One Fish, Two Fish, Green Fish, Slow Fish

Last summer, when Martello was attempting to sell the merits of Genova to Trofie Wife, I believe that one of his talking points was that the city hosted the annual "Slow Fish" festival. Knowing my penchant for fancy, over-priced, and sustainable foods, he thought this would be a major plus. However, my reaction was something along the lines of, "so let me get this straight, you want me to leave the city that hosts the annual Chocolate Show for the city that hosts the annual fish festival?" Let's just say this creatures of the sea festival wasn't what eventually won me over, but Trofie Wife was nonetheless delighted when the opportunity came around to check it out (there was added incentive for Martello, as it was being hosted in a new Jean Nouvel-designed pavilion at the Fiera di Genova).

The Fiera is the local convention center, kind of like the Javits Center, except here you gaze out at the Mediterranean instead of the West Side Highway. As the name implies, the fair was sponsored by the International Slow Food movement, which is conveniently located in Italy. In fact, the Italians are so taken with sustainable eating methods that they've even passed this concern on to their dogs; more than a couple were on hand (and extremely well-behaved).

The first floor hosted an array of exhibits (mostly in Italian) about keeping the oceans clean and only buying sustainable fish, as well as an interesting section on the relationship between Bergen, Norway and Genoa (they have a deep, enduring relationship cemented by cod). Amazingly delightful fish sandwiches were available indoors, with a line up of "street food" just outside. Trofie Wife took a particular shine to cicciarelli di Noli, little anchovies fried whole and served in a paper cone with a lemon on the side for squeezing. They were superbly delicious. Noli is another little coastal village past Savona en route to France. They tout their little fish as especially sustainable as the nets cause no harm to the rest of the sea's inhabitants.

Sated with our munchies, we wandered over to a crowded, noisy area where it turned out that several people were auctioning off fish. We didn't really understand if this was a reenactment of days and commerce gone by or if such activities still occur (either way, the catches didn't seem to have too many takers).



So after thinking we had seen the majority of the show, we headed up to the second floor, thinking we'd do a quick run-through before splitting. We were not quite ready for what we saw there: row after row, stall after stall of fish and sea-related products, as well as portable restaurants imported from as far away as Venice and Sicily as well as an enoteca for wines that pair well with fish that would probably put many wine shows to shame! (They were also selling these bizarre wine glass carriers that avid tasters could wear around their necks, which made those who had purchased them look like human Saint Bernards rushing towards a culinary emergency, armed with sauvignon blanc.)

I had a bit of a freak-out moment when an eager (and somehow still hungry) Martello started grabbing for samples, which he didn't bother to stop and see he had to pay for, eerily reminding me of my father, who when I took him to the Chocolate Show, was pulling up waxen display pieces and attempting to eat them... . We settled with the offended (French) stall owner and then sauntered (and eventually rolled) on through the rest of the stalls, sampling, purchasing, and gawking as we went. The stalls were divided by sustainability (regardless of location, the specially-marked Slow Food products got top billing) and then region, moving from the Veneto on down to Sicily and Sardinia. Of course, the one chocolate item that was available for sampling was not available for purchase (after we both were hooked), an amazing 70 percent dark bar using salt from Ibiza (Slow Fish is also big on plain and herbed sea salt; we picked up a great jar there). Trofie Wife is hoping that the offending company will either update the products on their Web site or show up at the Chocolate Show next season! On our way out, Martello also picked up a delightful lemon-flavored carbonated water (to add to his accumulated collection of Slow beers); another new product we'd like to have again that doesn't seem available anywhere... .

When we finally retreated, we managed to get ourselves to the vicinity of the train station with just enough time and cash on hand to buy a kilo of Grom gelato, because clearly, ice cream can be paired with just about anything. Sadly, while there is no Slow Gelato (or Chocolate or Bread or Pastry...), there is a Slow Cheese event in September. Hopefully we can swing by, armed with doses of Lactaid and a refrigerated sack!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Pasqua e Pasquetta

With the seders now over and a long Easter weekend ahead of us, Trofie Wife returned to exploring Italian culture. Being in Italy for yet another sacred Catholic holiday made Trofie Wife want to see some more examples of traditions that she would not soon view again. After some Googling and snooping around the cathedral provided no information about any impending passion plays or Stations of the Cross, Trofie Wife resigned herself to missing out on any unique religious displays; perhaps she'd make it to Rome for that sort of event at some point. And then the phone rang. It was Martello. He had missed the bus, and in the midst of walking home from the office, he ran into legions of parading Arezanans.




