A few weeks ago, on a particularly hot and airless day, I arrived home to find the sink unit in the hall, and two half-naked Roman plumbers lying on my kitchen floor. I knew the plumbers were coming and expected a mild mess: an untwisted U-bend, perhaps water dripping into a bucket. I wasn’t expecting the displaced sink, nor the need to pull up a large section of the floor tiles to get at the ancient pipes. It was un bordello, they told me. “Bordello” can mean either “brothel” or “a right mess”, and at that moment my small, hot kitchen felt like both. It turned out it was mostly the fault of the communal pipes in the building. I hadn’t helped though. I needed to watch what I threw in the sink, said plumber one, cigarette smoke curling from his mouth out of the door.
We nearly decided against renting this flat because of the sink. It dominates and ends abruptly, right in front of the door to the narrow balcony. But open the shutters and light pours in through the trees on Via Galvani. The sounds of boisterous Roman life pour in too, from the school in front, the cafe below; cars, motorini puttering; and weary horses dragging carriages to their home in the old slaughterhouse.
We gave it a try, and within a week the Colovene unit, as basic as can be, had become the well-lit workhorse of the kitchen, a place to throw, plonk, photograph, wash, chop and prep, eventually posing as cover-sink for my book. I can hear my grandma Roddy: “A sink on the cover, my goodness.” It has been loved, but also taken for granted, and then blocked. Yes, I did need to watch what I threw in the sink.
With this is mind, this column is about what I put in the sink – which is what I am going to cook. This is very much inspired by where I am – Rome, or more precisely Testaccio, a wedge-shaped quarter in the south of the city, home to my trusted, workaday market.
Roman food, like much Italian food, is mostly seasonal, uncomplicated, bold, and with flavours that are undisguised and definite, characteristics that appeal to me. I live with a Sicilian, so there is that brilliant influence too, as well as my English roots. I also have a little boy, so I enjoy not cooking as much as I do cooking – hence a love of double quantities and leftovers. The sum of all this is the way I cook, and what I intend to write about here. There will be one recipe a week, but one that lends itself to variations, that can be used in many ways; a recipe, I hope, you will want to make your own.
While the last of the sun-ripened red peppers remind us of long, warm days, I am going to start with a favourite: peperonata. As is so often the case, there are as many versions and opinions about this dish of red peppers, onions and tomatoes as their are cooks. My version is one I was making long before I came to Italy. It is a Jane Grigson recipe, producing an intense, silken dish that is somewhere between a stew and a relish. The technique is simple, but satisfying: an onion sauteed until soft, strips of peppers added then cooked, covered, until they release their cardinal-red juices, then tomatoes added (fresh in season, otherwise tinned) and the stew simmered until thick. Once cooked, you can sharpen peperonata with a little red wine vinegar. Like so many dishes – and like me – peperonata is better after a rest, after which it is like the friend you can take anywhere.
Peperonata is wonderful served with chicken, pork and lamb, beside a fat slice of frittata, topped with a frilly-edged fried egg, eked out with boiled potatoes and hard-boiled eggs or chickpeas. I like peperonata stirred into pasta or as part of a sandwich or tart. It keeps for days in the fridge if you put it in a jar and top it with a layer of olive oil, which is why I often make double.
Peperonata
Serves 8
1kg red peppers
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
A small knob of butter
1 large onion, peeled and finely sliced
1 clove garlic, peeled and pressed
Salt, to taste
450g peeled plum tomatoes (or fresh when in season)
Red wine vinegar, to taste (optional)
1 Cut the peppers into strips, about 1cm wide and 6cm long, discarding the seeds, stalks and any pithy white bits.
2 In a heavy-based pan with a lid, warm the olive oil and butter over a medium-low heat, then cook the onion and garlic until soft, translucent and fragrant (they should not brown), which usually takes about 10 minutes. Add the peppers and a pinch of salt, stir, then cover and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring every now and then.
3 Add the tomatoes, stir and then leave, uncovered, at a lively simmer for 30-40 minutes. Stir occasionally, gently pressing the tomatoes against the side of the pan, so they break up.
4 The peperonata is ready when the peppers are soft and everything has come together into a thick stew (it shouldn’t be sloppy). Taste, season generously, and add a dash of vinegar to sharpen things up, should you want to.
Rachel Roddy is a Rome-based food blogger and author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard, 2015)
Five Quarters by Rachel Roddy (Saltyard, £25). To order a copy for £17.50, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.
