The man next to me had one hand on a red cocktail, the other on a woman who looked exactly like Italian actress Monica Vitti circa 1962.

I asked the bartender for one of each.

Please share with us the when/where/who-with of your first Negroni in the comments section below.

SpagWednesday Week is my video mix of photos taken by Paul Winch-Furness at six SpagWednesday pop-ups organised in London by young&foodish.

The featured guest chefs are Arcangelo Dandini of L’Arcangelo in Rome, Rowley Leigh of Le Café Anglais in London, Giorgio Locatelli of Locanda Locatelli in London, Francesco Mazzei of L’Anima in London,  Tom Oldroyd of the Polpo Restaurant Group in London, Rachel O’Sullivan of Spuntino in London and Massimo Riccioli of La Rosetta in Rome.

Art direction is by the graphic design consultancy Irish Butcher.

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I knew I could count on Melograno Alimentari in Holland Park for the very best Italian meats, cheeses and pasta and Andreas Fine Fruit & Vegetables in Chiswick for the highest quality Italian tomatoes, organic lemons and basil. It was reassuring to learn the chef had packed his own prized guanciale (cured pig’s jows), extra virgin olive oil, dry spices, two hard cheeses and home-grown herbs and tomatoes in his hand luggage.

What I failed to grasp is that “straightforward” is not an Italian word.

Just deciding upon the right spaghetti shape was a nightmare that quickly descended into Italian farce (read more). Much worse, Dandini’s shopping list overlooked one key ingredient:

A sous-chef.

The day before the dinner Dandini’s good friend and right-hand man Mahesh, a Bangladeshi national, was stopped at Gatwick passport control and, after hours of interrogation and delay, sent back to Rome. Dandini rode the airport minicab to Central London accompanied only by his salumeria-in-a-suitcase and growing anxieties. Within 28 hours he would be preparing a dinner, alone, in the unfamiliar kitchen of Andrew’s, an old Gray’s Inn greasy spoon, for 80 strangers.

I put out an urgent call for a replacement sous-chef and Giorgio Locatelli – a name so big even Dandini’s eyes widened when he heard it – saved the day. Ivan Icra Salicru, Locatelli’s secondo, emailed to say he’d spoken to Salvo and that the trusted “rock-and-roller” at Locanda Locatelli would be happy to fill in for Mahesh.

“Happy” is perhaps too strong a word. When, to use his full name, Salvatore Sardo showed up at Andrew’s 90 minutes before showtime he asked me two questions: ‘Where am I?’ and ‘Why am I here?’ Apparently he had not volunteered for the assignment. No, Salvo was planning to spend his night off watching Italian football when he got a text from his boss to be at 160 Gray’s Inn Road at 5pm.

Salvo (above left) was a fitting name for a substitute secondo who saved all. He was an ace under pressure in the kitchen, picking up even the most subtle cues from Dandini and lifting the Roman’s spirits at moments of frustration and, yes, panic. Thanks to this rock-and-roller 80 Londoners got to know the spaghetti alla matriciana regarded by Katie Parla, the journalist/blogger behind the definitive Rome for Foodies dining app, as the best in Rome. Its superiority reflected the cooking philosophy of Rome’s Pope of Pasta as well as fourth-generation restaurateur (L’Arcangelo – via Giuseppe Giaocchinio Belli, 59, Rome) and author of the cookbook Memoria a Mozzichi – “Memory and Small Bites”:

For me food is connected to the memories and aromas of my territory. The quality of the outcome is completely linked to the quality of the raw ingredients. I use pasta extruded through bronze die and cooked al dente, a rather dry guanciale, Pecorino Romano of the highest quality, and, ideally, tomatoes from my mother’s garden. Cooking is about ingredients, not technique.

–  Arcangelo Dandini

If you ask chef Massimo Bottura of Osteria Francescana, just named world’s fifth best restaurant at this year’s World’s Best Awards, the answer is no. Indeed, Bottura goes so far as to suggest Italian grandmothers don’t do Italian grandmother’s food justice.

“Tradition does not respect ingredients,” Bottura explained to me.

My first reaction to Bottura’s heretical statement was one of relief: Relief that he and I were chatting on the breakfast terrace at Vila Joya, a secluded boutique resort in the Algarve, and not at a bustling coffee bar in his native Modena. I’d have feared for our personal safety had his sacrilegious words been overhead anywhere in Italy. Bottura was taking on tradition in our private conversation as he would more dramatically a few hours later with his closing-night tasting dinner at this year’s Portugal International Gourmet Festival.

Don’t panic: Italy’s highest-rated chef and recent recipient of a third Michelin star has not forgotten his roots. The artisan producers and farmers of the Emilia-Romagna region have no greater champion. Ask him what Parmigiano-Reggiano he uses and he’ll talk about the 24, 36, 40 and 50-month old cheeses from Hombre single-owner organic dairy with such affection you half expect him to describe the sleeping patterns of each of the dairy’s Modena White Cows.

