Dates, Pomegranate, and Persimmon with Silver Cup, by Julian Merrow-Smith.
Here we are in full-blown New York summer. I love the solid heat, the exciting thunderstorms, the rainbows, and, most of all, the produce the wild weather unleashes. Which means it’s ciambotta time.
Ciambotta is Southern Italy’s version of ratatouille. It was a late summer ritual in my family, often using vegetables from my father’s backyard garden. Now it’s my responsibility to carry that on. Ciambotta translates to something like a big mixup or a mess, and the word is often used when someone has created a big emotional mess in their life, as in, “Richie made a real jambot outta his marriage.” (That’s how my family, and most Southern Italian Americans, pronounce the word.) The dish almost always contains the summer quartet of eggplant, sweet pepper, zucchini, and tomato, just like ratatouille, but the Italian version tends to be more freewheeling. Often potatoes or celery, and sometimes chunks of sausage or pancetta, are mixed in, making it a piatto unico, a one-course dish. One thing not to my knowledge ever added to it is dates. But this year they’ve made their way into my version, and I was very happy with how that turned out, the sweet dates playing again the bitterness of eggplant and the acidity of the tomatoes. A success.
I believe I got the idea of adding dates and North African spices to eggplant dishes from one of my Moroccan cookbooks, but I can’t figure out which one (I’ve got a lot of them). I’m thinking it was in a Ghillie Basan book. (If you don’t know her, maybe pick up Flavors of Morocco as a starter. Beautiful recipes, photos, and stories.) Wherever I got the idea from, I just went with it. As you’ve probably noticed, I often add North African touches to my southern Italian food. For me, that’s a natural, flowing from Naples and Sicily’s long-ago history. Much of the Arab influence in Southern Italy has diminished, but I’m here to bring some of it back.
Dates have always fascinated me. How can anything be as sweet as candy and yet be natural? When I was a kid I assumed dates were soaked in sugar, given a sort of candied-cherry treatment. I was amazed to find out they’re just dried. But what excited me more was discovering that those sticky brown dates actually start out as a fresh fruit. I first saw them at Kalustyan’s, the amazing Middle Eastern spice shop in Little India in Manhattan. They were plump, smooth, golden, hanging off of stems in clusters, like bloated grapes. The checkout lady gave me one to taste, and it exploded in my mouth in a sweet gush. Revelation. I try to make it back to Kalustyan’s each year in fresh date season, which happens to start right now and last through September. If you’re interested in tasting a fresh date, make your way over (maybe call first to make sure they’re in stock). However, you’ll want traditional dried dates for this recipe.
Also, if you’d like to read more about ciambotta and consider other approaches to putting this dish together, check out three of may earlier blog posts on the subject here, here, and here.
Extra-virgin olive oil 1 big summer onion, diced 1 red bell pepper, diced ½ a fresh peperoncino, minced 2 summer garlic cloves, thinly sliced 1 teaspoon ras el hanout spice mix (if you want to make your own, you might want to try my version) 1 large eggplant, stripe-peeled and cut into small cubes 2 fresh bay leaves A few large sprigs summer savory or thyme Salt 2 medium zucchini, cut into small cubes 3 medium-size summer tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped, lightly salted, and left to drain in a colander for about 15 minutes (save the tomato water, as you might want it to loosen the dish at the end) A big splash of dry Marsala 10 to 12 pitted dates, cut into quarters A few drops of rice wine vinegar A handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped
Get out a large sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Add a tablespoon or so of olive oil. Add the onion, bell pepper, peperoncino, half of the garlic, and half of the ras el hanout. Let sauté until everything is fragrant and starting to soften, about 2 minutes. Add the eggplant, one of the bay leaves, and the savory or thyme. Give it a drizzle of olive oil and some salt, and sauté until the eggplant is tender, about 6 minutes. Turn off the heat.
