If you've followed this page for any time at all, you know that the fall of 1978 was a pivotal time in my life. That was when I was lucky enough to begin my graduate architectural studies with four months in Genova, the capitol of Liguria and heart of Italy's Riviera. That's where Clemson owns a modest Renaissance-Revival villa in the hilly suburb above the old city.
With its sun-drenched terraced gardens and incomparable views of the bay, It was an idyllic setting for studying architecture—and I did. Some. Half my time was spent either in studio or tramping, sketchbook and journal in hand, around that ancient city, the other picturesque towns of the Riviera, and some of Europe's oldest capitols.
The thing that changed my life, however, and eventually took it in a completely different direction had nothing directly to do with ancient art and architecture. It was the way I spent the other half of that four months: in the kitchen with our beautiful cook, Ilda Gemme Torti.
That kitchen was an experience all by itself: large and airy, its wide, south-facing windows overlooked the bay and flooded it with sunlight. With white-tiled wainscot, worn but immaculately polished terrazzo floor, knife-scarred marble-topped work tables, and enormous double sink hewn from a single piece of gray marble, it was very old-fashioned and spoke of another era.
But its best feature, of course, was Ilda. Born in 1924 in Stazzano, a town about thirty miles northwest of Genova in the region of Piemonte, this handsome, elegant woman had no formal training as a cook. What she did have, however, was a generous spirit and thirty years of hands-on experience that had given her the culinary equivalent of near-perfect pitch.
She came to work every morning looking like a fashion icon, dressed to the nines, changed into a house dress and overall apron, and went straight to work. Hopping around that kitchen with a practiced economy of movement, she could get more done in an hour than most of us do in four. If she had to go out during the day, Ilda always changed back into her stylish street clothes, and would no more have thought of going out in public in a house dress than she would have thought of trying to make pesto without basil or olive oil.
Following that old maxim "wherever you go, and whatever you do, make friends with the cook," and my mother's "be sure you say thank you," after my first pranzo (midday dinner) I went straight to the kitchen. There, in my very crude "Eng-talian" I dutifully said "grazie" and told Ilda that the meal was "bellissima."
With the appropriate hand-gestures to make sure I'd understand, she laughingly corrected me: "Non, non, non, Dah-MOH-nay: arte es bellissima, regazza es bellissima, ma cucina es non bellissima" (which was to say, "bellissima" is used to describe art or girls, but not cooking.)
Being dense but not stupid, I of course responded, "O, ma, Ilda! Your cucina es bellissima."
That was met with more laughter, a firm shake of her head, and "O, Dah-MON-nay! Via! Via! Via!" which is the Italian version of "Get outta here!"
We were friends from that moment on. I wanted to be in that kitchen with her all day, every day. But we all had work assignments, and mine wasn't KP. That did not, of course, deter me. To our professors' annoyance, I never missed the least excuse to skip out on what I was supposed to be doing and disappear to that kitchen. Pretty quickly, they knew where to find me.
Among the many things I learned to make were her version of spaghetti alla carbonara (which contained, heretical to Romans, both onions and garlic), her baked chicken breasts stuffed with prosciutto and cheese, minestrone, omelletti con patate, fritto misto (mixed fried seafood), risotto con funghi, ragu, Macedonia di frutta (marinated mixed fruit), a lovely ham and potato gratin that she just called "baked casserole," and the way to cook pasta so that it was perfect every time.
Unhappily, I never got to watch her make her classic pesto alla genovese nor dress the pasta (usually spaghetti) with it. Though I came home with her recipe, its quantities ("basil—a good handful") made reproducing it a challenge until I discovered Marcella Hazan's cookbooks two years later. And even with Marcella's guidance, I still couldn't quite get mine quite like Ilda's until just a few weeks ago, when classmate Rick Del Monte (who actually did have KP duty) described watching her dress what to her endless amusement we called "green spaghetti."
He said, "She would pour the sauce onto a platter of spaghetti, look at it a few seconds, then get out a big bottle of olive oil and pour half the bottle on top. Definitely an experienced hand."
More olive oil! I knew she'd put a big lump of butter on it, but didn't know about that.
Well, those four months flew by. At their end, Ilda, the villa housekeeper, and our administrator gave me a Ligurian cookbook in Italian so that, Ilda told me, I could learn Italian well enough to write. Our last day someone took a picture of us together with my camera that I planned to hang in my kitchen so I could see it every day.
