Steamed Fennel with Red Pepper Oil
Roasted Quail with Grilled Radicchio and Creamy Polenta
Fish Soup with Mussels and Chorizo
Zuppa di Fagioli with Rosemary Oil
Double Duck Breast with Baked Figs and Duck Liver Toasts
Bistecca with Fried Artichokes and Potatoes
feeling italian, part II
Steamed Fennel with Red Pepper Oil
Roasted Quail with Grilled Radicchio and Creamy Polenta
Peggy, our food-writer friend, and Christopher, an amazing food photographer, came to visit us at a little house we’d rented in Umbria. As soon as they arrived from Paris, we headed straight to the local market as usual, where we wanted to buy everything (always a temptation). Smitten by the bounty of the fall harvest, we wound up with only vegetables and managed a vegetarian menu that was so satisfying.
Florence fennel, bulb fennel, sweet anise, and finocchio are all names for one of my favorite vegetables. With its faintly licorice perfume, it has been popular in the Mediterranean since ancient times. In Italy in the fall, the market stands are piled high with fennel, and autumn is the best time to eat it. We came home with a basketful.
The simplest way to use fennel is to shave it paper-thin with a mandoline or sharp knife, then dress it with sea salt, good olive oil, and a few drops of lemon juice. But fennel is also very good cooked. I like to boil it in salted water and serve it warm, adding olive oil and pepper at the table. Parcooked wedges can also be grilled, or sprinkled with Parmigiano and browned under the broiler.
I made a fennel gratin in a way I’d never done before. Yet I’m now remembering Richard Olney’s pumpkin gratin that uses a sprinkling of flour, so maybe all our brilliant new ideas come from somewhere. I steamed the thick-sliced fennel, layered it in a gratin dish, sprinkled it with flour as if I were making a fruit pie, drizzled it with melted butter, and moistened it with milk. I added grated Parmigiano, salt, pepper, and bread crumbs, dotted the top with butter, and baked it. It was so good, and done this way, the gratin doesn’t require a béchamel. This would be a great way to do cardoons, or onions, I thought.
Peggy made a salad of puntarella, that bitter Italian green, prepared as I’d seen it done in Rome, with the stems peeled and curled in a bowl of cold water, then drained and dressed with anchovies, garlic croutons, and her special top-secret dressing.
Christopher found gorgeous artichokes and prepared them two ways: Keeping their elegant stems long and stuffing mint and garlic between the leaves, she braised some of them whole in olive oil and white wine, with more herbs and garlic, then reduced the pan juices afterward to pour over. The others she pounded flat into “flowers” and fried Roman-Jewish-style.
We sat at the table outside in the cold autumn air. An old fig tree was shedding its leaves ever so slowly. We felt very lucky.
Even though warm fennel is perfectly delicious just anointed with a little olive oil, red pepper adds a welcome sharpness to the sweet anise flavor.
Trim the fennel bulbs, reserving a few green fronds, and cut them crosswise into ½-inch slices. Put the slices into the perforated top of a large steamer and sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper. Have the water in the bottom of the steamer boiling rapidly. Set the steamer basket in place and clamp on the lid. Steam for about 8 minutes, until the fennel is cooked through but still a bit firm.
Carefully remove the fennel from the steamer and arrange on a platter. Garnish with the fennel fronds and surround with lemon wedges. Send the fennel to the table and let each person dress with the red pepper oil, lemon juice, and sea salt.
Heat 1 cup of olive oil in a saucepan over a medium flame. When the oil is quite warm to the touch, stir in 1 or 2 teaspoons red pepper flakes and turn off the heat. Let the oil cool to room temperature before using. The spicy oil can be drizzled over warm vegetables or over a pizza.
A platter of roasted quail and polenta makes a savory autumn Italian-style feast. Farm-raised quail are readily available, and generally of good quality, but feel free to substitute wild quail or small game hens (half a hen per person) if you prefer. The question is, how many quail per person? One plump quail satisfies restrained appetites, but three quail might be necessary for a hearty one. Two each is safe.
In poultry parlance, “semiboneless” refers to quail with their breastbones removed, wing and leg bones intact. Quail are really best eaten with the fingers. I prefer bone-in quail, all the better for nibbling. Choose semiboneless quail for your bone-wary guests, but encourage them to pick up the legs with their fingers.
Season each quail inside and out with salt and pepper and drizzle with a few drops of olive oil.
In a small bowl, mix together the thyme, sage, and garlic. Put a small spoonful of the mixture inside each bird. Wrap each bird with a slice of pancetta. Put in a baking dish and refrigerate the birds for up to several hours, or overnight. Bring to room temperature before cooking.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Put the quail breast side down in a shallow roasting pan (two pans side by side is easier) and slide onto the oven’s top rack.
When the birds begin to sizzle, after 8 minutes or so, turn them breast side up. Continue roasting for 10 to 12 minutes more, until the quail are nicely browned and crisp and the juices run clear when the thigh is probed with the tip of a knife.
Remove the birds from the oven and let them rest about 10 minutes, loosely covered.
