Erica De Mane

Recipes:

Bruschetta with Artichoke Pesto
Braised Beef with Primitivo Wine
Carrots with Sicilian Capers
Caciocavallo with Rosemary Honey and Pine Nuts

Braciole stuffed with Pecorino, garlic, and parsley; hunks of pork; sausages: All those things floating together for hours in a big pot of burnished red sauce make up a taste memory from my childhood that I will never forget. My mother made such a complicated dish only in winter, when its almost overwhelming aroma would fill the kitchen with joy. In summer, when you wanted to be racing around outside uninhibited, it would have filled the kitchen with familial oppression. Probably one of the ways Neapolitan mamas got their reputation for being overbearing was from cooking such a meal in 90-degree Neapolitan heat. In 20-degree New York winters it actually makes sense.

I occasionally make a really traditional Sunday sauce like it myself, but it’s best for a large group. When I’m serving four or fewer, which is usually the case, I simplify, cooking only one cut of meat, such as the beef shoulder roast I’ve chosen here (it’s the same cut used for traditional American pot roast). I slow-simmer the meat with red wine, tomato paste, and garlic, that traditional Southern Italian triumvirate, creating all the big Sunday sauce aromas with a lot less work. And I wind up with a much more contemporary look on the plate.

Winter eating, if you want to get romantic about it, is all about coaxing tenderness out of things that are hard or tough, like big winter carrots and shoulder roasts of meat. The glory lies in the execution, since usually the raw ingredients don’t shine on their own as they do in summer months. To accompany the roast I’ve chosen to simmer carrots in Marsala wine and then finish the dish with a scattering of the Sicilian salt-packed capers that I love so much (you can purchase them on-line from BuonItalia, in New York). Their sharpness breaks through the starchiness and almost indiscernible taste carrots can have this time of year. I suggest also including in this meal a bowl of sturdy pasta, like penne or rigatoni, dressed with olive oil, grated Pecorino or Parmigiano cheese, and a ladle of the beef cooking broth to carry over the winey beef taste. A big bowl of roasted potatoes flavored with rosemary and garlic is another possible accompaniment.

For an appetizer I like to bring out an artichoke pesto on crostini. It’s light and fluffy; a good start to a rich meal. It does not, however, go well with the Primitivo wine I suggest to accompany the meal, so you might want to start with a Prosecco or a still white like a Greco di Tufo (Mastroberardino is a fine producer of that Campanian wine). If you don’t want to bother with the artichokes, you can make a really simple crostini by topping toasted bread rounds with a dollop of ricotta and then a marinated fresh anchovy (which you can find in an Italian or Spanish specialty store). The creamy blandness of the ricotta and the sharp fishiness of the anchovy combine in a lovely marriage of flavors.

I keep the flow of a meal like this traditional, presenting it more or less the way it progressed at my mother’s or grandmother’s house. I bring out a big green salad after the main course. My mother almost always served a mix of chicory and escarole, two good sturdy and pleasantly bitter winter greens. I suggest arugula and watercress, but endive or frisée can be included (I crave something slightly bitter after a rich meat dish). Cheese came next, then a bowl of fruit, and then Amaretto cookies, or even Twinkies, which of course were the highlight of the meal for me as a small child. No dinner like this would ever have been complete without a bottle of Sambuca being brought to the table, along with coffee beans to float in the glasses. Then came the espresso pot, the stove-top kind made by Bialetti that’s shaped like a mature Italian lady, which I more than once plopped directly down on the table without a trivet, burning a black octagonal hole into the wood finish.

That’s the way it went in my house. It was an enjoyable ritual (except for burning the table) that I’ve updated only in subtle ways, keeping the spirit of the meal but streamlining the food a bit. If you’d like to try a dish other than the Beef in Primitivo for the centerpiece of a Sunday supper, Braised Lamb Shoulder with Tomatoes, Marsala, and Cinnamon; Short Ribs with Chianti and Celery Gremolata; Pork Braciole with Provolone, Parsley, and Capers; and Sausages and Italian Frying Peppers with Sage and Fennel Seed are all good alternatives (use this site’s search window, at the top of the page, to find them).

Winter cooking is for me a little trickier to pull off than the breezier, improvisational meals I put together in warmer months, when the Greenmarket is bursting with tender vegetables and there’s the grill to throw fish and meat on. I’m always looking for Mediterranean flavor, even in January in New York, and I’ve found it’s not that hard to keep a Southern Italian style going strong. My savior in winter months is the Italian pantry. I stock up on salt-packed anchovies and capers from Sicily, bottles of fruity estate olive oil, canned tomatoes, and chunks of strong Pecorino cheese. Hothouse supermarket herbs are a must for me; I scatter flat leaf parsley and basil over finished dishes just for their green aromas, and I make easy herb pestos, usually just a mix of olive oil and herbs, to spoon over fish or toss onto pasta for a hit of freshness. Wine finds its way into much of my winter cooking, adding a gentle acidity to long-simmered dishes like the beef I present here, and underpinning quick skillet sauces for sautés. Lemons and oranges are at their best in winter and add sunny flavor to salads, stews, fish, and desserts. I keep a bottle of Limoncello liqueur from Campania, lemon brought to its apex, in my refrigerator to drizzle over ice cream or to drink in icy cold shots. It really refreshes my spirit.

