Reggio Emilia, The Little Province That Was Not

As we drove along the Brenner Pass from Austria into Northern Italy, I was completely overwhelmed by excitement. The Dolomites competed heavily with the Deutsch Alpenstrasse for the most scenic driving route yet and I reveled in the delights of the eating experiences, which I knew were yet to come. Since visiting Florence, Bologna and Pasiano (Pordenonne) with my girlfriends in March, I hadn't stopped thinking about the carafes of vino, never-ending bread baskets, bottomless olive oil dispensers and multi-course meals. Beautiful people everywhere. How was this so? Antipasto, primi piati, secondi, insalata, dolce. Every. Single. Day. I swear - other than when we were scoping out one-of-a-kind leather garments and accessories, all of our time was spent meandering from one eating establishment to the next.

This time, Kane and I were confined to just 3 days in Northern Italy, as we needed to make it to a music festival on the south-west coast of France by September 17th (which, incidently, was later cancelled. Boohoo). Despite our time constraints, I was determined to take a self-guided foodie route through the province of Reggio Emilia. Geographically, Reggio Emilia is comprised of Modena (famed for its balsamic vinegar, as well as motor giants: Ferrari, Lamborghini and Maserati ), Parma (hello, Parmigiano Reggiano and Parma Prociutto!) and Reggio nell'Emilia  (Lambrusco wine, Parmigiano Reggiano and interestingly enough,  Max Mara fashion line, whose headquarters were established there by Achille Maramotti in 1951). To experience multiple food products with P.D.O status in the actual communes that they orginate? Living the dream. Or so I'd imagined....

What I did not imagine was this:

We arrived in Modena at 6.30pm, mapless and unable to find anywhere to set up camp. Our GPS was of no help whatsoever, because outside of the UK, it only identified toll roads. Epic fail. In desperate need of consolation we parked in the city centre and decided to seek out something delicious. This should't have been hard, as arguably, we were in the food capital of the world. 6.30pm on a Monday. Everything was shut. Perhaps one could expect this in Mareeba. But Modena? Really? We roamed the deserted cobblestone passages. Church bells echoed.  Romantic? Nostalia inducing? Lonely? I couldn't decide. Eventually, we found a  fast-food pizza joint. A chain. Ugh. I can't recall the details of our order. Nothing out of the ord. But it filled the pit in my stomach. I still find this concept extremely depressing - being in Italy and eating something not worth talking about...something which merely filled the pit in my stomach. Double Ugh. Not to worry though. One does not appreciate the simple things in life when all is smooth sailing. Case and point being that the very next morning, we were nothing short of ecstatic that the University of Modena guards had not 'moved us along' from our chosen camping spot in their campus accommodation car park.  Things were lookin' up!

Modena, Day 2. After an espresso and croissant, it was all systems go. We set off to the Office de Tourisme in Piazza Grande to find out which Balsamic Vinegar producers would allow us to tour the premises. None, apparently. Yes, owners conducted factory tours, however, it was a blunt 'no' when the booking agent mentioned that we were an English speaking couple. We had not given enough notice. Pigs trotter! There we were, in Modena - home of Aceto Balsamico di Tradizionale. I could not let this rest. So, whilst at the Laundromat, I attempted to ask an elderly Italian man if he could direct us to a balsamic vinegar producer; "Poui arutarmi atrovare, Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale di Modena fabricca, per favore?" I have no idea whether my tensing or syntactical organisation was correct - but who cares about incorrect tencing when a nonno correctly interprets your question!? BINGO, BINGO, BINGO!! I could have jumped on top of the dryer and done a happy dance. Except, I can't dance. The nonno directed us toward a food market, however, at some point we must have confused right with left, or left with right. After 45 minutes, we gave up. Just when I thought it was all over, we spotted a balsamic vinegar specialty store. I ran in to ask whether we could visit their supplier. He seemed ticked off that I didn't buy anything but willingly handed over their address. To our dismay, the producer was located in a tiny commune on the outskirts of Modena, called Magreta, which we (and our not-so-trusty GPS) had never heard of. After another hour of searching and befriending service-station attendees who provided directions, we struck gold! Ahhhhhhh. We were exhausted - BUT - we had made it. As we strolled through the gates, it all seemed worth it. "I knew we could get here. I knew it!!" We knocked on the door and were unpleasantly greeted by a woman who told us to come back in two and a half hours. It was siesta. Ahhhhhh, of course. Siestaaaaa - how could I forget!!??? This was possibly, the most inconvenient siesta ever!! Well, having only a couple of days to get to south-west France, we didn't have two and a half hours. Bastards. I climbed back into our van, fighting back tears.

I felt a tad better after consuming what was possibly the best pizza of my life at Pizzeria D'asporto il Gatto & La Volpe (mozerella, radicchio, pancetta, Grana Pedano, Aceto Balsamico - just 6 euro including drinks). However, my mood plummeted for the umpteenth time that day, when we drove into Reggio nell' Emilia. There it was.... the Parmigiano Reggiano factory which I had dreamt of for months...maybe even years...SHUT DOWN. As in, broken glass windows, 'i-haven't-been-open-since-the-seventies,' shut down. I didn't comment. Just sat, in silence. The wheels of our van went round and round, round and round, round and round. As we drove through Parma, I didn't protest when Kane kept driving. It had been a long day and I doubted I could cope with any more disappointment. If bad things really do come in threes, we were destined to discover that the curing and preparation of Parma Prociutto had recently been banned in the region.

