How do you say filthy in italian

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Give as much as you feel, whatever is welcome! While you are using the site, rate through the stars the translations. Report mistakes and inappropriate entry. More info Submit meaningful translations in your language to share with everybody. Good Mood. Newsletter subscription. Get fresh Italian recipes and food news every day! Daily La Cucina Italiana Newsletter. The store was still bustling in the Italian way—with a fantastic array of wines, high-end cheeses, and meats—but locked down under shorter hours than a Swiss bank.

Starting almost seventy years ago, at fifteen, Matteo's father, Adriano, had come to work here as a shop boy for the Giustis. He eventually bought the salumeria , and in opened Hosteria Giusti, a restaurant that, with just four tables, is among the most coveted in Emilia-Romagna.

The place is accessible through a tiny passage in the back of the store that winds past the kitchen to tables in the old storage room where hams had hung to cure the hooks are still driven deep into the overhead beams. We ate a symphony of al dente pasta and milk-fed veal. The meal ended with a stunningly simple dish: gnocco fritto , or pillows of fried dough topped with a few intense drops of sixty-year-old balsamic vinegar.

The balsamico was so thick that it had to be coaxed from the bottle. The question of what constitutes true balsamic vinegar is nearly impossible to answer. Many balsamics are produced around Modena with unregulated titles like "authentic," "original," and "genuine," but these can be made from Trebbiano grapes in a few days, adulterated with caramel for color, sugar for sweetening, and flour for thickening. The addition of one spoonful of truly aged vinegar is enough to earn the label "aged.

With a dozen years and up to seven changes of oak or other wood barrels, they take on a nearly black coloring, a thick texture, and an intense, fruity flavor that mark the best balsamics. Those aged more than twelve years earn the title vecchio ; stravecchio covers the rare brands stored for twenty-five years or more. The great appeal of these complex, winelike vinegars—from vin aigre , or "bitter wine" in French—is the way they naturally accompany a diet heavy in fats, from olive oil to glistening slabs of Parma ham.

The tradizionale are not mixed into dressings but are highlighted as a prime feature of the meal—dripped onto the finest cheeses or fried vegetables, used to stain vanilla ice cream or risotto on the plate, sprinkled on sweet strawberries with ground pepper to work strange alchemy. It may seem odd that such a meal was accompanied by a wine that is mocked by snobs. This is Lambrusco, Emilia-Romagna's curious sparkling red, served chilled in violation of every known rule of American connoisseurship.

In America, Lambrusco is trailed by a disastrous association with the s, when sales of sparkling red became anathema to a rising gourmet culture. But it is a light and refreshing drink that seems to cut through the richness of Italian food in the same way that balsamic vinegar is an antidote to the fat.

A bottle can be a kind of guilty pleasure, all the sweeter for the disapproval of the erudite. After the meal, I asked Matteo what I asked everyone: Why here? Why is Emilia-Romagna the center of the food universe? But we have the tradition of pasta. It's continuous, unbroken. Then I asked him if Italian food has a " nonna problem," if the cuisine is too closely based on images of grandmothers stirring the sauce.

Speaking loudly and slowly, to compensate for my bad Italian, he said that of course Italian food should be based on what grandmothers were cooking. I popped over a few feet from where we sat in the alley; there was nonna , frying the little pillows of dough I had topped with stravecchio. Like a good detective story, Ferrara benefits from what is missing: The dog didn't bark and the tourists didn't come.

Of those forty million annual visitors to Italy, I literally did not see another during five days in Ferrara.

Boasting an idealized layout, and claiming to be Europe's first planned city, Ferrara lies on the northeasternmost plain of Emilia-Romagna, alternately bathed in summer heat and winter fog, and ignored by all but the most discerning travelers—chiefly Italians seeking some authentic piece of their own nation that has not been squeezed through a tourism machine. Ferrara benefits from the quiet: Although it is common in Emilia-Romagna for cities to ban traffic in their central zones, in Ferrara the bent alleys of the entire core are pedestrian-friendly.

The clattering of wheels over cobblestones and the polite tinkle of bicycle bells may be the loudest sounds you encounter here. For us, wielding a small baby through the region, Ferrara offered a secure and confident respite, where our son could practice his walking freely, at no risk greater than a bombardment of kisses from neighborhood nonnas. When my wife took him walking outside the hotel at in the morning, I could track their progress by the faint cries of "Bambino bellissimo!

Ferrara's relative isolation led to stagnation and noble rot; in , Goethe called the city "lovely great depopulated" Ferrara. Colomba, the owner of a sleepy and delicious trattoria, told me, ", —those were abandoned times here. Only in the last five years has tourism picked up. Ferrara was once a center of Jewish life in Italy, and we sampled heritage dishes here like smoked eggplant and goose with grapefruit. The lack of industry, modernity, and population pressure has preserved the urban core more perfectly than in nearly any other large city in Italy, leaving a centro storico of gently curved pedestrian streets.

Ferrara is a humid city in the plains: hot, frequented by mosquitoes, where the women wave Chinese fans to stay cool. I made a rare nocturnal foray, slipping out on a sleeping wife and baby to walk the streets at 11 p. Lovely depopulated Ferrara was suddenly coursing with life, the plazas packed with hordes of beer-drinking young people.

While eating pizza I made a naive, if profound, discovery about Italians. Everyone was hugging and kissing, slapping backs, the men holding hands, people in rapt conversations still checking cell phones and looking over their shoulder to miss no opportunity with another person.

Personality and human relations lie at the core of Italian identity. I watched in amazement as an Italian gallant, clearly on a first date, abandoned his voluptuous companion to race into the street, hug an acquaintance, log some face time with him, engage in passionate push-me, pull-you argument with the pedestrian, and work hard at persuading his friend of something—and not return to his lady friend for a full fifteen minutes.

Personality is an art form to Italians, the purpose of life. Here is how you make fresh pasta dough: Mix flour and eggs together. That's it. There are some useful techniques and tricks, and you can call this dough sfoglia if you like, with a good Italian accent.

But that is all that lies at the very heart of the secret of Italy's greatest regional cuisine.