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.

Holy Olives, Batman!

Since my mom was single until I turned 7, she would drag me along on her social engagements. Engagement is too formal a word; they were gatherings at someone’s “pad.” Candles were lit, incense was burned, smoke inhaled. Inevitably there’d be three or four scraggly kids, who’d divine the location of the television in a back room, where we’d watch Creature Feature late into the night. Tables in the living room were laden with cheap, filling food, and all the groovy sorts sat on the floor, on pillows, plates in lap. On one such occasion my mom hosted a crowd with a big pot of split pea soup, salad, garlic bread, and jugs of Gallo wine.

These pot lucks almost always included a bowl of canned, pitted California black olives. Hmmm. My favorite. I became notorious for filling half my plate with these jet jewels. I had to have at least enough to tip each finger. “Look, scary black claws!” I chortled, goofily scratching the air like Cat-Woman. “Hmm. Yummy black claws!” I thought, as I popped them in my mouth one-by-one. Salty, slightly bitter, a little rubbery—nasty to many, but delightful to me. These bead-like nibbles constituted my humble introduction to the Olive.

Forget ambrosia, people. True Olives are the food of the gods. Just look at the Mediterranean diet.

I’ve come a long way from my canned olive days, sampling widely in the varieties available from Calamata to Sicilian to Picholine to gorgonzola-stuffed. I drink martinis solely for the olives. Extra please. I’m the only one in the family who loves them. I’m waiting patiently for DH to acquire the taste. And DS’s response to the dry-cured olives I ate this afternoon? “Creepy.” (I have to confess, they were a little creepy. Closer to what Cat-Woman would look like today.)

A favorite way to serve olives? On a Salade Niçoise. With niçoise olives, bien sur. I enjoy Salade Niçoise many ways—authentically with oily canned tuna and anchovies—or the bastardized West Coast version—with fresh tuna. As a tribute to those Mission black olives, let’s put some flowers in our hair, and go the Cali-forn-i-ay way.

Salade Niçoise with Fresh Grilled Tuna

Serves 2 large entrees

10 small red potatoes

2 Fresh eggs, hard-boiled

¾ pound Green beans, snapped with strings removed

Handful of niçoise olives

Mixed Greens, enough for two large plates

Handful of Tarragon chopped

10-12 oz Tuna Steak

Place eggs in pot with enough water to rise an inch above the eggs. Bring to boil, remove from heat, and let sit covered for 17 minutes. Plunge eggs in cold ice water when timer rings; crack and peel. Boil potatoes in well salted water until they are tender but not overcooked (test with a fork). Steam green beans, then plunge in cold water. Grill fish so that it remains pink inside—the time will vary depending on the thickness of the steak, but three minutes a side is usually enough. Mix up vinaigrette (recipe below). Divide the mixed greens and tarragon onto two plates. Slice potatoes and eggs, and place around edges of the greens. Sprinkle olives. Place green beans in the middle. Dress salad. Place sliced tuna on top of the green beans. Serve with crusty French bread.

Vinagrette:

2 tablespoons white vinegar

1 tablespoon Dijon-style mustard

6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 shallot minced

Sea salt and ground black pepper to taste

Coming of Age Somewhere

I’ve always been a cultural anthropologist in my own land.

If you consider the Lone Star State another country (and some do), then my mom and I were expatriates in San Francisco when I was little. We arrived in the fall of ’67 for the flower power, and we migrated back to Texas every summer to see relatives. My kin in east Texas (on my estranged father’s side) would call me a “Yankee.” At age 6, I’d argue, “How can I be a Yankee? California’s not in the northeast!” But my uncles and aunts would just laugh knowingly. Apparently, logic does not determine regional identity. As the family chronicles tell it, I later marched onto the front porch where folks had gathered and asked: “Are we just going to sit around all day like we’re on Hee Haw?” (In subsequent years, I aimed to blend in a bit more, having learned that it’s best for the objective observer to refrain from judgment or direct conflict.) But what a funny little Yankee girl!* The other oft-told detail of that visit was how much fried chicken I ate at supper.

In my first seven years of schooling, I went to seven different schools. Each relocation demanded that I learn the strange tribal customs of my new surroundings. In sixth grade we moved to the East Coast, where I was informed by one clan chief, a chubby girl named Fiona, that the natives didn’t wear skirts at Cookiecutter Elementary. I smiled and pulled up my knee socks.

