Pici Keen

Our view from the restaurant in Monteciello

The view from our table on the restaurant terrace was breathtaking. The air in Monteciello was pleasingly cool. The house red wine was more than drinkable. The kids were quiet and complacent, happily munching on bread and coloring pictures. We all shared that giddy feeling of triumph that accompanies a welcome rest and good food after a day of sightseeing.

But there was one hitch in my perfect evening. I had ordered the wrong dish. Not that my meal was bad. Quite honestly, I don’t remember what was on my plate. Instead, my recollection of that lovely evening is taken up almost entirely with intense feelings of covetousness. I wanted the bowl of food across the table. Meanwhile, my friend S was blissfully chowing down. He had cunningly ordered the house specialty: Pici in a pork and white bean sauce. And I was kicking myself.

Oh, S had been generous. He had given us all tasting bites of his repast. But tasting time was over. And it wouldn’t be right to ask for another bite. Instead, I had to watch, in pain, as the last morsel was devoured right in front of me.

In fact, I had to accept a more momentous possibility: I may have just had my last bite of Pici ever. As I pouted and picked at my own Tuscan fare, I envisioned the end of our Italy trip. We’d soon be back in the States. Our holiday would end. And where would I find my beloved Pici?

Pici is similar to spaghetti, but it’s hand-rolled, so it comes out a little thicker and more uneven. It has a rustic mouth-feel, and it holds sauces well (it’s often served with boar ragù). Pici’s only available in the towns south of Sienna, such as Montepulciano, Montalcino , and where we were, Monteciello. It’s basically Tuscan comfort food.

When I discovered a recipe for Pici in Jamie’s Italy, I prepared myself to meet the challenges. Sure I’d feel arthritic after a couple hours of repetitive rolling. Sure, we wouldn’t eat until 9:30 PM. Sure, I’d have to face the inevitable question: “Is Pici really worth it?”

Oh Yeah, Baby! If I had my little way, I'd eat Pici every day.

Pici con Ragù

(adapted from Jamie’s Italy)

1 lb. finely ground semolina flour

approximately 1 cup water

For the sauce:

Olive oil

1 red onion

2 cloves of garlic

3 bay leaves

A sprig of fresh rosemary

1 lb. 2 oz. of ground beef or veal (I used ground turkey)

2 28 oz. cans of good quality plum tomatoes

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Jamie instructs you to knead the dough, but I put the flour into the food processor on the dough setting, and then added the water slowly. It took about 7 minutes to get it smooth and velvety. Wrap it in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge until you’re ready to roll.

Jamie also gives advice on how to roll the dough with a wooden skewer, so it creates a hollow tube, but I simplified things and simply rolled out noodles. Begin with an orange-sized ball (about one third of the dough). On a very lightly floured surface, roll this ball into a long sausage shape, about 1 inch thick. Break it into 1 ¼ inch pieces so you have lots of little nuggets of dough. Using your finger tips roll each piece of dough until it’s thinner than a cigarette. Lay all your pici on a tray, dusted with semolina flour. Don’t let the strands touch, or they’ll stick together. Let them dry out slightly before cooking.

For the sauce, peel and chop the onion and garlic. Heat up a large sauce pan, add olive oil, and cook the onion and garlic slowly for about 10 minutes, until soft and slightly colored. Add the bay leaves, the whole sprig of rosemary, the ground meat, and the tomatoes. Stir well and bring to a boil. Turn down the heat and simmer gently for 2 hours with the lid on the pan. (I actually removed the lid for the last half hour to let the sauce thicken up a bit). Season well with salt and pepper. Remove the bay leaves and the rosemary sprig before serving.

Cook the pici in a pot of boiling salted water for 10 minutes, or until al dente. (Jamie suggests 10-15 minutes, but 10 minutes worked perfectly for me). Drain the pici and stir in the sauce. Add a splash of olive oil. Serve with lots of freshly grated Parmesan.

It Ain’t Wabbit Season, Ducky

Well, dear readers, I’ve cooked my first duck. Such an assertion, thankfully, lacks the ominous ring of “My goose is cooked.” But I’m not going to lie: there were challenges. First difficulty was locating duck legs. Darling Jamie Oliver (if you’re not sweet on him—be ye male or female—you’re either dead or you claim British citizenship), whose recipe I’m following, advocates duck legs. But he also encourages me not to shy away from the purchase of a whole duck.

So I checked my local Harris Teeter. No duck. Weaver Street Market had a frozen duck, but I left it alone. (Truth be told, I’m a little miffed at them for eliminating their fresh fish counter.) On the hunt, I headed out to Whole Foods, feeling confident that their vast selection of proteins would fit the bill (so to speak). Sure, they had a frozen whole duck, too, but I had visions of fresh duck, newly cleavered, and ready to cook. I spoke to the butcher, and it turns out they’re between duck sources. So now I’m fairly convinced that adorable Jamie has an easier time finding duck than I do. Since I wasn’t ready to bag my own waterfowl, I bought the frozen version. And I cut it up myself. Not bad for an amateur, huh?

The other difficulty with duck (connected, I suspect, to its lack of ready availability for consumption) is our American tendency to anthropomorphize it. How many fictional ducks populate our culture, anyway? Donald, Daisy, Daffy, McScrooge, and those three little nephews all come to mind. And I’m not too embarrassed to mention Disco Duck, Howard the Duck, and Ernie’s rubber ducky. When I told my daughter what kind of fatty bird I was preparing, she lamented, “Oh, poor little ducky!” (She didn’t eat any of this duck, but her abstinence is attributable more to her five-year-old pickiness than her budding vegetarianism).

(Although my topic is duck and not chicken, my son wants me to mention that he finds it jarring and bad business when poultry establishments use a talking chicken to sell their fried legs and wings. DS: “What are they suggesting? Is the chicken saying: ‘Please buy a big bucket of me?’” In his view, Chick-Fil-A trumped all competition when it got bovine to shill for them.)

Always amiable Jamie has assured me (in his cute mockney accent) that plums would be “wicked” with this duck. And what do you know? Weaver Street Market has beautiful organic plums on sale. It’s kismet. Me, plums, and Jamie. Lovely jubbly.

Here’s the recipe (in some of my own words) from Jamie’s Dinners:

Sweet Duck Legs Cooked With Plums and Star Anise

4 fat legs of duck (I used 2 legs, 2 breasts, and 2 wings)

4 Tablespoons of soy sauce

3 teaspoons of five-spice powder

A handful of star anise

½ stick of cinnamon (I threw in a whole stick)

1 Tablespoon olive oil

1-2 fresh chilies, deseeded and sliced

16 plums, halved and destined

1 Tablespoons of Demerara or raw sugar

Place the duck legs in a plastic bag with the soy sauce, five-spice powder, star anise, cinnamon stick and olive oil. Marinate them in the fridge for 2 hours (or up to 2 days). Use high-sided roasting pan or casserole, so that the duck legs fit snugly. Place the chilies, plums, and sugar in the bottom the pan, pour in the marinade from the bag, and mix it all up with your hands. Place the duck legs on top.

Cook in a preheated oven at 325 degrees for 2 to 2 ½ hours. Remove the star anise and cinnamon stick, then taste the sauce to see if needs seasoning with more soy sauce.

Cheeky Jamie recommends wrapping the duck and sauce in Chinese pancakes, but all I could find were egg roll wrappers. Alas, they had the wrong consistency. Perpetually cheery Jamie also advises serving the dish with rice or noodles, which I will try next time.

Jamie’s my mate, you know. He’d never steer me wrong.