3 hours ago
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It just so happened that I was back in London a few weeks ago, so I could attend a bash to commemorate and celebrate the life of food historian and typographer Gillian Riley. It was a beautiful, lively occasion organised by Gillian’s family and friends, and held at Room 71-73 in north London, just a few streets from the house she and her partner, James, lived and worked in so prolifically for many years. There was food, of course, and much of it – a half-wheel of parmesan and fanned plates of prosciutto and salami – from the local delicatessen, to which Gillian was a devoted customer. Wine flowed, too, thanks to The Little Wine Shop, also around the corner and another place to which Gillian and James were as devoted as the staff were to them: their last delivery arrived just a few weeks before Gillian died last year, aged 90.
Gillian’s sister, Joanna, spoke about their early life growing up in North Yorkshire and how Gillian was always a “greedy” girl. Gillian’s niece, Esther, remembered the colour, texture, tastes and possibilities that Aunty Gill brought into her life. Others then participated in a lively pass-the-mic: colleagues from the worlds of typography and publishing, some of whom had once been her students, as well as friends and collaborators from the worlds of translation, academia, art and food writing. The stories and memories were eclectic, but they all had one thing in common: the invitations to lunch and dinner. Everyone there, it seemed, had enjoyed (often countless times) Gillian’s hospitable good cooking: meals she would shop for locally or in Chinatown, prepare with precision and glee, and share, while also discussing the next meal.
Another thing that came up again and again was the affection, from people in all her worlds, for Gillian’s masterly translation of Castelvetro’s 17th-century treatise on fruit and vegetables, which includes several pages on cabbage: savoy (both curly and not), green and white. I also have several emails in which Gillian and I discussed cabbage, and more specifically pes coj o caponèt (stuffed cabbage) in Piedmont, which is traditionally filled with leftover roast meat, but is also a vehicle for whatever happens to be left over, which the other day was rice, vacuum-packed chestnuts and half a tub of ricotta.
When serving in wide, shallow bowls, remember – and this is Gillian’s advice – to ladle a bit of the cooking liquid over the stuffed leaves. They don’t really need any accompaniment beyond some bread for mopping the juices and a salad of mixed leaves with lemon dressing, and maybe some grated parmesan. Enjoy, while also discussing the next meal.
Cabbage stuffed with rice, chestnuts and cheese
Serves 4
1 large savoy cabbage
Salt and black pepper
Olive oil
4 onions, peeled and finely diced
50g diced bacon, or pancetta (optional)
200g cooked rice
100g cooked chestnuts, crumbled
100g ricotta
20g grated parmesan
1 egg
2 tsp freshly minced or dried herbs (I used a mix of oregano, sage and marjoram)
1 glass white wine
Pull 12 large leaves from the cabbage and set aside, then shred the rest of the head. Bring a pan of salted water to a boil and, working in batches, plunge the whole leaves in the water for a minute. Lift out, run under cold water, pat dry and lay flat on a tea towel (if any leaves have a particularly thick rib, pare away so the leaf sits flat).
In a frying pan, warm five tablespoons of olive oil and cook two-thirds of the onion and the bacon, if using, until soft. Add the shredded cabbage and cook, moving it around the pan, until the cabbage completely collapses. Working in a bowl, mix the rice, chestnuts, cheeses, egg, herbs and a few grinds of black pepper, then add the cooked, shredded cabbage and mix again.
Spoon egg-sized amounts of the filling in the middle of each whole leaf. Bring up the bottom of each leaf to cover the filling, fold in the sides and roll forwards to form a neat enclosed bundle, securing each one with string or a toothpick.
You want a heavy, low-sided pan that will hold the 12 rolls snugly in a single layer. Melt a generous knob of butter and a tablespoon of olive oil, then soften the remaining diced onion.
Add the rolls, pour in the wine and a glass of hot water, then cover, reduce to a simmer and cook, with the lid slightly ajar, for 30-40 minutes, until the rolls are tender, and the juices thickened and slightly sticky. Ladle a bit of the cooking liquid over the stuffed leaves when serving.
