European

These are an excellent choice for late summer when fresh tomatoes are at their besto.

Every province on the island claims its own version of this ethereal sweet to be the one-and-only true sospirus. The Olienese hand seems the most gentle with them, though. The very old woman from whom I learned to make them shook her small, kerchiefed head throughout the ceremony, moaning, keening, really, that the confections could only be made from the eggs of Sardinian chickens. Her theory, perhaps valid, was that Sard hens feed on myrtle berries and whey from cheesemaking and that these nourishments render the substance of their eggs less viscous and thus better suited to the construction of delicate pastries. All I know for certain is that I can bake gorgeous sospirus with the eggs of Tuscan hens who eat worms and bugs and corn.

Sculpted into the shanks of the Sopramonte in the barbagia is Oliena. And drifting toward it from the Nuorese road at sunset, the golden lamplight of the village bedazzles the mountain, splendoring its old, cold grayness as would the gleams of ten thousand torches. Later, inside the village as we sat with our aperitivi, we told a local man how the approach had pleased us. He said that it was ritual for the Olienesi to walk down from the village at crepuscolo (twilight) turning back to face the mountain as the sun softened, sobered down to sleep, before they strolled back up the hill to suppers. And it is from these romantic Olienesi that was begun the tradition of two celebrated Sard dolci—sebadas and sospirus. Sebadas are typically made with a fresh ewe’s milk cheese cushioned inside leaves of pastry, tumbled into bubbling oil, then given a dose of bitter honey. This version asks for ricotta and mascarpone-plumped pastries to be baked, then given a wisp of a honeyed sheen. Present them after some simple supper, such as mazzamurru (page 233), with a tiny glass of icy Malvasia di Cagliari.

In the south near Cagliari, in the town of Sant’ Elena, is staged a September festival—a tribute to their patroness and a celebration of the vendemmia—the harvesting of the grapes. There are four ascendancies in the week’s pageantry. The ancestral dress of the townsfolk, the great, pendulous, ambered muscat grapes, called zibibbo, with which the whole, humble precinct is festooned, the wine pressed from their honeyed juices, and, finally, the luscious breads baked from zibibbi left to dry and crinkle in the sun. Though the bread is sweetened and ornamented with raisins, it is most compatible with game dishes such as fagiano arrosto alla Saverio di Nulvi, (page 240) or braises such as the cosciotto di maiale al coccio del pastore Sassarese (page 237). We ate pane di zibibbo in Sant’ Elena with the sweet, white flesh of a myrtle-roasted pig. The bread, still warm from the oven, or roasted over a wood fire, makes for a gorgeous fine pasto with a piece of young pecorino and a glass of moscato. I reserve the bread’s golden-crisped fringes for the baker.

Deep in the interior of the island on the fringes of the barbagia is Nuoro. It seemed a cultural suicide, wielded by unsentimental politicos over this past half century, that smote Nuoro’s picturesque and pastoral life. This, the place on Sardegna where Stone Age man first set his fires, the place least contaminated by the passing of the millennia, was swiftly, gracelessly swept away by those compelled to gentrify her. Little has changed about the Nuoresi themselves, though. As best they can midst their fresh new proscenium of concrete, they still dance their simple rhythms, honor legacy and heritage with their reserved sort of gaiety. A sweet—once made only by the Nuorese massaie, farmwives—is now fabricated in crisp, shiny laboratories and sent then, in its handsome trappings and tassels, to elegant shops on the Continent. Still, the women cook their ancestral aranciata at home for feast days, sometimes tucking it into bits of lace, placing little pouches of it at everyone’s place at table, then hiding an old silvered tin of it in the back seat of a new friend’s automobile.

The game birds called grive that are the Sards’ quarry in the macchia are too small to cook over the open fire, hence they are often poached in white wine, then laid to cool on a palette of myrtle leaves and twigs, with a coverlet of yet more of the leaves, all of them scenting the flesh with soft perfumes, a reprise of the machinations of the old bracconiere (page 226). Yet another cunning Sard prescription is to tuck the birds inside a paper or cloth sack fitted with the herbs. By fastening the sack securely, one creates a vaporous chamber in which they rest and cool, breathing in the sweet steam. Lacking myrtle bushes, use whole branches of rosemary and thyme, fat leaves of sage, and the fronds of wild or cultivated fennel as lush surrogate bedding for the little birds. A few cloves of barely crushed garlic seem to invigorate the herbs. Luscious to carry on a picnic, one might prepare the quail—or game hens, a chicken, or a fat capon, adjusting the poaching times accordingly—the evening before, and next day carry along the sack of birds readied for lunch.

The swineherd, like the shepherd, conducts his life significantly all’ aria aperta—out-of-doors. It is there that he naps and forages, tends to his fires, capriciously bathing himself and one part or another of his clothing in an often swift and single maneuver. He might also cook up some wonderfully scented stew of wild mushrooms or one of dried beans and just-gathered grasses and herbs, as supplement to his staples of cheese, honey, bread, and wine. More than once, though, we took note of purposeful midday couriers visiting a swineherd in the pasture, carrying a basket full of components for him to cook a fine feast of a lunch midst his charges and under the sun. We learned, too, that, once in a while, the swineherd cooks for his family, his friends. Here follows a version of a dish as it is prepared by a young Sard herdsman when he slaughters a pig for market. Staging a torchlit supper in his meadow, he braises a haunch of the animal for his neighbors. Its formula was told to us by his wife, she having cooked it for us on the farm where we stayed near Sassari.

