A hearty family favourite whose comfort-giving properties cannot be diminished even by average mozzarella
Driving back after a few days by the sea, we passed a sign for a caseificio (dairy), a common sight in southern Lazio, as are buffaloes and swathes of prickly pears. This was a particularly pleasing sign, however, with strong letters elevated by stilts. So Vincenzo did a U-turn, which added adrenaline to the excitement that I may have stumbled upon the best mozzarella we had ever tasted. I’m not sure what it was about the driveway that gave me a bad feeling – maybe it was simply that the sun disappeared behind a cloud, and there was a strange smell in the car park, like burned plastic – but I had demanded the U-turn. Everything is great, I told myself, and walked into the shop.
I could, I should, have turned and walked straight out. Not that there was anything terrible about the place, but there was nothing particularly appealing about it, either, and we already had a beautiful globe of mozzarella in the car. Unfortunately, I suffer from a sort of paralysis in small shops: the less I want to be there, the worse it is; also, the need to talk, incessantly, to a girl with no interest in talking, or serving. Also, compulsion. Despite the fact that everything looked a bit sad, I bought not one, but four balls we couldn’t really afford, and a long, bright red salami, scrunched the receipt around the change in my fist and rushed back to the car. Vincenzo, pragmatic and experienced, read the scene: “They look perfect for baked pasta,” he said as he squashed the bag of bobbing balls next to the other mozzarella in the polystyrene box in the boot, before we drove back home along the SS148.
UK readers: click to buy these ingredients from Ocado