Erica De Mane

Recipe: Calamari and Shrimp Salad with Celery and Fennel

La Saraghina haunts my dreams, Fellini’s wild mistress of the Adriatic, tormentor of young boys, clumsy enticing dancer. I see her pumping that Tasmanian devil body on the sand, her dark smudged eyes rolling around in her flat face, black hair matted and sticking up straight in the hazy sun. Barefooted Saraghina, the sardine lady, so named because she traded her favors for sardines. Wilma Flintstone stole her wardrobe. I hear the music she dances to so clearly. She’s not a lady of many words (she’s actually of no words in 8½), but recently, I suppose because I had been thinking about her so hard, she spoke to me. Just a husky muttering, but the voice was unmistakable. She said, “I miss the sea. I want to taste the sea.”

I feel for Saraghina, long gone, even lonelier than she was in her outcast life, lived in an abandoned concrete gun casemate on the beach, where the smallest distraction, a flock of seagulls, a group of little boys throwing coins, provoked her to sway to the music. I would say she made the best of a bad situation, and because of that I loved her. I’ve always wanted to repay her for being such a positive influence on my younger life.

When I first watched 8½, back in high school, I think at the old Elgin Theater at Eighth Avenue and 19th Street (bums admitted free in the afternoon), every minute riveted me, but when Saraghina came on the screen her ugliness was a shock, and her shimmy was self-righteous. She made me want to dance boldly. And I did, quite frequently. My mother called it “showing off.”

Years went by, and at times it’s been hard to conjure that same spirit of unbridled fun. So it makes me happy now to close my eyes and summon up an image of Saraghina, until I can see her fat form clearly. And on the occasions she speaks (this has happened only a few times), I do what she says. Saraghina, this recipe’s for you.

Calamari and Shrimp Salad with Celery and Fennel

(Serves 4 or 5 as a first course)

1 fresh bay leaf
Sea salt
1 small fennel bulb, cut into small cubes
2 tender inner celery stalks, thinly sliced, plus a handful of celery leaves
1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined
1½ pounds small calamari, cleaned and cut into rings, the tentacles left whole
2 scallions, thinly sliced, using some of the tender green part
5 sprigs of thyme, the leaves chopped
A small handful of chervil sprigs
1 garlic clove, very thinly sliced
The juice from 1 small lemon
Extra-virgin olive oil, the best you’ve got
A few drops of Sambuca
Freshly ground black pepper

Set up a large pot of water. Add the bay leaf and a generous amount of salt. Bring to a boil, and throw in the fennel and celery. Blanch for a minute, and then scoop the vegetables out with a strainer spoon into a colander (this not only softens them but also seasons the water for the seafood to come). Run cold water over the fennel and celery to stop their cooking and to bring up their green color. Drain, and then spread  them onto paper towels.

Add the shrimp to the pot, and boil just until pink and tender, about 2 to 3 minutes. Scoop them from the water, and lay them out on  paper towels to soak up any remaining water.

Add the calamari, and boil for about a minute. Scoop the calamari from the water, and lay it out on paper towels.

When the vegetables and seafood are all more or less at room temperature, place them in a shallow serving bowl. Add the scallion, the thyme, the chervil, and the celery leaves.

In a small bowl whisk together the garlic, lemon juice, about 2 tablespoons of olive oil (or a little more), and the Sambuca (very little, a few drops only for good flavor; too much will make the dish bitter). Season with salt and black pepper. Pour the dressing over the salad, and toss gently with your fingers. Taste for seasoning, adding more black pepper or a bit more olive oil if needed, to coat everything with a good glisten. Serve right away.

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The Ricotta Eaters, by Vincenzo Campi, 1585 (the guy on the left looks a little ill).

Recipe: Crespelle with Ricotta and Walnut Pesto

At some point during my teenage years, my mother began making manicotti using crespelle, the Italian version of crepes, instead of the more traditional pasta sheets. I took an immediate love to this new dish, which was inspired, I believe, by her fascination with Julia Child’s TV shows. It was so light and elegant. I loved the aroma of the crespelle as they colored lightly in the pan. So I decided to cook up a batch of our new improved manicotti to bring to my grandmother, a woman who had always been somewhat remote and ornery. When I close my eyes to envision her now, I can only remember a short, big-breasted woman lying on a couch with a wet towel over her forehead. I guess I hoped the crespelle would cheer her up. I kept everything else in the dish exactly the way she would have made it—the ricotta filling, the tomato sauce, the béchamel. I worked all day on it, and it came out, I thought, very impressive.