A tiny place where once lived the paladins of Sardegna is Orgosolo. Only a decade or so ago did they think it prudent, finally, to wander about the steep, tortured alleyways of their mountain village unadorned with a rifle. Orgosolo is the historic lair of Sard banditismo—banditry. Perhaps the businesses of thieving and buccaneering seem more gainful in Calabria, for now, the only rapscallions left in Orgosolo are the political artists whose bullying, bitter-sermoned murals irritate walls, housefronts, mountain faces. Too, icons are chafed, gastronomically, in Orgosolo, as they are here in this dish, which asks for bottarga as well as pecorino, upsetting the proscription, for a moment, against the mingling of fish and cheese.

The Phoenician port of Karalis is Cagliari and, sitting on the island’s southern verges on the Gulf of the Angels, it seems not of Sardegna. The Sards who live away from the port say it is a place doubled-faced and call the Cagliaritani hollow-hearted. They say Cagliari is of the world and not of Sardegna. Sardi falsi—sham Sards—they are called. Surely discordant, as a city, with the Stone Age commonweal of the island’s interior, Cagliari’s most pleasant quarter seems the one raised up in the serene, medieval tracks of the Pisani. There, embraced by walls, new—as measured in Sard antiquity—one senses, still, some sweet press of sympathy. And it is there on its piazzette, where one can sit under broad, blue-striped umbrellas, to sip at cool Nuragus di Cagliari between melting bites of salty bottarga, the Sards’ caviar. Fashioned from eggs harvested from the cefalo—the gray mullet—the roe sacs are taken whole, compressed under thick hefts of marble, rubbed with unpounded crystals of sea salt, then left to dry on grass mats under the Cagliaritano sun. What emerges after several months of patience is a supple, glossy mass that, when shaved or grated gives up an authoritative yet balmy brininess. In the humblest of osterie as it is in the ristoranti, this bottarga, the Sards’ caviar, is presented with simple adornments. Rather easily hunted up in American specialty stores, look, though, for the bottarga di cefalo rather than the more common, far less delectable, bottarga di tonno, made from eggs of the tuna. Here follows a recipe for a most uncommon, sensual sort of overture to lunch.

A dish old as the ages, one that pungently depicts the Sards’ seminal appetite for the long bathing of fish or game in some puckerish sauce is burrida. Traditionally prepared with gattucci di mare—sea catfish—the sauce is enriched with the pounded raw livers of the fish. Here follows a version using orata—red snapper—or coda di rospo—monkfish—though river catfish can also be called upon with fine result. Present the burrida as an antipasto or a main course to savvy, unshy palates.

There is an ancient and savage imperviousness about la barbagia—the high, central plateaux in the Gennargentu Mountains. The Romans named it barbaria—barbarian—they having muddled all campaigns to vanquish the rough Sard clans who lived there, who live there still. And so it was with all who braved ingress onto their wild moors, into their Mesolithic woods. Of ungenerous earth fit only to pasture sheep and goats, these barbagianesi live simply but somehow not poorly, their uninjured traditions nourishing them as much as the fruits of their hunting and foraging. Too, they are primitive artisans, building, weaving, carving objects of rustic beauty and comfort, enriching their homes and villages, themselves, with a most tender spirit. And riding the thin, tortured roads that thread through the mountains, one is carried back into their unfrayed present. Seeming to seep from the pith of the mountains is the village called Desulo, and there one is greeted by citizens dressed—as they dress always, as they have dressed always—in ancestral costumes of handwoven cloth tinged in the reds and blues and yellows of their allegria, of their perpetual, quiet festival of life. And, too, one might be invited to sit at a family table to eat mutton boiled with wild bay leaves and wrapped in warm, thin breads baked over embers. But this after a great bowl of malloreddus—vitellini—little calves, for which Desulo is famed. Not calves at all but tiny, plump, hand-rolled, saffroned pasta that, to the Sards, resemble fat little heifers.

In the Sard dialect, the town of Villagrande is called Biddamanna. There, a vast parcel of Sard earth is su cumonale—owned by everyone of the community. Shepherds can pasture their sheep, townsfolk can collect wood for their fires, a family can cultivate a small orchard, a garden of vegetables. The Biddamannesi can walk kilometer after kilometer through forests, into the mountains, onto the moors, hunting, foraging, gathering, as they have done forever in this town with no walls, no fences. And, too, they cook for each other over great fires laid in the piazza near the village hall on feast days. Cauldrons of thick soups, mutton poached with wild grasses, and beautiful handmade pastas are offered with baskets of pane carasau and barrels of rough, purply cannonau. Though all Sards seem passionate about making packets of their food, these Biddamannesi seem more devoted, even, to the pursuit. They urge rough doughs into pouches and pillows plumped with all manner of savories and sweets, the bundles tumbled into gurgling oil or baked over wood embers or gently poached. Culingionis are raviolo-like pasta typically stuffed with bitter greens and an acidy, fresh ewe’s milk cheese or a paste of potatoes, nutmeg, cloves, wild mint, and pecorino. Though these are luscious, it is a half day’s ceremony to make them. Hence, I sometimes wrap the good potato paste in a crisp quilting of cheese pastry, a quickly done deed that gives up all the savor of the culingionis plus the prize of a gorgeous scent as the crostata bakes to crispness.

The poorest, perhaps, of all Sard dishes, some version of mazzamurru is often a shepherd’s supper or humble sustenance for a bountyless hunter’s family. Made of whatever stuffs might be at hand, the commonalities of mazzamurru are rich ewe’s milk, some rough bread, and shards of sharp, salty cheese. The ornaments are often a handful of wild grasses or a few sun-dried tomatoes, some olives, a crush of dried herbs. Present the mazzamurru with a bowlful of some simple tomato sauce or, better, no sauce at all, its nakedness tasting of such goodness.