More Cake Anyone?

More Cake Anyone?

A mini rant upon the art of ‘rural Italian afternoon tea.’

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Being the son and grandson of a baker, one tends to grow up appreciating the finer points of a good English Victoria sponge cake and their like.
Unfortunately, visiting our friends and relatives in Italy can sometimes mean being confronted by our hosts well intentioned attempts to make us feel at home (i.e. the UK) by inviting us for a chat and their Italianate version of Afternoon Tea.

You see, personally, I like a good solid brew, strong ‘Builders’ strength if possible, sweet and dark (not unlike my good self), and being served a cuppa by those who through no fault of their own aren’t particularly aware that serving tea made with one bag (usually that god awful American stuff made by Lipton’s) for the entire pot and then only loosely introduced to hot but, definitely not boiling water does not a proper brew make! This usually has me looking round for either the cat whom I believe is responsible for the contents of my cup and/or a convenient plant pot so that I can at least give it a good, albeit surreptitious send off.

Now, I don't wish to sound churlish (and here comes the 'but'), but as good a cook as most Italian mammas are, I think it's fair to say that with a few exceptions the Italians don't do dolci! (sweets) (ok, ok, I'm sitting back waiting to be proved wrong.....) and being presented with a slice... sorry wedge of an overcooked, lemon scented, bone dry, rock solid sponge, big enough to stop Zio Luigi's Fiat Cinquecento from rolling down the Alps, without the accompaniment of a filling (preferably jam, whipped cream and icing sugar to top) is more than a simple baker's boy with a long term attachment to his teeth can stand.

Mangia! Mangia! Ti piace? Queries our host hoping for approval from this erstwhile connoisseur. Si! Says I, Buonissima! If fibbing politely through what’s left of my teeth isn’t enough, then comes the mandatory ritual of refusing at least twice (it’s always a judgement call a to precisely how many times), before finally accepting graciously the offer of a second portion which, should always be consumed faster than the first, lest your host think you were only being polite in the first place and in truth, that you really didn't like it at all.

Finally the ordeal of the ‘Trial By Coffee’. Now don’t get me wrong, I like a good cup of java as much as the next person, but this stuff is strong! Starbucks’ triple shot espresso doesn’t even come close, indeed it’s generally strong enough to strip the rust off the cast iron stuffa and woe betide anyone who puts sugar in the cup rather than a more than generous shot of Nonno's favourite 'Stock' brandy.

So here we are at the end of our afternoon sojourn, bunged up, riddled with heartburn and half cut! Then just when you think your safe and having exhausted your hosts’ hospitality you decide to take your leave and what happens; ..... out comes the bottle of home-made fire-water! The Grappa, a last test of friendship to help send you on your way.

So you eventually make it to the door, somewhat the worse for wear but realising that despite the corporeal and sensory assault, you’ve actually had a blast. There follows much hugging and kissing and return invitations, but wait…… what’s this? ..... A parting gift from your hosts? ….. Yes! You’re handed a neatly muslin wrapped parcel to take with you and having said your goodbyes, you politely wait until you’re out of sight of your hosts before examining the enigma. . What can it be? It’s fairly heavy for its size; cheese? Yes, that’ll be it; cheese. Probably a generous lump of Parmesan judging by the shape; so you tentatively unwrap the parcel and………

O.M.G!.... It’s the remnants of the sponge cake with an accompanying note...“Because you liked it so much!”

DOH!!!!!