Get out another sauté pan, turn the heat to medium, and add a big drizzle of olive oil, the rest of the garlic, the remaining ras el hanout, and the other bay leaf. Sauté a few seconds, and then add the zucchini, sautéing until it’s tender, about 3 or 4 minutes. Add the tomatoes and a little more salt, and cook for about another 3 minutes. Add the Marsala, and let it bubble away.
Add this to the eggplant mixture. Add the dates, and mix well. Let everything sit for about 5 minutes. The waning heat from the vegetables will soften the dates but not enough to turn them into mush. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt plus possibly a few drops of rice wine vinegar, to bring up the acidity. Add a little of the tomato water if the ciambotta seems too tight. Add the basil.
Serve hot or warm, or even at room temperature. I love this served with scrambled eggs, but it’s really good with lots of things, such as lamb kebabs, or just as is, with Sicilian-style sesame seed bread, for instance.
Cooking a fish whole can be emotionally fraught. Not because it’s a difficult job. It’s not at all. But because you have to look into those swollen, glassy eyes and say, you’re dead and I’m still alive. You’d think I’d be used to that, cooking as long as I’ve cooked. But it’s always a new death staring back at me. However, it’s good to be reminded, when we want to eat fish or meat, that we or someone has to kill it. It’s a big ugly food chain out there. I’ll eat just about anything, and I’m glad about that. I’m also glad I didn’t grow up on a farm. That would have demolished my open-mindedness. I know that people say the closer your connection to food, the more respect you have for it. True up to a point, but unless I was literally starving to death, I could never personally kill a baby goat (I might be able to kill an old goat—not sure). I need to keep a certain distance to stay free. A coward’s way out. Although I know I can kill an oyster.
Now that we’ve discussed that, I’d like to tell you why you should cook a fish whole anyway. First off, the presentation is beautiful. If you want to impress someone, this is a nice way to do it. But the most important reason is flavor. It will be the best tasting fish of your life. The skin and bones add moisture and body and a certain lovely stickiness that you miss out on when you cook fillets. It’s that gelatinous quality that lures me every time.
To roast a whole fish what you’ll want to do is stick it in the oven. I’m not being condescending here, but that’s really it. From my experience, a 2½-to-3-pound whole fish, the size I used for this recipe, will take about 20 to 25 minutes at 425 degrees. Once you know that, the rest is style.
This time around I made a vibrant vinaigrette with lemon, good olive oil, and fennel seeds, and rubbed it all over the fish, inside and out, and then stuffed the inside with Italian oregano. That’s a favorite oregano of mine, not too harsh like the Greek variety. It’s actually a cross between Greek oregano and marjoram, so it’s more floral and less biting. It’s good for a mild fish like red snapper.
I also wanted to make a sauce with our peak-season New York tomatoes, cooking them quickly so not to drain any of their glory. Italian oregano came back as an element of the sauce. I also added those oily, wrinkled Moroccan olives, because I love them.
In the past, my problem with serving whole fish (aside from having to look it in the eyes), has been not how to cook it but how to fillet it when it’s done so my people don’t wind up with a mouthful of bones. Here’s a good video that shows you how to do that. The spoon he uses is a great idea. Long ago I used to try to lift the fillets off with a spatula, but that scraped up a ton of bones along with the fish. The spoon lets you move gently, feeling as you go.
Roasted Red Snapper with Tomatoes, Cumin, Moroccan Olives, and Italian Oregano
1 approximately 2½-to-3-pound red snapper, cleaned and scaled, the head left on The juice and zest from 2 lemons ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus a little more for serving 1 tablespoon freshly ground fennel seeds Salt Black pepper 6 or so long Italian oregano sprigs
For the sauce:
Extra-virgin olive oil 2 summer garlic cloves, thinly sliced 1 fresh red chili, minced (and seeded if you like less heat) 1 teaspoon freshly ground cumin seed 3 anchovy fillets, chopped A splash of white wine 3 large red, round summer tomatoes, peeled, chopped, and lightly drained Salt A handful of oil-cured, wrinkled black Moroccan olives, pitted and halved 5 sprigs Italian oregano, the leaves lightly chopped
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.
