Destination: Food

In today’s foodie age, cooking classes are trendy. And for good reason: They’re the perfect opportunity to learn a new skill, have a culturally broadening experience, and enjoy a great meal, all at the same time. And, while I’ve enjoyed great cooking lessons in polished classrooms, some of the best take place in more casual settings.

On a previous visit to Tuscany, my wife and I joined Marta in the kitchen of her restaurant. She taught us how to make a spectacular, yet simple, all-purpose tomato sauce: just olive oil, garlic, tomatoes, salt, and a few red-pepper flakes…simmered and blended to smooth perfection. We taught the recipe to our relatives, who — to this day — regularly cook up a batch of “Marta’s sauce.”

On this trip, we wanted to bring the whole family back to Marta’s kitchen. But she’s wintering in Australia, so instead, her mother Laura invited us into her home kitchen to cook — and eat — an extravagant Tuscan lunch.

Not quite the traditional stone farmhouse we’d imagined, Mamma Laura lives in a plush, modern home in a remote hamlet high in the mountains. Standing at her sink, she gazes out over forested slopes, past a beefy plume of smoke rising from a furniture factory just below. It’s a view that makes doing the dishes a reward rather than a chore.

From the moment we arrived, Mamma Laura masterfully orchestrated the meal. She’d demonstrate the task at hand — chopping up chunks of squash, packing ingredients into little pouches of cabbage, rolling out long sheets of pasta dough — then turned us loose to try it out. Ingredients would disappear into an oven or pot or blender, then reappear when it was time for the next step. And, miraculously, everything was done at exactly the right time.

Every so often, Laura pulled out a moonshine-like jug of vibrant green olive oil — just pressed a few days ago — and poured it generously into the recipe. While our calorie-conscious American sensibilities screamed “too much!,”  the result was deliciously persuasive. (And let’s be honest: Are a few extra dollops of fresh-from-the-grove oil any worse for your health than a can of diet pop or a preservative-packed cookie? You could, quite reasonably, make a strong case for the opposite.) One thing I’ve learned from cooking in a Tuscan kitchen: Americans are afraid to use nearly as much salt and olive oil as Italians do. If you want authentic flavor, you have to go all-in.

The first course was a crustless, savory cheese tortino (young pecorino and ricotta, made light and delicate by folding in whipped egg whites, then baked in the oven) perched on a pear puree and topped with a marinated, sun-dried tomato.

Next was a scrumptious autumn soup. We rough-chopped chunks of a giant, comically orange “pumpkin” (more like a winter squash), which were then mashed and simmered. Laura mixed in some peeled, boiled chestnuts and a handful of porcini mushrooms. The result wasn’t the sickly-sweet “pumpkin soup” I avoid on menus back home. It was rich, hearty, and satisfying — a Tuscan November in a bowl.

Then came the pasta course: handmade ravioli stuffed with nettle greens and ricotta cheese. This one required a particularly hands-on assembly.

First, Laura created a little volcano of flour, and cracked some vibrant-orange eggs into the crater.

Then we took turns carefully hand-mixing with a fork, as Laura sprinkled in more flour.

When the mushy mess transformed into a solid hunk of dough, we kneaded it, then cranked long, yolk-yellow strips through a pasta roller until they were thin as a ribbon.

Laura carefully laid each pasta sheet onto the table, piped out the proper amount of filling, folded it over, cinched it shut with water, and sawed out flawless ravioli.

The main course was an outrageously delicious cabbage roll, with a filling of bread crumbs soaked in saffron-infused milk, subtly caramelized raisins, just-cracked walnuts, and decadently melted Gruyère cheese (one of the meal’s only non-local ingredients). Everyone rolled their own. And, of course, it was topped with “Marta’s sauce.”

On the side were the best beans I’ve ever eaten. This dish began as a few handfuls of dried beans in the bottom of a pressure cooker. (Italians — with their regional pride and respect for culinary subtlety — are very specific about their ingredients. Laura assured us these were only the very best beans, grown on the shores of Lake Bolsena. Her American students glanced at each other, shrugged, and scribbled “white beans” in our notebooks.) Into the pot went water, abundant olive oil, a few cloves of garlic, pepper flakes, and a little sachet of fresh sage and rosemary. The pot hummed along on the stove all morning long, and by lunchtime, the beans were luxuriously tender and impossibly flavorful.

And for dessert: a mousse made with the same chestnuts that had gone into the soup, topped with whipped cream, all sitting on a thick puddle of liquefied flesh from a borderline-overripe persimmon.

It wasn’t until we’d eaten to our hearts’ content that we realized the meal had been entirely meatless (to accommodate a vegetarian in the family). And do you know what? With cooking this good, nobody even missed the meat.

Anyone can have an experience like this. It’s a substantial investment of time, but from a financial perspective, it’s a tremendous value: Our all-morning cooking class, and the meal that resulted, cost us about the same, per person, as a nice dinner out.

Incorporating amazing food — and unforgettable experiences — into your travels doesn’t have to be expensive. You just have to set your priorities and plan ahead.

