As you enter yet another cobbled piazza in the centre of the city, it can seem as if Rome is a series of stage sets, especially at night. Each piazza has its church backdrop, fading palazzo, fountain in endless cascade, lively trattoria or neon-lit bar with cluster of plastic chairs, on which characters might act out a scene. A moped ridden with arrogant ease comes in from the left and almost takes you out as it careers across the cobbles; from the right, a group appears on their way home from dinner, their words and white breath filling the air. In winter, add the caldarroste to the scene, the man bent over his iron brazier, roasting chestnuts over hot coals, the smell of which curls around the piazza.
Scene set, the plot surrounding the caldarroste is a juicy one. Donato Tredicene arrived in Rome from a small village in the mountain region of Abruzzo in the Sixties, and made a living by selling roast chestnuts on the streets. Fifty years later, his family, and their numerous associates, dominate Rome’s street food scene. The licences and profits from the chestnuts, ice-cream and uninspiring food trucks add up to an astonishing multi‑million euro empire. They also have some of the once strictly seasonal stalls roasting all year long. The smell of chestnuts in June seems all wrong to me!
Back to the piazza in winter, and the caldarroste man handing you a thick paper cone filled with warm nuts, the brittle skin of which is open in a sort of smile. As you continue across the cobblestones, you eat.
We have no caldarroste in my neighbourhood of Testaccio, so roasting has to be done at home. It is the season when great heaps of chestnuts, shiny like a just-buffed mahogany sideboard, are piled on each stall at Testaccio market. There are two sorts: the prized, heart-shaped marron, and more ordinary castagne, which are smaller as two nuts grow in the same prickly jacket. I tend to buy castagne as they are cheaper. I now have the knack of scoring the curved edge of each chestnut, which then gapes smilingly open as the nut roasts. One advantage of our fierce and ancient gas oven is that it roasts the nuts furiously well. I look forward to our roasted chestnut and red wine night, the taste of one irresistibly leading to a sip of the other and so on, and on.
In the past, I only thought of chestnuts as somehow luxurious, the marron glacé, the mountain of chestnut puree and cream that is the mont blanc, or as part of rich stuffings. Historically, though, their use has been ubiquitous, especially in the Alps and Apennines where chestnuts and chestnut flour provided basic sustenance for many in the form of bread, pasta, and polenta-like meals. Of these simple dishes, my favourites are the soups, particularly an odd-sounding, but particularly good one, of salt cod, chickpeas and chestnuts, of which today’s recipe is a variation. Chickpea and chestnut is a homely, rustic soup, but the starchy sweetness of the chestnuts and the nutty softness of the chickpeas make it feel surprisingly rich.
As is the case for many dishes, I have a slow version, and a fast version, depending on what I am up to. The slow involves soaking and peeling, the fast, tinned and ready peeled: either is good. When it comes to preparing chestnuts, traditionally, scoring and boiling is considered best, but I found that exasperating, and it took me days to get the bits out from under my nails. Now I roast. I find it easier, and it gives the soup a deep, nutty flavour. Once the nuts are out of the oven, wrap them in a towel and as soon as they are cool enough to handle, start peeling immediately, otherwise you will never remove that second pesky layer.
This recipe can be varied; some pancetta in with the celery, various herbs, enriched with stock, blended to very creamy or left brothy, boosted with a handful of pasta, finished with olive oil or cream. It is better made the day or two before, so a good dish for getting ahead. You probably don’t need any more suggestions for Christmas food, but this soup does feel festive nonetheless, whether it’s supper on your lap by the fire (if you are lucky enough to have one), or as part of a more elaborate meal.
Chestnut and chickpea soup
Serves 4
250g dry chickpeas, soaked in cold water for 12-18 hours, or 500g tinned chickpeas, drained
2 bay leaves
500g of whole chestnuts (you want around 350g once shelled)
1 small onion, diced
1 rib of celery, diced
A sprig of rosemary
6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Salt and black pepper
1 Drain the soaked chickpeas, then put in a pan, cover with 1.5 litres of water. Cook the chickpeas at a steady simmer, covered, until they are tender. The cooking time will vary depending on age of chickpeas, so begin tasting after 20 minutes, and every 5 minutes after that. Set aside. If using tinned chickpeas, simply drain them.
2 If using whole chestnuts, slash each nut across the curved side, then roast on a baking tray at about 200C/400F/gas mark 6 for 25–35 minutes, or until the cut has opened wide and the nut is tender. Wrap the hot nuts in a tea towel; once cool enough to handle (but still very warm) peel the nuts, making sure to remove both the peel and the thin layer underneath.
3 Warm the oil in a large, heavy-based frying pan, over a medium-low flame. Gently fry the onion, celery, sprig of rosemary and a pinch of salt until soft and fragrant. Add ¾ of the cooked chickpeas, 1.2 litres of chickpea cooking water (add tap water if needed) and another pinch of salt. Simmer for 20 minutes. Add ¾ of the cooked chestnuts, crumbling them into the pan. Simmer for 15 minutes. Turn off the heat, and taste for salt.
4 The soup consistency depends on you. I remove half the soup (without the rosemary) blitz it, with an immersion blender then return it to the pan. To serve, divide between bowls, top each with a few whole chickpeas and some of the crumbled chestnuts you set aside. Finish with a little more olive oil and pepper.
- Rachel Roddy is a Rome-based food blogger and author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard, 2015)