Get out a sheet pan, and place the fish on it. Make three shallow slashes through the body of the fish on both sides (this will help it cook evenly and also work seasoning into the flesh). Mix the lemon juice and zest, olive oil, fennel seeds, salt, and black pepper together in a bowl. Pour it over the fish, working it into the inside and into the slashes. Make sure both sides of the fish are covered.
Stick the oregano sprigs inside the fish, and put the pan in the oven.
While the fish is cooking, make the sauce. Get out a sauté pan, and set it over medium-high heat. Drizzle in a little olive oil. When the oil is hot, add the garlic, chili, cumin, and anchovies, and sauté until fragrant, about a minute or so. Add a splash of white wine, and let it bubble away. Add the tomatoes, seasoning with a little salt, and sauté about 3 or 4 minutes. Turn off the heat, and add the olives and the chopped oregano. Add a drizzle of fresh olive oil.
Take a look at the fish after 20 minutes. Check for doneness by sticking a thin knife into it along the backbone. If the flesh pulls away with just a little touch of pull, it’s done. And remember that it’ll cook further as it sits. Depending on the size and thickness of your fish, it may take a little longer.
When the fish is done, you can transfer it to a big platter, if you want to get fancy, but I just left it on the sheet pan with all the roasted herbs and juices spilling out. I thought it looked beautiful.
Fillet the fish (reviewing the video if necessary). Drizzle the fillets with fresh olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. Top each serving with some of the sauce.
Cooking a whole fish. That’s what I’m working on now. If you’re interesting in learning how to do this, stay tuned. A few thoughts, and they just might involve tomatoes. August cooking in New York. Nothing better.
Still Life with Aubergines, by Henri Matisse, 1911.
Eggplant is a vegetable of my childhood. It cemented my upbringing in Italian-American land. I grew up wanting it. All these years later I still want it, partly now for the various colors of its skin: deep purple verging on black, violet, clear purple, streaky purple, pure white, all shiny. Magnificent. I’m involved in the colors of food more than I used to be. They help me plan, not just my recipes but also my day. Color theme days. I have them, not every day but some days.
A type of graffiti eggplant, purple pink with streaks of white.
Unfortunately eggplant is not so beautiful when it’s cooked. It’s gray-beige, but its taste is rich. It soaks up herbs, garlic, olive oil, and wine better than most things. It’s a flavor trap.
Barbarella, a type of globe eggplant, blue-purple with hits of white.
Here’s a baked eggplant without tomato, a drift away from Parmigiano. It gets its togetherness from goat cheese and crème fraîche. I think it came out really well. I hope you like it.
I served it with grilled lamb chops marinated in rosemary, fennel seed, and garlic and a radicchio salad dressed with lemon, salt, and good olive oil.
It’s almost August. Tomato recipes will be coming soon. I’m working on a few that should be unexpected. Stay tuned.
Plus: Emergency. Happening now. Starvation in Gaza. I know we can feel angry and helpless in a terrible situation like this, thinking there’s nothing we can do, but there is something. We can support World Central Kitchen, either by donating our time or our money. Please help, if you can. Here’s their link.
Gray-beige but beautiful.
Eggplant Gratin with Goat Cheese, Honey, and Thyme
Extra-virgin olive oil 2 medium eggplants, stripe-peeled and cut into ½-inch-thick rounds Salt Black pepper 1 fresh summer garlic clove, minced 1 large egg 1 4-ounce-or-so log soft goat cheese, at room temperature (I used Président brand) ¾ cup crème fraîche ¼ cup whole milk 6 or 7 large thyme sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped ¼ teaspoon allspice 1 tablespoon runny honey (I used an acacia honey) ¼ cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese ¼ cup panko breadcrumbs
Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Lightly coat 2 sheet pans with olive oil. Lay out the eggplant slices on them in a single layer. Drizzle the slices with olive oil, and season them with salt and black pepper. Bake until the eggplant is tender and lightly browned, about 20 to 25 minutes. Take the pans from the oven, and sprinkle the minced garlic over the slices.
