised Korean 'hot meat'. In fact, I made a pot a couple of nights ago with a beautiful piece of top rib on the bone. I usually choose shin of beef, however, for this tough but economical cut has just the right amount of gelatinous, connective tissue to result in a tasty, fiery hot jelly. To make, simply place the meat (I cook it in one piece) in a big cast iron pot, add soy sauce (Kikkoman of course, no other will do), water, a few slices of ginger and garlic, some sesame oil and toasted sesame seeds, and a handful of whole fresh red chilies, as many as you dare. I like our Korean 'hot meat' really hot! Slowly braise for upwards of hours until the meat is falling apart. De-fat, shred the meat into the soy-and-chili cooking liquid, place in the fridge and allow to go cold and set to a jelly. Serve, again with the de rigueur pot of piping hot, slightly sticky steamed white rice together with kimchi or simply a crispy cucumber salad (thinly sliced and salted cukes in vinegar and sugar). The meat should be very hot from the chilies and is eaten almost more as a condiment to flavour the bland but delicious rice - and the contrast between the fridge-cold 'hot meat' and the piping hot steamed rice is, well, the spice of life! Marc

Where did you find it?

Hi Erica In addition to mostarda di frutta di Cremona, which with its pieces of candied fruit in a clear, mustardy syrup is, of course, de rigueur with bollito misto, zampone and other such traditional dishes, you could try making the less well known mostarda di frutta from Mantova. This version, I recall, is made primarily from apples stewed down in a mustard syrup (I would guess you could use powdered mustard if mustard oil or essence is not available) flavoured with spices such as nutmeg. I remember it sold not in manufactured jars but from big tubs, to scoop out into smaller tubs, purchased from the Alimentari. This apple mustard is used in the filling for the Mantovan speciality tortelli di zucca, pumpkin filled tortelli, that is so delicious especially at this time of year. It would be excellent, too, I'm sure, with grilled Gloucester Old Spot! And I think it might be easier to have a pop at recreating than the candied version from Cremona. MP

Hi Dave, To keep an edge on our knives, I use a small knife sharpener that consists of two criss-crossing steels - I'm sure you know what I mean - you simply insert the blade in the gap and draw the knife across. It doesn't really sharpen the knife, just restores the edge. About twice a year or so, I have all our knives resharpened professionally by an itinerant knife sharpener who comes to our small town, sets up by the town quay, and with a grindstone mounted in the back of his mini-van, sets up for an hour or two, sharpening the chef's knives from the surrounding restaurants and pubs. I think he charges a pound (UK) per knife, and it's really worth it as the knives then stay sharp for months. Herea little story about it. MP

Hi Moby, it sounds sensational, as always. How about making a concentrated langoustine bisque by roasting the shells with vegetables, seasonings etc, then cooking down. Use this bisque with cream/butter etc to make a saffron foam. The taste is classic, of course, and it would look - as well as taste - vivid and bright with the langoustine tortellini. You could always add a little saffron to your pasta - but then, that might be gilding gold. Marc PS The langoustines down this way are sensational at the moment. Here's a pot of the little critters that Kim photographed last week.

Oh boy, was this good, hzrt8w. Thanks so much for sharing! My method was a bit improvissamento. I cut my pork strips perhaps a tad on the thick side, dusted with white pepper and salt, a bit of cornflour, and a splash of dry oloroso, left to marinade for an hour or so. Meanwhile, made up the sugar, honey, water and garlic mix, plus lots of extra chopped garlic. I stir-fried rather than shallow fried in a wok over high heat, but as my pieces were fairly thick and I had too much meat to cook in a flash, I first browned, then added the chopped garlic plus a little broth, then covered and steam/braised for around ten minutes or so. Then I deglazed with a splash of wine vinegar, scraped the bits off the bottom of the pan, and added the sugar and honey mixture, boiled down until it was a glossy sauce. Kids loved it, wife loved it, I loved it. Meant to take a picture but it disappeared too fast. I love your simple but inspirational recipes for home cooking which allow for much personal interpretation. Thanks again! MP