As we drove over the border, exiting The Little Province That Was Not, my tears fell. I felt like a small girl, who had run away from home to see the fair - but when she arrives, the fair is over...the carnies are packing away sideshow alley and sewer rats are feasting on stale popcorn. The more I thought of the small girl, the more I sobbed. I was so disappointed. And worse yet, was disappointed in myself for feeling so let down by...well...food. How ungrateful of me! A wretch! Poor Kane. What was he to say about all of this? Tears and all? Rather comical upon reflection.

I apologise. Today, I have presented you with the Oh-So-Sad-Tales of an Aspiring Gastronome. You're probably wondering why I haven't at least included some photographs of Reggio Emilia for a bit of a reader pick-me-up... but the truth is, I have no photographic evidence of my heart break. What I will share, though, is a picture of the sun set, which followed this day. A magical view from the Cinque Terre coast line. The kind of sun set, which makes you feel grateful that you are alive and kicking, remorseful for crying about food (ahem!), and above all, excited about the wondrous prospects that lie ahead.

Weisswurst: The Golden Rules

Although my Opa Wolfgang is from the north of Deutschland, it was not long before my robust Germanic bones felt right at home in Munchen, further south. Conveniently, we were able to set up camp just a hop, skip and metro ride from the city. It soon became clear that we would need at least three days to even scratch at the surface of Munich's rich cultural landscape. Having covered little German history in my schooling, I was blown away by the beauty and revival of the Bavarian capital, which I learnt played such a significant role in the Thirty Years War, was once the Hauptstadt der Bewegung (capital of the [Nazi] movement) and was subject to seventy-one air raids over six years in WW2. Luckily for us, we were able to undertake a self-guided, mp3 tour. This allowed for plenty of breaks, during which we were able to feast on street vendor goodies to our hearts content. Yay!

For as long as I can remember, a big juicy Bratwurst with sauerkraut and mustard has remained somewhere between 1 and say, 7, on my top-treats list.  So naturally, prior to this visit, my Deutschland-related day-dreams were mostly occupied by large quantities of wurst, served  by Bavarians dressed in lederhosen, entertaining me with traditional folk dance, whilst smashing beer mugs together  - exclaiming  'Prost!!' Not to have tested these expectations, would have been unthinkable!

I'm not really one for guided tours, however, I jumped at the chance to attend a Bavarian Food Tasting tour for just 22 euro, including all food and beverages. On meeting beneath the Rathaus Glockenspiel in Marienplatz, our local guide announced that there would only be 3 attendees. Brill.

Rathaus-Glockenspiel (New Town Hall, Munich, Germany)

My learnings from the half-day experience far exceeded my expectations surrounding the Bavarian culinary scene. Let's skip straight to the highlights. Weisswurst (meaning 'White Sausage'). Essentially, a short and stout, predominantly veal sausage, boiled and served in a bowl of hot water containing fresh herbs. Un-bloody-believable. Admitting this next fact of life is not going to be my classiest moment. They served me two; I could just about have inhaled twenty. When it comes to the degustation of  Weisswurst, there are a number of time honoured traditions with which most Bavarians comply (NB: inhalation is NOT one of them).

Weisswurst: The Golden Rules

•  Must be eaten before the  church bells strike noon. 
• This practise arose prior to the invention of ice-boxes and refrigerators, when the un-smoked meat was at risk of perishing and therefore, had to be consumed soon after production.

• One draws/sucks the meat from the casing, using their teeth. 
• As the story goes, in 1957, a butcher was making Weisswurst in Marienplatz. Being Mardigras, the celebrating masses ate with hearty appetites. Eventually, the butcher ran out of wurst casings (made from sheep intestine) and sent his assistant to fetch more. However, when the assistant returned, he presented the butcher with much thicker, tougher intestine of hog. Being more difficult to chew, the patrons sucked the meat out, leaving the casings to be disposed of.

• Weisswurst are boiled gently (for about 10 mins), not grilled, baked or fried! 
• When the butchers assistant was only able to obtain hog intestine casings, they were concerned that it was more susceptible to splitting if fried over direct heat. As a result, the decision was made to cook the wurst in simmering water. Weisswurst are usually served in hot water. This prevents them from becoming cold and unappetising!

• Always served with senf, a sweet Bavarian mustard

My re-creation of the Weisswurst experience back at camp. Breaking the third golden rule because we didn't have an unlimited supply of serving bowls. 

Aware of the fact that I am rarely able to beat my foodie experiences into neat, minimalist paragraphs, I have done my best to summarise the rest of my Bavarian culinary experience with a few [lengthily] captioned photographs Hooray! 

Cheese deli in the Munich food markets.

 I found it interesting that particular retail spaces in the food market will always be reserved for sale of particular products. For example, if this cheese seller had to close his doors, only another distributor of  artisan cheese could take his place.

