Sardinian Sanguinaccio

Enjoy this edge-of-your-seat guest post from fellow foodie and author, Joe Dunthorne. And look out for his first novel, Submarine, available in the U.S. from Random House this spring!

Sebastiano tells me, in tentative English, that the next course is going to be a surprise. Then, turning to the other guests, a young Italian family, he describes the cooking process in mellifluous Italian. I watch his hand movements for clues: his arm stirs the air, he makes a crumbling action with his finger tips, he draws his hand down his own chest as though unzipping a jacket. The family coo and nod.

Sebastiano looks lupine, I think: his long arms covered in wiry black hair, his fine, arched nose and a pack-hunter’s poise to his mannerisms. Although I understand very little of what he is saying, there is one word that sticks out: “Coaguli.”

When Sebastiano disappears in to the kitchen, the mother of the Italian family looks adoringly at me – as if I am a charming idiot. She has seen me eating pistachio nuts on the terrace and thinks this is the limit of my culinary appreciation.

Sebastiano returns with two very large bowls of hot slightly-lumpy soup. The smell is subtle and familiar. It’s the colour of raspberry jam.

He places the bowls in the middle of the table. My first guess is that we have been presented with pots of steaming blood.

Leading by example, the youngest son of the family – a nine-year-old boy who always takes a glass of grappa with his meal – digs in first, spreading the thick liquid on to a piece of flat bread.

Sebastiano still thinks I have no idea. He thinks I am expecting Heinz Tomato Soup.

Watching the boy take a bite, I see a dribble of gore run down his chin. Soon enough, the whole family are tucking in. Ruby-coloured stains, like badly-applied lipstick, all around their mouths. The napkins are making me think of the last time I had a nosebleed.

I think this must be blood. It looks like blood. It smells like blood. It’s the colour of blood. It’s blood.

I remind myself that, firstly, I came to Sardinia with just this sort of anecdote-friendly gourmandism in mind. And that, secondly, I adore black pudding.

Drifting in to a mental state of perfect calm and total disengagement, I spoon the blood on to the flat bread. I am slightly disturbed by the lumps, I might even call them clots. I try to remain Zen-like, distanced, watching myself through the eyes of the elk’s head mounted on the wall.

I see that Sebastiano is watching me too: eager – smiling – his teeth stained red.

Since I have loved every thing Sebastiano has cooked so far, and since I have little or no choice in the matter, I take a faux-confident bite. I expect my eyes to roll back, fangs to replace my incisors and hair to sprout on the the palms of my hand. Instead, there is the recognisably rich but subtle flavour of – yes – blood, but also onion (the lumps) and mint.

I have to take a few bites before I can really decide whether I like it or not. Sebastiano watches for my reaction. I smile at him. I imagine the blood on my teeth. He is pleased.

As I relax in to the idea of eating blood, a memory returns to me. I remember, at school, the time when I cut my finger on the point of a compass. All the other kids got lollipops as they walked home, while I sucked on my index finger.

Once the sanguinaccio is finished, the youngest son draws a smiley face in blood on his plate. Sebastiano tells me that he also crumbles his home-made pecorino in to the mix. The blood had come from one of his own lambs. The word Sanguinaccio translates literally as Bad Blood.

I later learned that it is now illegal for blood to be sold in butchers. The blood has to be very fresh – eaten within twenty-four hours – so they only way to guarantee freshness is to kill the animal yourself.

The other great Sardinian delicacy is named Casu Marzu – known locally as Maggot Cheese: a kind of pecorino where fly larvae have been deliberately introduced. The cheese moves beyond fermentation towards decomposition. The digestive action of the larvae breaks down the cheese fats, leaving a very soft texture, liquid in parts. Depending on their bravery, Sardinians eat the cheese with or without the accompanying white worms. Wikipedia notes that the worms can jump up to fifteen centimetres in the air. Eye protection is advised.