SITTING AT A PICNIC TABLE at the edge of the Chesapeake Bay, eating a tray of oysters within view of the water where they were born, I can see why America’s earliest settlers came here and never wanted to leave.
You can see it too, because if you’re in the right spot, it still looks a lot like what those settlers saw all those years ago.
While most of the Mid-Atlantic doesn’t resemble the unspoiled paradise of pre-Colonial times—some of our biggest cities and travel arteries run through it—parts of it still do. And you’re never far from similarly unsullied environs.
From the gardens of New Jersey to the rolling hills of southern Virginia, the region is an alternating series of metropoli, national parks, and farmland.
For me, the tour starts in northern Jersey, just outside my Big Apple home, where Italian Americans make me feel right at home with a cuisine based on the homeland, but that they’ve redefined to make their own. I went to college at Rutgers in New Brunswick and quickly learned much about the accents, vocabulary, and vernacular.
Roadside treasures of the Mid-Atlantic include CHEESESTEAKS and STROMBOLI, SALTWATER TAFFY and SOFT PRETZELS with deli mustard, SCRAPPLE and PORK ROLL, DIRTY-WATER HOT DOGS, and PIZZA by the slice.
In New Jersey, I saw the future of rock and roll, and tasted some of the best things in my life in homes and restaurants near the Jersey Shore and in magnificent towns like Nutley and Belleville, long before the Sopranos made it cool. What you’re served looks like Italian food. It tastes like Italian food. But it isn’t. It’s Italian American, and it is beautiful for that specificity.
Heading over to Pennsylvania gives us a chance to see the places where the ideal of America was born; then we can drive to a spot a few miles outside Philadelphia where most of the country’s cultivated mushrooms are grown.
On to Maryland, where we can take in the scene that inspired the “Star-Spangled Banner” as we down steamed crabs, much like Francis Scott Key may have. So you, too, should be inspired to great works of patriotic poetry.
Through Virginia, we travel past historic battlefields that were once covered in blood. Some of these fields are now covered in grapevines that will become red wine. We’ll pass homes of early presidents, then find a smokehouse producing hams that put a U.S. spin on my beloved prosciutto.
Along the way, we’ll get to meet up with some of my favorite chefs, including Marc Vetri, Jeff Michaud, Brad Spence, and Michael Solomonov in Philadelphia, Spike Gjerde and Bryan Voltaggio in Baltimore, and mi hermano José Andrés in Washington.
But at the end of this drive, I really want to end up back on the banks of the bay for another tray of those oysters. That’s the kind of history that should repeat itself. Over and over.
SERVES 6 TO 8
Scrapple used to frighten folks, as meat of unrecognized provenance (think face or hoof) often will. But after beef cheek or calves’ brain ravioli, a mix of pork shoulder, pork liver, and cornmeal seems to fit right in again these days. And while it may seem to be owned by the great state of Pennsylvania, it’s not nearly as geo-unique as we might think: In North Carolina, they have Liver Mush, which is the same thing, and in Eastern Kentucky, they have Goetta, which just subs out the cornmeal in favor of cross-cut oats. In any case, it is truly delicious and you can personalize it with the addition of mace, oregano, marjoram, coriander, paprika, sage; all of them are in play. Serve on toast with a fried egg. Or maple syrup. Or both!
1 pound boneless pork shoulder, ground or finely chopped
1 pound pork liver, ground or finely chopped
1½ cups Brown Chicken Stock (here)
2½ cups cornmeal
½ teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon kosher salt
½ cup all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, or more as needed
In a large saucepan, combine the pork shoulder and liver and chicken stock. Bring to a boil and cook for about 10 minutes. Add the cornmeal, thyme, and salt and stir. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce the heat to a low simmer and cook, stirring regularly, for 35 minutes, until the mixture is quite thick.
Line a 9-by-5-by-3-inch loaf pan with plastic wrap. Spoon the mixture into the pan, cover, and chill overnight.
Combine the flour and pepper in a shallow bowl. Unmold the scrapple and cut it into thick slices. Dredge the slices in the seasoned flour.
In a medium skillet over medium-high heat, heat the oil. In batches, add the sliced scrapple and cook until browned, 3 to 4 minutes. Turn over and brown the other side.