Pour the polenta onto a large platter. Lay the quail on the polenta and spoon the pan juices over the birds. Surround with the grilled radicchio.
serves 8–10
The best-tasting polenta depends on good fresh cornmeal and a certain amount of tending, though the constant stirring everyone dreads is not really necessary. Most Americans do not cook polenta long enough, so it has a disagreeable raw cornmeal taste. It’s worth an hour or so of cooking for the flavor and texture that you’d never get from a box of instant polenta. Like rice, the cornmeal needs time to absorb the water and swell.
Use 4 parts water to 1 part polenta. Once made, the polenta can sit for another hour.
Bring 12 cups water to a boil in a large heavy-bottomed pot over a high flame. Add 2 teaspoons salt and 3 cups stone-ground polenta and stir well with a sturdy whisk. When the water returns to the boil and the polenta begins to thicken, after a minute or two, turn the flame to low. Continue to stir while the polenta gets its bearings. After a few minutes, it will be bubbling very gently, with the occasional ploop. Stir the polenta every 10 minutes or so. If it seems to be getting too thick, splash a little milk on top and stir it in—do this occasionally, or as necessary.
After 45 minutes or so, the polenta should be nearly cooked and ready for tasting. Spoon out a small amount on a plate and let it cool slightly—hot polenta straight from the pot is likely to burn the roof of your mouth. You’re looking for a lush, corn flavor and a texture that’s smooth, not grainy.
Now add salt and pepper to taste, and another splash of milk, and stir well. Cook for 15 minutes longer, then taste again. Stir in a stick of softened butter. Turn off the heat and let the polenta rest, covered, for 15 minutes before serving. Covered, it will stay warm and soft for up to an hour.
For each serving, count on 2 wedges of radicchio; 4 small heads will yield 8 servings.
Peel any damaged or tough outer leaves from the radicchio. Cut into thick wedges and place in an earthenware gratin dish or shallow baking dish. Drizzle the wedges with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Bake on the top shelf for 10 to 15 minutes, until well browned and nearly, but not quite, charred. The radicchio can be cooked up to several hours in advance, then reheated in the hot oven when the birds come out.
The Italian plums I prefer are small and dark-purple-skinned, with crisp amber flesh. They ripen at the end of summer, and they’re sometimes called prune or Stanley plums (How could you not love a plum called Stanley?). I used to eat them by the bagful as a kid. They make delicious jam and wonderful tarts and pies. Here they’re baked in an almond batter.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter a 10-inch tart pan or springform pan. Put the almonds and ½ cup sugar in a blender or food processor and pulse until the nuts are finely ground. Add the flour and salt and pulse once more.
Transfer the mixture to a bowl. Beat the eggs with the milk and stir in the melted butter. Add the egg mixture to the almond mixture and whisk for a minute or two until the batter is smooth.
Pour the batter into the pan and smooth with a spatula. Arrange the plum slices on top in a circular pattern. Sprinkle sugar generously over the plums. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the top is golden and a paring knife inserted into the center comes out clean.
The cake is best served within a few hours of baking.
in catalonia
Fish Soup with Mussels and Chorizo
Many people think they don’t like anchovies, usually because they have only tasted them straight from the tin or on a bad pizza. Even if you get the oil-packed supermarket variety, a little judicious soaking will improve their flavor. As a rule, though, the better the quality of the anchovy to begin with, the better the result. I always try to bring a few jars home when I’m traveling in anchovy territory: French anchovies from Collioure in the Languedoc-Roussillon, or any anchovies from the coastal areas of the Basque country.
If you have ever been to Barcelona, you know some of the best anchovies in the world are found there. Sweet and meaty, served everywhere, they are so beloved by the locals that the best ones are never exported. (Some superior Spanish anchovies are exported, though, and they can be found, for a price. They’re well worth it.) It is a luxury to go into almost any Barcelona bar and find a little anchovy sandwich waiting. We don’t have that pleasure here, but we do have access to salt-packed Italian anchovies, nearly as delicious.
On my first trip to Barcelona, I was traveling solo, and I decided to treat myself to a night on the town. The famous Maurice Béjart Ballet was performing, and I’d always wanted to see them. I certainly didn’t speak Catalan, and my Spanish wasn’t very good either. But I marched right up to the box office and asked for (I thought) the most expensive seat they had.
I purchased the ticket and was surprised at how reasonable it was. A few minutes later, I was surprised when the usher gestured for me to go outside and enter from a side door. When I showed my ticket to the next usher, he pointed toward the stairs: “Arriba! Arriba!” Up the stairs I climbed. And up. When I found my seat at last—a hard wooden bench behind a pillar, just inches from the ceiling—I realized without a doubt that my bad Spanish had in fact bought me the cheapest ticket. The performance was thrilling nonetheless.
Afterward, I set out in search of anchovy sandwiches. I found a place and went in; the upstairs was full of tables. On each table was a little bowl where a single goldfish swam. Locals were eating anchovy sandwiches and listening to a guitarist. There were no available chairs, so I went back down to the empty bar area.
I ordered a glass of cava and an anchovy sandwich and asked the bartender if she spoke English. “A little,” she replied. I sat there alone, listening to the life and laughter from upstairs. After a while she looked at me with a certain amount of sympathy, mustered up her English, and said, “Aren’t you … very … boring?”
