Exploring the world, one dish at a time
Every week, we take you somewhere new. One country. One beloved dish that tells its story. The vegetables and fruits that grow in its soil. Join us on a journey through the world's kitchens, where food is memory, tradition, and love on a plate.
Week of January 23, 2025
In the shadow of Milan's magnificent Duomo, where Gothic spires pierce the Lombard sky, a golden dish was born that would become the city's culinary signature. Risotto alla Milanese, with its unmistakable saffron hue and creamy texture, tells a story that dates back to the Renaissance.
The year was 1574. The Duomo di Milano was still under construction, and among the artisans working on its stained glass windows was a young Belgian glazier named Valerius. His master had noticed Valerius's habit of adding saffron to his glass mixtures to achieve brilliant golden tones. "You love that saffron so much," the master joked, "you'll probably end up putting it in your food next." The jest became reality at the master's daughter's wedding feast, where Valerius asked the cook to add saffron to the rice dish being prepared. The result was extraordinary.
Beyond legend, this dish represents something deeper about Milan's character. During the Renaissance, saffron was worth more than gold by weight, making this seemingly simple rice dish a statement of wealth and refinement. The technique itself—the patient stirring, the gradual addition of broth, the final "mantecatura" where butter and cheese are vigorously beaten in—reflects the Milanese appreciation for craftsmanship and attention to detail. It's not fast food; it's a meditation in a pan.
Distinctive produce that defines regional Italian cooking
Walk through a Veneto market in winter, and you'll see these elegant burgundy leaves everywhere. Unlike the round radicchio you might know, Treviso's version grows long and slender, with white ribs running through deep purple leaves. Locals drizzle it with olive oil and grill it until the edges char—the bitterness melts away, leaving something almost sweet. It's been winter's treasure here for 500 years.
In Rome, spring means agretti. For just a few weeks, markets overflow with these thin, grass-like greens. Blanch them quickly, dress with lemon and olive oil—that's it. They taste faintly salty, almost like the sea. Romans who miss the season wait a whole year for another chance. Once upon a time, people burned these plants for glassmaking ash. Now? They're just spring on a plate.
Tuscans call it black cabbage. Look closer—it's really dark green, with bumpy, prehistoric-looking leaves. This is what goes into ribollita, that famous Tuscan bread soup. Here's the secret: it gets better after the first frost. The cold turns starch into sugar, making it sweeter and less bitter. It tastes earthier than regular kale, more substantial. Just like Tuscany itself—rustic, honest, built to last.
Rare and regional fruits that tell Italy's agricultural story
This strange citrus grows in one tiny strip of Calabria's coast, and almost nowhere else. You can't eat it fresh—way too sour. But squeeze its oil, and you get the scent that makes Earl Grey tea Earl Grey. It looks like a lumpy yellow lemon, and it smells like heaven: floral, sweet, a little spicy. Calabrian families have been growing it for generations, keeping their methods close. Perfume makers can't live without it.
Small, sour, bitter—you'd think this orange was a mistake. But Italians saw potential. Candy it, and it's a delicacy. Juice and sweeten it, and you get Chinotto, Italy's cult-favorite dark soda that tastes nothing like Coke. The fruit stays green even when it's ripe, hanging on beautiful little trees with glossy leaves. Sailors used to take preserved chinotto on long voyages to fight off scurvy. Today? It's just deliciously bitter.
Mexico sent this prickly pear to Sicily 500 years ago, and it never left. Covered in nearly invisible spines, they look dangerous—and they are, if you don't know what you're doing. Sicilians do. Crack one open and you'll find jewel-colored flesh: magenta, orange, pale yellow. It tastes like watermelon met honey. In summer, street vendors sell them peeled and ready. They're not just fruit—they're how you survive a Sicilian August.
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