Erica De Mane

Recipe: Pears Poached in Marsala with Cinnamon and Pistachios

I don’t really like mushy foods, things like mashed potatoes, mashed yams, smooth purées mixed with butter, or even things like turnips that can be prepared partly lumpy, partly smooth (smashed, as Rachael Ray would call it). That is the main reason I don’t like Thanksgiving all that much. My ideal Thanksgiving dinner would have really crisp turkey skin but none of the meat (it has occurred to me that really crisp turkey skin rolled around a prune would make a great Thanksgiving appetizer, at least at my table). Aside from the turkey skin, I’d like to have rosemary-scented gravy; broccoli rabe with pine nuts, pancetta, and garlic; roasted chestnuts; lots of brunello wine; an arugula salad with a nice piece of mountain gorgonzola; and, to conclude, pears poached in Marsala with cinnamon and pistachios. If only holidays could be that simple and that perfect (in my dreams).

And speaking of alternate Thanksgiving meals, if you’d like  a more sensibly  considered  Italian-inspired menu,  take a look at Marco Canora’s offering in the November issue of La Cucina Italiana. He’s got a turkey roasted with sage, orange, and garlic,  a roasted fennel soup with hazelnuts that looks amazing, a butternut squash risotto with mostarda di Cremona, broccoli rabe with garlic (ha—great minds think alike), a  pignoli tart, and a few other gorgeous side dishes created with a passionate Italian mindset. You can find the entire menu along with beautiful photos at Lacucinaitalianamagazine.com.

Pears Poached in Marsala and Cinnamon with Pistachios

(Serves 6)

6 firm pears, peeled but with the stems left on
A cup of dry Marsala
About ¼ cup rum
½ teaspoon good vanilla extract
½ a cinnamon stick
2 long strips of lemon peel
¾ cup sugar
½ cup shelled, unsalted whole pistachios

Cut a thin slice from the bottom of each pear so it will sit up straight in a dish. Then, excavating up from the bottom, pull out the core with an apple corer. (Don’t go so far as to make a hole in the top, though. This step isn’t absolutely necessary, but it does make it easier to eat.)

Place the pears in a wide pot so they lie down flat. Pour in the Marsala, the rum, and the vanilla extract, and add the cinnamon stick, lemon peel, and sugar. Add water to just cover the pears. Bring to a boil over high heat. Then turn the heat to low, partially cover the pot, and simmer until the pears are tender when poked through, about 20 to 30 minutes, depending on the ripeness of the pears. You’ll want to turn them every once in a while so they color evenly.

Lift the pears from the pot with a large strainer spoon, and place them upright in a large serving dish with sides. Boil down the liquid over high heat until you have a medium thick syrup (when the surface looks glossy and large bubbles start forming all over). Let the syrup cool, and then pour it over the pears. Top with a sprinkling of pistachios.

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Miss Magnani, my muse, with a lovely goat friend.

Recipe: Frisée Salad with Pomegranate Seeds, Pine Nuts, Sautéed Shallots, and Goat Cheese

I had a dream last night where my front teeth were falling out. That’s a classic, isn’t it? But before they actually fell out they shrank and darkened. In fact, they turned into pine nuts.

Variations on missing teeth dreams are now more unsettling for me than the old classic nightmare of my youth where I was caught walking past Bergdorf Goodman or somewhere equivalent with no pants on (somehow that was much more upsetting that being completely nude,  having just your weenie and butt exposed). Now it’s the horror of missing teeth. Time  marches on.

When I recovered from my dream I remembered I actually had a container of those evil pine nuts in my pantry. I had a pomegranate too, one with really deep red, sweet seeds. I used them both in this wintry salad, figuring the pomegranate would balance out any bad vibes the pine nuts might contribute. It was a delicious salad despite its traumatic birth.

Frisée Salad with Pomegranate Seeds, Pine Nuts, Sautéed Shallots, and Goat Cheese

(Serves 2)

1 head frisée lettuce, torn into pieces
About a half a cup of fresh pomegranate seeds
A handful of pine nuts, lightly toasted
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 large shallot, thinly sliced
A few large sprigs of thyme
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon balsamic vinegar
½ teaspoon Spanish sherry vinegar
About a half a cup of crumbled young goat cheese (I used an Italian Caprino)

Place the frisée, the pomegranate seeds, and the pine nuts in a salad bowl.