I placed the big, bubbling-hot baking dish on my grandmother’s dinner table and served the group, which also including my remote and ornery aunt (takes one to know one) and her goofy, handsome, but hot-tempered husband, my uncle Pat. They tasted, and there was a weird silence. Then my grandmother said, “These taste different.” More silence. Then my aunt said, “They look different.” There was another nerve-racking pause, and then uncle Pat, actually shouting, said, “These ARE different.”  The rest of the evening was awkward to say the least, and, frankly, terrible for me. I sat gulping down my grandmother’s Riunite in a futile attempt to transport myself to some gentler time and place. My mother felt very sorry for me.

It’s incredible how rigid Southern Italians can be about their food. Now that I look back on it, though, the whole thing pisses me off. I wish I had had the temerity to just say, this is it. This is what you’re eating. It’s new. It’s delicious. Deal with it. Although if I had, my grandmother probably would have whacked me in the head.

That was the last time I cooked for my grandmother, but the experience obviously didn’t dissuade me from cooking altogether. In fact it turned out perversely enough to be one of the catalysts for my career in Italian food. Since then my crespelle has evolved further, to something that would be completely unrecognizable to my headachy and now deceased grandmother. I’m no longer interesting in imitating manicotti. I leave off the béchamel and the tomato sauce, a combination that I’ve grown to feel overwhelms delicate crepes. I’ve also added a thin layer of walnut pesto, which blends really well with ricotta. I made this for my mother the other night. She loved it. And it did taste different.

Crespelle with Ricotta and Walnut Pesto

(Serves 4 or 5—makes about 12 7-inch crespelle)

For the crespelle:

1 cup all-purpose flour
4 large eggs
A generous pinch of salt
1 tablespoon sugar
3 tablespoons olive oil, plus extra for cooking
1 cup whole milk, possibly a little more
1 tablespoon grappa or brandy

For the ricotta:

2 cups whole-milk ricotta
1 large egg
½ cup grated Grana Padano cheese
A few big scrapings of nutmeg (about ⅛ teaspoon)
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped

For the pesto:

1½ cups very fresh walnut halves
1 small garlic clove, roughly chopped
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
¼ cup grated Grana Padano cheese
Salt

For the top:

3 pints grape tomatoes
1 large garlic clove, thinly sliced
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A big splash of white wine
½ cup grated Grana Padano cheese
About a dozen basil leaves, lightly chopped

For the crespelle batter: Put all the crespelle ingredients into the bowl of a food processor, and pulse until very smooth. The result should be the consistency of thick cream. If it’s too thick, add a little more milk. Pour the batter into a bowl, and let it sit about 45 minutes before using (this will relax the gluten a bit, so you get a nice tender crepe).

To cook the crespelle: I used a 7-inch omelet pan, but if you’ve got a proper crepe pan, a little bigger or smaller, use that. Any small sauté pan will do the trick. With these olive oil crespelle, I never find sticking a problem, so you don’t need a non-stick pan. Put the pan over a medium flame, and let it heat up. Pour in enough olive oil to just coat the pan. Pull the pan from the heat, and ladle in a bit less than a quarter cup of batter, tilting the pan quickly in a circular movement to spread the batter. (You’ll get the hang of it. The first one usually doesn’t come out too well. Once the heat is regulated and you get the feel of it, trust me, you’ll find it fairly easy.) Let the crespelle cook just until you notice it coloring lightly at the edge. Now shake the pan, moving the crespelle away from you, and slip a spatula underneath. Give it a fast, confident flip. If it folds up a bit, just straighten it out with your fingers (these things are a lot sturdier than you would think). Cook on the other side for about 30 seconds, and then slide onto a big plate.

Make the rest of the crespelle the same way, adding a drizzle of olive oil to the pan each time. Stack the crespelle up on top of one another (they won’t stick, I swear). You can refrigerate them until you want to assemble the dish, if you like.

Mix the ingredients for the ricotta filling together in a big bowl.

Put all the ingredients for the pesto in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse until you have a rough paste.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Chose a very large shallow-sided baking dish (one that you’d use for a big lasagna is perfect). If you don’t have a big one, use two smaller ones. You want the crespelle to fit fairly snuggly. Coat the dish or dishes lightly with olive oil.

Lay out a crepe on a work surface, and coat one side lightly with the walnut pesto. Now add about 3 tablespoons of the ricotta mixture, and smear it around as best you can (it doesn’t have to be perfectly distributed). Now roll up the crepe, and place it in the baking dish. Repeat this with all the crespelle.

In a large skillet, heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. When the oil is hot, add the grape tomatoes, and sear until they start to burst, shaking the skillet often so they cook evenly. Add the garlic, and season with salt and black pepper. Sauté a minute longer, just until they start to give off a little liquid. Add the white wine, and let it bubble for about a minute, not letting the liquid evaporate too much. Pour the tomatoes, with their liquid, over the crespelle. Sprinkle on the Grana Padano, and bake until bubbling and lightly browned at the edges, about 15 minutes. Garnish with the basil.

Serve hot. No need to let this rest. They’re quite firm. I like them served with a simple winter salad of mixed chicory-type lettuces, such as frisée and endive.

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Dick De Mane (center) and his buddies, out on the town.

Recipe: Braised Veal with Sweet Peppers and Capers

One of my father’s favorite dishes was veal and peppers, a Neapolitan-American plate of slow simmered veal with bell peppers, tomatoes, a little wine, a sprinkling of hot pepper flakes, a handful of parsley. That’s about it, but those few ingredients produced a rich, tender stew with big flavor. Most Italian-run pizza shops made it to serve in heroes, and just about every Italian-American household, including ours, cooked up a version. Homemade was far superior, at least when prepared by my mother. And you got to enjoy the aromas while it cooked.

The dish brings back a specific patch of time, the mid-sixties, when I was right in the middle of pure childhood, with no adolescent yearnings. I remember the clothes my parents wore, my mother’s clean Jackie looks, my father’s deep ocher V-neck pullovers and sleek sport coats. Those are the clothes I prefer today for myself (a V-neck and pointy high heels will never let you down). We ate a lot of veal and peppers in those days. But then into the seventies, when my mother’s little Jackie suits turned to jeans and tees and my father started wearing turquoise, veal and peppers went away. We started eating grilled steaks. Maybe my mother still made veal and peppers every once in awhile, but I recall it from an earlier time, one I have preserved in the sweet spot in my brain.

The photo above of my father flanked by his two buddies Al Feminelli and Patty Iannicelli brings back the veal and peppers era vividly. It was a time when everyone was strong, and cigarettes, booze, and sun weren’t against the law. I don’t know where this restaurant was. It could have been in Hollywood, Florida, near the dog track, or possibly Port Chester, New York, or maybe in midtown Manhattan. Hard to say.

I know my mother thinks I have a nostalgia problem. I guess she’s right. So be it. It’s fueled my love for Italian cooking, so I can only view it as a bonus.

Here’s my new recipe for veal and peppers. It’s not my mother’s recipe; it’s just me fiddling around. I added a little sweet mix of spices I happen to like with veal, and a bit of rosemary, some Marsala, lemon zest, and capers. Despite my updated flourishes, it tastes quite the same as I remember it. Maybe the dish is so strong, so powerful, that it can’t be altered even if you try. Or if I can remember my catechism correctly, it’s incorruptible, as they say.

Braised Veal with Sweet Peppers and Capers

(Serves 4 or 5)

3 pounds boneless veal shoulder, cut into approximately 1½-inch chunks
1 tablespoon sugar
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons Wondra flour
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
½ cup chopped pancetta
3 leeks, cut into thin rounds, using the white and only tenderest green parts
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
⅛ teaspoon ground nutmeg
⅛ teaspoon ground cinnamon
A pinch of clove
½ teaspoon Aleppo pepper (or another medium spicy dried chili)
1 cup dry Marsala
3 sprigs rosemary, the leaves well chopped
1 28-ounce can plum tomatoes, chopped, with the juice
½ cup chicken broth, possibly a little more
3 sweet red bell peppers, roasted until charred, peeled, seeded, and cut into thick slices
The grated zest from 1 small lemon
A handful of salt-packed Sicilian capers, soaked in cool water for 20 minutes, rinsed, and drained

Dry the veal chunks well. Sprinkle them with the sugar, salt, and black pepper.

Set a large casserole fitted with a lid over a medium-high flame. Add about a tablespoon of olive oil and the butter. Sprinkle the flour over the veal chunks, and toss to coat them lightly. When the olive oil and butter are hot, add the veal, and brown lightly all over (do this in batches if you need to). Take the veal from the casserole, and put it in a bowl or on a plate (something that will catch juices).

Add the pancetta to the casserole, and sauté until crisp. Add the leeks, and sauté until soft, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic, the nutmeg, cinnamon, clove, and Aleppo or other medium-hot chili, and sauté a minute to release all their flavors. Return the veal to the casserole, along with any juices it may have given off. Add the rosemary and the Marsala, and let it bubble for a minute or so. Add the tomatoes, with their juice, and the chicken broth, and bring to a boil (the liquid should just cover the meat; if not, add more broth or a little water). Add a bit more salt and black pepper. Turn the heat to low, cover the casserole, and simmer for an hour and a half. Then add the roasted peppers, and simmer, covered, for about another half hour, or until the veal is very tender.

Skim the surface of the stew well, and then add the lemon zest and the capers. Let it all sit for about a half hour (this will help all the flavors meld). Reheat gently. Serve hot. I think this goes especially well with rice, which is how my mother usually served it, but a small pasta such as ditalini will also be a good choice.

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Anna Magnani, with a romantic dog friend.

Recipe: Coda alla Vaccinara

Our Lady of the Eternal City, Anna Magnani, is a woman I check in with frequently, even though she is dead. I value her opinion so much, her not being flesh-and-blood live is hardly an obstacle (actually she has much more time these days). Recently I asked her what I should cook my husband for Valentine’s Day. Should I make chocolate mousse or filet mignon?, I asked. There was a pause, and she then whispered “Coda alla Vaccinara.” Well, gee, what a concept.

Oxtails are not something I had associated with romance, but I think Miss Magnani’s on to something. Coda alla Vaccinara, braised oxtail, is a dish I’ve eaten in trattorias in the Testaccio, the old slaughterhouse district of Rome, an area famous for its quinto-quarto, or fifth-quarter, food, dishes made from the supposedly less than desirable parts of animals, like intestine (called la pajata and served with rigatoni), trippa, lamb’s liver, and pig’s feet, all dishes of funky, dark deliciousness. I really love this food, and when you think about it, it’s  much more romantic than, say, a steak, which is so straightforward. Sort of like Miss Magnani herself, who, with her dark, baggy eyes, is infinitely more intriguing than, say, Gina Lollabrigida.

Oxtail Roman-style is richly seasoned with red wine, clove, celery, and marjoram. It smells sweet and intense while cooking, almost like chocolate (and in fact some cooks add a little cocoa to the pot), and since it has to cook a long time, about three hours, you get very intimate with the oxtails and their deepening aromas.

By the way, oxtails were originally actually cut from oxen, which are castrated bulls. Now they are cut from everyday beef cattle, but I suppose oxtail sounds more folklorico than cowtail, so the original name of the stew has endured.

Happy Valentine’s Day to you.

Coda alla Vaccinara

(Serves 4)

Extra-virgin olive oil
4 pounds oxtails (try to get the wider, meatier middle cut, not the tiny tail ends)
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon  sugar
1 round piece of pancetta, ¼ inch thick, cut into small cubes
2 leeks
1 carrot
2 small celery stalks, cut into small dice, plus a large handful of celery leaves, lightly chopped
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
5 whole cloves, ground to a powder
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 bay leaf
1 cup sweet vermouth
1 cup dry red wine
1  cup homemade, or high-quality purchased, chicken broth
1 28-ounce can Italian plum tomatoes, chopped, with the juice
6 large sprigs marjoram
A splash of balsamic vinegar

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Choose a large casserole that will hold the meat more or less in one layer (a little overlap is okay). Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. Season the oxtails with salt, black pepper, and the sugar, and brown them well on all sides. Add the pancetta, and let it get a little crisp. Now add the leeks, carrot, celery (but not the leaves yet), garlic, ground clove, and cinnamon, and turn the heat down to medium. Sauté a few minutes, to soften the vegetables. Add the red wine and the sweet vermouth, and cook at a lively bubble for about 4 minutes. Add the bay leaf, the chicken broth, and the tomatoes. Season with a little more salt and black pepper. The meat should be almost completely covered with liquid; if not, add more broth or water. Bring this to a boil. Cover the casserole, and place it in the oven. Let the stew cook at a low simmer until very tender, about 3 hours.

