A cooking class in Italy’s Piedmont wine region might be in a church basement with an ancient stove, or it might be in a swanky classroom—either way it’s better than alright.
Mary Bailey
Pietro picks us up at La Spinetta in a large, cluttered white van. It’s a bit of a production. Our chef instructor can fit only five people in his kitchen so he’s decided to host us in the church. We don’t all fit in the van either — someone from the winery enlists the help of a family member who, in another van, takes the rest of us to the little stone church in Castiglione d’Asti where we’ll cook. We troop down to the basement where we see a long table set up for dinner, a small cluttered kitchen where something already cooking smells wonderful and, in an adjacent room, packages of gluten free pasta, flats of large brown eggs, sacks of tipo “00” flour and a small pasta machine.
The tiny kitchen holds an industrial six burner gas stove, topped with a capacious stock pot coming to a boil; a filled-to-bursting refrigerator; a utility sink. There are bags of corn meal and some gnarly truffles on a cutting board. In the corner is a cardboard box containing several bottles of prosecco, white wine and Pietro’s own Barbera and Moscato. The savoury aroma of roasting meat pricks our appetites. We pour glasses of wine as Pietro empties several bags of cornmeal into the water. I start stirring the polenta.
The tiny kitchen holds an industrial six-burner gas stove, topped with a capacious stock pot coming to a boil; a filled-to-bursting refrigerator; a utility sink. There are bags of corn meal and some gnarly truffles on a cutting board.
My friend Joanne Zinter had been to the International Culinary School (ICF) in Piedmont. Did she know anyone we could take a class with? “Why not Pietro Baldi?” Chef Baldi had been one of her instructors at ICF, but Joanne did not have a current contact for him. I found a few references to Pietro cooking here and there throughout the region; there was an article online by a guy who had cooked with him in his house. I came across someone with the same last name. Maybe they’re related? I email this other Baldi and he replies with a telephone number and email for Pietro. We start chatting back and forth about wine and truffles and cooking. Our schedule is jam-packed with winery visits but we are able to work out a date for Friday night dinner.
That’s how we ended up, on a crisp fall night, in a church basement in Piedmont, cooking with Pietro Baldi. It’s truffle season in Piedmont and our menu takes full advantage of that. Pietro shows us how to clean the precious funghi. A few of the smaller ones turn out to be stones, a lesson to anyone considering buying truffles off the back of a truck. Pietro, who had hunted these himself, is not unduly concerned, we still have enough truffle to blanket the pasta, and then some.
Pietro doesn’t say much although his English is very good. He doesn’t need to. All we need to do is watch as he cuts some veg — effortless. Long practice and his mellow demeanor make it all look so easy.
It’s time to make the tagliatelle. Pietro shows us how to pour the flour on to the table and make a well. Eight eggs are cracked into the well and we mix the pasta by hand. When mixed, we take turns pulling it through the machine attached to the side of the table until the pasta is to Pietro’s satisfaction. The Brads (Lazarenko and Smoliak) are quick to master the pulling and cutting of the tender noodles, which are then spread out on a floured surface to dry.
Our menu starts with the fresh egg tagliatelle with copious shavings of white truffle and parmigiano, then we eat bagna cauda with celery and cardoons, the relative of celery we have seen in the region’s markets. “Bitter, sweet, salty, crunchy, garlicky, yummy!” is how Alison describes the flavours of the warm sauce on autumn vegetables. Next up is the polenta with roasted meat and potatoes—simple, delicious, homey fare. For dessert? Classic Piedmontese bunet, along with Pietro’s moscato, sweet and lightly sparkling.
We help clean up — Joyce and Alison busy at the utility sink tackling the dishes, others clearing the table. We relax with the end of the wine, and laugh about how full we are.
The next morning we head to the centre of Asti to take a cooking class with Enrico Trova at the Scuola di Cucina di Asti. Enrico has a restaurant in Beverly Hills called Trattoria Amici and divides his time between California and his home town of Asti. Michela Rovero from the agriturismo Kirstin had found online, Il Milin, suggested we take a class with Enrico. We find an engaging youngish guy determined to teach us how to make proper gnocchi.
We were not encountering any definitive style of gnocchi in Piemonte. Some were large and floury, some had the texture of little bullets. Some were soft and bland and others had very few ridges, which is the point really, that’s what holds the sauce. We were feeling like the Goldilocks of gnocchi. By the time Enrico put the potatoes on to cook we were wary.
We needn’t have worried. Enrico knows gnocchi.
Definitive style of gnocchi? Some were large and floury, some had the texture of little bullets. Others had few ridges, which is the point really, that’s what holds the sauce. We were feeling like the Goldilocks of gnocchi.
“Have no more than 25 per cent potato,” instructs Enrico.” “Weighing it will give you the best results every time as it takes into account that some potatoes have more or less moisture.” He laughs a bit at our clumsy attempts to establish a rhythm. We make about three to his 10 except for Blair who is a rock n’roll cutting machine. I’m having trouble with the little flick of the wrist to get the gnocchi rolling off the tines of the fork just so.
As the gnocchi dry, Enrico takes us through how to make a proper ragu, starting with the holy trinity of Piemontese cooking: onions, celery and carrot. To this he adds sausage meat and wine, plus some herbs. It’s all about patience he explains, you can’t rush a ragu.
The bunet we make will be simple to replicate at home: cocoa, sugar, eggs, amaretti cookies, rum, easy-peasy.
We roll gnocchi and chat with Enrico about the biggest difference in cooking in California and Piedmont. “The vegetables,” he says. “This time of year I can have so many, even tomatoes and peppers, right out of the ground.” Hail to California.
We have lunch with Enrico in his school — a large arched room filled with light, with an efficient cooking set up, different from our experience last night, yet similar too.
In comes Enrico’s mother to do the dishes. She waves us off, won’t let us help.
As we say goodbye to Enrico and his mother I reflect on how, like wineries, no two cooking classes are alike. The equipment may be the same, the technique and ingredients, even the menu. The experiences were completely different, yet equally valuable.
Our communal experience in the kitchen was the bridge that spanned our differences in language and culture. Not only did Pietro and Enrico share their recipes with us, they opened a window into their region and their lives.
This article was first published May 1, 2011