Going to high school outside of D.C. meant that when I went to college in the New York area, I was classified a southerner. Then when I transferred to a southern university, I turned out to be a northerner. Becoming an academic solidified my identity as a permanent guest, studying and imitating the indigenous habits with a clinical but loving eye.

North Carolina is where I’ve lived the longest; however, by marrying a man born and bred in Durham, a short visit with my in-laws can produce my own mild form of double-consciousness. Although I’ve been a member of this family by marriage for almost twenty years, they still see me as an unusual creature with odd eating practices. (Despite being told numerous times that I didn’t eat red meat, my [then future] mother-in-law made steak the main entrée at our wedding rehearsal dinner).

The road to embracing a regional identity is long. I’m not a huge fan of North Carolina BBQ (I know . . . blasphemy), and I could easily live without iced tea. But there is one kind of NC cuisine that I’ve adopted as my own. Calabash seafood. I’m not talking about the generic fish camp type restaurants, where they reel you in and stuff you with a pile of fried critters, because those places vary in quality and freshness. (They are, however, a goldmine for making field observations of the local residents).

I am talking specifically about Calabash-style seafood, only available in Calabash, North Carolina. And according to my in-laws, only available at “The Seafood Hut”—a tiny, unassuming building that packs ‘em in and moves ‘em out. Get there early and get in line. Once you’re sitting at your coveted table in the conditioned air, be ready to place your order: hush puppies, shrimp, deviled crab, fried flounder. By emulating the instinctive routine of my father-in-law, I know to choose the shrimp and oyster combo. It sometimes feels natural—innate, even. But as a perpetual stranger in a strange land, I’m deeply amused when I ascertain that no one can define “calabash-style” beyond insisting that you can only find it in Calabash.

So here’s my outsider’s take on frying up some seafood. This dish is from Nigella Lawson’s How to Eat. (How appropriate that a Brit provides me with a home-cookin’ recipe). She calls them shrimp cakes, but they’ll puff up like fritters, resembling New Orleans' shrimp beignets. Serve them with a fresh spinach salad and the plate will lose all regional provenance. Just like me.

Fried Shrimp Cakes
½ pound shrimp, minced
1 garlic clove, minced
2 scallions, minced
½ teaspoon salt
½ Cup flour
4 teaspoons sherry
olive oil
cilantro
limes
Process the shrimp, garlic, scallions, salt, flour, and sherry with enough water to make a thick batter. Let stand in refrigerator for an hour, covered. Fry in oil in 2 inches of oil, teaspoon at a time, for one minute a side. Drain on paper towels. Sprinkle fresh cilantro, and at the table, squeeze some fresh lime juice on the cakes.

*DS insists I mention that he's the only true Yankee in the family since he was born in Connecticut.

Classy Confections

Let Me Eat Cake

“Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?” --Sir Toby Belch

“If eating cake is wrong, I don't want to be right.” --Lorelai Gilmore

What has substance? How do we distinguish the trivial from the weighty? Can The Gilmore Girls convey the same message as Shakespeare? Despite obvious differences in girth and gender, Lorelai and Sir Toby share a perspective not just on the essential worth of cake but also on the implicit immorality of such sweet indulgences. They both insist, with levity, that cake trumps virtue.

More perversely, they’ve inspired me to consider the character of cake.

Here are our heroines . . . Ooey gooey Betty Crocker is the floozy of the bunch, pleasing the masses without shame. Nutty, rich Carrot cake may look like a boho hippie, but she’s got solid values, showing she’s prepared to be more than a mere dessert. Chocolate Cake is best all-around, and she’s great with kids. The southern belle is Red Velvet cake, so sweet and bold, you suspect her sincerity, but she still captures hearts. Pound cake knows who she is, and she knows how to accessorize.

These yellow treasures were made for a Labor Day picnic. Usually I bake to please the kids, but I chose this recipe to say “goodbye summer.” As DD noted, they looked and tasted like lemonade. But as light and airy as they were, they also had character and substance. We know from Proust that baked goods can accomplish a lot, and these cupcakes managed to feel feathery and solid, ephemeral and dense, summery and everyday. They were delicately sweet and citrusy, with subtle buttermilk undertones.

This cupcake's a midwestern farm girl on her first trip to Paris.