Put the egg, goat cheese, crème fraîche, milk, half of the chopped thyme, the allspice, and the honey into a food processor. Add a little salt and black pepper, and pulse a times to blend everything well. It should be thick but pourable.
Turn the oven down to 375.
Coat a baking dish lightly with olive oil (I used an 8-by-12-inch, 2-inch-deep oval). Lay down a layer of eggplant slices (a little overlap is okay). Drizzle on about ¼ of the goat cheese mixture. Make another layer of eggplant, using it all up. Pour on the rest of the goat cheese mix.
In a small bowl, mix the Parmigiano with the panko and the rest of the thyme. Add a little salt and black pepper and a drizzle of olive oil. Mix it with your fingers, and then scatter it fairly evenly over the top of the gratin.
Bake at 375 until it looks firm and the top is lightly browned, about 30 minutes. Serve hot or warm.
I bought deep yellow zucchini at Story Farms, in Catskill, New York, the other day. You can see in my photo that they have dark green tips near their stems. The things are gorgeous. Their yellow is thick, verging on orange. Of my Winsor & Newton watercolor tubes this would be their Cadmium Yellow.
Not only is this zucchini cultivar beautiful, it’s also a little sweeter than the green ones. Less green-leafy, more soil-earthy in taste. There are a bunch of varieties of yellow zucchini. The one I found at Story is called Golden Delight. Its color alone makes me grab some every summer. It’s a prompt. A call to action.
This time around, out came a soup. A cold soup. Topped with herbs, like everything I cook in the summer. Lately I love a simple herb oil garnish—just herbs, good olive oil, and a little salt, whizzed up to almost a purée. There’s nothing like it for herbal essence (remember that shampoo?). This time I used Genoa basil, set to bright green by quick blanching. I thought it looked wonderful against the yellow of the soup. You might instead go with spearmint if you prefer.
There’s no cream or butter in this soup, and that’s good when you serve it cold, letting the texture flow smooth and loose. The soup gets its depth of flavor from good olive oil, so use your best, both in the soup and in the herb oil. I chose Benza BuonOlio, made from 100% Ligurian Taggiasca olives. It’s rich and mellow with not much of a bite. Gustiamo.comcarries it. It’s a new favorite of mine.
I hope everyone is doing some creative summer cooking. We’re deep into it now.
Golden Zucchini Soup with Saffron, Basil Oil, and Pine Nuts
Extra-virgin olive oil (4 tablespoons for the soup, plus ⅓ cup for the basil oil) 1 large summer onion, diced 1 medium carrot, peeled and diced 5 or 6 medium-size golden zucchini, chopped 1 large Yukon Gold potato, peeled and chopped ½ teaspoon fennel pollen or ground fennel seed ½ teaspoon turmeric Salt A splash of dry vermouth 1 quart light chicken broth (or vegetable broth) A big pinch of saffron, crushed and dissolved in about ¼ cup hot water A big pinch of ground green peppercorn About 15 basil leaves A few drops of rice wine vinegar A palmful of pine nuts, lightly toasted
Get out a soup pot, and set it over medium heat. Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and let it warm. Add the onion and carrot, and sauté until both are fragrant and starting to soften, about 3 minutes. Add the zucchini and the potato, the fennel pollen or seed, and the turmeric, and season with a little salt. Sauté for another few minutes to open up all these flavors. Add the vermouth, and let it bubble away. Add the chicken or vegetable broth and enough water to cover the vegetables. Bring to a boil, and then cook at a steady bubble, uncovered, until the potato and zucchini are tender when poked, about 20 minutes. Add the saffron water, the green peppercorn, and 2 more tablespoons of olive oil.