I left Genova believing we'd be life-long correspondents. But to my shame, life immediately got in the way. I never really learned Italian, at least, not well enough to write in it, and promises of help translating my letters never materialized. That next year, though she stayed in touch with the staff, Ilda stopped cooking at the Villa. I tried for a time to get in touch but eventually gave up. To make things worse, that last role of film in my camera got damaged and our picture was ruined. The only thing I had to remember her by were a handful of her recipes and a sketch I'd made of her while she was working in the kitchen.
Years passed and I presumed that Ilda, who was at least thirty years my senior, had long since died.
Then last December, out of the blue came a note from our Genova professor saying that Ilda was not only very much alive, but had just celebrated her 100th birthday. He offered to help me get back in touch and, after all that time, I was finally able to reach out to a woman who, without knowing it, had completely changed my life, and tell her how much she'd meant to me.
It was just in time, too: about two weeks ago, surrounded by her family, she finally gave out and died peacefully in Firenze, where she'd spent her last years with her daughter.
And yet, along with Nathalie, my grandmother, mother, Marcella, Jo Bettoja, Marie Rudisill, and a host of other cooks who have shaped my life and my cooking, she is still right here in my heart and my kitchen.
All this ramble is to say: Take nothing in this life for granted, my friends. If you love someone, tell them now. If they've changed your life, tell them now. If you think of them every single day even though you may have lost touch and not have seen them for years . . . find them and tell them now. Today. This minute.
Veal Stew with Tomatoes and Peas
One of Ilda's specialties was this lovely stew that is (or was) common to the corner of Italy where she grew up and lived for so many years. Fortunately, it was also one of the handful of recipes that she wrote out for us. I've not made it for a long time, but its exquisite simplicity seems like a perfect way to remember her.
Because veal is so expensive on our side of the pond, I've made this with boned turkey (breast and/or thigh) and even pork. Neither tastes or reacts in cooking the same as veal, and pork lacks delicacy and takes a lot longer, but it's in the same ballpark, and this stew is too good to miss out on it because you can't afford (or have ethical issues with) the main ingredient.
The suggestions for fresh and frozen peas come from Marcella Hazan's lovely version, which of all the recipes I've come across, came the closest to Ilda's. Ilda mostly used well-drained canned peas when she made this for us, adding them at the very end. But she was cooking for twenty perpetually hungry graduate students on a budget. That was a necessity, not a preference. Since I can but rarely get unshelled fresh peas that really are fresh and worth the trouble, I mostly use frozen ones.
Serves 6
2 pounds boned veal shoulder, trimmed and cut into 1½-to-2-inch cubes
About 3 tablespoons olive oil
1 small yellow onion, trimmed, split lengthwise, peeled, and chopped
Salt and whole black pepper in a mill
1 14½-ounce can Italian plum tomatoes with their juice (reserved), chopped
2 cups shelled fresh or thawed frozen small green peas
1. Wrap the veal in a couple of layers of paper towels and gently press it dry. Unwrap and set it aside. Film the bottom of a 3-4 quart heavy-bottomed braising pan or wide, shallow Dutch oven (I use an enameled iron braiser) with oil and put it over medium heat. When it's hot but not quite smoking, add half the veal, raise the heat to medium high, and lightly brown it on all sides, about 3-4 minutes. Remove it with a slotted spoon to a warm bowl, then repeat with the remaining veal, adding a little more oil if needed. Lightly season the meat with salt and pepper.
2. Turn the heat under the pan back down to medium or even medium low if it's really hot, then add the onion to the pan and sauté until it's translucent and barely beginning to color. Return the meat to the pan, season lightly with salt and pepper, and add the tomatoes and half a cup of water. Raise the heat again to medium high, bring it to a boil, then adjust it to a slow, steady simmer, cover, and braise until the veal is fork tender, about 1-to-1½-hours. Check and give it a stir every now and again, and if the liquid evaporates too much, add more water as needed.
3. If you're using fresh peas, add them when the veal is just tender, bring it back to a simmer, and continue cooking until the peas and veal are both tender, about 20 minutes. If you're using frozen peas, wait until the veal is completely tender, then add the peas, bring it back to a simmer, cover, and cook about 5-8 minutes longer, or until the peas are ready. Taste and adjust the salt and pepper, then let it simmer a couple of minutes longer.