Renovating a villa, hunting for white truffles, eating and wine tasting in Piedmont, Italy

Clay McLachlan 10/21/15 Clay McLachlan 10/21/15

Putting on my Chef's Coat - Cooking at the Drogheria di Langa

Cooking traditional neapolitan pizza as well as non-traditional seasonal specialty pizzas as head chef at the Drogheria di Langa in Bossolasco, Piedmont, Italy

It's ten o'clock at night as I make my way down the stairs to our kitchen to prepare my dough for tomorrow night. I carefully weigh out my ingredients of sourdough starter, water, and flour. I am mixing 5 kilograms (11 pounds) of organic soft wheat flour locally grown and milled by Il Mulino Sobrino here in Piedmont, Italy, and adding a mere 30g of sourdough starter per 1 kilogram (2.2 pounds) of flour. Stefania, owner of the Drogheria di Langa in Bossolasco, Italy, asked me yesterday if I'd like to be a guest chef in two days. My heart pounded in my chest as I laughed out loud, "absolutely!" I said.

Up until this point, I have kept a firm line between my work as a documentary food photographer and my passion for cooking. From time to time I will try and take photos of the food I cook, but when I'm working in a professional kitchen I focus on how things look and not how they taste. I never photograph fake ingredients but I am always focused on the appearance of food when looking through my lens at a plate of delicious food. Year's ago I considered turning my passion into work by going back to school to train as a chef but after some contemplation I decided I preferred creative photography to the pressures of working on the line night after night. I am beside myself with excitement to have this opportunity to realize my long held dream.

I finish mixing the dough and wish it a good night of slow fermentation. My success depends entirely on my dough. I feel cautiously optimistic that I will impress a restaurant full of Italians. What am I crazy? Making pizza for Italians? Yes.

I order my go to selection of cheeses including thirty-month parmiggiano reggiano, the best mozzarella di bufala from campania that I have found here in Piedmont, and cacciocavallo from Puglia. After running errands all day I pick up my two daughter's from school, bring them home, cook them a snack and prepare the dough for transportation to the restaurant. I will be baking the pizza on cooking sheets in a gas oven as opposed to how I normally prepare pizza in our wood-fired brick oven. I do realize it is a risk to be making pizza for a full restaurant (it's tiny so I am looking at a maximum of twenty-five to thirty covers) having never prepared pizza in their oven. My daughter's help me load the car after their snack. After a long day at school they are not thrilled to be heading back to Bossolasco from the comforts of their home in order to help me work in the restaurant. I jokingly tell them that I am afraid that Stefania during the rush of service may start yelling at me like Gordon Ramsey does on Master Chef. In the back of my mind, I think that may actually happen.

We arrive at the restaurant and get straight to work. Isabelle, age 9, helps me prepare the tomato sauce while Azalia, age 6, takes care of her dolls. The restaurant is tiny but has three levels including the kitchen, main dining area, and an upstairs dining area, and the girls love having the time to explore and make themselves comfortable. I prepare the genovese pesto ingredients including lots of basil and get my station set up. I'm ready to go at seven o'clock. At seven-thirty I decide I should at least try and make one focaccia in the oven to see how the dough is rising and how long each pizza will take. Eight minutes later a beautiful focaccia with fresh rosemary and salt is ready. Stefania, looking nervous, tells me I've cooked it too early and it will be cold by the time guests arrive. I feel the pressure mounting. When we planned this evening she told me that we would begin serving apperitivi at seven forty-five. Stefania asks if I'd like to put on a chef coat, "yes, please." Tamar comes to pick up the girls and take them home before the rush.

It's eight o'clock and people begin to arrive. I suggest I put another focaccia in so we are ready for antipasti. Stefania scolds me and tells me again the focaccia will be cold. I thought we would already be in the midst of service by now but in Italy one never knows when the guests will arrive. I anxiously away my call to action.

It's now eight-thirty and the tables are full. The guests are hungry and now I can't make each pizza fast enough. All the sudden we are racing around the kitchen trying to get everything ready so the guests don't have to wait. I take a deep breath and dive into my job. My mind is clear and focused only on the task at hand. The only time I ever feel this way is when I am in the creative process of taking pictures and all five of my senses are directed through the lens. I smile as I shape the dough and top pizzas for the next two hours. After the initial stress and small quantities of pizza we have to serve, everyone is raving about the pizza and Stefania is thrilled with the evening. I go upstairs and see the crowd afterwards and everyone says "complimenti!" I am thrilled beyond words.