While the soup is cooking, make the basil oil. Set up a small saucepan, and fill it halfway with water. Bring it to a boil, and add some salt. Drop in the basil leaves, and blanch for about 30 seconds. Drain them, and run cold water over them to set their color. Squeeze out as much water as you can, and put the basil in a food processor. Add ⅓ cup of olive oil and a big pinch of salt. Pulse a few times. You want a slightly chunky purée. Pour it into a small bowl.
Purée the soup in a food processor, and then chill it. When the soup is cold, check its consistency, adding a little cold water if it needs loosening. And check its seasoning, too, adding a few drops of rice wine vinegar for brightness if needed.
Top each serving with a spiral drizzle of basil oil and a scattering of pine nuts.
And here’s a little video from another of my favorite farm stands, Montgomery Place Orchards, in Red Hook, New York.
I’ve never done this in any organized way before, but I just now decided it would be a nice thing to rank my favorite herbs by how much I love them. I wanted to write it out for myself, and then I thought possibly you’d be interested in it, too.
I find good uses for every herb except cilantro, which makes me gag. I love summer savory with beans and braised beef and pork dishes, and in minestrone, but it’s not my favorite smell straight on. Thyme is an herb I use in many dishes, often as an anchoring flavor in the early stages of cooking. It’s amazing in a compound butter to melt over a thick pork chop, or as a starting point for chicken alla cacciatore, but cutting a few sprigs and bringing them up to my nose, why do I sometimes smell toothpaste? Strange. Oregano has a bite I expect to accompany certain grilled vegetables, eggplant and sweet peppers, for instance, and meats, sausages especially. It takes me back to my Italian American childhood. Yet a clean chomp on an oregano sprig doesn’t make me so happy. I love these herbs as tools for cooking, but for all-out beauty of aroma and taste, there are herbs that fall into a different category, ones of pure intoxication. Here are the herbs that are knocking me out right now, in early summer, best, then next best, then down to almost best.
This ranking will likely change as the season progressives. But this is my up-to-the-minute report.
Thai basil
Thai basil’s deep anise aroma is for me an exotic joy, but the herb’s taste is different from its smell, more like licorice. It’s really bold, but somehow I never tire of it. The herb still surprises me, even after years of cooking with it. And its strength doesn’t fade out with heat, unlike other basils. That’s a bonus. Siam Queen is the type I plant. It’s the standard Thai variety that’s easiest to find and grow in the Northeast. So different from Italian basil varieties. (Actually no basil is originally Italian. Their origins lie in India, Southeast Asia, and parts of Africa, but Liguria and all of Southern Italy have made basil their own.) Every spring when I plant my Siam Queen (it’s an annual), I feel like I’m giving myself a huge gift. Braised calamari with cannellini beans and Thai basil is an exception thing.
Marjoram
If it weren’t for my current love affair with Thai basil, marjoram would be number one. I consider it a perfume, meaning something I’d personally love to smell like. I use it so much in my cooking, I guess I do often smell like it. Even though it’s closely related to oregano, to me they are so different. Marjoram is sweet and floral, with none of the camphor tones of oregano. I do pick up a gentle pine taste, but there’s so much sweetness, too, that nothing registers as sharp. I even made a sweet marjoram sorbetto last summer, and you wouldn’t believe how desserty it was. (I tend to like desserts than could pass as appetizers.) Marjoram is my current favorite flavoring for shellfish. I recently used it in place of Italian parsley in a linguine with clam sauce, I thought with good results.
Genoa basil
Genoese basil is what Genoese pesto is all about. It’s a beautiful clean basil, without a profound hit of anise. For me, it’s a perfect blend of sweet and savory. My father always grew it in his backyard garden. Each leaf was precious. At the end of the season he’d salt what was left, wrap it in plastic and then in aluminum foil, and stick his little packages in the freezer, only to pull them out in December, the leaves now black as could be, to add to our Christmas Eve zuppa di pesce. Floating black strips in a sea of mussels and shrimp. That memory now makes me sad, I guess because we can now buy fresh basil at the supermarket year-round. He worked so hard on his basil. But there’s nothing like summer basil, picked from the garden and immediately ground down into a pesto. That ritual is reserved for high summer.