Rebel, your posts are often beautifully designed to provoke and evoke passions in wine lovers. There is no sphere of winemaking that allows for such magnificent variety and ingenuity as in the production of so-called dessert wines. I have a personal fascination for Italian passiti wines in all their glorious diversity. The process of laying grapes out to dry and shrivel for the period of the appassimento then producing concentrated sweet wines from the sugar-rich grape juice goes back to antiquity and is just as relevant today for the lover of sweet wines. Traditional Vin Santo (it is impossible to make the real thing on a commercial scale) is a truly magnificent expression of the grape. After the careful period of appassimento, the wines, fermented on a sludgy madre in small caratelli that are sealed completely, are left in the attic vinsanteria for upwards of years, suffering the freezing cold of winter and the hellish heat of summer. The wine that eventually emerges from this brutal sojourn, amber in colour, with concentrated notes of caramel, butter, orange and world of other flavours and scents, is most definitely far too good to dip crunchy cantuccini biscuits in! Avignonesi's rare Occhio di Pernice (from Prugnolo Gentile black grapes) is a benchmark, but I've also enjoyed many truly magnificent handmade wines from small, little known properties in Carmignano and Chianti Classico that are simply produced in such tiny quantity that they can never be commercialised. Recioto della Valpolicella has already been mentioned, and other great Italian passiti wines include versions made from Nosiolo in Trentino, Greco (di Bianco) in Calabria, Sciacchetrà in the Cinqueterre, Moscato in Piedmont and Zibibbo (a variant of Moscato) from Pantelleria, a tiny volcanic island off the coast of North Africa (in this case the grapes are dried in the direct blast furnace of heat of the near African sun). Such raisiny, rich, complex wines are most definitely some of the best of all wines, I think, for actually accompanying a range of desserts. They are concentrated and complex enough to cut through the sweetness of the pudding and can usually more than hold their own. On the other hand, as has been suggested, the finest are a veritable dessert in themselves, and are most definitely best enjoyed simply savoured on their own. MP

Priceless, Moby.

Brad, I can certainly understand and respect your position. Your deep love and understanding of wine certainly comes through in your posts and so does your responsibility as a father. For ourselves, our son accompanied us on all our book research trips from when he was a baby. That inevitably has meant spending a lot of time in the wine country. When my wife was pregnant, we were researching and photographing 'The Wine Roads of France'; when our son was 2 we spent a year in Italy touring vineyards to write and photograph 'The Wine Roads of Italy'; and when he was 3 we did the same in Spain for that companion volume. In the Italy book, there is a photograph of him standing next to a bottle of Barolo that is almost as big as him. When he was 3, I recall a most splendid meal in the dining room overlooking the cellars of Marques de Murrieta at which they laid a place for him, served him every course, and offered him a tiny taste of every wine that we ourselves enjoyed. I think he spent a good deal of the meal drawing pictures in their splendid leather-bound visitors book, but I remember he took a tiny sip of some if not all of the wines all the same. Our son will be 18 in a few weeks time. He has enjoyed a half glass or so of wine with our meals for the last few years now. In Britain the legal drinking age is 18, so he will soon be able to go into a pub to order alcohol. But he knows that drink - and that wine in particular - in this house is simply a wonderful daily accompaniment to food, and I very much doubt if he will abuse it. I am confident that has not been harmed in any way by being introduced to wine from an early age. That summer when my wife was pregnant before he was born, we tasted from the cask Chateau Margaux 1986. The wine was almost as black as ink, and so concentrated that it was impenetrable. After our son was born, we purchased a case of this wine for him. He has known all his life about 'his Margaux', which has been in storage all this time. Next month, I'll have it delivered. We will enjoy a bottle on his birthday, and leave the rest for him to mark the most special moments of his life. Our daughter, born five years later, has her own store of very good Brunello di Montalcino. Wine is special. Wine brings joy to life. That is what I hope they have both learned. MP

