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Report 1436: New Year's in Recanati

By Gail Spilsbury from USA, Winter 2007

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Page 1 of 3: New Year's Eve

Recanati

At New Year’s time, the rolling green farmland in Italy’s Marche region shimmers in winter light, accented by shadows from cypress, pine, and olive trees. Traveling east to Recanati from Umbria, country roads wind through mountains and valleys with views of ancient hilltowns, castles, quaint villages, and immaculately cultivated fields. The snow-capped Monti Sibillini frame the picture, and as if this were not enough scenery for the beholder, the drive culminates at the Adriatic coast, where vast, refreshing surf reflects the cloud-scattered blue sky.

A few kilometers from the Port of Recanati (Portorecanati), the terracotta hill town Recanati stretches along a ridge, as if its buildings followed every curve, descent and rise of the original terrain. Few medieval hilltowns can compete with Recanati’s degree of preservation. It would be hard to find a brick or cobblestone out of place, and city pride marks every church and palace facade, every historic door, residence, and charming archway.

I have come to Recanati for a New Year’s cenone (big dinner) at Saverio and Emanuela Cinti’s fifteenth-century home, located at one end of the hilltop town; at the opposite end lies an even older quarter that includes the house and library of Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837), one of Italy’s greatest poets. The acclaimed tenor, Beniamino Gigli (1890–1957), also harks from Recanati.

In keeping with the town’s preservationist spirit, the Cinti’s home was renovated in 1993 with museum quality. Its vaulted brick ceilings on the two principal floors are the works of art that dominate the home’s ambiance, with simple, white plaster walls and artisanal floor tiles reinforcing this decor of history and elegance. Every modern convenience is in the house, as are choice antiques, but it is the structure’s historic beauty that has been honored above all else. A hidden elevator in an alcove by the kitchen runs from the garage level to the two floors inhabited by the Cintis, and on to the palatial, wood-beamed attico, where Emanuela’s octogenarian mother Mary lives.

Le Marche is known for excellent food and wine, and the Cinti household at New Year’s time proves a splendid incarnation of local traditions. Emaneula is a superb cook, but occasionally calls out to her mentor mother: “Mamma, how do you cook such and such?” Mary’s mind is a culinary encyclopedia, although her recipes and historical information are passed down orally. Luckily her granddaughter Francesca Cinti, a fourth year medical student, also likes to cook and will carry the family recipes into the next generation.

The three dinner tables are laid with delicate, gold-dusted ornaments, and Christmas trees decorate both levels of the house. The guests include family and a few close friends, such as Claudio, who shared the same banco (desk) with Saverio from age eleven until high school graduation. “Every day after school I went to his house to study and the next day he came to my house to study. We were together all the time, and also with a bit of competition between us,” white-mustached Saverio tells me with gray-haired Claudio smiling on. They are still ragazzi. Two of Saverio’s sisters have come from Verona for the party, and Emanuela’s brother from Rieti, all of them with their spouses. Emanuela’s business partner Stefano is present and one of her oldest girlfriends Loretta. Saverio and my father worked closely as doctors in Boston several decades before, and over the ensuing years kept up their friendship, of which I am now the beneficiary.

When I arrive in the vaulted, central nave of the house, which is larger than all the bedrooms lining it, guests are drinking Berlucchi Spumante and nibbling platters of fancy hors d’oeuvres spread out on a table. Emanuela is nowhere in sight, because the kitchen and dining room are on the lower level. With his usual grace and effervescence, Saverio shows me the printed program for the evening: aperitif until 9:30, antipasti until 10:00, Marche’s famous brodetto (fish stew) until 10:30, salads until 11:00, and desserts until close to midnight. All of these courses come with expertly selected wines. Saverio’s sister, Simonetta, tells me about her husband Gianni’s gift for wine tasting: “He learned everything from his father, and the two of them could wear blindfolds and tell you where the wine is from, what grape it is, and its year.” Gianni’s wizened face leans in to add, “My father could do that; I can do that only for the Veneto.” Gianni has brought prized wines for the meal and they taste like ambrosia. The evening’s program extends past midnight, with time set aside for a view of fireworks from the balcony, then cards until four in the morning, and finally “after hours” until seven a.m., at which time any diehards still awake will be offered cappuccino. Indeed, I’m told the next day that most of the Cinti siblings were up playing cards until four. I wonder if between hands they also prepared for the tantalizing New Year’s Day feast that most of us all returned to enjoy.