Turns out, they were reenacting the Via Crucis (Way of the Cross) at around 9:00 p.m. or so in the evening (I had thought it occurred during the day but perhaps the event corresponds to the hour of Jesus's death?). The camera and I swiftly met him just in time to document the procession. It was a very poignant display of devotion, with hundreds of people holding candles or just walking in silence and then singing after each station (as directed by the priest via megaphone). The town band played and various crosses and statues of the passion and its aftermath were carried by men with holsters (though I have to ask why so many elderly men were lugging things; couldn't they find any hulky youngsters to volunteer, or maybe it's an honor for a church elder...).




Our neighbors walked along the sea then up the hill and back to the local parish church, S.S. Nazario E Celso, which dates from the 18th century (I had previously only known it as the church on the way to the train station...); plenty of our fellow heathens walked parallel to the route, observing as we strolled. Just as the procession made its way back to the church, the skies opened and it began to pour. They quickly brought in the assorted crosses and statues, and everyone ran inside for cover; Martello and I followed them in order to get a glimpse of the magnificent baroque cathedral.




We saw a flier hanging in the cathedral announcing that all Italian churches would be collecting funds for the L'Aquila earthquake relief this coming weekend. (Note: Abruzzo is about 400 miles south and east of Liguria; we haven't seen or heard much about the earthquake locally aside from this solicitation. Of course, the major national media outlets are following the story closely; on Wednesday night our favorite news program, Exit, discussed the astronomical cost of rebuilding. This time around, Italy needs to take a cue from San Francisco and Japan on how to properly construct earthquake-ready modern buildings.)

As we were leaving the procession, Martello asked why Passover was called Pasqua Ebraica (Jewish Easter), since the two holidays, he said, have very little in common. Trofie Wife countered (thinking at the time that it would make a great academic paper) that beyond the seasonal overlap (and the similarities between Lent and giving up leavened products), there's a case to be made that both holidays center around dramatic historical reenactments of the central moment in each religion's history (the Crucifixion and the Exodus). Martello countered that the revelation at Sinai was the crucial historic moment in Judaism, yet I replied that Sinai was impossible without the Exodus (chicken/egg much?).

Aside from getting our much-awaited gas tank, not much happened on Saturday (aside from sleeping and catching up online). Trofie Wife expected Easter Sunday to be pretty dead, given everyone being off at church or eating with their families. Surprisingly (yet not to Martello, who had suspected it all along), things were open in Genoa. We finally made it to an exhibit at Palazzo Ducale, which Martello had been hoping to check out for a while (it was lackluster) and enjoyed our wanderings through the farmers market (again I ask, on Easter? in Italy????) and our gelato senza coni. We sat by the Porto Antico for a while and noted a sushi joint and microbrewery that we agreed to return to post Pesach. We returned home to make, by hand, chestnut flour gnocchi. It was quite the production, but the dish actually tasted quite good, especially due to chief saucier Martello's valiant efforts with the frying pan. We look forward to making gnocchi with real flour soon!


Pasquetta (or little Easter) is Easter Monday. It's a fantastic holiday, its sole purpose being outdoor picnics (Jesus rises, brings 80 degree weather?). We walked on the path from Arenzano to neighboring Cogoleto and enjoyed the sun in each spot, although we were overdressed for the beach and envious of all the folks in their shorts and bathing suits. Martello even spotted a small family of Hasidic Jews (probably down from Milan for the day and even warmer than we were, given their black trousers) who were also enjoying their Pasquetta. Sadly, the weather hasn't held up and any hopes for a return to the beach this weekend are slim.

Well, that brings us up to date with the wanderings of Martello e Trofie Wife. We are hoping for some fun, local adventures in the next few weeks with the arrival of the Slow Fish Festival and some visitors from near and far. Stay tuned!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

How Cheap Plastic Saved Pesach

Let Trofie Wife first start by saying that I don't invite strange events into our lives just so we'll have something to write about; they just happen. With this in mind, I now bring you the tale of Passover in Arenzano, 5769...

