Last week I cooked with my almost mother in law. She showed me how to make something called falso magro, which translates as “false lean” – a stout roll of beef stuffed with a hard-boiled egg, prosciutto and vegetables that is then simmered in tomato sauce. I watched, poised to help, but mostly apologised for the inadequacies of my kitchen; no metal tongs, a blunt knife, no kitchen roll, no meat basher, the handle on my pan in the wrong position, my salt too coarse, my pepper grinder too tight. Realising my hovering was as annoying as my grinder, I sat at the table and made notes. I noted the recipe of course, even though much of it was in “qb” – quanto basta – which means however much is enough, or “use your common sense!”
Much more interesting though, were the commentary and the idiosyncratic touches that Carmela and time had brought to the dish. There was very specific bashing out of the meat and snipping away of any muscles or fibres that might make it curl, and a lament about butchers today. There was also advice about the arrangement of the carrot and celery around the egg accompanied by another lament, this time about arthritic fingers. There were instructions on chopping shallots and the rinsing of the tomato jar along with a story about conserving tomatoes in Sicily, and the reel of cotton pulled from her handbag, unreeled into lengths (my job) that was then used to secure the beef roll. Finally there was the oregano, la morte sua, which means the death of the dish (in the best possible way – remember the vinegar last week). I didn’t have any oregano! A kitchen without oregano: how was that possible? It was the death of it all, in the worst possible way.
Watching somebody else cook and learning from them is nothing new. It is special to watch people prepare food, to see the way they have put their experience, memories, habits and resourcefulness into a dish. Even if it is something you know well, a traditional dish maybe with little innovation, you will always learn something new: a tip, a saying, if you are lucky a story. I have always enjoyed watching others cook, but being in Italy with so much to learn about another food culture means it has taken on a whole new significance. Advice for one thing is often useful for another, so when you are in the kitchen you are not alone: all the advice you have ever been given swirls around like steam; kitchen company if you like.
Having possibly whetted your appetite for beef rolls, I am going to disappoint it for now. I need to make it a few more times and perfect my cotton-tying before piping up here. Give me a month. Today’s recipe is a good and useful one though. It is also one of the first recipes I learned to make in Italy, with well-seasoned advice from neighbours and friends. I say recipe: it is more of a technique that isn’t technical – lentils braised with chopped vegetables and olive oil. It is something I made all the time, and I have written about it before. Today’s version includes fennel, the sweetly aniseed flavour of which works well with the slightly dull, earthy taste of lentils, and the rich, meaty sausage.
The recipe starts with a little patience and sorting. I can see my neighbour Emilia hands going over the lentils, keen to spot a stone or a grain of wheat. I can hear her telling me lentils are good luck, and that maybe I should clean my windows. For the most part lentils don’t need soaking, which makes them a brilliant kitchen standby for someone like me who lacks soaking foresight. After sorting, the soffritto. This begins with extra virgin olive oil – the fundamental underlying flavour – then chopped vegetables; in this case onion, celery and fennel. If you don’t like fennel you can add carrot. More patience is required as you let the vegetables soften and deepen in flavour slowly – think of it as laying foundations. The amount of water you will need varies: quanto basta; however much is enough. Start with 800ml. It will be absorbed as the lentils swell, and you may need to add a little more. By the end of cooking time, there should be just a little liquid, and lentils should be tender and soft, but not squidgy – they should have lentil integrity; taste and taste again. Salt and pepper are key to the flavour of lentils: be bold. I pan-fry my sausages then finish them in the oven. Metal tongs are useful here (if you have them!) Some final advice, which I can hear a friend saying across the stove: make sure you let the sausages sit among the lentils for a while, so they fanno amicizia (make friends with each other), before serving.
Lentils with fennel and sausages
Serves 4
250g small brown Italian lentils (look out for castellucio)
1 bulb of fennel
A small onion
A stick of celery
5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus extra
Salt
2 bay leaves
Chopped parsley (optional)
4 large sausages (or eight smaller ones)
1 Pick over the lentils for stones or grit, then rinse them. Remove the outer layer of fennel if it is very thick or damaged and save for stock. Trim just a little from the base as you want the bulb to hold together. Then cut away the fingers (saving any fronds for salad). Peel and finely dice the onion along with the celery and fennel fingers. Cut the fennel bulb in half, and then quarters and each quarter into 5mm wedges.
2 Warm the olive oil in a deep frying pan or casserole, add the chopped onion, celery and fennel along with a pinch of salt and cook gently until soft. Then add the fennel wedges and bay leaves and stir until everything glistens with oil.
3 Now add the lentils and stir again. Add 800ml of cold water, bring to a gentle boil, then reduce to a simmer until the lentils are tender (but still holding their shape) with just a little liquid – this will take 20–40 minutes depending on the age and variety of lentils. Season with salt and black pepper, olive oil and some chopped parsley if you wish.
4 Meanwhile grill or pan-fry the sausages. In the last minutes of lentil cooking time, add the sausages and a little of their fat and juices. Stir and serve.
- Rachel Roddy is a food blogger based in Rome and the author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard, 2015) and winner of the 2015 André Simon food book award