In a small sauté pan, heat about a tablespoon of olive oil over medium heat. Add the shallot, and sauté until lightly golden. Sprinkle on the thyme, and season lightly with salt. Add all this to the salad bowl.

In a small bowl, whisk together the balsamic and sherry vinegars and about 1½ tablespoons of olive oil. Season with salt and black pepper. Pour this over the salad, and toss lightly.  Scatter on the goat cheese. Serve right away.

(You may have noticed that in my photo of the salad there are torn bits of stale bread thrown in. I like that for crunch, but it’s an inelegant presentation. You can, if you wish, include neatly cut toasted croutons, or just serve good Italian bread on the side).

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Anna Magnani, my  brooding muse.

Recipe: Penne with Brussels Sprouts, Pancetta, and Lemon

Anna Magnani is speaking to me again. She wasn’t for a while, and boy did that make me anxious. I think she was jealous of my relationship with La Saraghina. But things seem to have settled, and she’s again giving out much needed advice and being a good if somewhat haughty friend. She just told me I wasn’t eating enough pasta.  She knew that. It’s absolutely true. I was trying to knock off a little butt fat. Anna doesn’t approve of knocking off butt fat. She says it goes against my ancient responsibility.

So tonight I decided to follow her instructions and cook pasta with stuff I had on hand (you don’t need to shop, she told me; you need to go to your pantry).  Well, that can sometimes produce great pastas, but what I had on hand happened to be a bag of Brussels sprouts and a hunk of pancetta. That didn’t seem too promising, but she was right. I didn’t need to walk the entire half block to the grocery store to pick up more suitable ingredients. I winged it.

There’s only so much you can do with Brussels sprouts. Boil them up whole, making your kitchen smell like a Porta-Potty, or so I thought. But when I held a buxom Brussels sprout up to a piece of penne,  the only pasta I had an entire bag of, I realized something had to give. I decided the best way to go was to slice my Brussels sprouts thin, and sauté them raw. I used the pancetta, quite a lot actually, since I can’t really fathom eating a Brussels sprout without some kind of pork fat. I added white wine and lemon zest, just to balance all that deep cabbage-ness. And the dish was a success. Thank you Anna again, for your inspiration. And don’t go away for too long, ever again. My muse.

Penne with Brussels Sprouts, Pancetta, and Lemon

(Serves 6 as a first course or 4 as a main course)

Extra-virgin olive oil
1  ¼-inch-thick round of pancetta, cut into small dice
1 large shallot, minced
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
20 Brussels sprouts, trimmed and very thinly sliced
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
¼ cup dry white wine
¼ teaspoon ground allspice
½ cup chicken broth
1 pound penne pasta
The juice and grated zest from 1 small lemon
Grated pecorino Toscano cheese

In a large skillet, heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium flame. Add the pancetta, and let it get crisp. Then add the shallots, garlic, and sliced Brussels sprouts, seasoning them with salt, black pepper, and the allspice. Sauté until the Brussels sprouts are starting to soften, about 4 minutes. Add the white wine, and let it bubble away. Add the chicken broth, and continue cooking, uncovered, until the slices are just tender to the bite, about 4 minutes longer. Add the lemon juice and zest, and give it a stir.

Cook the penne al dente, and drain, saving a little of the cooking water. Transfer the penne to a warmed serving bowl. Give it a generous drizzle of fresh olive oil, and toss. Pour on the Brussels sprouts sauce. Add a heaping tablespoon of grated pecorino Toscano, and toss again. Add a little cooking water, if needed to loosen everything. Serve hot, with extra pecorino brought to the table.

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I’d sure love to have one of these nice red mortadella trucks. Italians do understand high style.