The day began easily enough with Martello and I attempting to say the Birkat Hachama (Blessing of the Sun) as that superstar hid behind the clouds and Martello ran out the door to make the bus. I made another attempt (this time with feeling) on the balcony after he left, though I did struggle with the whole logic of the act (I was reading a book on string theory at the time; it's hard to transcend astronomy and cosmology with rabbinic "calculations," but I'm sure the large outdoor gatherings of people reciting the prayer together and then noshing on bagels were very nice. I also wonder if there's a special prize for actually being 28 when something that only happens every 28 years occurs; if so, please send two to our apartment in Arenzano, grazie).

I headed to the grocery store (saying "ciao" along the way to the goats and one of the neighborhood peacocks who was making a run for it out of the park and heading towards centro) for the final few items that would complete our seder plate. I read online that vegetarians substitute a roasted beet for the shank bone (there are a number of reasons as to why, some relating to an obscure Talmudic tract, others to Holocaust lore), so we went with that. Martello was desperate for me to find some horseradish (there was no Gold's in Milano). I had no luck, but grabbed the closest thing, an entire carton of bitter radishes (which, according to the producing town's Web site, are quite nutritious!).

Bitter radishes

I have to say that composing your own seder plate certainly makes one feel like a real adult. Especially the part where you have to woman up and roast an egg (mine turned out especially deformed as I pretty much threw it into the boiling water, none too pleased that I was going to have to handle and then stare at a smelly, hard-boiled and then roasted egg for two days).

Make-shift seder plate: note haroset out of a jar to the left (way too sweet), roasted beet in foil, roasted egg with concealed oozed yoke (due to cracking), and bitter radishes

Weird French matzah resembling a doily. The orange and wine flavor was good, especially when toasted.

So, my roasting progressed with the afternoon, moving from beets, to an egg, to potatoes. I noted that it was a little strange that the oven flame was flickering, but I was able to turn it back up, so I thought little of it.

After successfully having purchased fresh fish from the market, I was excited to make my first ever packet meal, a delightful fish wrap with a potato base topped with chunks of cod, lemons, olives, garlic, and parsley. We didn't have any kitchen string, so I substituted unwaxed dental floss; I'm sure my ultra-hip dentist would be proud to see her freebies being used in this manner. Dessert was going to be a Lidia Bastianich flourless mini-cake recipe clipped from New York magazine; she used almond flour, but I planned to swap it for chestnut flour (which is a Piedmontese speciality).

Fish and floss.

Wrapped fish packet

With the fish packets made, the dessert ingredients all lined up, and Martello 30 minutes away from departure, I turned on the gas and tried to light the burner, but it was a no go. I tried several more times, from every possible angle, but it was futile; it appeared as though our gas tank was empty (there's no gauge, so you can't definitively tell). I nearly had a breakdown, after having devoted such a considerable amount of time to making a lovely meal (I had also just mixed the butter and sugar for dessert). I couldn't believe that all was lost! I thought about other options, but wasn't sure how to make it work. When Martello arrived home, he stopped me from destroying the kitchen/rocking silently in the corner, and we then reached the conclusion that we would attempt to cook our gourmet meal in the toaster oven (yes, the infamous 10 euro toaster oven purchased at the grocery store). I was nervous about embarking on this course of events due to all the parchment paper, but we did one set of two and then the rest of the packets, and the fish cooked through perfectly. We also baked the mini flourless cakes in that manner. Passover was saved! (Martello noted that it was more like a Chanukah rather than a Passover miracle.)

Fish packets in toaster oven

Perfectly cooked fish

Chestnut cupcake

We read from a reproduced (originally wood-cut) haggadah that Martello had purchased in the Jewish Museum in Venice. It was a bit awkward to follow, and we only had one, but we managed to cobble together a decent enough seder over the two nights (the gas would not arrive until Saturday morning as I believed that the stove had come back to life on Thursday after I was able to brew one espresso pot (it psyched me out) and by the time I got to the store on Friday morning, it was too late for afternoon delivery). The moral of the story is to always respect your toaster oven and give it more to do than merely toast bread. It's really very versatile and likes the challenge (perhaps the same thing can be said for God...).