We've simply packed the stewed peppers into sterile jars then sealed with olive oil and kept in the refrigerator. But believe me they don't last long - we're talking days and weeks here at most, not months. If I were looking to be ultra-safe or to keep in a pantry until deepest winter (when, at the lowest point of the year - ie February- it would be wonderful to pull out a jar and remember the bounty of September), then I'd do as you say and seal the jars properly in a hot water bath. Incidentally, we just returned from a weekend in the wine hills of Barolo. For lunch last Sunday at a winemaker friend's house, we enjoyed the most magnificent peppers - pepperoni di Cuneo - massive, dense, heavy red and yellow peppers purchased in the Saturday market of Alba. These had first been roasted over a wood fire and peeled, then slowly stewed. The strips were served dressed with pungent bagna cauda - made from slowing stewing salted anchovies with lashings of garlic and olive oil to make a dense and flavourful paste (the secret here, says Mario's mother, is first to blanch the garlic in vinegar to make it less harsh). Bagna cauda also makes a great dip for fresh strips of pepper and other crunchy vegetables such as fennel, carrots, celery and cardi (a deliciously bitter edible thistle). MP

This topic is bringing up some fascinating cross-cultural connections. While stuffed cabbage as most of us are discussing most likely would seem to have Middle European connections and roots, there seems to be something of a universal appeal to the dish. Perhaps because cabbage is something of a world staple vegetable and the leaves naturally lend themselves to stuffing? I wonder, did my Korean grandmother, transplanted to Hawaii, and later my mother to the West Coast, enjoy making this dish because stuffing cabbage is such an integral part of Korean culture and food? Making winter kim chi, of course, involves the salting of cabbage followed by the elaborate interleaving of a pungent mix of garlic, ginger, chili, fermented fish, etc. That is not to say that this fiery national dish is anything remotely similar to stuffed cabbage! However, it is reasonable to assume that a penchant for cabbage - and for fermented cabbage - plus a liking for stuffing meats and rice in leaves (sesame, lettuce etc) would make the concept of stuffed cabbage a very appealing Western meal adaptation for transplanted Koreans. My grandmother used to delight in adapting such dishes for 'haoles' - she made a mean Irish stew that was really more like a soy-braised beef but with carrots and potatoes, for example. My guess is that this is why stuffed cabbage became part of our family repertoire, indeed one of our all-time favourite dishes. Boy am I looking forward to making this again (I haven't eaten it in years, in fact since my mother died), and yes, using Campbells soup for the sauce. MP

Hi Smithy, A few years ago we found ourselves with a glut of red peppers. Here's what we did: from Notes from a Devon Kitchen September 1999 Best of all, we now discover at Highfield that we're in the midst of a most fortunate glut of red peppers, sun-ripened, sweet and densely flavoured, not insipidly crunchy like the picture-perfect Dutch red peppers found in most supermarkets, but more like the knobbly red peppers you get at this time of year in the South of France, Italy or Spain. Ian is worried that he will not be able to sell them all, as the farm shop is the main outlet for all that he grows. Lynda suggests that he roasts them, then sells the roasted peppers in the shop, a way of adding value without excessive extra labour to seasonal produce that is plentiful. It gives me an idea. I am reminded of autumn in the Rioja, around or perhaps just after the vendímia. Once many years ago when we were touring bodegas around Haro, we came across cellar workers in blue overalls, standing around fires made from old oak barrel staves during their breaks. It was indeed surprisingly cold, the fires a welcome means of keeping warm. But their main purpose was to enable the workers in their spare time to roast immense mounds of red peppers over a wood fire. The peppers were subsequently peeled by hand, then usually bottled, and these homemade conserves would be tucked away for use throughout the winter. Sometimes if you were lucky you could find them in the food shops of Haro: you could always tell the handmade conserves as there would still be bits of charred black pepper skin on the strips packed into the jars, the hallmark of the real as opposed to the industrially produced version. And so right now I'm off to Highfield to purchase peppers, lots and lots and lots of them. The weather looks set to hold this afternoon, so I'll stoke up a charcoal fire in the garden, and we'll stand around this evening roasting peppers and drinking tumblers of young Rioja wine, enjoying the last of the summer sun as it goes down over the Haldon Hills to the west. Of course, once roasted, the real work starts, but no doubt we'll enlist the slave labour of our children Guy and Bella and of any other friends who happen innocently to drop by: the char-blackened peppers will go into plastics bags to facilitate peeling, then we'll strip off the skins by hand (there is no other way and little fingers are often the most nimble), seed the peppers, cut them into strips, then add to a large cooking pot together with copious amounts of olive oil and whole cloves of garlic. Thus stewed, we'll pack them into sterile jars and stash them away for the winter, pulling them out to enjoy in evenings around the fire together with roasted shoulders of lamb and not young but aged Reserva and Gran Reserva wines from favourite traditional producers like La Rioja Alta and R. Lopéz de Heredia. As day into night, so autumn into winter, but somehow the thought of it right now does not seem all that bad. Enjoy!