Toasted bread rubbed with garlic and tomato, topped with anchovies and a bit of Spanish olive oil, is a traditional Catalan first course, or a great snack.
If you’re using salt-packed anchovies, rinse them under cold water and rub off the skins and fins. Remove the fillets from each side of the skeleton, and discard the bones. Soak the fillets in a small bowl of warm water for 5 minutes, then blot on paper towels.
If using oil-packed fillets, rinse them with warm water. If they are too strong tasting, soak them in a small bowl of milk for 5 minutes, then blot on paper towels.
Toast the bread. Swipe the toasts lightly with the garlic. Rub each one with a cut side of the tomato, pressing down to make the toast look red and juicy. Lay an anchovy fillet across each toast. Arrange the toasts on a platter, drizzle with olive oil, and sprinkle lightly with salt.
This soup is as close as my memory can take me to a table in the sand at one of those fish shacks along the beach at Barceloneta, a little strip of beach on the harbor. Those shacks may no longer exist, but the soup prevails.
Fish soup can be a chore, even for experienced cooks. This easy full-flavored version gets a kick from chorizo and extra richness from a Catalan-style roasted pepper sauce stirred in at the end. You want the fish to flake apart and become part of the broth rather than remain in separate chunks. Any fresh white-fleshed fish will do, but I have also used well-soaked salt cod (see page 232) with great success for this recipe.
Clean and debeard the mussels and put them in a bowl. Cover with a damp towel and refrigerate. Season the fish with salt and pepper. Sprinkle over the saffron, garlic, and thyme. Drizzle with 3 tablespoons olive oil and massage in the seasoning. Cover and refrigerate for up to several hours.
In a large heavy-bottomed soup pot, stew the onions in a little olive oil over medium heat until soft. Add the chorizo and bay leaves and cook for a few minutes more.
Add the fish and white wine and simmer for 1 minute. Add the mussels and stock and turn the heat to high. Cover and cook for about 8 minutes, stirring once or twice, until all the mussels have opened.
Stir in the roasted pepper sauce and cook for a minute more. Taste the broth and adjust the seasoning. Sprinkle over the chopped parsley and serve.
serves 8–10
Fish stock is quick and easy to make. It tastes best the day it’s made.
Rinse 1 pound meaty halibut (or sole or cod) bones under cold water and put them in a large pot. Add a small leek and an onion, sliced, a bay leaf, and a few peppercorns. Cover with 12 cups water and heat to just under a boil, then turn the flame to low. Skim off any rising foam and cook at a bare simmer for 20 minutes. Strain the stock and keep at room temperature.
Char 1 large sweet pepper over an open flame or under the broiler until the skin is blistered and black all over. When it is cool enough to handle, scrape the skin from the flesh and remove the core and seeds. In a blender or food processor, puree the roasted pepper with 1 large tomato, roughly chopped, 1 garlic clove, coarsely chopped, ½ teaspoon salt, a good pinch of cayenne, and ¼ cup olive oil. Scrape the sauce into a small bowl. The sauce can be made several hours, or even a day, in advance.
In Catalonia, mild goat cheese served with honey is called mel i mató. Similar cheeses, like French-style fromage blanc, fresh ricotta, Italian aged ricotta salata, and Greek manouri, are paired with fragrant honey throughout the Mediterranean. In Italy and in the Basque country, aged mountain cheeses and sharp sheep’s-milk cheeses are often served with honey or preserves too.
Cheese and honey makes a perfect light finish to a meal (it’s good for breakfast too). Good thick yogurt with honey makes a fine dessert as well.
The most intense flavor comes from the bees’ diet—search out artisanal honey (at farmers’ markets) made from the blossoms of chestnut, mesquite, orange blossom, lavender, acacia, wildflower, alfalfa, buckwheat, eucalyptus, or sage.
Assemble a luscious platter of cheese, honey, and whatever ripe table grapes are at their best.
Slice each goat cheese log into 5 pieces with a thin sharp knife or cheese wire. Arrange the cheese on a platter. Top each round with a good teaspoonful of honey.
the bean soup lunch
Zuppa di Fagioli with Rosemary Oil
Garlic toast is one of the best things to eat. There are many ways to make it, but here is my favorite. You need, first and foremost, a good loaf of bread. Find a bakery that makes an honest loaf. For me, that means a hearth-baked bread that is made of only flour, water, yeast, and salt—a loaf with a good crust, a good texture, and the flavor of wheat. It’s not important whether the loaf is whole-grain or white. Day-old bread makes especially good toast.
Then comes the question of how to toast the bread. I would try to have a fire going outside, and to rig up a grill, raking coals aside to toast bread over the cooler part. (If toasting over coals is not practical, an electric toaster or even a toaster oven is fine, if less romantic.)
Cut the bread into ½-inch-thick slices. Paint each slice lightly with good olive oil. If you have access to new-crop olive oil (Italian or Californian), your garlic toast will be even more sublime.
Grill the bread over medium-hot coals. This is not the time to become impatient: you want to attain the golden toasted color only gradually, nursing the toast for a good 3 minutes per side. If the coals are too hot, you’ll never achieve that idyllic state of toast: crisp outside and soft within. Instead, you produce the burned marshmallow of toast—blackened, charred bread that has grilled too quickly. And that would be a pity.
