Palladian Days Read online

  “Can we find local families to host forty-five young college women?” I ask, calculating that Carl and I can host five ourselves.

  “Yes, of course,” he replies after only a moment's hesitation. He speaks with a lot more confidence than I feel myself. Nonetheless, we agree to proceed: Piombino Dese will be the final stop on the RCS European tour.

  I phone my friends in Piombino Dese and encourage them to open their homes; Sergio's organization contacts others. We exchange and coordinate our lists. Francesca Scquizzato commits to host four singers; Livio Formentin, Ernesto's brother, also takes four; Nazzareno Mason, Silvana's uncle, accepts two. A number of people I don't know join in as well. More quickly than I ever expected, the housing seems in place.

  Sergio's Pro Loco handles publicity for the concert, though little is needed. Every family in town is hosting someone or knows someone who is. Manifesti appear in every shopwindow Genuine anticipation is afoot in the town.

  The day of their arrival dawns, but we are in the grip of the

  Sawdust-Pile Effect. The RCS bus pulls into the piazza at the municipio in the midst of a steady gray downpour. The square is jammed with the cars of host families come to collect their guests. Chaos reigns as we shuffle about under umbrellas, assigning students to hosts and trying to keep track of who has been sent where. We set a rendezvous time for the following morning. The choir's director Jameson Marvin and his associate director, together with three singers, come home with Carl and me.

  Over glasses of prosecco and bites of sweet Asiago cheese, we share a hope that no student will go to bed hungry because she and her host family could not communicate the word for supper. We also discuss backup strategy in case the rain continues. Don Aldo, happy to learn that the RCS tour began at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris and might end in his own parish church, has confirmed that the church sanctuary is available as an alternative site.

  When the singers convene at the villa Saturday morning, ducking inside to escape the continuing rain, we give them a quick tour. We also explain how to catch a train into Venice from the station just one block away. Because they will have only a few hours available for touring Venice, I distribute “A 6o-Second Guide to Venice” (included as an appendix, on page 263), which Carl has prepared for the occasion.

  By midafternoon the continuing rain makes it clear that an outdoor concert will be impossible. Carl and I take Jim Marvin and his associate to the church to review the layout and acoustics. After testing the liveliness of the acoustics, Jim makes the remarkable decision to place his singers four feet from one another in a vocally heterogeneous mix, a first soprano standing next to a first alto or a second soprano, and so on.

  All forty-eight singers troop into the sanctuary at 8:00 p.m. and begin warming up their voices. Goose bumps cover my arms, so ethereal and beautiful is their sound. The repertoire being primarily Renaissance a capella works, the singers’ tones reverberate from the marble, granite, and brick surfaces like palpable acoustic jewels.

  During the concert, each woman sings confidently and with a sweet tone; vibrato is at a minimum, and the sound produced is a miracle of clarity, pitch, and phrasing. Into my mind pops the image of The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa in the Cornaro Chapel in Rome. The audience of six hundred, completely filling the church, feels the same intimation of perfection. Don Aldo does as well. He springs to his feet at the conclusion, exclaiming, “Come angeli, voi cantate come angeli! Like angels, you sing like angels!”

  39

  The Perfect Risotto

  Rice vs. potatoes. The controversy has loomed larger in our marriage than any dispute over the Civil War (or, as Carl's mother explained to me, the War of Northern Aggression). When Ashley was ten years old and we were discussing her school assignment, she asked, “Daddy, why did we lose the Civil War?”

  I interrupted. “What do you mean, we lost the Civil War?”

  “Well,” she clarified, pausing only briefly, “Daddy and I lost the Civil War.”

  Potatoes appeared nightly on our New Hampshire dinner table when I was growing up. Whether because of my parents’ dietary preferences or their cities of origin—Muskogee, Oklahoma; and Edinburgh, Scotland—or because my mother believed potatoes had more nutritional value than rice, we ate potatoes: baked, mashed, hash brown, pan-roasted.