Recipe: Neapolitan Potato Gattò

If you’re looking for something really rich, really Neapolitan-tasting, and really calorie-packed, this gattò is it. It’s like a pizza rustica, but made with mashed potatoes instead of ricotta, and much, much easier, since there’s no crust, just a nice coating of breadcrumbs to cradle its soft insides.

Most people don’t associate potatoes with Southern Italian cooking, since pasta rules down there, but Puglia, Calabria, Basilicata, and Campania all have their cucina povera potato creations, some, like this gattò, much less povera than others. Anything filled with meat, cheese, and eggs is a rich man’s dish by typical Southern Italian standards, but this dish is often fashioned with odds and ends—leftover slivers of various cheeses, often including some smoked mozzarella, salami ends, fatty prosciutto chunks. I happened to have a thick slice of mortadella in the refrigerator, so that became the guiding theme for this particular gattò.

Often I layer a gattò, putting down half of my potato mixture and then a thick layer of mozzarella or caciocavallo, or sometimes a layer of crumbled sausage. This version is a lazy version, where I just tossed all the ingredients together and patted them into a well-buttered and -crumbed baking dish.

The name gattò derives from the French gateau, and the dish was no doubt invented, or at least named, in the late nineteenth century, when Southern Italian nobility were in love with all things French, even importing French chefs or sending their local ones to train in France and earn the title “monzu,” a Neapolitan pronunciation of monsieur.

Potatoes highbrow or lowbrow, when mixed with traditional Southern Italian flavorings like sausage, mozzarella, artichokes, or anchovies, produce some really fine, solid offerings. This gattò is one of my favorites. It’s meant to be a first course or a side dish, but I prefer serving it more as you would a quiche, with a side of green salad. Try it for brunch. You can easily double the recipe, or even triple it, if you’d like to serve a small Neapolitan army.

Neapolitan Potato Gatto

(Serves 6)

Salt
3 pounds all-purpose potatoes, peeled
1½ cups grated grana Padano cheese
5 tablespoons butter
¼ pounds mortadella, cut into very small cubes
½ pound caciocavallo cheese, cut into small cubes (if you can find Sicilian Ragusano, that will be the best)
1 garlic clove, minced
2 large eggs
⅓ cup milk
A few large sprigs of Italian parsley, the leaves chopped
4 sprigs of marjoram, the leaves chopped
A few big scrapings of nutmeg
Freshly ground black pepper
¾ cups dry breadcrumbs, not too finely ground
Extra-virgin olive oil

Boil the potatoes in abundant salted water until they’re very tender, and then put them through a potato ricer (a food processor will make them gummy).

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Add the grana, 3 tablespoons of the butter, the mortadella, caciocavallo, eggs, milk, nutmeg, garlic, parsley, marjoram, black pepper, and a little more salt to the potatoes, and mix just well enough to distribute everything evenly.

Use a tablespoon of the butter to coat a 10-inch round pie pan or cake pan, and then coat the pan with about ¾ of the breadcrumbs.

Add the potato mixture to the pan, and smooth it down. Decorate the top by making a pattern with the tines of a fork (Southern Italians love to decorate with the tines of a fork). Sprinkle with the remaining breadcrumbs, dot with the last tablespoon of butter, and drizzle with olive oil.

Bake, uncovered, until the top is browned, about 20 minutes

Serve warm, cut into wedges.

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A porchetta sandwich truck in the Abruzzi, just opening for business.

From time to time I stop into Porchetta, a little caffè in the East Village, especially in cooler weather, for their (what else?) porchetta. In my opinion porchetta is the best Italian street food there is, not counting the spleen and ricotta sandwiches from Palermo that I love so much. The East Village version of porchetta is not exactly the same as in Italy, where it’s usually distributed in trucks fitted with wood-burning ovens. Those rather plain white trucks  wheel up to religious festivals and outdoor markets, where people line up for the hot, greasy, herby, salty pork sandwiches, with crackling fat and soft, pully meat. The real Italian thing is usually made from a whole roasted hog, or a boned and rolled shoulder cut, or fresh ham with the skin left on.