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Feste Time

After several weekends of travel, Martello e Trofie Wife decided to take this last one before Passover easy. Friday night was dedicated to a feste (party; wherein we made the faux pas of bringing the offending Bolognese Lambrusco) for a departing colleague, which gave Trofie Wife (after she reluctantly agreed to leave the house after 11 p.m.) an opportunity to meet more of Martello's co-workers. I admitted that they were a fun bunch, although the mix of English and Italian was a bit dizzying/disarming (while most people speak a mix of both, some Italians and some estrani (well, mostly Trofie Wife) don't have much to offer conversationally in their subordinate language.

We finally made it out late on another rainy Saturday just in time to hit IKEA for a tavola pieghevole (folding table) so Trofie Wife could work and read outside on the rare ocassion when the sun is actually shining! Once finished with the furniture shopping, we went to town at the Swedish market, picking up a bunch of salmon-related products and other assorted treats, including a small portion of reindeer salami (sorry, Rudolph), whose purchase proved that Trofie Wife didn't fall too far from the paternal tree when it comes to culinary curiosity (disappointingly, it did sorta just taste like beef). We returned home to watch Wall*E, which we had managed to miss in both the English- and Italian-language theatres. What a great flick! (I greatly enjoy imitating the robots, especially when dancing with appliances in the kitchen.)

The weekend was rounded out with another feste, a late potluck brunch at the home of another one of Martello's co-workers. As this extremely international group sat around the table conversing in English, Italian, and food (and later moving on to badminton and a pre-downpour stroll), I felt as though I were in a scene out of a slow-paced, subtitled film, sitting in a lovely European backyard, sipping wine and eating cake (including our quickly-conceived and well-received salt-specked chocolate chip cookies (er "biscuits"); someone even requested the recipe!) and discussing all matter of things intellectual and otherwise (yes, I know I sound both snobby and dorky). Our lives felt, and continue to feel, very charmed.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

The Dampness Won’t Dampen Our Plans and Matzah Milanese

The last weekend of March provided a doozy of a downpour. But rather than stay inside all weekend (well, with the exception of Saturday afternoon), we decided to brave the storm and explore more of Genova and Milano. After buying Martello some pants that actually fit, we treated ourselves to a romantic dinner (a belated Valentine's Day meal, if you will; we're slow) at Enoteca Tiflis, a cavernous wine bar and restaurant that's tucked behind Piazza del Erbe and looks like it stepped out from medieval central casting. Unfortunately, the ambiance bested the meal (there was a weird Asian-spice and kebab thing going on), but the wine Trofie Wife selected (a Sangiovese from the Marché region) was divine.

After dinner we skedaddled home so that we could awake along with Euro Daylight Saving Time and make our way to Milano on the early train. Our main goal was shopping for Passover staples coupled with some sightseeing. Of course, the rain persisted, but we trudged on, easily navigating the Milano metro to reach Eretz, one of the city's kosher grocery stores far from the city center. It was quite small but packed with folks of seemingly various levels of observance greeting each other as they shopped for the upcoming holiday. The store had a good mix of products both familiar and new, with most of them coming from either Israel or France (too many of the Italian products weren't Ashkenazi (Eastern European Jewish)-friendly, sigh...). There were no Streits or Manischewitz products in sight (a welcome change), and Martello was in awe of the kosher salami selection (while I was dubious of the faux, fatty beef proscuitto). We carefully curated a selection of light, non-perishable, and "necessary" items, as we would be forced to lug around everything with us all day. We stopped into the adjacent kosher bakery for a donut (Trofie Wife) and teensy tuna and egg sandwiches (Martello), but Trofie Wife shunned their (non-Lavazza) coffee machine for the output of a proper espresso maker elsewhere.

We made our way back to the city center so we could tour the famed Duomo and imposing Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. Due to the rain, we didn't scale the Duomo's roof, but we will be back in order to do so. The pictures really speak for themselves, but the Duomo soars into the sky and all the sculpture bedecking it is intricate and impressive.



Within the Galleria, Martello spotted a sign for a beit midrash (Jewish library) curiously situated above a McDonald's (unfortunately, we couldn't get a good shot of them together in one frame).

Our Sunday brunch was eaten at Obikà, a chic mozzarella bar that recently opened its first New York cafe. We had a sampler of three types of buffalo mozzarella, and Martello enjoyed the lighting fixtures while Trofie Wife was fascinated by the automatic kitchen door that opened and closed with perfect timing (we're a couple of simple pleasures).

