I had arrived in Pisa, Italy just after lunch on a beautiful early Spring day. After a rather busy week I had thankfully slept most of the way from London more than happy to be leaving the wet and cold behind me in the United Kingdom. After being assisted though the fastest customs route, by a lovely Italian woman, “the fast way” she had constantly loudly whispered as the lines snaked and weaved though the heat of the terminal. With a grunt and barely a nod from a rather dis-interested customs officer, I was waved though out into the heat of the terminal. I find regional European airports quite insane at the best of times, but even more so when located near the Mediterranean Sea, any sense of order seems to dissipate into the ether once you step off the plane.

With only a three days to shop and prepare my food I had to get down to brass tacks. But there was no driver to pick me up, no little sign with my name on it. Just a rather dispondent sweating mass of rather bored and yet desperate looking drivers all holding little boards with strangers names staring wantingly at me, hoping I was the one.

I have been picked up by all sorts in all manner of vehicles from mini vans to Mercedes, and have all manner of conversations enroute. I was picked in front of the Hotel Martenz in Canne in the south of France surrounded by luxury super cars and super tanned white linen dressed locals in a backfiring Suzuki four-wheel drive that proceeded to back fire as we drove the wrong way down a one-way street whilst the Italian driver learning out the window yelled what I was guessing at the time insults at the driving prowess of the French. My favorite being that one fellow should indeed put down his cup of tea, as it was no longer morning tea time.

My driver on this occasion showed up looking a lot like an Italian Richard Geare meets George Clooney Circa 1990. Long flowing grey hair and a casual relaxedness that bordered on lackadaisical Australian. Immaculately dressed in leather loafers, tan pant and flowing pure white shirt he casually whisked me to the awaiting mini van. The Villa was an hour and a half away, no problem. Off we go hurtling along the skinny at best, Italian motorways at speeds that would make Lewis Hamiltons eyes water. All the more terrifying as everything, to myself at least, as we were on the wrong side of the road.

About an hour in to the journey we began an accent into the hills. The countryside in this part of Italy is, cliché aside, stunningly beautiful. Houses line the narrow streets and the farmland stretches out into magnificence. After a short climb we pulled into a car park in a small village. Crossing the road, we entered an oldish yellowish looking shop, to say it was weather beaten, was not giving enough credit to the weather. Past the rather fear inspiring Bain Marie filled with pre-made panni and pastry, food that looked as if it was almost perspiring in the heat of the mid day, we arrived at the most gleaming stainless steel coffee machine. The Ferrari of coffee machines. There we stood with a handful of locals. No words, no order, we just stood. No milk, no sizes, no take away. Just a calmness of purpose. The old lady who was obliviously in charge, and possibly four hundred years old, passed a smallish cup of the most amazing sweet, bitter and fragrant coffee I have ever had. It was a revelation. It wasn’t over extracted and bitter or hard to swallow, just what I have always imagined coffee to be. It tasted of how it smelled, and it smelt just like coffee. Here in the middle of Tuscany in the rear of the plainest most unlikely shop I was having a moment. A food moment. What didn’t know was that I was about to have a number of these moments often in strangest places.

The Butcher and the spring lamb:

My first rule of cooking in a new country is to look for produce that is abundant. I visit the markets, the local shops, the town square and local restaurants to get a feel for what’s in season and what’s at its peak. Regional European food is just that regional. What they cook and eat just down the road is considered to be un appealing to the locals. Shopping for the first evening, my host, Chef Jacob we jumped into the world’s oldest Fiat Panda and headed out to gather ingredients. Our issue was that we hadn’t been vetted by the local magistrate, and therefore couldn’t use local business and provodores, so we were heading to the super market, the Co-op in Sienna. I had it in my head that I wanted to serve a slow roasted something, hopefully a lamb. I was a little apprehensive, but as it turned out, misguided as Italian super markets are considerably better than the ones back home. Fresh produce in western supermarkets is all about shape and colour whereas in Italian supermarkets it’s all about taste, thus the produce sometimes doesn’t look that good but the flavor is fantastic. They seem all to have their own butcher, baker, fishmonger, fromagier and green grocer. We headed to the butchers which was staffed by some rather intimadating rather large looking women dressed in white blood stained coats and skull caps. I wanted some lamb, translated. Frowns and shakes of the head. No not possible. What I have now come to realise is that the first exchange is always negative. I persisted. Yes they had a couple of lambs, but not broken down. That was the problem they weren’t broken down. I offered to take them as they were. A couple of hundred euros, ok fine. This beast of a women appears with lamb, head and feet on with possibly the biggest cleaver I have ever seen and proceeds in a single swing to separate the hind and fore quarter. Folding it in half she put it in a bag and handed it to me head and feet protruding from the top of the bag. Back to the Fiat loaded to the ceiling with bags and boxes of shopping. The head of the lamb pressed macarbly against the hatchback window gazing out as we headed home.

This beast was to be part of the shared table. An idea that I love. Plated food has its place but for the simple enjoyment of sharing, big platters of meats, vegetables, salads and sides can’t be beaten. Sharing the common joy of eating as a family. That is what I was wanting for the first night in this truly amazing place. I’m often remind myself of the say on the shoulders of giants we stand. This meal was merely me standing on the shoulders of all the great chefs that have come before me. Simple food and technique using the best possible ingredients. Im always searching for the simplest technique and preparation, how can I cook this food to let the flavours shine though.

Slow cooked spring lamb with potatoes and beans

This is a classic recipe and one that I keep up my sleeve. It is super simple, just put it in the oven and forget it for a few hours and it will be perfect.

1 lamb shoulder bone in, this should serve three.

2 large stalks of rosemary, strip off the leaves.

Sea salt and Extra Virgin Olive oil

Heat the oven to 180 degree celcius,

Mix the rosemary sprigs, oil and salt together in a bowl.

Rub on the lamb

Place on a tray and cover with foil

Place in the oven and turn the oven down to 160 degrees

Cook for 3 to 4 hours.

Remove foil and finish at 180 degrees to brown up the meat.

When cooked the shoulder should be very soft and almost fall apart.

Remove from the pan and rest.