Bottura is not rejecting his heritage so much as answering his critics who expect their regional Italian food to be rustic, homey and maternal. He tells me he even finds himself confronting his own mother, who swears her tagliatelle are better than his.

A modernist and kitchen chemist spiritually aligned with Ferran Adrià and Heston Blumenthal Bottura has always kept a clear eye – but never a nostalgic one – on the past. Now he’s put a second one there. “This period of economic crisis is no time for fireworks and magic tricks”, he explains. “It’s time for real things”.

In a style of cooking I call “nouveau retro” Bottura revisits regional and national classics with world-class techniques and ingredients. He insists the grandmother who, according to tradition, dutifully boils her bollito misto – Northern Italy’s legendary “mixed boil” –  is killing off the vitamins and decimating the organoleptic flavour compounds in the meat and vegetables. Can’t argue there: I suspect the average Italian nonna is rubbish at getting her head around organoleptic compounds. His radical response was imagined a long way from home (it’s safer there), on a visit to New York. Lying on the ground at Central Park and staring up at the Manhattan skyline he had a vision for what would become a new signature dish: “Bollito misto not boiled”, a reinvention of a classic gently cooked at 65 degrees (150 degrees Fahrenheit), its vitamins and aromas left intact.

The progression of Bottura’s cooking philosophy is purposefully represented in the autobiographical mouthful, “Compression of my Gastronomic Life in the Shape of Pasta and Bean”.  On his menu at Osteria Francescana he lists the dish, ironically or not, it’s hard to say, as a classic. In Portugal he served this three-layered creation in small glasses. At the base was a crème royale of foie gras representing his French culinary training with Georges Coigny and Alain Ducasse; at the top, an air of rosemary in homage to Adrià. The core had Parmigiano-Reggiano crusts standing in for maltagliati (“badly cut”) pasta in a pig-skin-enriched pasta e fagioli (“pasta and beans”), the hearty bean stew emitting call-to-home fragrances from every other open kitchen window in Italy.

“I’ve compressed my grandmother”, Bottura told me rather proudly as he illustrated the dish in my memo pad.

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The pasta e fagioli I tried that night in Portugal was unquestionably the best I have ever had – or might ever have. Still, something other than pasta was missing. The soul maybe? The thrill of discovery felt by a student on his first trip to Italy? To explain my thinking I reminded Bottura of the utter joy felt by the boy in Vittorio De Sica’s film “The Bicycle Thief” when treated to a slice of pizza by his destitute father. Bottura nodded and smiled. Surely he couldn’t match the emotion of that pizza with kitchen wizardry alone. Or could he?

Bottura closed the dinner – and the festival – by turning what he regards as the world’s most snobby food, foie gras, into an ice cream lolly dipped in hazelnuts. He injected the lollies with aged Villa Manodori Balsamic vinegar. Bottura himself produces this vinegar in very small quantities matured in oak, chestnut and juniper barrels.

When I told Bottura I loved his foie gras ice cream-on-a-stick he seemed pleased enough. But when I added a single detail, that the Villa Manodori had dripped down like syrup onto my hands, compelling me to lick the prized 40-year-old Balsamic off my fingers, the three-star chef looked happy: Happy as a young boy from Modena in his grandmother’s kitchen.

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I don’t look at Massimo Riccioli of Rome’s la Rosetta and see only a truly great chef. I follow his outsized gestures, expressions and whimsy and see a comedian, a throwback to the stars of classic Italian cinema. I imagine a first-name celebrity: Say only Massimo and it can mean only Riccioli.

I was deeply disappointed by the news that Massimo had left Massimo, the glitzy London restaurant and oyster bar at the ritzy Corinthia Hotel. But I am grateful that before returning to Rome he revealed to me a secret to his culinary stardom as well as a hope for the future.

So what secret did I learn from the consummate Italian seafood chef who, though a fusspot for simplicity, can’t manage in the kitchen with only one all-purpose fish stock?

Did I ask him why he bothers matching fish stocks to the specific fish they enrich (e.g. a mackerel stock only for mackerel dishes?)  No, I am not about to stock my fridge with a variety of single-fish fish stocks, no matter how convincing his reasoning.

Did I ask him about his sublime formula for pasta al nero di seppia (in cuttlefish ink), as the slideshow above might lead you to guess? No, I assumed the zesty tang from the sprinkling of grated Pecorina Romano did the trick, in open defiance of the no-cheese-with-seafood rule, and did not prod any further.

I chose instead to direct my question to his creative vision:

Where, Massimo, did you get your eyeglass frames?

Massimo smiled, pulled the blocky black frames from his face and examined the printing on the inside of their temples. The act was pointless and Massimo knew it. The tiny inscriptions are impossible to read without glasses. The frames, he revealed, were knockoffs of a model by a famous British designer.

As I scribbled his answer word-for-word Massimo realised he’d made mistake which, back home in Rome, might have dire consequences.