Only when the bread is beautifully toasted can you administer the garlic. Here is where many people go very wrong. A peeled garlic clove (or a head of garlic cut in half) must be rubbed very gently against the toast. Push too hard, and you will have grated an unpalatable amount of garlic into the bread, overwhelming that carefully achieved toasty flavor. Hold back: a very gentle swipe of garlic will suffice. Before serving, sprinkle the toast lightly with sea salt.
Another method is to toast the bread dry, then drizzle with oil, rub with garlic, and sprinkle with salt.
Picture this still life: a worn wooden board, a knife, and a Tuscan salami. There is a simple brilliance to the Italian custom of piquing the appetite by serving thinly sliced cured meats: prosciutto, salami, and a few olives before a meal. Basta. Nothing fancy. Nothing filling. You’re still hungry when you get to the table.
This little ritual never gets old. I could repeat it daily, not just because it’s easy, and not just because it’s good. Maybe it makes me feel connected to an Italian past I wish I’d had. Find an Italian food store and ask to taste different cured meats until you find what you like: finocchiona, mortadella, soppressata. Do the same with olives. With a little salumi and a couple of pounds of olives, the more artisanal the better, your pantry is stocked.
The first cold weather wants bean soup. If possible, eat this soup outside, preferably with a little fire going, after raking leaves or chopping wood. Sometimes the soup is the whole meal: white bean soup with ham hock is especially satisfying, though if you’re not thinking Italian, you could cook up a pot of pinto beans with bacon, or lentil soup with chorizo. A bean soup needs gentle cooking and cannot be rushed. Make the soup the day before you plan to serve it.
Just before serving, embellish the soup with cooked pasta (tubetti or small shells, perhaps) and wilted greens, if you like.
Warm the 3 tablespoons olive oil in a heavy-bottomed soup pot over medium heat. Add the diced onions and cook gently until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and bay leaves and cook for a minute more.
Add the white beans and smoked ham hocks. Cover with the water and bring to a boil. Skim off any surface foam and turn the heat to low. Simmer gently for an hour, stirring occasionally.
Add the ground fennel, red pepper flakes, and a good spoonful of salt. Continue cooking for 1 hour more, or until the beans are quite tender and the smoked pork has begun to fall apart.
Taste the soup and season with salt and pepper. Cool to room temperature, then refrigerate, uncovered, overnight.
To serve, reheat the soup over a medium flame, stirring frequently. Thin with water if it has thickened too much overnight. Check the seasoning and adjust.
Drizzle a teaspoon of rosemary oil on top of each bowl of soup. Serve with grilled garlic toast.
serves 8–10
This simple flavored oil tastes best made just before serving.
While the soup is heating, warm the olive oil in a small saucepan. Chop about a tablespoon of rosemary and stir it into the oil. Turn off the heat.
There’s an old Italian adage that says, essentially, that a good ripe pear with a chunk of fine Parmigiano will turn a peasant into a king—at least temporarily. It is one of those blessed combinations that really delivers flavor and pleasure.
A ripe pear can be difficult to find, however. Pears are picked underripe, and most are sold that way and need to be monitored at home for a few days. To check for ripeness, press gently on the neck of the pear. If it yields, just barely, to the pressure, it is ripe. The best-tasting pears for eating out of hand are Comice and Anjou.
Real Italian Parmigiano, Parmigiano-Reggiano, is produced only in Emilia-Romagna under strict supervision and aged for at least two years. Sweet, nutty, and grainy, it makes a delicious table cheese. Other “grana”-type cheeses, such as grana padano, may be tasty, but the real thing is worth paying for. Sitting around the table peeling pears and breaking off shards of Parmigiano is a pleasurable activity that promotes all sorts of camaraderie.
As commercially made biscotti get increasingly bigger and less flavorful, it becomes even more important to make your own. Biscotti will keep for weeks in an airtight tin, but check on them frequently: biscotti have a way of disappearing for no apparent reason. Dunking is mandatory—in red wine, sweet wine, or coffee.
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Using a handheld or standing mixer, cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl. Beat in the eggs and almond extract.
Mix together the flour, baking powder, and salt, then slowly incorporate into the butter mixture. Add the sliced almonds and mix for a minute more.
Put the dough on a floured board and divide it into thirds. Roll into logs about 1½ inches in diameter. Place the logs on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake for 25 minutes, or until lightly browned. Remove the logs and let them cool slightly.
While the logs are still warm, slice them on the diagonal about ½ inch thick. Arrange the slices on two baking sheets and bake for 5 minutes, or until barely brown. Turn the biscotti over and bake for 2 to 3 minutes more. Cool on a rack.
makes 4 dozen
another early autumn
Double Duck Breast with Baked Figs and Duck Liver Toasts
One of the attractions of doing your food shopping at an outdoor market is the likelihood of encountering a vendor with a little personality or a lot of eccentricity. Such is the case in my neighborhood market in Paris, a thrice-weekly event in a small square off the Boulevard Saint-Germain. But the star of the market shows up only on Saturdays. And he shows up whenever he wants.