If you have any questions about how to revitalize your Italian winter cooking, especially if you cook in a Southern Italian style like I do, please don’t be shy about contacting me.

Happy 2004.

Bruschetta with Artichoke Pesto

You can buy little jars of artichoke pesto in food shops in many places in Southern Italy. They’re often very good, but they’re never as good as when you make it yourself. Since everything in it gets puréed, you don’t even have to do a real tidy job cleaning the artichokes, so the cooking is easy. Some artichoke pestos I’ve sampled have contained green olives, which I like, but here I’ve gone for a lusher approach, adding Pecorino, mascarpone, and a splash of vermouth.

This pesto also makes a great pasta sauce for two. To use it that way, simply cook about 1/2 pound of penne or ziti, saving a little of the cooking water; drain the pasta; and toss it with the artichoke pesto, thinning it out with a little of the cooking water. Garnish with chopped mint leaves.

(Serves 4 or 5 as an appetizer)

4 large artichokes
The juice of 2 lemons
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A splash of dry vermouth
A small chunk of young Pecorino cheese
A tablespoon of mascarpone cheese
A few large sprigs of fresh spearmint, lightly chopped
1 baguette, cut into thin rounds

Set up a bowl of cold water and add the juice from one of the lemons. Peel the artichokes down to their tender light-green leaves. Trim the bottoms off the stems, leaving as much tender stem as possible. Peel the stems of tough outer skin. Slice off about 1 inch from the top. Quarter the artichokes lengthwise and cut out the chokes and any prickly purple inner leaves. Drop each piece into the water as you finish working on it.

In a large skillet (avoid cast iron, which might turn the artichokes slightly gray), heat about 3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and the artichoke pieces, season with salt and black pepper, and sauté just until they start turning golden. Add the vermouth and let it boil away. Add a generous splash of warm water, turn the heat down a bit, and simmer, covered, until the pieces are very tender, adding little splashes of water if the pan dries up. This should take about 15 minutes.

Place the artichokes with any pan juices in a food processor. Add about a tablespoon or so of grated Pecorino, a generous drizzle of fresh olive oil, a squeeze of lemon juice, the mascarpone, and the mint. Pulse briefly, just until you have a rough but slightly fluffy paste. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt and black pepper if needed.

Toast the baguette slices and brush them lightly with olive oil. Spoon a generous amount of the artichoke pesto on top and garnish with a few shavings of Pecorino.

Braised Beef with Primitivo Wine

In most of Southern Italy a good-sized chunk of braising beef is inevitably cooked by being slow-simmered in wine and aromatics, with maybe a touch of tomato. Here’s a Southern Italian pot roast that I’ve simmered in Primitivo di Manduria, a strong red wine from Puglia. The wine has a characteristic prunish flavor that works well with strongly flavored red meat. The orange peel and anchovy I’ve added cook down, blending with the rich wine to add only a subtle layer of flavor. Vinicola Savese is a good Primitivo producer to look for.

I always use any leftover meat for a pasta sauce. If you’d like to try doing that, shred with your fingers any meat you have left (for a half a pound of pasta, enough for two large servings, you’ll need about a cup or so). Warm the shredded meat with all the leftover wine sauce in a small skillet. Add a handful of freshly chopped parsley and a drizzle of olive oil, and check the seasoning, adding a little fresh black pepper to wake up the flavors. Cook a half a pound of ziti or penne al dente, drain it well, and add it to the skillet. Toss over medium heat for a minute or two, adding a handful of grated Pecorino. Serve hot.

(Serves 4 or 5)

Extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup all-purpose flour for dredging the meat
An approximately 3 1/2-pound boneless beef chuck shoulder roast (sometimes labeled “shoulder pot roast” in the supermarket), tied in 3 or 4 places
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 large onion, cut into large chunks
2 carrots, roughly chopped
2 garlic cloves, lightly crushed with the side of a knife
1 bay leaf
A few marjoram sprigs
A pinch of ground clove
2 long pieces of orange peel
2 anchovy fillets
A heaping tablespoon of tomato paste
A bottle of Primitivo wine (or another strong, dry red, a Cabernet for instance)
A handful of flat-leaf parsley, lightly chopped

Choose a large casserole fitted with a lid. Add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. Coat the meat lightly in flour, and when the oil is hot add the meat to the casserole. Season with salt and black pepper and brown the meat leisurely on all sides. Take your time doing this; the browning will add great flavor to the sauce. Add the onion, carrots, and garlic, and sauté a few minutes so they can release their flavors. Add the bay leaf, marjoram, ground clove, orange peel, anchovy, and tomato paste, and sauté for about a minute, so all their flavors can be released. Pour in the bottle of wine and bring it to a boil. The meat should be just about covered with liquid, poking out only a little (if not, add warm water). Lower the heat to a simmer, cover the casserole, and cook slowly, turning the meat once or twice and basting it occasionally, until it is very tender, about 2 1/2 hours. If the liquid gets too low, add warm water.

