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May Sound Pedestrian

Risi e Luganeghe

‘Risotto’ used to be a standard part of our diet when I was

growing up. It was a portmanteau dish which involved

frying up a few leftovers, perhaps opening a can or two

and then adding some rice, which had usually been cooked

beforehand. It was somewhat stodgy but perfectly

acceptable, better than the dreaded ‘rissoles’ – don’t ask

– but not a patch on toad-in-the-hole.

A few smart London trattorias in the 1960s put us right

about risotto, but it was at least another decade before

most of us became aware of what a proper one should

consist of. It was all about the rice. The other ingredients

were just flavouring. Moreover, the rice had to be lovingly

turned in butter and onions and then stirred constantly

while hot stock was slowly added so that the starch from

the rice formed a soupy emulsion with the stock.

Now we knew. It did not stop us from overcooking the

rice, overcomplicating the dish or whacking in some pretty

unpleasant flavours, but at least we knew the rules. The

problem with rules when it comes to Italian cooking, not

to put too fine a point on it, is Italians. I do not mean this

disparagingly, nor do I suggest that Italian cooks do not

follow rules: quite the contrary. It is just that the rules are

more varied and complicated than those of Rugby Union,

Stableford golf and Mornington Crescent (the silly game

played on BBC Radio 4) put together.

In Piedmont, they make risotto but also boil their

risotto rice and dress it with butter, lemon juice and

basil (this preparation is my favourite filling for stuffed

tomatoes). In the Veneto, they cook their risotto in a

bewildering number of ways, sometimes coming up with

risi e bisati, a substantial dish of eels and rice flavoured

with parsley and garlic, sometimes with risi e bisi, a soupy

mix of rice and the first very tender peas of the season.

Whereas both these dishes can be called risotto, risi e

luganeghe, also from the Veneto, could not. It is, in truth,

more like paella, since the few ingredients are cooked first,

stock added and then the rice is simply sprinkled in and

left to cook. Italian rice, whether Arborio, Vialone Nano,

Carnaroli (which I use here), or something even more

obscure, is more delicate than Spanish varieties and the

texture is different, so cooking times must be faithfully

observed. Sausage and rice may sound pedestrian, but the

result is remarkably light and extremely palatable.

89

March