Take the casserole from the oven, and skim most of the fat from the surface of the sauce. (Oxtail throws off a lot of fat. If you like, you can make the stew the day before serving, refrigerate it overnight, and then scrape the cold fat from the surface before reheating.)

Add the celery leaves and marjoram to the sauce, and add a splash of balsamic vinegar. Reseason with salt or black pepper if needed. Serve in bowls, over polenta or pasta or farro if you like; I prefer a simple accompaniment of good Italian bread to soak up all the sauce.

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Recipe: Paccheri with Eggplant, Capers, Mint, and Ricotta Salata

I don’t often cook eggplant in winter. It’s usually withered and seedy, and it just makes me long for summer, when I can find ten different eggplant varieties at my Greenmarket. Eggplant is a strikingly beautiful vegetable. I can’t get over its varying shades of purple, from inky black to light lavender, or when it really looks like eggs, solid white, or bright green with white stripes, or electric purple with beige stripes. It is rich, creamy, and absolutely delicious, and as every Sicilian knows, it makes a luxurious pasta sauce. But in the dead of winter? Usually not.

Here I was at my musty neighborhood health food store, buying more goji juice for my mother. (She still demands it even though the last bottle I bought gave her  a dramatic case of the runs. Maybe that was the desired effect.) So I picked up her juice, and before heading out (I can’t spent much time in health food stores—that rancid grain smell depresses me) I glanced at their organic produce department, which in winter doesn’t usually look much better than my local supermarket’s. I saw something interesting: smooth, firm purple-black eggplants, not too big, but hefty. Where do these come from, I asked? Nobody knew. That’s odd. I though all these employees were supposed to be organic food experts. It didn’t matter. I bought a couple.

When I got them home and cut into them, I wasn’t disappointed. Nice, very few seeds, no brown liquid beading up, a vegetable-sweet smell. I was excited. Pasta time. I had a bag of paccheri, the Neapolitan pasta that look like ultra-huge rigatoni. These tubes are so gigantic they look like Italians are playing a joke on gullible American foodies, but they’re the real thing. (I usually buy the Neapolitan brand Setaro at Buonitalia, at the Chelsea market.) You might be tempted to stuff these big tubes, and you could, but their true charm emerges when you cook them until just floppy and sauce them with something substantial and decidedly Southern, such as eggplant. I’ve gone all-out Sicilian here (despite the choice of a Neapolitan pasta shape), with anchovies, capers, fresh chili, mint, Marsala, pine nuts, and ricotta salata.

This pasta is so substantial and meaty, I like eating it as a main course, followed by a green salad.

Note: I don’t salt eggplant. I’ve found it makes no difference whatever in controlling bitterness. If you choose firm, young eggplants, bitterness will be less of a problem.

Paccheri with Eggplant, Capers, Mint, and Ricotta Salata

(Serves 4 as a main course)

2 medium-size firm eggplants, peeled in vertical stripes with half the skin left on, and cut into small cubes
Extra-virgin olive oil
Salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1 fresh chili, seeded and minced (I used a red jalapeño)
1 shallot, cut into small dice
2 small garlic cloves, thinly sliced
3 anchovy fillets, chopped
¼ cup dry Marsala
1 28-ounce and 1 15-ounce can of San Marzano plum tomatoes, chopped, with the juice
1 pound paccheri or rigatoni pasta
A handful of salt-packed Sicilian capers, soaked for about 20 minutes and then rinsed
A handful of lightly toasted pine nuts
A handful of fresh mint leaves
A chunk of ricotta salata

In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. When hot, add the eggplant, seasoning with salt and the sugar (this will help it brown), and sauté until lightly browned. Scatter the chili, garlic, shallot, and anchovy bits over the eggplant, and stir it around. Sauté until the seasonings are soft and fragrant, about a minute longer. Add the Marsala, and let it bubble for a minute. Add the tomatoes, with their juice, and cook uncovered at a lively bubble for about 8 minutes. Add the capers and the pine nuts.

Cook the paccheri in abundant salted water until al dente. Drain, reserving about a half cup of the cooking water.

Place the paccheri in a serving bowl, and drizzle it with a tablespoon or so of fresh olive oil. Add the mint, and give it a toss. Add the eggplant sauce, and toss lightly again. Add a little pasta water if needed. Serve right away, grating ricotta salata over each serving.

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