I will look forward to this with the greatest pleasure!

Reading this thread brings back memories of my mother's stuffed cabbage. What is amazing is how similar her version is to those described above. Why would my mother, a second-generation Korean-American born and raised in Honolulu, make stuffed cabbage with raisins and, yes, Cambell's tomato soup for the sauce? Surely proof that this dish transcends national origins and has become wholly and utterly American. Or is it American of a certain time and place? I've tried to recreate my mother's version many times, but, well, it just ain't never quite the same. After my mother died, I wrote a little essay about food and memory. Stuffed cabbage is certainly one of those iconic food memories that links me to my past. "...If mom had reason to deny her Korean roots (as a child she was sent to Korea to live, unhappily, with relatives while her mother — my grandmother — pursued a career and active social life in Honolulu), her antipathy did not extend to food. As naturally as other children enjoyed hamburgers and hot dogs, we feasted regularly on such favourites as Korean barbecue, marinaded in soy sauce, garlic, ginger and sesame then flame broiled (only later did I learn that this is bulgogi, one of the great mainstays of Korean cuisine), mountains of steamed white rice, crunchy cucumber salad spiked liberally with red chillies, and spinach dressed in soy sauce and vinegar. This is still probably my all-time favourite meal, one which we’ve now passed down to our children, who have grown to love it too, eating the foods on the whole ignorant of the country from which they come, yet somehow absorbing through their tastebuds something of the culture and heritage that is undoubtedly part of their genetic makeup. "I think back on family meals and family favourites. Mom’s stuffed cabbage was legendary. I can so vividly picture her mixing the ground pork, raisins, bread soaked in milk, and seasonings; blanching the cabbage until limp; stuffing the meat into the wilted cabbage leaves with her hands; folding the bundles up neatly and securing them with wooden toothpicks. I remember, too, that the ‘sauce’ this was cooked in was always a can of Campbell’s condensed tomato soup. Today, we could hardly bring ourselves to cook with Campbell’s condensed tomato soup, yet how delicious, how utterly delicious mom’s result always was! It is a taste that will live forever in my mind, yet one that is most probably impossible to recreate (shall I try?)." I was tickled to see that Jaymes' recipe (and I would swear by any recipe that Jaymes gives) includes gingersnaps. My mother's gingersnap cookies were another iconic food of childhood, always soft and chewy, sprinkled with crunchy plain white sugar. Oh we can make ginger cookies all right, crunchy and hard. But it's the elusive consistency of my mother's that is impossible to recreate. I've tried and tried to make these and they never quite work, always too hard, or sweet or not gingery enough. Now Jaymes has challenged me: first to recreate my mother's gingersnaps, then to add them to Russian stuffed cabbage! Jaymes, any tips on making gingersnaps?!

Of course culatello or some rustic country equivalent, cured in the humid vapours of the Po, must have saturated the very soul of Verdi since the great man was born in nearby Róncole Verdi. And Busseto, where he studied, is in the heart of culatello country. La donna è mobile indeed! Perfect, athinaeos, your beautiful vision (the platters of freshly sliced meats, the bottles of rustic, unpredictably foaming wines served by waiters in wigs and period livery to the sounds of the philharmonia) conjures up the taste of culatello precisely. I don't quite know how you are going to pull off this idyllic evocation, but if you somehow manage it, I will seek to find a way to join you! MP

Never cooked 'em myself. But when we spent some months travelling through Spain on a research trip, we used to often encounter pig's ears as tapas in bars throughout the country. Actually they must have been piglet's ears, come to think of it, as they were usually pretty small, either fried and crispy, or boiled or braised. Very chewy and quite delicious, actually, if you like that gelatinous texture sort of thing. Good washed down with a chipped tumbler (or two or three) of deeply coloured vino tinto (but what isn't?). My son was two years old at the time, and a boy of the world, curious to try anything. I used to tell him they were boys ears and he delighted in this.

