TAKING 'DIET' OUT OF THE MEDITERRANEAN DIET
In terms of cuisine, cooks are thinking about reaching for olive oil, in the Southern style, rather than butter, more traditional up North.
We've been dining daily on a diet of grilled fish, chicken and meat, with a slice of lemon to dress it. The salads are light and fresh, and without a hint of mayo or salad cream. We see Parmesan optional on the table, and the occasional ball of buffalo mozzarella, plus the local ewes' milk cheeses, and Pecorino Romana. Risotto is served plainly with grilled mushrooms, or seafood, but doesn't seem to have the handful of Parmesan and large dollop of butter which I usually use to finish off my dish at home. We had the most divine frittata yesterday: thinly sliced zucchini, sauteed, and bound together with the lightest of egg bases, nothing like the chunky wedges of potato-cheese-and-onion dishes which I make, a bit like high-cholesterol doorstops.
I love the fact that salt and pepper do not appear on the table. Trust chef.
How can this be called a 'diet'? I understand that the word 'diet' can mean (1) the foodstuffs used by a particular culture or population, in addition to (2) low calorie, healthy, weigh-loss menus. I think the word 'diet' makes you feel like you are going to suffer, somehow, or do without. It implies that you must bring a calculator to the dinner table, and pine for things in the middle of the night, lying awake, glassy-eyed at 3 a.m., dreaming of a 'fridge raid. I think Mediterranean Lifestyle might be a bit more helpful and a little less stoical, and a lot easier to stick to for the long haul.
There have been fresh figs for breakfast each morning: giant soft green, nearly the size of tennis balls, and so tender, it seems you could cut them with a feather, before gently peeling them backwards and eating them without the need for cutlery. I was thinking of all the ways to play with theses figs in the kitchen: grilling, poaching, dotting with butter and stuffing with cheeses and drizzling with honey and spices. I asked in the kitchen if they ever grill their figs and they looked at me a bit oddly, and I did feel a bit foolish. When it's fig season, have figs. When you have a lot of figs, make jam. Life can actually be that uncomplicated, if you want it to be. Each morning different fruit appeared: golden plums, nectarines, pineapple, more figs. A wedge of melon appeared on an antipasti platter before the main course. Who says fruit must always come at the end? We drove past the market square one morning and were curious to see the huge market day lorry being unloaded. Enormous watermelons were piled precariously high in the early morning sunshine, and all sorts of interesting-looking crates and boxes were being brought out, a veritable toy store for me to play in when we have made the move, and put our suitcases away for good.
There was a wedding at the hotel, while we were there. They host large functions here on a regular basis, so there was a confident, assured pace about the place as the preparations progressed. There are two grills in the kitchen - one on each floor - and these are used quite frequently during the week as well as for their big functions.
There was such charm about this wedding; I was entranced. Tables were laid out across the entire terrace - each with an exquisite view of the surrounding hills. Simple glass jars held simple floral arrangements, and the cream white and green colour scheme blended effortlessly into the scenery. There was nothing strident about this affair. Guests made their appearances, smiling and laughing, dressed comfortably for the summer heat. Children giggled and ran about. Nobody suffered in a too-tight rental suit; no one struggled with tight waistbands and tiny pointless hats. There was a live band with wedding classics, which from my bedroom window may not have been ideal, but I've no doubt that for the guests on the terrace, with champagne in hand and blessed with an amber sunset mellowed into a haze of food, and wine, and dancing, and romance.
We were offered the wedding starter course: a choice of either a mixed fish, or meats platter. The fish option was simple but elegant, a composed platter of calamari, oysters, mussels, scampi, very thinly sliced salmon, and a white flatfish I couldn't identify. It was all set off with a single slice of lemon and a leaf of radicchio. I'm sorry I didn't have my camera to take a picture for you; I didn't want to intrude on their party. I love the idea that, on a festive occasion, it doesn't mean you have to have food that isn't good for you. I think that somehow the British and American cultures have got this sort of mixed up idea that treat food, and party food, has to be unhealthy food, that something can only be celebratory if it's got mayonnaise on it, is deep-fried, includes a crust on it, or has chips on the side.
Perhaps the Italians have such a great pride in their own regional cuisines- their incredibly ancient cuisines- that they haven't felt the need to adopt all of the rubbishy food trends lurching over here from America. It's encouraging. It's inspiring. It genuinely makes me feel like we're headed off in the right direction by moving here, opting for sunshine, fresh air and a slice of lemon, and leaving the Great British Breakfast behind.
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