Trust your Guts! An Italian Tale of Three Tripes
‘Non c’è trippa per gatti’
‘There’s no tripe for cats’ – Italian idiom meaning ‘you don’t always get what you want’
Cucina povera
In spite of the glamour surrounding Italian cooking, which has propelled it to the status of perhaps the world’s most beloved gastronomic genre, not every classic from the Apennine Peninsula has the gleam of international appeal, and few ingredients embody this more than tripe. In the spirit of cucina povera, that is to say the cooking of the poor, every last scrap of the animal has the potential to become a meal – indeed, the times of hardship in Italy’s past have created a national fondness for offal. Though certain organs have undergone something of a fine dining redemption, thanks to the efforts of chefs such as Fergus Henderson, stomach lining still largely exists in the doldrums of cuisine – its spongy texture and honeycombed appearance making it seem like something you’re not supposed to consume. Certainly, the smell of boiling tripe is one which overstays its welcome in the kitchen. Even the name makes it sound like some sort of Dickensian slop. More often than not it is pulverised and canned as dog food, and the few humans in Britain who do eat it tend to be on the more ‘mature’ side, usually having it with lashings of malt vinegar. Tripe dressing, whereby the stomachs are prepared, boiled and bleached is, probably unsurprisingly, a dying profession in this country.
However, such an incredibly cheap, all too often neglected cut is given the respect it deserves in other cultures, and I found on my travels around three of the great cities of Italy that not only can it be made palatable, but perhaps even delicious – though the secret to transforming tripe is surprisingly simple. I tended to stumble upon my offal experiences, rather than seek them out, though this is often the best way to eat outside of your comfort zone. As all roads lead to Rome, it seems appropriate that it is there that we begin our journey.
https://cucina.robadadonne.it/ricetta/trippa-alla-romana/
Rome
The Emperor Augustus claimed that he found Rome a city of bricks and left it a city of marble, but beneath the sheen of the modern city lies a thriving offal scene. Stewed tails and fried brains regularly feature upon the Roman banqueting table, but for an authentic taste of the city’s organ offerings, the best bet is to go to a street vendor, preferably one with no visible food hygiene certification. Trippa alla Romana is a dish as timeless as the Eternal City, its origins are certainly murky, though it has probably been a staple of the diet of the poor for centuries. Though the inclusion of tomatoes, which form the basis of the sauce which coats the pieces of tripe, suggests that this may well have been first devised in the early modern period, when the fruit was first introduced from the New World, the use of the Quinto quarto, the animal’s ‘fifth quarter’ comprising of the bits which might otherwise be discarded, seems to have been an ancient practice, dating back to the Caesars themselves. However, at that time offal wasn’t strictly used in dishes of necessity, but also of luxury and celebration – the more exotic the better, with Pliny the Elder noting the ‘exquisite flavour’ of flamingo tongues. In more recent centuries offal was what was left for the poor, with the city’s slaughterhouses in Testaccio, east of the Tiber, churning out tonnes of guts and gizzards every day.
Indeed, trippa alla Romana is more than just the bare necessities of a meal. The sauce can be lent depth by the addition of a soffrito of carrot, onion and celery, and a pinch of chilli flakes adds a much-needed spark. However, the distinctive flavour of this dish only comes through with the final flourishes – a dusting of Pecorino romano, an aged sheep’s milk cheese which is a staple of countless classic dishes from Lazio, and mentuccia, or Roman mint. Some recipes add the herb earlier on so that its perfume leaches into the sauce. The inclusion of the mint lends a wonderful fragrance, its freshness helping to cut through the almost stodgy richness of the tripe. Supposedly the herb can also aid in digestion – fitting given that it’s used as a garnish for boiled stomach. One time, much to the chagrin of everyone in my university accommodation, I spent a morning making this dish – the tripe texture was still objectionable to me, being slimy and chewy, but the sauce was a revelation. When providing my tasting notes my vegetarian flatmate posited that I might enjoy the sauce far more were it accompanying some pasta, rather than boiled tripe. I had no response to this.
