Trombette green tart

This recipe came into my house because of Blengini. The bakery in Piazza San Giovanni, the one with Emma's bread and the little crackers slipped into the bag, makes a trombette green tart that I discovered late and that won me over at the first bite. Since then I've tried to recreate it, and I might as well tell you straight away: mine has never come out like theirs. But good, yes, and it's worth the effort.

Let's start with the basics, for those who aren't from here. The green tart is one of the Ligurian savoury tarts, the simpler cousin of the pasqualina: two thin sheets of pasta matta — no yeast, just flour, water and oil — wrapped around a vegetable filling. In Liguria they make it with chard, with field herbs, with artichokes depending on the season. This version is with trombette, the umbrella-handle zucchini we love more than any other around here: firm, sweet, full of flavour. They're the same ones Emma devours and that you find on the stalls of Oneglia's market from spring to late summer.

The real secret, the one nobody writes on recipes, is just one thing: water. Once stewed, the trombette must be squeezed or drained well, otherwise the filling stays wet and the bottom sheet never bakes the way it should. A good green tart is one where the pastry is thin and almost crisp, and the filling compact, not a puddle. If you learn only that, you're already halfway there.

The rest is a patient gesture more than a difficult one. You stew the trombette with the onion, bind them with rice (or with prescinseua, the Ligurian curd, if you can find it), the eggs, the Parmigiano and a grating of marjoram — which here, in savoury tarts, is the herb that makes the difference. You roll the pasta matta thin, line the tray, pour in the filling, cover with the second sheet, seal it, prick it and bake. Forty minutes, and when the top is golden and gives off that smell, you know you're there.

And here comes the reason we actually make this tart at home: it's the day-trip dish. You bake it the night before, let it cool, cut it into squares and tuck it into a bag. It doesn't need a fridge for a few hours, it doesn't leak, it doesn't spoil; at room temperature, in fact, it's better than hot. It's perfect for a day at the beach, a walk up in the valley, the train to Sanremo. My mother always made one when we were going somewhere: it was the sign that the day would be long and lovely.

One last word of honesty, because I care about it. Making it "like Blengini" is a goal I'd advise you not to set yourself: bakeries that have done it for decades have a touch, a dough and ovens you won't replicate at home. Your green tart will come out its own way — a bit more rustic, maybe a bit thicker the first time — and that's just fine. And if you really want the comparison with the original, the solution is simple and lovely: make one at home, buy one from Blengini, and eat them both on the beach. Either way, the winner is whoever's on holiday.