Obikà is just one eatery within a giant food court situated diagonally behind the Duomo. Security stopped Martello from taking pictures (likely because we'd use them to open our own trendy food court), but among the ridiculously overpriced grocery items was a limited-edition bottle of Bling H20 (sadly, an American product out of LA; the company decorates frosted glass bottles with Swarovski crystals, pumps in purified water, and then sends the crass item to market) decorated in honor of President Obama and priced at 300 euros!

In the afternoon we attempted to attend a Magritte exhibit at Piazza Reale, but it was the last day of the show and the line was hundreds of people long, though you have to give folks a lot of credit for waiting outside in the rain on a long line to see art; I doubt that happens often in the States. We ended the day with a quick stroll through the Brera neighborhood, a bathroom break at the Castello Sforzesco (maybe we'll go back to actually tour the castle next time), and some excellent gelato at La Bottega del Gelato (pignoli ice cream!). Trofie Wife should add that during our Brera stroll we ran into some animal rights activists. I accepted their flier and read and translated it later in the week, learning all the Italian words related to the importance of spaying and neutering a pet (Martello has taken note of my innovative method of learning the language via protest literature). It's funny, because I remember watching an episode of The Dog Whisperer some years back which featured an Italian man and his Standard Boxer who had moved to Southern Florida. Cesar Millan (ha! Sorta like Milan!) explained to the man that the dog really needed to be neutered if he was going to be properly socialized, and the man insisted that it's just not something that's accepted in the machismo Italian culture. I don't recall where in Italy that man was from, but there's definitely a larger movement abreast here to control the domestic animal population (which includes shipping a number of cane randagi (stray dogs) home with me).

Upon boarding the train for home, Trofie Wife realized that we had arrived and were now departing from either Binario 20 or 21 (21 was the infamous platform (its history soon to be chronicled in a station-based museum) from which Italian Jews were shipped to concentration camps during World War II). If it was in fact 21 on which we traveled, oh the irony that it was now being used as a means of transport to kosher for Passover goods!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Focaccia Triumph

We live in the world center of focaccia production and as such, have grown quite accustomed to its light, perfectly oiled and salted taste. True Ligurian focaccia is nothing like the puffy, Uno pizzeria-like junk found back in the States, which I never much cared for and which Martello even claims he will no longer ingest. Thus, given the fact that our time in Italia is likely half way through, Trofie Wife believed it was important to perfect her focaccia making so that we won't be forced to eat dreck when we settle back home. After one failed attempt at a sweet focaccia (most of the blame can be laid at the foot of the wrong kind of yeast (for angel food cake), purchased in haste back in December), I managed to make a perfectly beautiful tray of normale. So perfect, in fact, that I had to wake up Martello after he had fallen asleep (typical) so he could have a bite.

Below, please see my triumph.



I promise it will not supplant the cupcakes in my repetoire, but I'll try to make it a staple for any future housewarmings, dinner parties, potlucks, or castle stormings.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

The Goats[est] with the Mostest

So for some reason that Trofie Wife still doesn't understand, there is a veritable menagerie across the street from the supermarket shopping center: goats (including some adorable new baby goats); chickens; a confused, oversized duck that looks like he got caught in an oil slick and/or licked a tab of LSD; and a gimpy bunny rabbit (one of his paws is pushed in, perhaps the result of a goat charge). I guess it's the situation of one lone farmer resisting the encroaching development. For a moment or two I thought the animals were actually owed by the commune of Arenzano, serving as a window onto a bygone era, but Martello said that made no sense. Whoever owns them is never amongst them shepherd style, but the animals do receive a steady stream of food from passing grocery workers and children (accompanied by their parents) after school. There's lightly-barbed wire around their stone-enclosed pen, but the mature goats manage to leap up (but, thankfully, not over) the wall to grab the proffered grub.

I have yet to record any viable footage of said goats (who dominate the pen) locking horns and body slamming each other (it's quite a sight), but perhaps Martello (who's looking more and more like a billy goat with his ever-thickening barba (beard) these days) can goad them into a match one weekend afternoon and we'll have something to post.

Nevertheless, I present to you these images:

I have no idea where that sink came from and why it's still there

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife