When I served this dish to the stranger in Saint Louis at our very first supper together, he told me right away that he didn’t like leeks. I fibbed and called them scallions, and he left me with a dish so clean I hardly had to wash it. Later, when I sheepishly confessed I’d served him leeks, he waited months to forgive me. But now he searches out leeks in the market, buying armloads of them, so we can try to make enough of this lovely stuff to satisfy us both.
Truth is, the dish is so simple I’m hard put to write a recipe for it. It can be made with any one or any combination of these members of the lily family: leeks, shallots, onions. You can bake the mixture in individual dishes and serve them, all crusty on top and creamy underneath, as an opener. But my favorite way to eat porri gratinati is to heave a great big spoonful straight from my old, oval gratin dish onto a warm plate and lay just-grilled beef or pork on top so the meat’s juices seep into and flavor the gratin, each component exalting the other.
About 12 medium-to-large leeks (approximately 3 pounds), green parts trimmed off, white part split, thoroughly rinsed, and sliced thinly into rounds (or 2 pounds of onions or scallions—try a mixture of sweet onions such as Vidalia, Walla Walla, or Texas Sweet with some big, strongly flavored yellow Spanish varieties).
1 teaspoon just-grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon just-cracked pepper
1½ teaspoons fine sea salt
½ cup grappa or vodka
⅔ cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
Place the prepped leeks into a large mixing bowl; in a smaller bowl combine all the remaining ingredients except the Parmesan and the butter, and mix well. Scrape the mascarpone mixture into the bowl with the leeks and, using two forks, evenly coat the leeks with the mixture. Spoon the leeks into a buttered oval oven dish 12 to 14 inches long, spreading the mixture evenly, or into six individual buttered oval dishes. Scatter the Parmesan over all, and bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes or until a deep golden crust forms; 10 minutes less for smaller gratins.
Yield: 6 Servings
Another dish from our first evening together in Saint Louis. With this one, Fernando needed no coaxing. In fact, when he had finished he asked if he might have “un altra goccia di salsa, another drop of sauce.” I set a little dish of it before him, and he proceeded to spread it on crusts of bread, eating the little tidbits between sips of red wine. I tried it that way, too, and ever since, we always make extra sauce, keeping it on hand for other uses. See suggestions below.
THE PASTA
Cook a pound of fresh tagliatelle, fettucine, or other “ribbon” pasta in abundant, sea-salted boiling water to the al dente stage, drain, and toss with 1½ cups of the following sauce. If fresh pasta is not available, substitute dried artisinal pasta.
THE SAUCE (Makes about 2 cups)
18 ounces shelled walnuts, lightly roasted
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
several gratings of nutmeg
sea salt and just-cracked pepper
¼ cup olive oil
¼ cup heavy cream
¼ cup late-harvest white wine such as Vin Santo or Moscato
In the work bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade, pulse the walnuts until they are the texture of very coarse meal (do not grind them too finely—more texture is better than less). Add the cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, and pepper, and pulse two or three more times to combine; with the machine running, pour a mixture of the olive oil, cream, and wine through the feed tube and process only until the paste is emulsified. Taste and correct the sauce for salt and spices.
Yield: 4 servings, as a main course
In piú: As divine as this sauce is, tossed with just-cooked pasta, it presents other delicious opportunities: Keep some in the refrigerator and place a spoonful over just-roasted chicken or pork; spread it on grilled bread and pass it along with cold white wine for an appetizer; enrich simple vegetable soups with a dollop, or try it as a condiment for steamed asparagus.
A serendipitous sweet born from the leftovers of a batch of bread dough. I watched a baker up in the Friuli region throw this together as a breakfast cake for his family. The potato bread dough that serves as its base is also delicious baked without fruit. This is a forgiving recipe, even for the cook who does not usually make bread or dessert. Equally wonderful made with other stone fruits (nectarines, peaches, apricots), this sweet has become Fernando’s supper of choice when he’s feeling out of sorts—not when he’s actually sick with flu or a cold but more when he’s had his fill of complicated dishes (or complicated issues!) and wants only nourishment and comfort. This was what he had for supper on the evening after he’d given his notice at the bank. We still use the same battered pan to bake it in, the one that’s traveled with me from Saint Louis to Venice to Tuscany.
12 ounces potato bread dough, unrisen (see below)
8–10 plums, halved and stoned
1 cup dark brown sugar
3 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into bits
⅔ cup heavy cream mixed with ¼ cup grappa
Butter a round or square 9-inch cake pan and fit the dough into it; press the plum halves, cut side up, into the dough, sprinkle over the sugar and the butter; pour over the cream-and-grappa mixture and bake the cake at 400 degrees for 20–25 minutes or until the bread is browned, the plums are bursting with their own juices, and the cream and sugar have formed a golden crust.
Yield: 6 Servings
1 pound of unpeeled baking potatoes
1½ small cakes fresh yeast (or 3½ teaspoons active dry yeast)
2 pounds all-purpose flour (about 7 cups) plus a bit extra for the kneading surface
1 tablespoon fine sea salt
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
Boil the potatoes until tender, in sea-salted water. Drain, reserving 2 cups of the cooking water. Let water and potatoes cool down, then peel and thoroughly mash the potatoes.
Soften the yeast in a cup of lukewarm potato-cooking water for 20 minutes. In a large bowl, combine the flour, potatoes, and salt. Add the softened yeast and the remaining cup of potato water, stirring to form a dough.
Turn out the mass onto a lightly floured surface and knead to a soft, satiny, elastic texture—about 8 minutes. If the dough seems too wet, add more flour sparingly, no more than ⅓ cup. Place the dough in a clean, oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap and a kitchen towel, and let rest and rise until doubled—about an hour. Cut the dough in half and use one piece to make prugne addormentate and bake the other as follows.
Gently punch down the dough, and shape a round, somewhat flat loaf. Cover with clean kitchen towels and let rise for an hour. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Slide the loaf onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake 35–40 minutes or until the crust is very brown and the bottom rings hollow when tapped. Be careful to lower the temperature slightly if the loaf is browning too quickly. Cool the loaf on a rack.
Yield: 2 loaves of bread or enough dough for 2 cakes. You can freeze any portion of the already risen dough; but it must be defrosted thoroughly and allowed to rise again before proceeding with either recipe.
To make this simple dish all you have to do is to slip the blossoms into a silky, thin batter and then fry them in oil until they’re golden. This method of preparing the tender, sweet blossoms of zucchini is the only one that respects their delicacy and the only civilized way to consume the little beauties. (Stuffing a squash blossom with ricotta or mozzarella or even an anchovy is akin to stuffing a truffle. Aside from the irreverence, the ornament couldn’t possibly improve upon the blossom in its innocent state.)
This isn’t a thing you’d cook for a crowd. First, because no one is ever satisfied with just a blossom or two; it’s always half a dozen or more each person is hungry for, and he or she stands near the stove waiting for the next batch to brown and crisp, just like a puppy waiting for a treat. If the queue is too long, it’s no fun for the cook. And second, on any given morning, it’s hard to find a farmer (at least in our market) with more than a couple dozen or so blossoms he’s willing to sell. So although I have made the dish for as many as four or five people, more often I fry the flowers just for Fernando and me. These and a bottle of flinty white chilled down almost to ice make our preferred lunch on a hot July afternoon.
20 perfect zucchini blossoms
1½ cups all-purpose flour
beer
sea salt to taste
peanut oil
First, with a small pair of sharp scissors, snip each petal down to the stem to open the blossom more fully. If the stems are still attached, snip them off. Sprinkle the flowers with a little water and lay them to dry, stem side up, petals spread out like a sunflower. In a shallow, broad bowl, beat together the flour and beer to form a batter that’s slightly thicker than heavy cream. Stir in a little sea salt. Cover the batter and let it rest while the oil heats. Use peanut oil—a minimum depth of three inches in a heavy skillet—because it can reach the highest temperatures without smoking. Heat the oil on medium flame, as heating it too quickly results in cool spots, which result in uneven frying. When all is ready, slide the blossoms, one at a time, into the waiting oil; cook only three or four at a time. As they turn deeply golden, remove them with tongs and let sit a moment on absorbent paper. You might grind a little sea salt over them, or even better, mist them lightly with sea-salted water. When thinking about the wine, you’ll want a simple white that can stand a deep chilling, for it’s the icy idea of wine more than the wine itself that works so well with the just-fried, crunchy flowers.
Yield: 4 Servings
I was never able to convince the stranger about the merits of the iced yellow tomato soup adorned with a pair of grilled, anise-perfumed prawns that I made for our first supper in the apartment. Dishes like that seemed then and seem still too precious to him. But each time I set down this traditional Tuscan porridge of fresh, ripe tomatoes stewed with yesterday’s bread and wine and olive oil, he sings this childhood folksong: “Viva la pappa col pomodoro, viva la pappa che è un capolavoro.” Freely translated it rings out: “Long live porridge with tomatoes, long live porridge that’s a work of art.” When I sing it to my tomato man in our market, he sings, too, always telling me how he and his brothers yearned for this dish during the long, hungry days of the Second World War.
4 fat cloves garlic, peeled, crushed, and minced
1 large yellow onion, peeled and minced
4 large, very ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeds removed, and chopped (or two l-pound cans of plum tomatoes, lightly crushed with their juices)
6 cups good beef broth, preferably homemade or 6 cups water (do not use chicken stock)
1 cup white wine
fine sea salt and just-cracked pepper
2½ cups coarse-textured, crustless bread, torn into ½-inch pieces
1 cup just-grated pecorino cheese (optional)
⅓ cup basil leaves, torn (not cut)
½ teaspoon good red wine vinegar
In a large soup pot, warm the olive oil and sauté the garlic and onion until they’re translucent; add the tomatoes, broth or water, wine, salt, and pepper and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the bread and simmer for another 2 minutes. Remove the pot from the stove, and add the pecorino and basil, stirring to combine the elements. Let the porridge rest for at least an hour. Stir in the vinegar and serve at room temperature (or reheat to tepid or warm), in deep soup plates with a drizzle of good, green olive oil. Refrigeration absolutely destroys the porridge’s pure flavor.
Yield: 6 servings
When I saw the stranger nonchalantly licking his fingers after polishing off a lush little skewer like this one, I knew I’d chipped away at his long-standing indifference to supper.
If you’re planning to serve this as picnic fare, leave the skewers intact. Allow the skewers to cool slightly; then place them in a heavy brown bag lined with branches of rosemary and leaves of sage; close the bag tightly and place it in a deep bowl to catch the juices that are bound to escape. As the quail and sausage cool, they will take on the perfume of the herbs and become even more delicious, eaten at room temperature, than they are just off the grill. Let each person deal with his or her own skewers while you pass the liver paste (see below), the wine, and napkins.
12 farm-raised quail, cleaned, rinsed, dried, salted and peppered, and stuffed with several leaves of fresh sage, a few rosemary leaves, and half a fresh black or green fig (reserve the livers for paste)
12 thin slices of pancetta
12 2-inch slices of fennel-scented sausage (or other Italian-style, sweet sausage) poached for 5 minutes in simmering water and drained
12 1-inch-thick slices of coarse-textured bread
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 shallots, peeled and minced
the reserved quail livers plus 3 ounces chicken livers, trimmed and chopped
2 tablespoons Vin Santo or other sweet wine
½ teaspoon ground allspice
sea salt and just-cracked pepper
Wrap each quail in a slice of pancetta, securing it with a wooden pick; thread the quail onto 6 skewers, alternating with slices of bread and sausage. Grill the skewers in the oven over a pan to catch their drippings; baste with white wine, giving each skewer a quarter turn every 3–4 minutes. Continue the basting and rotating until the quail are golden and the sausage crisp (18–20 minutes in all). Meanwhile warm the butter in a small pan and sauté the shallots until translucent; add the chopped livers and sauté for 3 minutes until they are colored outside but still pink inside; add the Vin Santo, allspice, salt, and pepper and sauté another minute, mashing the mixture to a coarse paste. (This paste can be made in greater quantities, using all chicken livers or a combination of the livers of chicken, quail, pheasant, and duck with proportionately increased measures of butter, shallot, Vin Santo, and allspice. It is nice to have ready to spread on thin slices of just-toasted bread to serve with aperitivi.) When the spiedini are cooked, let your guests slide the meats off their skewers onto warmed plates, spread the grilled bread with some of the liver paste, and sit each quail on its bread “pillow.”
Yield: 6 servings
If the stranger had let me cook for our wedding, I would have brought forth this roasted pumpkin as a first course. The natural sugars in the pumpkin caramelize and melt into the cheeses, while the truffles perfume the whole luscious mass, all of it sending up wonderfully sensual aromas. Even without the truffles, this is spectacular. If there’s one dish to add to your repertoire, this is it. Actually it’s a repertoire in itself.
1 large pumpkin or Hubbard squash, approximately 4–5 pounds in weight, its stalk end cut around to form a cap, seeds and strings removed from the cavity (retain stalk end for later)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 large yellow onions, peeled and minced
12 ounces fresh wild mushrooms (porcini, cèpes, chanterelles, portobelli) rinsed, drained, dried, and sliced thinly (or 4 ounces dried porcini, softened in ½ cup warm water, stock, or wine, drained, and sliced thinly)
2 whole black diamond truffles from Norcia (or 2 canned black truffles or 3 ounces black truffle paste), optional
sea salt
1 teaspoon just-cracked white pepper
12 ounces Emmenthaler cheese, grated
4 ounces Parmesan cheese, grated
3 whole eggs, beaten
2 teaspoons just-grated nutmeg
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
8 slices firm-textured, day-old white bread, crusts removed, cut into 1-inch squares
In a medium sauté pan, melt the butter and sauté the onion with the mushrooms until both soften and the mushrooms give up their their liquors (if using dried mushrooms, strain the soaking liquid and add it to the sauté pan). Add the thinly sliced truffles or the truffle paste (if used) and combine well. Add the salt and pepper. In a large bowl, combine all the remaining ingredients except the bread and butter; season with liberal amounts of salt and pepper. Beat until well combined, then stir in the mushrooms, onions, and truffles. Melt the 4 tablespoons of butter in a sauté pan and brown the bread, tossing the pieces about until they are crisp. Place the pumpkin or squash in a large, heavy baking dish or on a baking sheet. Spoon one-third of the mushroom mixture into the pumpkin, add half the crisped bread, another third of the mushrooms, and the remaining bread, ending with the mushrooms. Top off with the pumpkin cap and roast at 375 degrees for 1½ hours or until the pumpkin’s flesh is very soft. Carry the pumpkin immediately to table, remove its hat, and spoon out portions of its flesh with the stuffing. The dish needs only a cool, flinty, dry white wine as accompaniment.
Yield: 8 to 10 servings
And this would have been the main course at our wedding lunch if I’d been cooking. A beautiful autumn dish full of color and surprise—the grapes plump and softened in the wine and the warm tartness of the fruit against the sweetness of the veal make for a fine marriage. If you’re not serving the pumpkin or any other substantial first course, serve this over garlic mashed potatoes. Change the veal to pork and the white wine to red wine. and you’ll have a heartier set of flavors.
12 veal tenderloins (about 4 ounces each)
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
3 tablespoons fresh rosemary leaves, finely minced
10 whole cloves of garlic, crushed
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1½ cups dry white wine
3 cups white or purple wine grapes (or table grapes)
1 tablespoon 12-year-old balsamic vinegar
Wipe the veal with paper towels and rub its surfaces with salt, rosemary, and crushed cloves. Heat oil and 4 tablespoons of butter over medium flame in a large sauté pan. When the butter begins to foam, add the tenderloins (only the number that fits comfortably in the pan without crowding). Sauté until golden on all sides, removing them to a holding plate while you cook the remaining ones. Rinse the sauté pan with the wine, scraping up any bits, and let the wine reduce for five minutes. Add the grapes and the browned veal to the pan and lower the flame so that the wine barely simmers. Gently braise the veal for 4 to 5 minutes or until the flesh begins to feel firm when you prod it with a finger. Don’t overcook the veal. Remove the veal to a platter, covering it very loosely so as not to “steam” it, and let it rest. Raise the flame and reduce the braising liquids once again, until they begin to thicken. Remove from the flame, add the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and the balsamic vinegar. Stir well and pour the sauce over the veal. Don’t worry about the grape seeds or, if you must worry, America is full of the seedless ones.
Yield: 8 servings
Of all the dishes we cooked during our sojourn at the hotel next door to our apartment during the renovation, this one has earned the status of family treasure. We cook it anytime and everywhere we can barter, hunt, buy, or beg a basketful of porcini. After successful autumn hunts, we make a dose big enough to feed the neighbors, and we stage our own Sagra di Porcini.
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 pound of fresh wild mushrooms (porcini, cèpes, chanterelles, portobelli), wiped free of surface grit with a soft, damp cloth and thinly sliced
½ pound shallots, peeled and minced
fine sea salt and just-cracked pepper
1 cup Moscato or other late-harvest white wine
1 cup heavy cream
4–5 fresh sage leaves
Over medium flame, warm 3 tablespoons of butter with the olive oil in a large sauté pan and, when the butter foams, add the mushrooms and the shallots, tossing them about to coat them in the hot fat. Lower the flame and sauté until the mushrooms begin to give up their juices. Sprinkle salt and pepper generously over all. Add the wine and continue to braise gently for 20 minutes, until almost all the wine and the exuded juices have been absorbed by the mushrooms. Meanwhile, in a small saucepan over low flame, warm the heavy cream with the leaves of sage. When the mixture is close to simmering, remove from the stove and cover (the cream will take on the perfume of the sage while the mushrooms braise). Strain the cream and discard the sage. Now add the perfumed cream to the mushrooms and continue the very slow braise, permitting the cream to reduce for 2 or 3 minutes. Serve the dish very warm with thin toast and glasses of the same chilled Moscato used in the braise.
Yield: 4 servings
I learned quickly to love this icy, creamy, addictive ending to nearly every lunch or dinner served in every osteria and ristorante across the Veneto. Alas, no one even knows what sgroppino is here in the Umbrian hills, where we now live. Though I never made the drink at home in Venice, after we moved I began to improvise it from sheer nostalgia. It is so light and goes down so easily, one feels almost noble about drinking it—as though one has forsaken dessert and settled for a cool drink. Here is our house version.
½ pint lemon ice cream or sherbert
4–6 ice cubes
4 ounces vodka
1 cup sparkling wine (in the Veneto, it’s the ever present Prosecco)
shredded zest of 1 lemon
Place the ice cream or sherbert, the ice, vodka, and wine in a blender and whirl until it’s thick, creamy, and barely pourable. Transfer it to iced wineglasses, sprinkle on the lemon zest, and serve with small spoons.