While other vendors are there by the crack of dawn, The Bird Man of Place Maubert wheels in about 10 A.M. and takes his time setting up, stocking his stand with the ducks, quail, pigeons, guinea hens, poussin, capon, and rabbits he’s raised on a farm two hours from Paris. He has hen eggs and duck eggs, and he even hangs the occasional wild boar or young goat or deer. Then he stacks jars of pâtés and confits and gizzards and duck fat that come straight from his farm.
There’s always a crowd waiting in line for him. But it’s worth the wait—for the birds, sure, but also for the theater. You know you’ll be standing in that line for a good long while as he prepares each client’s wish: carving the breast from a fat chicken, gutting and singeing a guinea hen and tying it for roasting, skinning a wild hare and telling the customer how to cook it.
This he accomplishes with total dexterity, all the while entertaining the crowd with nonstop schtick, gestures, and grandstanding. We call him The Bird Man not just because of his beak, or the fowl that he sells, but because of the strange cacophony of squawks and screams he emits as he goes about his business, crowing like a rooster, quacking like a duck.
I take comfort in all this, knowing that when I ask him for only the breasts from three large ducks, he’s ready, willing, and able. And he’s sure to have customers for the legs.
This smoky, velvety salad has the color intensity of fall in all its glory, using the end-of-season’s sweet peppers.
Roast the peppers over an open flame, either a wood fire or on the stovetop, or under the broiler. Try to get the peppers as close to the flame as possible so their skins will blacken and blister quickly. Turn the peppers frequently with a pair of tongs so they roast evenly.
Spread the peppers on a baking sheet so they can cool to room temperature. Some cooks will tell you to cover the just-roasted peppers, or put them in a bag, but I believe too much steaming overcooks the flesh.
When the peppers are cool enough to handle, split them top to bottom with a large knife. Scrape the seeds from the insides, then turn each pepper half over and scrape away the charred skin. When all the peppers are scraped, slice them into 1-inch-wide strips and put them in a bowl. Season with salt and pepper and toss well. Add the garlic, capers, and a teaspoon or two of red wine vinegar.
Drizzle lightly with olive oil. Toss again. Don’t refrigerate the peppers—it’ll kill their delicate flavor. Leave the salad at room temperature until ready to serve, up to several hours.
To serve, taste and adjust the seasoning, then mound the salad on a platter. Garnish with the olives. Drizzle with a little more oil. Decorate the salad with basil leaves.
Roasting a whole duck at home can be an ordeal. Instead, I use this technique—it’s well worth knowing—of tying two large breasts together to make a manageable roast. The duck is roasted to a rosy hue, just past rare, then sliced. Each “roast” is enough for four, so you will have leftovers. A drizzle of sweet aged balsamic vinegar is the only sauce it needs. Leftover duck is good cold for lunch, in a salad with lightly dressed arugula and toasted walnuts.
Put the salt in a small bowl. Finely grind the peppercorns, allspice, juniper, cloves, and bay leaves in a mortar or spice mill. Mix the ground spices with the salt. Add the garlic.
Trim the duck breasts and lay them on a baking sheet or platter. Season each breast on both sides with the spice mixture, massaging the seasoning into the flesh with your fingers.
Now pair up the breasts, and make each pair into a sort of sandwich—that is, stack one breast on top of the other, skin sides out. With butcher’s twine, tie the “sandwiches” together, to make 3 compact little roasts. Wrap and refrigerate for at least several hours, or overnight.
Place the breasts in a shallow roasting pan and let them come to room temperature. Preheat the oven to 400°F. Pop the roasts into the oven and cook for 15 minutes. The duck will have rendered a fair amount of fat. Carefully pour off the fat (to save the fat for cooking, cool, strain, and refrigerate). Turn the roasts over and return to the oven for 15 minutes more, or until nicely browned. An instant-read thermometer should register 125°F for a succulent, rosy medium-rare.
Remove the duck from the oven and pour off any accumulated fat. Let the roasts rest for 10 or 15 minutes.
Remove the twine and cut the duck breasts crosswise into ⅛-inch-thick slices. Arrange the slices on a warmed platter, and garnish with the baked figs and liver toasts. Drizzle a little aged balsamic vinegar over the duck and the figs.
serves 12
Warming a fig can enhance its essence. For the last of the season’s figs, roasting helps to concentrate flavors and bring out their sweetness. Roasted figs make a fine dessert also, served with Barely Whipped Cream (page 69) or Crème Fraîche (page 41).
With a sharp paring knife, cut the figs in half top to bottom, right through the stem, so their natural shape is preserved.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Scatter a few thyme branches in the bottom of a shallow earthenware dish (or two) just large enough to hold the figs. Place the figs cut side up in the dish. Spoon a few drops of olive oil over them.
Bake the figs for about 20 minutes, until they puff a little and look juicy. Serve the figs on the duck platter, warm or at room temperature.
These tasty toasts—the Italians call them crostini—perfectly complement the roast duck, or they can become a first course on their own.
Trim the livers, blot on paper towels, and season with salt and pepper. Heat the olive oil in a wide skillet over a medium flame. When the oil is hot, add the pancetta and shallots and cook until the shallots are nicely browned.