Porchetta the caffè doesn’t have a wood-burning oven, and they make their porchetta with a boned pork loin wrapped in pork belly instead of the tougher shoulder cut. But they use all the traditional seasonings, which include fennel seeds (and, I believe, wild fennel pollen too), rosemary, thyme, sage, garlic, red wine (I think), and lots of salt and black pepper. A real Italian porchetta is slow-roasted until the fat is crisp and the color of shellac and the meat is falling-off-the-bone tender. The porchetta at Porchetta, being a tender cut of meat to begin with, doesn’t need hours of roasting. They roast it just until it’s perfectly tender, so it remains very juicy and the pork belly turns to fatty crackling. All in all, it’s an amazing accomplishment for a compromise. So if you want a great porchetta sandwich (or porchetta plate with salad and vegetables) you really should stop by there.The aroma from the front door will draw you right in anyway. You won’t be able to resist. They’re at 110 East 7th Street.

Since my return visit to Porchetta, I’ve been attempting to create my own version of this Italian roast in my own kitchen. I think it finally came out really nice. I certainly got the aroma down. Instead of the pork belly the caffè uses, I chose to wrap my pork loin in pancetta. I butterflied the pork loin and then made a paste out of fennel seeds, black pepper, and all the usual herbs plus vino and olio. I added juniper berries and just a touch of smoked pimenton to capture a subtle woodsy taste, but not so much that it tastes like liquid smoke. The result is less stringy and less fatty than the Italian version but more tender, which is what you’re going to get with a pork loin. But I really love the flavor. I like serving it sliced over a chicory or frisée salad dressed with olive oil and lemon juice.

Quickie Porchetta

(Serves 6)

1 approximately 2½-pound boneless pork loin with the fat left on, butterflied (if you don’t know how to buterfly it, you can ask your butcher to do it for you)
2 teaspoons fennel seeds
1½ teaspoons black peppercorns
4 juniper berries
4 garlic cloves, peeled
8 large sprigs rosemary
12 sage leaves
A branch of thyme
Salt
¼ teaspoon smoked Spanish pimenton (smoked red paprika)
Extra-virgin olive oil
¼ cup dry red wine
¼ pound pancetta, very thinly sliced

Place the fennel seeds, peppercorns, and juniper berries in a mortar and pestle (or a spice grinder), and grind roughly. Transfer to a small bowl.

Slice the garlic cloves very thinly. Stem all the herbs, and give the leaves a rough chop. Add the garlic and herbs to the ground spices. Add a good amount of salt, the smoked pimenton, about 3 tablespoons of olive oil, and the red wine. Mix everything well.

Lay the pork out flat, fat side down. Spread the herb and spice mixture all over the meat, saving some to rub over the outside.

Roll up the pork. Lay the pancetta slices over the roll, and tie it up with kitchen string in about 5 rings. Rub the remaining spice and herb mix over the pork. Cover it with plastic wrap, and let it marinate in the refrigerator for about 3 hours (or overnight). Take the pork from the refrigerator about an hour before you plan to cook it.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Choose a large ovenproof sauté pan or low-sided casserole big enough to hold the pork. Turn the heat to medium high. When the pan is hot, put the pork in it, and brown the pork well all around, seasoning it with a bit of extra salt as you turn it.

Transfer the pork to the oven, and roast it until it’s just tender, about 35 to 40 minutes or so. Check the temperature with a meat thermometer. You want it to be 130 to 135 degrees at the center.

Take the pork from the oven, and let it rest for about 15 minutes before slicing.  To make a little pan sauce, pour off about half  of the fat from the pan. Add a big  splash of red wine, and boil it for a few moments. Strain and pour this over the pork slices. Serve hot or warm.

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How can I be an old Italian hag, when I still look like this?

Recipe: Broccoli Rabe, Anchovy, and Ricotta Bruschetta

I’ve been eating so much broccoli rabe lately, I fear I may turn into a bitter old Italian hag. But I’m probably one already, so I might as well just continue to stuff myself. Seriously, I think what’s happening here is a yearning for cooked greens as I flip my food switch toward winter and away from cool salads.