Lift the meat from the casserole and cover it with aluminum foil to keep it warm.

Skim excess fat from the surface of the sauce, if necessary. Pour the sauce through a mesh strainer into a clean saucepan, pushing on the vegetables so that some of their juice can incorporate into the sauce. Boil the sauce over high heat for a few minutes to concentrate its flavor (it should be loose but with a good sheen and just on the verge of looking syrupy). Slice the meat thickly (it will naturally be very tender and start to fall apart a bit, but that’s the nature of a pot roast, so don’t worry about it). Place the meat on a large serving platter. Scatter on the parsley and spoon on a few tablespoons of the sauce. Bring the remaining sauce to the table in a small sauce boat.

Carrots with Sicilian Capers

Carrots are not a vegetable that I get great inspiration from. Raw, I find them soapy tasting. But here’s a treatment that plays up their sweetness and tones down that soapiness, using the excellent Sicilian salt-packed capers that come from the islands of Lipari and Pantelleria, which have a special floral sweetness and no sharp edges. This dish is not, to my knowledge, a traditional Southern Italian one; it’s something I came up with one night as an Italianate accompaniment to a pork-chop dinner. Try and find Sicilian salt-packed capers for it (you can order them on-line from BuonItalia in New York). Their sweet, floral taste marries perfectly with the carrots. Brine soaked capers are a bit too acidic.

(Serves 4, or 5 as a side dish)

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
A large bunch of carrots (about 5), peeled and cut into not-too-thin rounds (I like rounds here because they echo the roundness of the capers)
A generous pinch of sugar
A few scrapings of nutmeg
Salt
A splash of dry Marsala
A palmful of salt-packed capers, soaked in several changes of cool water for about 1/2 hour, rinsed, and drained
Freshly ground black pepper
A small handful of parsley leaves, lightly chopped

Choose a wide skillet with a lid that will hold the sliced carrots in more or less one layer for easy cooking (they can overlap, but don’t pile them inches deep). Over medium heat, add the butter and let it get foamy and hot. Add the carrots, the sugar, the nutmeg, and a pinch of salt (not too much, since you’ll be adding capers later on), and sauté for about a minute or so to lightly caramelize the sugar and coat the carrots with flavor. Add a splash of dry Marsala and let it bubble until the skillet is dry. Add a generous splash of hot water, cover the skillet, and simmer on medium low heat until the carrots are tender but still holding their shape. This should take about 5 minutes. Check the skillet frequently to make sure there is still a little water left, and add a splash if needed. When the carrots are about a minute away from being tender, uncover the skillet to let the liquid evaporate. You want a moist glaze on the carrots but no water left in the skillet. Add the capers and a few gratings of fresh black pepper. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt if needed. Add the parsley and serve right way.

Caciocavallo with Rosemary Honey and Pine Nuts

I bought a jar of rosemary-flavored honey in the town of Lecce on my last trip to Puglia and was surprised by its beautiful aroma and taste, having expected to find the herb harsh in that context. When I finished the jar it occurred to me that I could easily make my own rosemary honey, and now I do. It’s a perfect match for a soft but somewhat assertive cheese like caciocavallo.

(Serves 4 or 5)

1 cup acacia or orange-flower honey
3 small sprigs rosemary
A 3/4-pound chunk of caciocavallo cheese at room temperature (chose a good imported one; I especially like caciocavallo Ragusano from Sicily)
Freshly ground black pepper
A handful of pine nuts, lightly toasted

Pour the honey into a small saucepan and drop in the rosemary sprigs. Turn the heat to low and heat the honey just long enough to make it liquid and warm to the touch, about 4 minutes. Turn off the heat and let the saucepan sit on the turned-off burner for about 15 minutes (this will allow the oil from the rosemary to be released). Remove the rosemary sprigs if you like; I usually leave them in for a gently rustic look.

When you’re ready to serve the dish, cut the caciocavallo into not-too-thin slices and place a few on each serving plate. Grate on a little black pepper, drizzle with the honey (which should still be slightly warm; you can reheat in gently if it isn’t), and garnish each serving with pine nuts.