Add the livers and turn up the flame. Stir well and continue cooking, shaking the pan occasionally, until the livers are cooked through but still a little pink. Slice one to check. Add the thyme and sherry, and transfer the contents of the pan to a cutting board. Let cool to room temperature.
With a large knife, chop the livers with the pancetta and shallots to a rough paste, then put the paste in a small mixing bowl. Mash the butter into the paste with a wooden spoon. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and keep at cool room temperature until ready to serve (up to 2 hours), or refrigerate and bring to room temperature before serving.
Spread on toasted baguette slices.
This silky, eggless custard is surprisingly easy to prepare.
Combine the half-and-half, crème fraîche, vanilla bean, sugar, and salt in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and warm over medium heat (do not boil). Stir to dissolve the sugar. Add the gelatin and stir well. Turn off the heat.
Fish out the vanilla bean, cut it lengthwise in half, and scrape out the seeds; add the seeds to the gelatin mixture. Cool to room temperature.
Ladle the cooled mixture into ten 4-ounce glasses or ramekins. Cover with plastic wrap. Refrigerate for at least 6 hours, or, preferably, overnight.
To serve, invert each glass over a soup plate. After a minute, wiggle the glass to unmold the panna cotta. Serve the panna cotta plain or with a few berries.
dinner for a tuscan
Bistecca with Fried Artichokes and Potatoes
My friend Tony was born in San Francisco, but his parents are from Lucca. Growing up, he spent all his summers there. Though he is American in many ways, I have to say that Tony is Italian first—especially when it comes to eating and cooking. It’s fun to go to the market with him and watch him get excited, and it’s even more fun to cook with him.
Tony sells real estate for a living, but he is a natural cook. Put him in front of a stove, and he’s happy. Give him a couple of roasting chickens and he’s in heaven, from the moment he puts them in the oven to the moment he carves them and brings them to the table. Watch him nurse a slow-cooked tomato sauce for pasta, and you know you’ll be eating something special. But if you really want to get him smiling and salivating, hand him a few bunches of escarole, kale, and chard. Italians are crazy for greens, and Tony is no exception.
Satisfying, earthy cooked greens taste deeply healthy, particularly if the mixture includes some slightly bitter ones, like rapini, with its mysterious, almost-almond bittersweetness. And wild greens, like nettle, mallow, and dandelion are even better, if you know where to forage for them (as many Italians do). But even cultivated spinach is a perfectly wonderful green: I never did understand why children are supposed to hate it. (Perhaps I was an odd child—I always loved it.)
In Italy, an abundantly satisfying antipasto is a plate of cooked greens with olive oil and lemon, served at room temperature. Its tongue-clinging, clean flavor is a refreshing way to start a meal. I love cooked-down broccoli rabe on toast or chopped greens in soup. And, of course, greens with pasta.
I thought hard about the dinner menu for Tony’s birthday, and I came up with green lasagne. That way he could have two of his favorite things: his pasta and his greens. But there had to be a meat course too. Because no matter how good the pasta, I knew Tony would say afterward, “What, no meat?”
For this lasagne, I add pureed raw greens to the pasta dough and use cooked greens for the filling. I have a habit of saving greens: the outer leaves of escarole and curly endive, radish tops, young turnip tops, and oversized (or any size) arugula. All of these can be combined with spinach or chard and wilted together with olive oil, garlic, and a touch of hot pepper, then chopped roughly for a filling for lasagne or ravioli.
To make the pasta dough, put the shredded greens, eggs, salt, and olive oil in a blender or food processor and puree until smooth. Scrape the green puree into a mixing bowl and add the flour. Knead into a soft dough. If the dough seems too sticky, sprinkle with a little more flour and knead some more. Wrap the dough in plastic and set it aside to rest.
For the filling, heat the olive oil in a large deep saucepan over a medium-high flame. Add the garlic and let it sizzle, without browning. Add the red pepper flakes, then add the greens. Stir well and let the greens wilt for a minute. Season with salt and pepper and stir again.
Now put the wilted greens in a colander to drain. When the greens are cool enough to handle, squeeze them in your hands to remove any excess liquid. Set them aside.
Put the ricotta in a bowl. Add the lemon zest, season with a little salt and pepper, and mix well.
For the béchamel sauce, melt the butter in a large heavy-bottomed saucepan over a medium flame. Stir in the flour and cook, stirring, for a minute, without letting the mixture brown. Whisk in the milk a half cup at a time, letting the sauce thicken after each addition. When all the milk has been added, add the bay leaf and thyme and season with salt and pepper.
Turn the flame to low and let the sauce cook gently for 10 minutes. Thin if necessary with a little more milk. Grate in some nutmeg. Check the seasoning and adjust. Strain the sauce into a double boiler and keep warm.
Butter a large baking dish, approximately 8 by 12 inches. Have a large pot of salted boiling water on the stove and a large bowl of cold water nearby.
Divide the dough into 3 or 4 pieces. Roll each piece into a thin sheet with a pasta machine at the next-to-thinnest setting, placing the pieces on a floured counter as you work. Cut the sheets into 8-inch lengths. Leave the pasta sheets uncovered on the floured counter.