It’s a mystery to me why anyone wouldn’t love broccoli rabe. It has a depth of flavor that creates an opulent mouth feel, especially when soaked in olive oil, which is really the only way to go. There’s no green better with pasta, and it blends so naturally with the many pork products like pancetta, salami, prosciutto, and capacolla that should be a staple of everyone’s diet, how can anyone resist? Lately, though, I’m liking my broccoli rabe with anchovy instead of pancetta. A wonderful dinner is a big bowl of broccoli rabe laced with anchovy, garlic, and chili, with a big glass of red wine and a big piece of toasted Italian bread. I’m not sure I would serve that for fancy company; they might think I didn’t like them. But when I’m alone and listening to Domenico Modugno sing his creation “Nel Blu Dipinto Di Blu” (aka “Volare”) in his charming light smoker’s voice, it’s the best, a bittersweet mix of great food and light opera.  The broccoli rabe has got to be very oily, steaming hot, and very garlicky. It’s what my mother would call a family meal. If  by any chance you’re having fancy company, try this bruschetta instead. It’s still drippy enough, but at least it’s got some formal structure to it.

Broccoli Rabe, Anchovy, and Ricotta Bruschetta

(Serves 8 as a first course or an antipasto offering)

2 bunches broccoli rabe, well stemmed
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 fresh, hot chili, minced
4 anchovies, minced
A pinch of ground cumin
A pinch of ground allspice
¼ cup dry white wine
1 cup whole milk ricotta
2 tablespoons pecorino Toscano cheese
1 loaf round, crusty Italian bread, cut in half and then into 14 slices (2 per person)

Fill a big pot with water, and bring it to a boil. Add a little salt, and then drop in the broccoli rabe. Blanch for about 3 minutes. With a strainer spoon, scoop the broccoli rabe from the water into a colander, and run cold water over it to stop the cooking and bring up its green color. Then squeeze as much water from it as possible. Then give it a few chops, so you have smaller pieces.

In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the garlic, the chili, and the anchovies, and sauté for a few seconds. Add the broccoli rabe, and season with salt and the cumin and allspice. Sauté until it’s all well coated with oil and just tender to the bite. Add the white wine, and let it boil away. Now add a splash of warm water, and turn off the heat.

Mix the grated pecorino into the ricotta.

Toast the bread pieces on both sides, and spread one side of each with a layer of the ricotta. Spoon some of the broccoli rabe on each toast and finish each one with a drizzle of fresh olive oil. Serve right away.

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Recipe: Sautéed Apples with Grappa, Raisins, and Pine Nuts, Served with Sweet Ricotta

Apples are one of the foods we New Yorkers can truly claim as a local specialty. Right now at my Greenmarket I can find about 20 varieties of fragrant area-grown apples, some cherry red, some blackish red, some striped with cordovan, some light green or bright yellow or burnished yellow, some mini, a few outrageously huge. I feel well covered in the apple department, which makes me less jealous of my Italian friends with their 15 varieties of artichokes and their big-deal wild mushrooms and truffles. You think a truffle smells? Well, the aroma in my little kitchen, when I bring home a big bag of New York State fall apples, makes me wild with desire, desire not to eat them raw but to cook with them, forcing every bit of their essence into the air I breath. I’m not that crazy about raw apples, but cooking takes them up to a very high level, a level of greatness. When I go to the market I concentrate on finding the best apples for cooking, ones that have some tang and don’t collapse into a big mush. Cortland, Ginger Gold, Macoun, Jonathan, Mutsu, Northern Spy, Rhode Island Greening, and Winesap are my favorites this fall.

I love apple tarts of all kinds, and pies, and apple things wrapped in filo, and baked apples, but sometimes I want cooked apple fumes in my home and I want them now. Therein lies the beauty of this sauté, sliced apples flash sautéed in butter and then flamed in booze. Calvados is obviously a good booze choice, and so is brandy or rum, but from my point of view the best thing a cook can do with an American symbol like the apple is to Italianize it, so I flamed my sauté in grappa, added the exotic Sicilian combo of raisins and pine nuts, and spooned the apples over sweetened ricotta, which tastes just like cannoli filling. Instant apple gratification.

