Reverting to tripe
The inside of a cow’s stomach looks a lot like a swimming cap. Sometimes it is measured in “caps” in markets – as in, “Two caps of tripe, please.” This continues our odd use of language when referencing meat products. If I put on a dish of “raw kangaroo” it doesn’t sell nearly as well as if I use the term “carpaccio”. If you dice sheep meat and dress it in mustard vinaigrette, it is called “tartare”.
Using fancy titles to romanticise what we are actually eating is common, but the exception to the rule seems to come when referencing offal. Offal is almost always classified by its actual name. Liver. Kidney. Spleen. Tongue. Heart. Why then is stomach “rebranded” as tripe? Perhaps so we can more easily stomach it?
Common industry practice for the processing of stomach often involves bleaching to remove any discolouration and partial boiling to tenderise the cut to a point where it is more approachable. If you are very resourceful you may get your hands on tripe that has had minimal preparation. If this is the case I recommend a similar preparation to the method at right but with acidulated water (try adding distilled vinegar to the blanching water), and also add a further 30 minutes’ cooking time in the white wine.
There isn’t anywhere to hide in this recipe.
I guess the slicing of the stomach into noodles can trick the mind into thinking it’s some sort of pasta, but that’s not the point really. This preparation becomes the dish trippa alla romana with the addition of borlotti beans, carrots and celery. But this stripped-back version is a celebration. Use really punchy brined olives that bring some bitterness, and end-of-season tomatoes that are just tipping over the edge into overripe. It’s all a load of tripe in the end, but hopefully it’s something we can
• stomach.