“No, no, no,” he said. The frames were in fact originals from Mondelliani (Via dei Bergamaschi 49, Rome). Mondelliani co-founder Rosaria Riccioli is, in addition to being Rome’s first name in eyeglass design, Massimo’s sister.

Her brother the chef/comedian hopes to be back in London, possibly to prepare simpler, trattoria fare. But at the moment his greatest wish of all is that his sister Rosaria does not see this post.

For the alla matriciana sauce I could depend upon Andreas Georghiou of Andreas Fine Fruit & Vegetables to find 20 kilos of the highest quality Italian tomatoes in two varieties, pomodori a grappolo and pachino.

The request from the Eternal City’s pope of pasta for 7 kilos of either spaghettoni (thick spaghetti) or bucatini (thick spaghetti with a hole running through the center) by Pasticio dei Campi was an auspicious one: First, Giuseppi di Martino, the owner of that great Gragnano pasta house, is my go-to expert on all matters related to pasta. We tweet back and forth on a regular basis. Secondly, my good friend Dino Joannides stocks a full line of Pasticio dei Campi pasta at Melograno Alimentari, London’s most uncompromising Italian deli. I was certain the pasta would be an easy get.

First thing I did was contact di Martino for advice:

“Giuseppe,” I said, “Dandini wants either your spaghettoni or your bucatini for his alla matriciana. Which one should I get?”

“Get spaghettoni,” replied di Martini, “only Dandini doesn’t want our spaghettone. He wants our Vermicelli di Gragnano.”

“Vermicelli? Are you sure? Aren’t those the thin rice noodles the Chinese put in their soups?

“No. Our vermicelli is thick spaghetti.”

Reassured by one of Italy’s great pasta experts I called Joannides and ordered 7 kilos of bucatini. I wasn’t taking any chances. What kind of bucatini does Dandini want, asked Joannides? The kind we sell at the deli or the longer-cooking one Pasticio dei Campi supplies to restaurant chefs?

Shit!

I called back di Martino and asked him to contact Dandini, who does not speak English, and find out exactly what the chef wants. 15 minutes later de Martino got back to me.

“Dandini wants linguine.”

“LINGUINE?! He told me he wanted spaghettoni or bucatini. Plus it’s a SpagWednesday. We can’t have linguine. Linguine is flat”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.”

No you won’t. I sent a panic email to Katie Parla, the Rome-based food journalist and historian who had convinced Dandini to do the pop-up dinner:

“Giuseppe tells me by spaghettoni Dandini means Vermicelli di Gragnano and also that there are two bucatinis, a longer-cooking one for restaurants and a shorter cooking one mostly for home use and that only one is distributed to UK.  I’m worried: isn’t vermicelli that thin stuff in Asian soups?”

Her reply:

“You definitely want thick spaghetti, not vermicelli for this dish.”

I reread her message and thought, you’re not helping, Katie. Just as I was about to call Dino and ask him to change my order from vermicelli to chef’s bucatini, which he would need to order from Naples, Katie sent me this follow-up message:

“Nevermind. I was going on my Italian-American vermicelli definition, which has a 1.75mm diameter. Instead (obviously) Giuseppe is correct and his vermicelli are thicker than spaghetti, with a 2.1mm diameter. They will be perfect.”

With the matter of the spaghetti settled I thought I’d better check on the to-mah-toes. Or do you say to-may-toes?

8. Lady and the Tramp

7. Miseria e Nobiltà (Misery and Nobility)

 
6. The Odd Couple

5. Saps at Sea

. 4. Big Night

3. The Gold Rush

2. The Apartment (Italian version)

1. The Cook

slideshow photos by Paul Winch-Furness

Great fan though I am of Polpo, Polpetto and their new sibling sensation Spuntino, Wednesday the 13th of April was probably not the best night to be dining at any of these madly popular restaurants in London’s Soho. That’s because Spuntino head chef Rachel O’Sullivan and group chef Tom Oldroyd took that afternoon and night off to prepare 350+ meatballs for my SpagWednesday meatballs and spaghetti pop-up dinner (see photos above by food photographer Paul-Winch Furness) at the Gray’s Inn greasy spoon Andrew’s.

Rachel and Tom sent out heaping plates of spaghetti and meatballs with wedges of focaccia to 66 SpagWednesday twirling slurpers who did with it what SpagWednesday twirling slurpers do: They ate like kids and dined like princes.

Although some Italian purists insist you shouldn’t serve bread with pasta, piling starch upon starch, the Spuntino chefs concluded that the far greater crime would have been to leave a roomful of urbane Londoners with traces of homemade tomato sauce on their plates but no bread with which to mop it up. The only viable alternative would have been for diners to use their fingers, which, though hardly unheard of at young&foodish pop-ups, is perhaps not the preferred medium.

Don’t miss out on the fun at my next pop-up. Join the young&foodish community now and as a member you’ll receive email alerts about upcoming SpagWednesday and BurgerMonday pop-ups as well as advance booking privileges.