And a brilliant report it is, too, Alberto. Bravissimo. Fantastic pictures of the culatelli at various stages of preparation and maturation and great, detailed description. What I remember as most striking about genuine culatello (and there's lots of fake) is that the curing and the damp, humid conditions of the pianura padana not only result in intense flavour and creamy sweetness, but also, foremost, in incredibly profound, deep, soul-filling, hauntingly delcious aromas. O for a plate of culatello di Zibello. MP

I would suggest a wine from the nearby Colli Piacentini, an important but not that well known wine area contiguous to Lombardia' Oltrepò Pavese. Perhaps a young Gutturnio, produced from a blend of Bonarda and Barbera, light raspberry fruit and a vivacious frizzante foam. Raspingly dry, slightly sparkling reds such as this are superb with foods that are rich in fat and flavour (witness how real Lambrusco, such as Grassparossa di Castelvetro, rarely encountered outside of its zone of production, goes so outstandingly well with the rich foods of Romagna). MP

Hi athinaeos, Genuine culatello di Zibello is mysterious and wonderful, a beautiful nugget of meat cut from the rump of prime, specially bred pigs rubbed in a concia of salt, spices and wine, then skillfully tied into a pear-shaped pig's bladder and hung up to age slowly. Where prosciutto di Parma gains its inimitable sweetness through air curing in the lofty, well-ventilated ham lofts in the hills mainly to the south of Parma, culatello di Zibello by contrast festers in the humid, foggy lowlands of the Bassa Parmense, in or around towns such as Zibello, Polesine Parmense and Roccabianca. It's the humid microclimate that gives flavour and character to genuine culatello di Zibello and the real thing can only be produced on a small, artisan scale, not industrially. Therefore, you are correct: you must come to the source to discover it. Two impeccable addresses to visit: Trattoria Colombo Via Mogadiscio 119 Santa Franca 43010 Polesine Parmense PR tel 0524098114 Cavaliere Colombo Ramelli is one of the master producers of culatello di Zibello and you can sample it in the family trattoria. Trattoria La Buca Via Ghizzi, 6 43010 Zibello PR tel 0524 99214 Another source for the real thing.

Eduardo's instructions are perfect, he's right, the smell from the grill is irresistable. I've been visiting the Algarve for decades and frango na churassco - or frango com piri piri - is always one of the highlights. Here's a little story that also includes my recipe (which I've been working to perfect for many years, deceptively simple though it is). MP

Petite Maison web site. In Shillingford St George, don't miss a visit to the Boyce's Fruit Farm (and Manstree Vineyard). Sensational pick-your-own soft fruits and some very good English wines. M

Hi Erica Michael Caines at the Royal Clarence, Exeter, is very child friendly. Our children are a somewhat older but they've been going there for years and absolutely love it. Michael himself has a 1 year old and believes very much that young children should be made to feel part of the dining experience. In the lastest issue of the Caines Correspondent Michael writes: "I love to see well-behaved children in my restaurants. It’s a real pleasure to see young people appreciate and enjoy the pleasures of food. In my view, children should never be excluded from the dining room. Just as it’s our job to make adults feel comfortable and welcome, so should children be made to feel a part of the dining experience. And if children are treated with respect, they usually respond and behave accordingly." In fact, under fives eat for free. Where else? A few nights ago, I took my 12 year old daughter to a wonderful place in Exeter called Al Farib, a Moroccan restaurant where we sat on cushions and enjoyed a great array of Arab and Middle Eastern mezze, mainly finger foods that we enjoyed while sipping fresh mint tea The groups around us were mainly smoking sheeshas so there was a lot of hubble and bubble, but not too smokey, very pleasant atmosphere altogether - and most unusual for Exeter! A couple of good 'gastro-pub' type places that would be fine with children are the Jack-in-the-Green in Rockbeare (old A30 Honiton Road) and the Puffing Billy in Exton. You would also be fine, I'm sure, in the Petite Maison in Topsham, a small but excellent little restaurant that has won awards. Doug and Liz are very friendly people indeed, and Doug is a good chef using mainly local produce and ingredients. Cafe Paradiso in the Hotel Barcelona of Exeter is quite funky and upbeat, with a wood-fired oven for the cooking of fish and meats in addition to pretty good pizza. Hope this is some help. Marc