Travels with Delia: Balsamic Vinegar

What is aceto balsamico? A centuries-old yet hidden ingredient that shot to fame in the 1980s. Delia visits Modena in Italy to uncover its secrets and finds that human skill is still the key to its success. Photographs by Peter Knab

Think British food, then think salads, and it could be argued that vinegar – malt vinegar, that is – has quite a lot to answer for. Used properly it's fine; fine for cutting through the richness of our battered fish and chips. Fine again, when mellowed by long, slow simmering in a dark luscious chutney. But its charms end right there; elsewhere it is a lethal palate anaesthetiser. Take the humble beetroot – generations have been denied the fragrant, subtle, earthy flavour of this delightful vegetable because all the while it was the vinegar that annihilated it.

Yet for those of us who are dedicated utterly to it, there remains that lurking sense of not knowing exactly what it is, how it's made or what it is that makes it so very special. It was to answer these questions that I set out one frosty January day for Italy, a beloved country and the birthplace of many fine ingredients; this time to Emilia-Romagna, where (provided you are not Piedmontese) you will find the finest of them all.

The city itself takes centre stage on a much larger setting, an opulent, fertile plain originally created by two rivers. This is mega-foodie country, with (if you're looking west) Parma and Reggio with their world-acclaimed hams and cheese to the front, and Bologna and its famous filled pasta and ragù sauce to the rear, and Modena in the middle. Here, there is also an abundance of wheat and nuts, but the predominant crop is the vine and the hero of our story is the fruit of one particular type of vine – the Trebbiano grape, which grows and flourishes in a distinctive way only in this area.

More later of nature's crucial role in this process, but as with any product of rare quality, the vital factor is always going to be the application of human skill. Historically, making balsamico is a family affair, and while the men produced the wine of the area (Lambrusco), the making of vinegar was the woman's domain. The attic at the top of the house is the vinegar loft and traditionally houses a barrel or two of the precious commodity, sometimes to be offered as a special gift or as part of a bride's dowry. Records dating back to 1046 state that a gift of balsamico was given to the Holy Roman emperor and a consignment of it found its way to England as part of Mary of Modena's dowry when she married James II. All the same, until the 1980s balsamico remained very much a local ingredient, little used elsewhere even in Italy.

The first thing I learned is that balsamico is not a wine vinegar, but a grape vinegar made from fresh pressed grape juice. How is it made? His explanation of his 'recipe' is lucid, up to a point. The easy bit: first the grapes, mostly Trebbiano with a small addition of Lambrusco, are crushed; then the pure juice – which is called must – is filtered, left to stand then transferred to huge vats (formerly made of copper, now of stainless steel). Wood fires underneath the vat bring the juice up to boiling point and then it is simmered for eight to 12 hours, by which time the whole is reduced to about one-third of its original volume. As it reduces and concentrates, the sugar begins to caramelise and the juice takes on that unmistakably dark, fiery amber colour.

What's it all about? Well, basically, just three things. While fermentation is occurring during the first year, two separate organisms, yeast and bacteria, are beginning to do their work. They are working simultaneously but in competition – yet they have to co-operate in order to survive. This organic working continues through the years, decades, centuries even, provided there is the third, vital co-operation – that of the vinegar maker, in this case Angelo. Using the skills and techniques handed on to him by his mother, he and he alone organises the blends and continuity. To do this he uses his senses of vision (to constantly check the colour), smell and then taste, all of which tell him what's happening. In his broken English he says, 'I must listen to what is happening to my treasure.' It's this 'listening' that determines what needs old, what needs new, what needs to be topped up. Is the oak flavour too strong in this one, too weak in that? Rather like the conductor of an orchestra, Angelo is in complete control.

What really fascinates me is that it is highly likely that some of this 40-year-old star I am now tasting has found its way, through blending, into my bottle at home. This invokes in me a reverence. Can there honestly be another ingredient that owes its existence to a continuity that spans the centuries? Something that was there in the beginning is still present in the product of today. The next time you open a bottle of balsamico at home, first breathe in the aroma, then as you taste, contemplate and savour all the complexity that has been involved in its make-up – the sun, the soil, the frost, the air and the wood working together with nature's hidden activity and Angelo's unique skills. I think he should have the last word: 'When you make a tradition, you pass on to others something that time is not able to destroy.'