  Carl, growing up in South Carolina, ate enough rice and gravy to fill Colonial Lake—Uncle Ben's rice, with thick, calorie-laden gravy. His mother, as expert at southern cooking as Francesca Scquizzato is at Italian, taught me how to make a good gravy during the Christmas holidays following our June wedding. (The temperature in Charleston hit 720 on Christmas Day, and I wondered if I'd made a mistake marrying a southerner.) Nonetheless, I rarely prepare rice and gravy, assuring Carl that the extra ten thousand calories are bad for him. The real reason I don't fix rice and gravy is that I don't like rice and gravy.

  Risotto, more valuable than a marriage counselor, is a delicious and creative combination of a special kind of rice and almost any other ingredients you want. The ubiquitous specialty appears on most restaurant menus and in every home in northern Italy. It has become a “community” dish in my mind because its preparation requires constant stirring; if guests or family want another dish served in addition to risotto, they must join me in the kitchen and stir, keeping me company while I prepare something else. “What's your favorite Italian food?” ask many American friends. “What do you eat over there?” What we eat most often is one version or another of risotto.

  I decide to embark on a quest for The Perfect Risotto, determined to pin down the best recipe in the entire Veneto and disseminate it to our U.S. friends. Note to diary: Print risotto recipe on Christmas card? Armed with curiosity, paper, pencil, and Italian friends possessed of great culinary skills and vast imaginations, I sally forth to learn The Truth about risotto.

  But it's not that simple, I find, when I begin polling my favorite Italian cooks. So much is a matter of individual taste—that, and how your mother prepared risotto.

  The essential risotto is made by sauteing a chopped onion in oil and/or butter; adding condiments, rice, and broth; then crowning the creation with butter and Parmesan cheese. But that is like saying that a Palladian villa is composed of bricks and intonaco, or that a Monteverdi madrigal consists of notes and staves. While each of my friends indulges personal idiosyncrasies in risotto preparation, five areas of agreement emerge from my sleuthing:

  Use a large, heavy pot (to distribute the heat evenly) and a wooden spoon (so that you don't break the grains of rice).

  Use carnaroli rice rather than arborio. Carnaroli is harder to find in the United States, but it remains al dente longer, especially if you plan to have leftovers. (I have used Uncle Ben's rice several times when desperate; the result is a tasty rice dish but not risotto.)

  Use your own homemade broth prepared from pieces of chicken and/or beef bones, plus an onion, a carrot, celery, perhaps a tomato. For a vegetable broth, omit the meat ingredients. (You can substitute a good prepared bouillon simmered several hours with an onion, a carrot, parsley, and herbs, but there will be some loss of quality.) Keep your broth simmering throughout the risotto preparation.

  Grate your Parmesan just before you need it. Never use the grated cheese that comes in plastic containers from your supermarket deli. (No Italian market would even offer such a corruption.)

  At the conclusion of your risotto, when the rice is still firm and you've added the last scoop of broth, the final two tablespoons of butter, and the grated Parmesan, let the risotto “rest” for two minutes, covered in the pot, before transferring it to a serving dish; this enhances the flavor and the creaminess.

  Silvana's squash risotto is my favorite riso dish in all the world, perhaps because it is as beautiful as it is delicious. A rich golden-orange risotto della zucca is made not with zucchini but with a winter squash—Hubbard or turban—or even with pumpkin itself. Silvana always prepares her own broth.

  SILVANA's SQUASH RISOTTO />
  1 winter squash

  1/4 cup finely minced yellow onion

  1/2 teaspoon minced garlic

  4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  6 to 8 cups rich vegetable broth, heated to simmering

  2 cups carnaroli rice

  Salt and pepper

  3 tablespoons grappa or brandy 2 tablespoons butter

  2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

  2 tablespoons chopped parsley

  Peel the squash and cut it up into pezzettini (small pieces). Saute the onion and garlic in the olive oil over low-medium heat until soft; add the squash cubes and V4 cup of the vegetable broth. Simmer until the squash is soft, about 15 minutes.