To assemble the lasagne, boil 2 sheets of pasta at a time so they cook evenly and don’t stick together. Cook the sheets as you go, for 1 minute or less, leaving them quite al dente. Plunge them immediately in the cold water to stop the cooking, then blot on a kitchen towel.
For the first layer, lay the 2 pasta sheets side by side in the bottom of the gratin dish. Arrange a quarter of the cooked greens over the pasta. Dot the greens with one-quarter of the ricotta. Spoon ½ cup béchamel sauce over the ricotta, and sprinkle with a handful (about 2 tablespoons) of Parmigiano. Repeat the process to make 3 more layers. Finish with 2 or 3 sheets of pasta on top, coat with the remaining béchamel, and sprinkle with the rest of the Parmigiano.
Refrigerate the assembled lasagne for up to several hours, or overnight to marry the flavors. Bring to room temperature before baking.
Preheat the oven to 375ºF, and bake the lasagne for 30 minutes or so, until bubbling and lightly browned on top. Let rest before serving.
serves 8–10
Baby artichokes are the size of an egg, with no choke. After you remove a few outer leaves, the entire artichoke is edible.
Season the flank steak generously with salt and coarsely ground black pepper. Drizzle with a little olive oil and massage in the seasoning.
Cover and refrigerate for at least several hours, or overnight. Bring to room temperature before cooking.
Peel the potatoes and cut them into small chunks or wedges. Boil the potatoes in salted water until just done (soft when pierced with the tip of a knife). Drain the potatoes and spread them on a baking sheet to cool.
To prepare the baby artichokes, cut off the tops and remove a few outer leaves from each to reveal the pale green centers. Trim the stem ends with a paring knife. Slice the artichokes lengthwise ¼ inch thick. Put the slices in a bowl of cool water. Squeeze in the juice of the lemon.
Prepare a fire in a charcoal grill. While you wait for the grill to heat, panfry the artichokes and potatoes: Drain the artichoke slices and blot with a kitchen towel. Put a large skillet over a high flame. Add ½ inch of olive oil and let it heat. Add the artichokes and stir them around in the oil for a minute or so. Add the potatoes and let them sizzle with the artichokes.
Turn flame to medium, shaking the pan and stirring the vegetables, until they brown and crisp, about 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add the garlic and let it sizzle without browning. Stir in the parsley and turn off the heat.
Grill the flank steak over hot coals. For a rare steak, cook about 4 minutes per side, just until juices begin to appear on the surface. Transfer to a platter and let the steak rest for 10 to 15 minutes before carving.
Carve the flank steak in thin slices against the grain. Arrange the meat on a large warmed platter. Reheat the fried artichokes and potatoes if necessary and spoon around the steak. Garnish the platter with arugula leaves and lemon wedges.
serves 8–10
Castagnaccia is a rustic, traditional, not too sweet Tuscan cake made from chestnut flour. In Florence, you can find the cake in some old-fashioned trattorie, looking a bit like cracked slabs of brown earth. Chestnut flour can be purchased in many Italian markets or online.
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Put the chestnut flour in a large bowl. Whisk in the water and mix well to remove lumps. Stir in 3 tablespoons olive oil and the salt. The mixture will resemble thick pancake batter.
Grease a 12-inch cast-iron skillet generously with olive oil. Pour in the batter. Sprinkle the raisins over the batter, then the pine nuts and rosemary. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the top is lightly browned and cracked. Cool slightly, then remove from pan.
The cake tastes best slightly warm.
a simple moroccan supper
I had dreamed of visiting Morocco ever since reading Paul Bowles’s The Sheltering Sky as a lad. I went on to read his other novels, and his wife, Jane’s, too. I picked up Paula Wolfert’s definitive Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco and cooked my way through that book. I was hungry.
So it was a bit disconcerting when I had a chance, at last, to visit a friend to find myself in southern Morocco during the month-long celebration of Ramadan, when Muslims must fast from sunrise till dusk and are forbidden even a sip of water. Many restaurants are closed altogether. Where was the food? I spent my days waiting for the sun to set.
At sundown, it is customary to break the fast with a nurturing soup, usually harira, made with dried fava beans, chickpeas, and lentils. We were invited to several families’ houses to join in the fast-breaking. Moroccan hospitality is legendary, and we were always made to feel like part of the family. These suppers always began with mint tea and, curiously, a kind of spiced café au lait as well, and glasses of buttermilk too—all served at the same time.
Next, platters of sweets or semolina pancakes with honey were offered, along with a flatbread stuffed with a meaty onion filling, which everyone called Berber pizza. Bowls of harira soup were passed—spicy, savory, and satisfying.
Then, as we lounged on pillows and cushions, water was boiled and more mint tea was served. After an hour or so of relaxation, more dishes arrived, usually a steaming platter of couscous, piled high with chicken and vegetables. You were supposed to eat a lot at night because at sunrise the fasting would begin again. Alas, we were usually so satisfied by the delicious bread and soup, we thought we could manage only a polite taste of couscous. In truth, I forced myself to several helpings. To be extra polite, of course.