It should come as no surprise that our Thanksgiving week in Tuscany was all about the food. There were truffle hunts. There were wine tastings. There were three different cooking classes. And, of course, there was Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll cover each of those foodie experiences in a separate post. (Be warned: If you are likely to grow weary of hearing about Italian cuisine, then you may just want to excuse yourself now.)

As an antipasto, here’s a foretaste of the bountiful food experiences we enjoyed in Tuscany.

Italy is all about eating with the seasons. In late November, that means white truffles, chestnuts, and zucca. (Usually translated as “pumpkin,” this isn’t quite the jack-o-lantern that’s plastered on every product at Trader Joe’s. In Italy, it’s closer to what we’d call “winter squash.” Italians call a dim-witted person il zuccone — “ol’ squash-head.”)

This time of year is also the season of the persimmon (cachi). These plump fruits — which look like bright-orange tomatoes but have a sweet, bright bouquet — dangle from spindly little branches all over Tuscany.

Much has been written about the Osteria Acquacheta steak house in Montepulciano — one of Rick Steves’ favorite restaurants. And, of course, I had to bring my steak-loving father-in-law here for dinner. We started things off with some delicious, handmade pastas. (Acquacheta — a place where everything is overshadowed by the steak — cranks out pastas that are far better than they have any right to be.)

When the owner, Giulio, came by to present us with a 1.75-kilogram (four-pound) T-bone of prized Chianina beef, we could only say yes.

After a trip through the wood-fired oven, the steak — crusty with char and sea salt — hit our table. The meal was, in every sense, tremendous. (The vegetarian in our group decided to skip this restaurant…and was glad she stayed home.)

Another key point of Italian eating is appreciating where your food comes from. Our agriturismo offered a guided tour of their working farm, where we explored the barn, saw equipment old and new, and met the animals.

At the end of the tour, we dug into a generous lunch of what they grow: wine, cured meats, and bread drenched in vivid-green, new-harvest olive oil. It may not rank as high cuisine, but it was one of our favorite meals of the trip.

On a crisp, late-November morning, we gather on a ridge-top gravel road deep in the heart of Tuscany. On one side stretches a postcard panorama of rolling hills, pointy cypresses, and distant ridges. On the other is a thick forest, labeled with Italian signs:  “Keep out! Private truffle-hunting property!”

We meet our guide for the morning: Paolo the truffle hunter. Paolo explains how he bought this property for a song because he had a hunch it’d be great for truffles. Now his main occupation is tending the forest and seeking out those elusive deposits.

Paolo explains that you can’t plant a truffle, and you can’t predict exactly where they’ll grow. They tend to appear near the roots of trees, under a few inches of soil and a gentle layer of fallen leaves. He works hard clearing the forest, creating an ideal habitat. Then he grinds up the season’s unsold truffles and scatters their spores. And then he waits…and hopes. White truffle season — when the pungent odor of the most precious type of truffle is released — has just begun. It’s time to harvest.

Because truffles grow entirely underground, the only way to find them is by scent. And human noses just aren’t sophisticated enough for the job. So Paolo introduces us to “la protagonista”: Milli.

Milli is a lovable, exuberant pup with a short, thick, curly coat and laser-beam, beady eyes that are always trained on Paolo. He tells us she’s a breed called lagotto romagnolo…but she looks like a miniature golden doodle to me.

When Milli was just ten days old, they began training her to find truffles. The first part is easy: You give them a taste for truffles by feeding them little bits. Before long, they can sniff them out anywhere. The hard part, Paolo explains, is to train them to stop eating truffles.

Andiamo! It’s time to hunt. Paolo and Milli lead us down a steep trail into a wooded ravine. Light twinkles through half-bare trees as we wade through a thick carpet of leaves. “What goes up, must come down,” everyone chuckles as we descend. At one point, Milli pauses and begins rummaging and scratching around in the middle of the path. Paolo diffuses everyone’s excitement by explaining that she’s found a “dog truffle” — with a similar pungent odor, but not palatable to humans. Milli enjoys this little truffle treat before continuing on her way.

Reaching the bottom of the ravine, Paolo says the magic word: “Dov’è?” (Where is it?)… and Milli is off like a shot. She scurries from tree to tree — sniffing, sniffing, sniffing — then off to the next tree. The suspense builds as twenty bundled-up Americans form a chain behind her haphazard search.

Milli bolts off, racing through the woods after unseen truffles. Paolo runs after her. We lose sight of both of them. And then: Success! We emerge into a little clearing where Paolo stands, holding Milli back. She’s clawed through the damp earth to reveal the corner of a little gray chunk.

Keeping one hand on Milli, Paolo uses his special skinny shovel to unearth the truffle with a surgeon’s precision.

Holding it to his nose and inhaling deeply, he gives a “so-so” gesture. It’s not a top-quality truffle…but it’ll be profitable.

While his audience passes around the truffle for a sniff, Paolo rewards Milli with dog biscuit after dog biscuit. He keeps saying, “Solo un’altro” (just one more) — then gives her several more treats. Could you resist?

After just an hour or so, Milli has found two more truffles. Not a bad morning’s work.

Watching Paolo and Milli at work, it’s clear that if you enjoy wandering through the woods with your best friend at your side, there are few more rewarding careers than being a Tuscan truffle hunter.