  Raise the heat to medium-high. Add the rice, stir well, and keep stirring until the mixture absorbs the liquid and begins to stick to the pan. Then begin adding 1/2 cup of broth at a time, stirring until the liquid is absorbed. Continue the cycle for 18 to 20 minutes, until the rice is tender but not mushy, creamy but not runny. Taste for texture; add salt and pepper if needed.

  Remove from the heat. Stir in the grappa, butter, Parmesan, and chopped parsley. Let sit covered for two minutes before serving. Una meraviglia!

  Carl's favorite risotto is Wilma's risotto agli asparagi. Wilma says to use green asparagus, not white, when making soup or risotto, because green creates a more intense flavor.

  WILMA's ASPARAGUS RISOTTO

  6 to 8 cups rich vegetable or chicken broth, heated to simmering

  1 pound green asparagus

  4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  1 small yellow onion, minced

  2 cups carnaroli rice

  ⅔ cup dry white wine

  2 tablespoons butter

  Salt and pepper

  ⅔ cup grated Parmesan cheese

  Break off and discard the tough bottom ends from the asparagus, then wash the stalks well and cut them into one-inch pieces. (If the stalks are very thick or not very fresh, be sure to peel them and, in the next step, saute a few minutes longer.)

  Heat the olive oil in a heavy pot and saute the onion over low heat. When the onion is soft, add the asparagus and continue sauteing for 6 to 8 minutes.

  Turn the heat to medium-high. Add the rice and mix well. Add the white wine and let the rice absorb it. Add 1/2 cup of the simmering broth. Stir, letting the rice absorb all the liquid until the mixture begins to stick to the bottom of the pan. Then add more broth. Repeat this sequence of adding broth and stirring continuously until the rice is the proper texture. Approximately 18 minutes after you add the rice, the risotto will be almost done. Test to be sure the rice is al dente but not too firm. Stir in a final 1/2 cup of broth if needed.

  Remove from the heat, stir in the butter, the salt and pepper if needed, and the Parmesan. Cover the pan and let rest for 2 minutes. Buon appetito!

  Wilma also makes a memorable asparagus soup. Begin by sauteing raw potato cubes with the onion and asparagus, she says. When they are tender, puree the mixture, add 4 cups of rich chicken broth, simmer a few minutes, and finish by adding a little milk and butter. Che buono!

  Marina Bighin one night served us a primo piatto of scrumptious risotto created from the most unlikely pairing of vegetables: eggplant and zucchini. I like eggplant in any form whatsoever—broiled, fried, souffleed, stuffed—but this was my first eggplant risotto. It's so delicious, I'll have to call it:

  MARINA's RISOTTO

  1/2 cup finely chopped yellow onion

  3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  l eggplant, peeled and cubed

  1 zucchini, cubed

  5 to 7 cups vegetable broth, heated to simmering

  2 cups carnaroli rice

  3 tablespoons good grappa or brandy

  2 tablespoons butter

  ⅔cup grated Parmesan cheese

  Saute the onion in the olive oil over low heat until it is soft. Add the cubed eggplant and zucchini to the saute, along with 4 cup of the broth.

  After five minutes, raise the heat to medium-high and add the rice. Stir until the rice has absorbed the liquid. Add the grappa. Stir until all the liquid is absorbed. Then add another 1/2 cup of the broth, stirring well until the mixture almost sticks to the pan. Repeat this process of adding broth and stirring for about 18 minutes, then taste for texture.

  When the rice is almost ready, al dente and not too soft, remove it from the heat and add one final 1/2 cup of broth, the butter, and the Parmesan. Stir well and cover. Let the risotto rest for 2 minutes, then serve. O mamma mial

  My first risottos were prepared only with butter, no oil, because of a risotto book I found at a remainder sale.

  Silvana saw me making a butter-only risotto one day and objected, “O, Sally, burro e troppo pesante! Butter is too heavy.” So now, with most risottos, I use good olive oil for the sauteing part, adding butter only at the end.