Palermo
Perhaps my textural qualms might be addressed by going somewhere a little bit more up market. There are few problems which can’t be plastered over by throwing money at them, and with this in mind I headed to Palermo, the Sicilian capital and a world centre for offal-eating. Strolling into a Michelin recommended restaurant offering modern Palermitan cooking, my expectations were high. As high end as the ambience felt, even during a quiet lunchtime in February, the English translation of the menu listing the tripe dish as ‘entrails and offers’ raised alarm bells. When I ordered the waiter asked if I was sure, but I told him I knew what I was in for. We who are about to eat tripe salute you! Admittedly the sight of reams of folded tripe partially submerged within a yellow broth did slightly turn my stomach, but the garnish of grated provola cheese and a sprig of rosemary reminded me that this was a classy establishment.
The liquid the tripe was suspended in was pleasingly light, so fresh it was almost citric, and the tripe, with its intimidatingly large surface area, had absorbed a lot of the flavour. In spite of much subsequent Googling I have no clue as to what it actually was – though perhaps my ignorance is for the best. The cheese had melted nicely, and the rosemary imparted an earthiness to the dish – but the texture of the tripe itself was still abhorrent to me, it sullied the entire meal. The waiter was right to question me. It was at this point that I conceded that this would probably be the best tripe I would ever have, and that it would just have to be one of those rare foods I disliked. Perhaps this is a microaggression. As my background meant I wasn’t exposed to tripe until later in life, I never acquired a taste for it. Had I come from a culture where it was a staple, I would surely be emptying the bowl of all its gastric goodness. Instead, having chewed at it for twenty minutes and with half of the dish left untouched, I awkwardly prodded at it and asked for the bill. My disappointment in that bowl of steaming stomach was only eclipsed by my disappointment in myself.
Florence
Eleven months later and I was back in Italy, yet again to escape the drudgery of term time, this time in Florence, that hub of Renaissance magnificence, on a Chianti-soaked adventure in art and, once again, offal. Aimlessly wandering through the terracotta canyons of Tuscany’s most populous city, I stumbled upon a vendor of Florentine street food, and from thence a revelation. Scanning the menu, my sights are set on the one trippa dish I can find – lampredotto, so called because the stewed innards supposedly bear a passing resemblance to a writhing surfeit of lampreys. Maybe my street smarts would succeed where the Michelin guide had failed and deliver me some tripe worth the trip.
I cannot recall how much it cost me, it can’t have been more than a few loose Euros, but the lesson learned was priceless. The tender slivers of tripe were doused in a sauce sufficiently spicy to overwhelm any unpleasant flavour, the whole thing encased in a crispy bread roll. The plastic wrapper it came in could barely contain the carnage, but, surrounded by the exquisite beauty of what was once one of the richest cities in Europe, all I could focus on was my sandwich. Apparently, the dish has become popular in some of Florence’s trendier neighbourhoods, an ironic hipster take on cucina povera, and I’m sure these renditions are delicious, but there’s something about seeing it slapped together by a man who clearly finds my attempts at ordering in Italian irksome which is truly wonderful. Any unpleasantness from the texture is counteracted by the crispy bread which both provides crunch and makes it a perfect hand-held snack for a chilly January afternoon. The moral of the story is that any food, no matter how grisly, can be redeemed when made into a sandwich.
Maybe one day I will attempt to recreate the dish, particularly given how distant the prospect of a return to Tuscany seems in the current circumstances, but for me putting some tripe in a roll with some sauce would not make it lampredotto. Being girdled by Quattrocento architecture and interacting with an uncongenial vendor is integral to the experience of devouring this sordid delicacy. You can take the tripe out of Italy, but perhaps it’s best to leave it there.
- Louis Thomas
Louis is a recent graduate with a passion for all things Italian and a penchant for offal. Some of his musings on food, art and travel can be found at theoutwardbound.co.uk.