Sautéed Apples with Grappa, Raisins, and Pine Nuts, Served with Sweet Ricotta

(Serves 4)

1½ cups whole milk ricotta
2 tablespoons powdered sugar
⅛ teaspoon ground nutmeg
3 tablespoons  unsalted butter
4 not-too-sweet apples, such as Cortland or Ginger Gold, cored and thickly sliced (and skinned if you like)
A pinch of salt
¼ cup sugar, possibly a little more if your apples are very tart
A pinch of ground cinnamon
The grated zest from 1 small lemon
¼ cup raisins soaked in ⅓ cup grappa
A handful of pine nuts, lightly toasted

In a bowl, mix the ricotta with the powdered sugar and nutmeg. Set aside.

In a large skillet, heat the butter over medium-high flame. Add the apples and a pinch of salt, and sauté for about 3 minutes. Add the sugar, the cinnamon, and the lemon zest, and sauté until the apples are just tender when poked with a knife but are still holding their shape, about 2 minutes longer. The sugar should turn very lightly golden. Add the raisins with the grappa, and stand back; it may—and should—flame up. When the flames die down, add the pine nuts, and give everything a stir.

Dole out the ricotta into 4 little dessert cups. Top with the apple slices.

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The Wine Harvest, by Francisco Goya.

Recipe: Tuscan Grape Harvest Focaccia

Every year  around this time I make a version of the classic Tuscan grape focaccia called schiacciata coll’uva to celebrate the Italian wine harvest, even though I think it’s a little bogus to celebrate such a faraway event  in New York. I should probably instead be marking the West Village water bug infestation that always seems to come upon us right around now. I’m not sure what kind of focaccia water bugs would make, but I know my cats would like it.

I consider this grape focaccia one of the genius dishes of the Italian kitchen. In my opinion it’s up there with pasta con le sarde and Genoese pesto. It has an unusual combination of flavors that happen to taste wonderful together.

You start with a basic focaccia dough, but with a little sugar added, and then top it with red grapes. In Italy they eat the grapes seeds and all, but I chose seedless red flame grapes so as not to upset my mother’s iffy digestion. Then you add a scattering of fresh rosemary and whole fennel seeds, a little salt and black pepper, a sprinkling of sugar, and a drizzle of good Tuscan olive oil. A slice of this focaccia with a glass of Chianti is heaven on earth. The water bugs are welcome to the crumbs.

Tuscan Grape Harvest Focaccia

(Makes one approximately 15-by-10-inch focaccia)

For the dough:

1 package active dry yeast
1¼ cups warm water (about 115 degrees)
1 teaspoon sugar
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus a little extra
½ teaspoon salt

For the top:

1½ cups red flame grapes
½ cup sugar
A pinch of salt
A few small sprigs of rosemary, the leaves chopped
A small palmful of fennel seeds
Freshly ground black pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil

Pour the warm water into a large bowl. Sprinkle in the yeast and the sugar, giving them a quick stir to dissolve clumps, and let sit until frothy, about 8 minutes.

Add the olive oil to the yeast mixture. Then add 3 cups of flour and the salt. Stir the mixture until you have a nice soft dough. It will be quite sticky. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface, and knead very briefly, just until smooth, about 4 minutes, adding a minimal amount of extra flour to prevent sticking (mostly flouring your hands).

Oil a large bowl, and place the dough in it, turning it once to coat the top in oil. Cover it with a kitchen towel, and let it rise in a warm, draft-free place until doubled in size, about 2 hours.

Coat a 15-by-10-inch sheet pan well with olive oil. Turn the dough out onto the pan, and stretch and pat the dough out, fitting it into the pan. Spread the grapes out on the dough, pressing them down a bit. Scatter on the rosemary and fennel seeds. Give it all a few grindings of black pepper, and sprinkle on the sugar.

Give the focaccia a generous drizzle of olive oil, cover it with plastic wrap, and let it sit again, until it’s puffy, about an hour.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

Uncover the focaccia, and bake for 15 minutes. Lower the heat to 375 degrees, and bake for 15 to 20 minutes longer, or until the focaccia is golden brown. Serve warm or at room temperature.