  Several friends, Irene among them, insist on beginning a risotto with half butter, half oil. Beginners might start with this compromise mixture; later they can decide what they prefer in their own risotto.

  I've included some more favorite recipes from my Piombino Dese friends in an appendix at page 253.

  40

  Authority

  The train station in Piombino Dese is one long block from the villa. Trains leave hourly for the forty-minute ride into Venice. Once, twice, or even three times a week Carl and I become famished for the myriad flavors of the lagoon city, so we catch the 8:30 a.m. train for a morning in town. We return to Piombino Dese about 2:00 p.m. for a late lunch and a brief riposo.

  Many of our fellow passengers on the early train are students at the University of Venice. Like most Italian universities, the University of Venice is a commuter school, drawing students from their homes throughout the eastern Veneto. Many students are already aboard when the train pulls into Piombino Dese; others board at each of the six stops into the city. They are easily recognizable by their youth, their books and large portfolios, their chatter and easy camaraderie. Some mornings we spot the children of friends in the crowd, and they break away to come and converse with us as we wait on the train platform.

  One such young friend tells us that her professor, learning that she is from Piombino Dese, has expressed an interest in visiting Villa Cornaro. We encourage her to bring her professor for tea. She arrives at 4:00 p.m. on the date agreed, in the company of both her professor and his wife. The professor is a charming, ebullient gentleman. I have anticipated his visit with great interest because he is a noted authority on Roman and Renaissance art and architecture. Perhaps I can pry from him some insights into our beloved villa.

  In a most engaging manner, the professor lectures to us nonstop for three hours as we walk through the villa and then sit for tea on the south portico. His discourse combines the interesting, the possible, and the improbable, all delivered with equal certainty and enthusiasm. Among the books he has written is one on the evolution of Italian gardens through the past four hundred years. He urges us to remove our small pots of begonias lining the south entrance steps and to install large pots of lemon trees in rows through the park leading to the bridge.

  “Begonias,” he says disparagingly, “entered Italy only in 1927. They have no place at this ancient monument.” Lemon trees, he assures us, will survive Venetan winters if we move them in the fall to a sheltered spot on the southwest corner of the villa and cover them with heavy plastic. Carl and I have discussed installing lemon trees in the past, but worry that Ilario would have trouble wrestling five-hundred-pound pots to their winter shelter.

  The bridge at the far side of the park, the professor informs us, originally had a “parapet,” or low wall, along both sides; he delivers this pronouncement as we drink tea on the south portico. He has not walked out to the bridge to examine its edges, nor does he suggest any possibility that his statement is a hypothesis. In physically examining the bridge later, Carl and I can find no trace of lost parapets.

  Our visitor assures us that the spaces between
the side columns on the south portico are 11/2 times the diameter of the column bases. This, he says, is based on his study of Roman houses. I refrain from mentioning that I have measured these spaces; they are precisely 21/4 times the diameter of the column bases, just as Palladio recommends in the first of his Four Books:

  The ancients … approved of those intercolumniations that were of two diameters and a quarter, and they reckoned this a beautiful and elegant manner of intercolumniations.

  No one knew who painted the frescos of our villa until 1950, when Nicola Ivanoff, a Russian scholar, discovered the original signed contract between the artist and his patron, Andrea Cornaro. The contract from 1716 lay among those thousands of cartons of documents in the archives of the Museo Correr in Venice that I still puzzle over. Young Mattia Bortoloni, the contract revealed, was paid four hundred ducats for painting 104 frescos and several doors throughout the villa.

  Twenty-five years after Ivanoff's discovery, Douglas Lewis returned to the same trove to uncover a whole range of further findings that had eluded Italian scholars through centuries of commentary on Palladio and the villa. Doug demonstrated that Villa Cornaro was not a construction of the 1560s as previously maintained, but rather a design of 1551—and therefore perhaps Palla-dio's earliest major villa for a Venetian patron. The redating significantly affects the view of Palladio's artistic development.