Rosemary
I’m crazy about rosemary, but I think I overdid it with it last year. I used it in places where I should have chosen something less obvious. I also added it many sweet things, like sugar cookies and polenta cake. It started to wear on me. But its pure pine aroma is such a draw, I reach for it sometimes when I’m feeling disgusted or agitated, knowing it will likely lift me up. However, it offers no sweetness. When I crush a needle in my fingers I capture fresh eucalyptus. I think the beauty of rosemary comes through best when you let heat open it up and diffuse its oils. Rosemary-and-garlic lamb spiedini, and rosemary-and-lemon roast chicken come to mind. Classics.
Fennel
Fennel is a natural flavor for me, maybe because I grew up smelling and tasting all the Italian fennel or anise liqueurs that appeared on our table after dinner. Sweet and bitter are stamps of many Italian childhoods. I grow a cultivated variety of wild fennel in my garden, mainly for its fronds. It has become a perennial there, in upstate New York. Not sure why. Maybe global warming? It grows tall and bushy and attracts Eastern swallowtail caterpillars, which is one of the reasons I plant it. Its fluffy fronds are excellent raw in salads and are a main component of pasta con le sarde, which I make at least once every summer. But the big event is when it goes to seed in the early fall. I cut off its umbrella-like flower stalks, which contain its seeds, and plunge them into Everclear to make my bright green finocchietto, a liqueur stronger and way less sweet than the sticky ones I grew up with. My finocchietto clears the head, and it’s also great worked into a big bowl of mussels with crème fraîche and tarragon.
Spearmint
A few years back I planted Berries and Cream mint, a spearmint cultivar. It jumped pot and is now taking over part of my garden. That’s a good thing. I use a lot of spearmint, especially since I began cooking Sicilian food years ago. Zucchini with anchovies, summer garlic, and fresh mint I make as soon as I see the first zucchini show up at the local farm stands. I just cooked up a pot the other day. Blood oranges, spearmint, a little red onion, salt. It is a dish I wait for every winter.
Spearmint is soft and sweet, good to just stick your nose into, which I often do. A strange thing happens when you heat spearmint. A caraway taste is released. That’s because both plants carry a molecule called carvone. I like its flavor, but I don’t want it in the forefront, so to preserve a clean mint taste I don’t let the herb stew in a dish. I add it at the last minute instead. And on a sweaty summer day I love grabbing a handful and sticking it into a pitcher of cold water, a glass pitcher so I can admire the herb’s beauty.
Lemon verbena
Its aroma is phenomenal, like pure, clear lemon zest without any of the bitter. But since lemon verbena’s brilliant aroma fades with heat, it’s a waste to add the leaves to a stew or a braise. I’ve learned that the best way to harness its beauty is to mince it raw into a semi-damp cluster. Then you can scatter it over cooked dishes or work it into an ice cream mix. I make a gremolata substituting lemon verbena for the lemon zest, mixing it with Italian parsley, maybe some sage, and fresh garlic. Grilled swordfish with that is a wonderful thing.
Bay leaf
If I tear a fresh bay leaf in half and bring it up to my nose and sniff it in, I sense a softness of atmosphere, a gentle mix of pine and thyme. Some people say bay leaves have no flavor. That’s just crazy. Maybe those dried-out things you buy in jars don’t offer much, but since now you can find fresh bay leaves year-round at many supermarkets, there’s no excuse for those. I like to use a few bay leaves to perfume a chicken broth that will go into risotto, and I often add the leaves to a winter tomato sauce. A dish I learned years ago from Giuliano Bugialli and still make often is baked ricotta lined with bay leaves, a lot of bay leaves. Their perfume penetrates the entire cheese. I love it drizzled with honey and served warm. Make sure you deal with true bay, with the fatter, more rounded leaves. The long, tapered California bay leaves can be harsh.
