On Risotto...

Today marks a very important event. It's the first day my taste buds were introduced to risotto.
Of course I knew, and had heard all about risotto, but tried it? Not until today.

My friends, I was blown away...it's so creamy and has such depth of flavors!
I am determined now to master a risotto recipe. Preferably mushroom risotto, so I can use the truffle oil I just bought.

Read Lynne Rossetto Kasper's story of "Risotto alla Milanese," below, which may underscore the importance of today's occasion. { The Italian Country Table}

A True Risotto alla Milanese?

Every day, Enrico Rastelli and his colleagues lunch at the trattoria around the corner from their office in the center of Milan. Everyone has their own table-- the famous sports-writer and his wife, the man alone with his newspaper, the two architects, Enrico and his friends. Each day they greet each other: "Hello, Signor Engineer of Electronics," "Good day, Signor Architect." The mood is cordial, but no one intrudes upon the others' tables.

No menus appear. The waiter explains the daily specials, already knowing the sports-writer's wide doesn't like black pepper and the man with the newspaper must have his soup before deciding on anything else. More private club than public dining room, trattorie are extensions of home, where the familiar is prized over new.

I ask Enrico, a native of Milan, to define Risotto alla Milanese. "Butter, a little onion, rice only from Vercelli [about fifty miles from Milan], white wine-- a good one you like to drink," he explains. "Only threads of saffron, never powder, the broth of a fat hen--never bouillon cubes--Parmigiano, and give it a rest before serving." Those at the next table have become quiet; they are listening. To be polite, Enrico asks, "What do you think, eh?"

"Signor Engineer of Electronics, you are absolutely right," replies the man with soup. "But my wife, aslo a Milanese like you, would use a little fat of our Milanese cervellata sausage with the butter." At the table on the other side conversation stops. Enrico raises an eyebrow. "Well," the architect leans in, "my mother, whose family has been here since before the Sforzas [a famous Renaissance family], always adds a corner of bouillon cube to the broth for flavor." The sportswriter chimes in, "Come on, what kind of Milanese are you? Beef marrow has to be part of it! The rice will never be right without it. It won't have the right..." He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, indicating the feel of it.

At each table, knives and forks are put down. Meat is getting cold. Opinions fly, backed by the authority of grandmothers, historians, mothers, family sages. The communal chord has been struck, the gauntlet laid down, family, honor, and a true Risotto alla Milanese are at stake. It is as though civilization itself warrants defending...and perhaps it does.

Maybe I just need to go to Italy, to learn from the masters?