The sun had quietly set, slipping through the shingles of the surrounding houses. Rome slowly revealed itself, lit up like fireflies in the not too far distance.
We’re inside and already have on a couple of very old school aprons. The fireplace was crackling and the place smelled of seared beef, garlic and pecorino cheese.
Stefano’s mum pulled out a big piece of wood from the cupboard and set up her station. She laid the board down on the table and beside it, a wooden rolling pin about the width of the table. She pulled out a bag of 00 flour, a couple of eggs and a fork.
I was about to learn how to make a traditional Italian pastry from a real Italian woman.
avec chantilly 