Lemon Buttermilk Cake, adapted from Dorie Greenspan’s Perfect Party Cake

2 ¼ Cups Cake Flour
1 Tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ Cups whole buttermilk
4 large egg whites
1 ½ Cups sugar
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
1 stick of unsalted butter at room temperature
½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter muffin tins. Sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. Whisk together the buttermilk and egg whites in a medium bowl. Put the sugar and lemon zest in a mixer bowl and rub them together with your fingers until the sugar is moist and fragrant. Add the butter and whisk with a hand mixer for 3 minutes, until the butter and sugar are very light. Beat in the extract, then add one third of the flour mixture, still beating on medium speed. Beat in half of the buttermilk-egg mixture, then best in half of the remaining dry ingredients until incorporated. Add the rest of the buttermilk and eggs beating until the batter is homogeneous, then add the last of the dry ingredients. Finally give the batter a good 2 minute beating to ensure that it thoroughly mixed and well aerated. Bake for 25 minutes, until cakes are well risen and springy to the touch. A toothpick in the center should come out clean.

Lemon Cream Cheese Frosting

¼ Cup butter (room temperature)
1 8 oz package of cream cheese
1 teaspoon of fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon of lemon zest
2 ½ Cups of powdered sugar
Beat cream cheese and butter together. Add lemon juice and lemon zest. Slowly add sugar, and continue to mix to right consistency.

Ichthys on Toast

When in Rome, the whole family walked from the Vatican back to our suite near the Piazza Navona. And at a stop along the way, my DH had a conversion experience.

No, it wasn’t the religious kind, despite our being moved by the Sistine Chapel. He had a deep and profound transformation that will forever be part of our family lore. My DH had a piscatorial conversion. On that special day in Rome, down a quiet street, under a canopy, DH joined me in my love and adoration of the Anchovy. I am no longer a lonely voice in the wilderness, asking that these little fish sit only on my half of a pizza, or compulsively ordering authentic Caesar Salads wherever they’re offered, or sneaking anchovy paste in our pasta sauce.

Let me set the scene. We are hot, tired, and thirsty. We’ve been walking in the Italian sunshine for over an hour, and it’s doubtful that we’ll find an open establishment at this late afternoon hour. Then we turn into an alleyway and see it. A shining beacon of comfort and delight, our resting place . . . the Antica Taverna. It is open, it is serving refreshment, and it has a lovely table in the shade. Once we have our water and wine before us, I begin to survey the plates of food served to other patrons. “Let’s look at the menu,” I suggest. “I could nibble on something.” And there, among the primi, are powerful words swimming before my eyes. I make out the most important one: Alici. Simple, unadulterated alici. Daydreaming aloud, I wonder how these anchovies would taste with my chilled vino blanco. DH, feeling content as a cat in the sun, says two inspirational words: “Order them.”

They arrive on a bed of warm arugula, with toast and butter on the side. Spread some butter on the bread, add greens, and place the salty fish on top. Mmmm . . . heavenly. Feeling peckish, too, DH reaches for the knife and makes his own anchovy treat.

Time stops. The surrounding light turns aqua. A tinny chorus of anchovy angels bubble out underwater “hallelujahs.” DH has found his way.

With the fervor of a new convert, DH has been making up for lost time. We now order anchovies everywhere, on everything. We work assiduously to recreate our Roman snack at home. He sings the praises of anchovies to anyone who will listen. “You don’t understand,” he says, echoing his wife in years past, “These little fishies are glorious. They deserve our exaltation, not our scorn.”

Last Saturday, we took a hot trek through Durham, admiring the architectural beauties on Watts Street and letting DH reminisce about his hometown. As a boy he dreamed this house would be his one day--rosy color and all:

Little Pink Houses for You and Me

When our pilgrimage ended with lunch at Toast (http://toast-fivepoints.com/), providence had a wondrous surprise in store for him. Behold:

Bruschetta with White Anchovies

These anchovies are of the vinegar and lemon variety, tasty in their own right (though I prefer the briny ones in oil). We also sampled the egg and tallegio sandwich (which I thought would be fried, but it was scrambled).

It was delicious—buttery, salty, with a yeasty undertone, on perfectly toasted bread. DS had the proscuitto, mozzarella, and tomato sandwich (“It’ll be just like a pizza, we assured him).

It had good flavors, but the ham was a little on the tough side. We also tried two crostini: one with warm goat cheese, local honey, cracked black pepper (stellar!!) and the other with peperonata and pecorino romano (fine, but a little uninspired next to the goat cheese gems)

Panini, crostini, bruschetta, yum. Toast is a “slice” of Italy in Durham, helping us keep the anchovy faith.