Sharing platter of cured meats.

 Our guide had a good insight into the history and making of each and every one of these! Leberkase (located 12-3 o'clock on the plate above) is a fast food favourite throughout Bavaria. If ever in need of a quick bite, we would pull over and order a thick hot slice of leberkase on a bread roll with senf mustard. Really delicious.The name translates to 'liver-cheese' BUT, in actual fact, the product contains neither liver, nor cheese!! Our guide told us that the meat, which contains ground pork, beef and onion, gained its name through the word changing form a number of times. My university linguistics lecturer would have loved to have wrapped his teeth around that one! haha, pun intended.

Creating a campervan cookery masterpiece using fresh strawberries and raspberries from the markets

Tadaaaa!!! :D

Beer garden in the Munchner food Markets...just as you would imagine.


That's all folks. 

Auf Weidersehen! Tschuss! Goodbye!

An Unfortunate Aspic Encounter

Aspic, by the definition of Mastering the Art of French Cooking authors Julia Child, Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle (1961), is "the whole decorated dish of various elements coated with or molded in jelly [Gelée]." They note that "gelée is the French culinary term for beef, veal, chicken, or fish stock which stiffens when cold because it contains natural gelatin, or because gelatin has been added to it." In essence, this means that an aspic is any edible matter suspended in a savoury jelly, which may or may not have been created through the extended soaking and rapid boiling of calves feet or cracked veal knuckles. Now, whilst I do enjoy a good knuckle cracking at the end of a long day, the thought of cracking veal knuckles, or harvesting the foot of a wee calf  and reducing it to a liquid, for that matter, rubs me the wrong way. But i do enjoy sour worms, which I presume contain some form of gelatin and therefore, are probably derived from the same methods. Hmmm... this was an unexpected ethical twist. Let's save that one for another rainy day. Today, I wish to report back on my first (and most likely, last) aspic experience, which took place in the German metropolis, Frankfurt-am-Main (named after the Main River, pronounced 'Mine').

View of the Frankfurt cityscape and Main River from Maintower (200m)

Often to the great entertainment of my family and close friends, I exhibit nonsensical behaviours, characterised by what I like to describe as a heightened sense of cuiriosity. 

Exemplar 1: Age 2 1/2; swallows a smooth precious stone after being warned not to touch the precious stone. 

Exemplar 2: Age 14; Protrudes tongue, allowing it to make contact with dry ice covering rear aspect of standing fridge/freezer whilst no-one is in the house, despite sneaking suspicion that tongue may stick.

Exemplar 3: Age 20; Places raw egg in plastic bag and attempts....actually i'm not going to publicise that one on a public forum.

Evidently, elements of my intelligence are yet to develop beyond Piaget's preoperational stage of cognition.  It is therefore, no surprise, that I so eagerly ordered aspic of suckling pig meat from a restaurant in Frankfurt, after being firmly warned by Julie Powell (author of Julie & Julia), that aspic jelly should be avoided at all costs. What she didn't say is: 'avoid even if sliced into triangles and arranged on a platter with traditional Frankfurter green herb sauce'. And P.S, I was already dying to dry the herb sauce after reading about it prior to our travels...and menu item 85 was the only dish in which the sauce featured. 

The waiter seemed most delighted when I placed my order. He also reported that the dish was one of his own favourites (trust me, I already considered that this may have been a poor translation of what he actually meant to say -but no, he definitely spoke English as fluently as your average Australian man). Our meals arrived within fifteen minutes. Not bad.

Upon being served, I felt...tentative. I could see where they were headed with presentation but in actual fact, the triangular slices of suckling pig aspic bared an uncanny resemblance to  piggy ears. You know...the kind that you see on headbands that college students wear to fancy-dress fundraisers. Needless to say, I was still keen to give it a whirl. My first impression was - 'OK, not bad. I could possibly get used to this'. The pieces of suckling pig were tender and on a whole, the aspic was well seasoned and flavoursome. The nature of the texture required 2 x mastication reps, at which point the jelly melted in my mouth. From what I've heard, a good aspic is one which does exactly that - melts in the mouth. So on a technical note - ten points to the chef. On a personal note, as a savoury, this was not a texture I had experienced before. Two slices in and too far out of my comfort zone, I politely pushed my plate to the side and began to contemplate: do modern-day beings actually enjoy eating aspic jelly or is society merely clinging on to a culinary practice of it's predecessors? I am certainly not one to disrespect tradition. I could cope with savouries being set  in solidified consomme as a decorative measure at Christmas time - but to pretend that I enjoy the likes of meat  set in a sliceable savoury jelly would be simply outlandish. No can do.  As for the Frankfurter sauce, it wasn't the bang I was expecting but in fairness, the cold pig set in clear jelly probably didn't do it justice. Whilst I am pleased to have been exposed to the time-honoured art-form of aspics, I would not voluntarily subject myself to this experience again. If you, on the other hand, wish to ignore my advise and meddle with such madness, Mastering the Art of French Cooking devotes an entire chapter to aspics. Go on, have a crack.