During the luxuriant New Year’s Eve meal, Emanuela spent most of the time in the kitchen getting out the courses; but she had helpers at every stage, something I’ve noticed in other Italian homes. Certain guests or family members become the chef’s helpers at critical moments. Even in my own home, one or more Italian guests will materialize at my elbow when it’s time to drain and serve the pasta. No questions asked, they just pitch in knowing their helper’s role from long tradition. At Italian tables, guests are told to begin eating as soon as they’re served, while the food is hot and tastiest. To get the steaming brodetto to the table, both Saverio and Claudio wore aprons and moved from kitchen to dining room. This main course, chock full of succulent seafood, had to be eaten partly with the fingers in order to open the more resistant crustaceans. Each mouthwatering bite brought rounds of humming gratitude from the diners. The fragrant stew had followed antipasti of plump, marinated anchovies and a seafood salad, as if to pave the way for the pesce de résistance. Two more salads followed the brodetto, but only after guests had refilled their bowls with the red-soaked stew of mussels, clams, scampi, crayfish, cockles, and other fleshy fish. The Marche coast is rich in such seafood and Porto of Recanati holds a brodetto festival every June. Although the soup is now considered a culinary treat, it was once the sustenance of poor fishermen. Their unsold catch went into the daily soup pot.

Two desserts were served: cicerchiata and pandoro (golden bread) with a heavenly cream and mascarpone sauce. Claudio, who bicycles and works out in the gym every day, declined the pandoro, “You know what that is, don’t you?” he said to me, “Calories, it’s all butter.” Yes, but to be eaten once a year, I smiled to myself as Loretta on my right ladled creamy tiramisu sauce over my slice of cake. With each forkful I tried to taste the butter in the delicious leavened dough. Traditional to central Italy, the second cicerchiata dessert would make children’s eyes bulge with desire, for it looks like a sticky-sweet scoop of puffed cereal. In fact, balls of dough the size of beads fry in oil until golden, after which a sugary glaze envelopes them. A few days before, at an agriturismo near Naples, I had sampled a similar holiday dessert called struffolo, coated with honey and orange marmalade made on the farm. Again, as if with children in mind, sprinkles decorated the confection. “Does the cicerchiata mean anything?” I asked. All eyes turned to Mary, who had the answer ready, “It comes from cicerchia (grass pea), which is grown in here.” Emanuela produced a bag of cicerchia from the kitchen and the dried legume resembled broken bits of chick peas.

Exclusive wines accompanied every course, with Gianni and Claudio expatiating on their regional history and special qualities (see the wine list on page three). When they finished, Saverio told me that when Italians get together for a meal, it wouldn’t be complete if they didn’t talk about the food they were eating. Indeed, food was a major topic of discussion, and whenever someone praised a dish, the recipe was recited. I often heard the phrase, È semplice, it’s simple.

As midnight approached with guests getting up and milling around, champagne bottles came to the table. Sandro, another old family friend, monitored the television in the neighboring den and called out periodic warnings to the rest of us: “Two minutes to go! One minute! Thirty seconds!” From the fifteen seconds warning everyone counted down together with the champagne corks blasting off precisely at midnight. From the balcony, Recanati’s fireworks in the city center sprayed the black sky with pink, blue, and white lights. Soon the card tables were set up and the players settled down for the long night ahead. A few others, myself included, chatted in the cozy den until our eyelids began to close. With thanks that could never be adequately expressed, the first leave-takers said goodnight and stepped out into the dark, icy air of January 1, 2008. Saverio called after us, “See you tomorrow for pranzo (lunch).”

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