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The Calabria Pork Store, on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx.

Recipe: Fresh Shell Bean Antipasto

A few days ago I took a trip to Scarsdale, New York, with Oliver, my 87-year-old father in law, to see a house he had lived in as a child but hadn’t seen since 1937. We pulled up unannounced. Oliver had a browned photo of himself and his parents on the doorstep for proof of past occupancy. He rang the gate buzzer (they didn’t have electronically controlled gates like that when he lived there, of course), and the lady of the house answered. She was really nice, not at all hesitant or suspicious, I guess because he’s so old and didn’t look particularly nuts or anything. I played with their excited King Charles spaniel while Oliver filled the lady in on what the house used to look like three quarters of a century ago and more or less kept to himself any feelings he may have had about the many renovations since.

From his point of view it was a successful excursion back in time, although he was surprisingly pulled together, even unemotional, I thought. (I guess I expected a few tears.) Even so, we did require a reality check afterward, so we made our way down to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx for pizza and some therapeutic Italian food shopping. Saturday on Arthur Avenue is a lovely scene.

I hadn’t been there in a year or so. The stores seemed better stocked and more fun than ever. After a pizza topped with slightly stiff calamari and a few glasses of sour Pinot Grigio at the place next to Dominick’s that I always forget the name of but always wind up in, I headed straight for the Calabria Pork Store. What an exquisite, overwhelming perfume that little place has. I picked up one of their house-made soppressata sausages, which I really love because they’re not too hard and are studded with lots of good-looking white fat and give off a subtle nutmeg aroma.

My sister, Liti, requested that I pick her up a jar of lupini beans, those  rubbery, salty, yellow things that my father used to suck on and then spit out the skins all over the lawn. I headed into the indoor market, where I knew I would find the lupinis, and was immediately hit by the sweetest nostalgia. It directed me to grab a lot of other things as well—a jar of hot, vinegary cherry peppers, so great for adding a Southern Italian jolt to just about anything, a big balloon-shaped caciocavallo that smelled like well-salted butter, another dried salami (a short fat cacciatorino), a bag of rosemary taralli, a bag of those tasteless but oh so nostalgically important friselle biscuits that my mother always bought to accompany zuppa di pesce, a few packs of Italian seeds so I could try and grow cipolla tropeana lunga, a bullet-shaped red onion from Calabria, and an apron that reads IT’S HARD TO BE HUMBLE WHEN YOU’RE SICILIAN (a slightly embarrassing purchase, but I got over that quickly enough). Oh, and I purchased a pound of beautiful pink and white fresh cranberry beans. I could have gone on and on, but somehow all of a sudden Oliver seemed to be ready to get out of there.

When I got home I knew I needed to create something with real old-time flavor. I certainly had all the components. I put together a kind of retro antipasto, something that I know my grandfather, wop lover of pork fat, hot chilis, and vinegar that he was, would  have highly approved of. Nick, this one’s for you.

Fresh Shell Bean Antipasto

(Serves 4 as an antipasto offering)

1 fresh bay leaf
1 pound fresh shell beans (cranberry or whatever looks freshest to you)
Salt
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon Spanish sherry vinegar
½ cup caciocavallo, cut into small dice
½ cup soppressata, cut into small dice
A handful of celery leaves
About 5 thyme sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
2 thin slices red onion, cut into small dice
10 cherry tomatoes, quartered
1 hot cherry pepper from a jar, seeded and minced

Shell the beans. Set up a pot of water, drop in the bay leaf, and bring the water to a boil.  Add some salt, and drop in the beans. Turn the heat down to a low bubble, and simmer until the beans are just tender to the bite, about 20 minutes. Add more water if at any time the beans aren’t covered by about 2 inches of water.

Drain the beans, and put them in a shallow serving bowl (you’ll notice they will have lost their nice  pink stripes, but even in their beigeness they still taste amazing). Season them with a little more salt, and drizzle on the olive oil and the sherry vinegar. Give them a good toss. The beans’ heat will help them soak up all the dressing. Now add all the other ingredients, and toss gently. Let sit for about ½ hour before serving to develop really good flavor.

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