If you have a good olive merchant, you may trust his spiced olives, but it’s easy and satisfying to make your own. Let the olives marinate in the spice mixture for a couple of hours. They’ll keep for a week in the refrigerator.
Rinse the olives and put them in a bowl.
Toast the cumin and coriander in a dry skillet over medium heat until the spices begin to color a bit. Coarsely grind in a spice mill or mortar.
Mix the olives with the cumin, coriander, garlic, lemon, paprika, cayenne, and olive oil. Sprinkle lightly with salt.
This is a thin double-crust pan bread traditionally baked on a hot griddle. I’ve modified the technique so it can be baked in a conventional oven.
For the dough, mix the yeast, ¾ cup warm water, and ½ cup flour together in a large bowl. When the mixture is foamy and active, add 4 more cups flour, the salt, olive oil, and remaining 1 cup water. Stir to mix, then knead until smooth, adding a little flour if necessary, but aiming for a soft dough. Cover and let rest for 2 hours, refrigerated, or overnight.
For the filling, in a large heavy skillet over high heat, wilt the onions quickly in 2 tablespoons olive oil and the butter, letting them color a bit but leaving them a little crunchy.
Add the cumin, coriander, red chile, paprika, and black pepper. Season well with salt. Taste and adjust the seasoning—the onions should be rather spicy. Remove the onions to a plate to cool, and sprinkle with the chopped parsley and cilantro.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Divide the dough into six 5-ounce pieces. Knead each piece into a smooth ball. Cover with a clean towel and let the dough rest for 10 minutes.
To make the first pizza, roll out 2 dough balls into 8-inch rounds. Place one-third of the onion mixture on one of the rounds. Cover with the other round of dough. Pinch the edges together with your fingers. With the palm of your hand, press down on the package to flatten it, then roll out the filled dough to make a 12-inch circle (the onion mixture will spread inside the dough as you roll). Follow the same procedure to make 2 more pizzas.
Transfer one pizza to a lightly oiled baking sheet. Bake up to 2 pizzas at a time for 15 to 20 minutes, flipping the pizza halfway through the baking to ensure even browning. (The pizzas can be baked up to 2 hours in advance and reheated on baking sheets in a hot oven.) Paint the tops with a little olive oil and sprinkle with salt and cut into wedges just before serving.
I believe many Western dishes can benefit from a little chile heat—fresh or dried. Italians would not be surprised to find a few red pepper flakes in their greens. And despite the fact that no self-respecting Frenchman would agree, even a traditional French beef daube, a Gruyère omelette, or a tomato salad can be improved with a judicious bit of jalapeño.
I can’t resist buying fresh chiles whenever I see them. I find it comforting to have a bowl of jalapeños nearby, especially those that look a bit like strawberries as they begin to turn red. I like thin, sharp serrano chiles and dull-hot Thai bird peppers. It’s hard to resist a few shiny, dark poblanos, so good roasted and dressed with sour cream. Inevitably, though, this compulsion results in a collection of shriveled, half-dry, and dried chiles hanging around in my kitchen. But I always manage to work the semidried chiles into a braise, or a marinade. And when they’re dried, I make my own chile powder (thanks to a spice grinder) without going to the store.
This penchant for chile peppers’ high notes explains, too, my love for the French Basque piment d’Espelette, and the smoky Spanish Pimentón de la Vera. I also appreciate the depth and sharpness of good Hungarian paprika. A trick for adding the “capsicum perk” to a dish (without having your guests actually encounter solid bits of chile pepper) is to make a fine puree of fresh green chiles. Stir a small spoonful into, say, a mustard vinaigrette. The flavor is heightened mysteriously.
A velvety texture is the aim, and long, gentle simmering is the key. Harira must cook for a minimum of 2 hours. The soup can be made a day ahead; the flavor will only improve.
Heat the olive oil in a deep heavy-bottomed soup pot. Brown the lamb lightly, then add the chopped onions, stir, and brown them. Add all the spices and the garlic and let them sizzle for a few minutes. Add the favas, lentils, and 12 cups water and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a bare simmer. Add 2 teaspoons salt and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 1 ½ hours.
Put the tomatoes, parsley, and cilantro in a blender with a little salt and puree the mixture. Add the puree to the soup and simmer for another ½ hour or so.
Now puree half the soup and return it to the pot. Make a slurry with the flour and remaining 1 cup water (stir together until smooth), add to the soup, and simmer for 10 minutes. Taste and adjust for salt and spice. Add the butter and stir until melted. The texture should be quite smooth, neither too thick nor too thin.
Ladle the soup into bowls and sprinkle with slivered cilantro. Squeeze a few drops of lemon juice into each bowl, and pass a plate of lemon wedges.
serves 8–10
This is a classic Moroccan way to finish a meal. Oranges grow nearby, dates too. Every stall in the market sells them.
Peel the oranges. Slice crosswise into ¼-inch-thick disks. Arrange in concentric circles on a platter. Sprinkle lightly with sugar.
Cut the pomegranate into quarters. Force out the seeds by inverting the skin of each quarter over a bowl. Pick out any white pith and discard. Sprinkle the pomegranate seeds over the oranges.
Sprinkle a little cinnamon over the platter. Bring the orange salad to the table with bowls of the dates.