Italian parsley
After traditional Genoese pesto, my second favorite pesto is made with all Italian parsley, almonds, a little grana Padano, and fresh summer garlic. I love Italian parsley’s clean, slightly black pepper taste. I use it so often with seafood that I sometimes taste a fishy undertone when I bite a leaf, but I don’t think that actually exists. It’s just a brain jump. Have you ever tried making a salad of all Italian parsley? I eat that alone, dressed with good olive oil and a few drops of sherry wine vinegar. It tastes surprisingly deep to me. It also makes a great bed for roasted chicken.
And now for the recipe . . .
As you can see above I happened to buy one very large skate wing, which I knew would be difficult the cook and flip without breaking. I had a lucky flip, and it stayed in one piece. I’d suggest that for this recipe you get two smaller wings to make your life easier.
Salt ¾ cup marjoram leaves ⅓ cup extra-virgin olive oil (a good one—I used Benza Taggiasca oil from Liguria, which Gustiamo carries) A palmful of Sicilian salt-packed capers, soaked for about 10 minutes, changing the water a few times, and then drained The grated zest from a large lemon
For the fish:
2 cartilage-free skate wings, about ½ pound apiece Salt Black pepper Extra-virgin olive oil 2 tablespoons unsalted butter About ½ cup fine semolina (I used Bob’s Red Mill) The juice from 1 large lemon
To make the salsa verde, set up a pot of water, add salt, and bring it to a boil. Drop in the marjoram leaves, and blanch them for about 30 seconds. Drain them, and run cold water over them to stop the cooking and set their color. Give them a squeeze to remove excess water. Give them a rough chop. Mix the marjoram with ⅓ cup of your best olive oil, the capers, a little salt, and the zest from a large lemon. That’s your salsa.
Pat your skate wings dry with paper towels, and season them well, on both sides, with salt and black pepper.
Get out a sauté pan large enough to hold the fish without overlapping (you might need to use two pans). Set it over high heat, and add a few tablespoons of olive oil and the butter.
Pour the semolina out on a plate, and coat the skate on both sides, shaking off excess.
When the oil is hot, add the skate, and let it brown, about 3 minutes or so. Gently give the pieces a flip with a large spatula, and brown them on the other side, about another 3 minutes. When the skate pulls apart easily when poked with a knife, it’s done. Squeeze the lemon juice on the skate, and plate it.
Spoon a generous amount of the salsa verde down the middle of the fish. Serve right away.
Fumée d’Ambre Gris, by John Singer Sargent, Morocco, 1880.
Does every moderately successful person have a mentor? I don’t know the answer to that. I’d call myself moderately successful. I could have had more opportunities, to write more books for one thing, if I wanted to be more well-known. But I didn’t want that. So here I am writing to you on this rainy day in Manhattan. What I’ve learned so far, I’ve learned pretty much on my own. And I know a hell of a lot about Italian cooking.
If I had to name a culinary mentor, it would be Paula Wolfert. You’d think it would be someone who cooked Italian, like Marcella Hazan for instance, but that didn’t happen (one of my problems with Hazan was that I got the feeling she didn’t have much respect for Southern Italian flavors). Wolfert’s book Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco came out in 1973. I didn’t discover her until 1979. I had already learned basic Southern Italian from mimicking the food my family cooked. I bought her book because it looked like an adventure. And it was. I quickly cooked my way through it. I couldn’t stop. And I liked her attitude, the fact that she went to Tangier initially to study poetry but found her teacher Paul Bowles such a drugged-out bore that she began visiting the local ladies to see what they were up to in the kitchen. And her culinary career was born.
Aside from Southern Italian cooking, the only cuisine I’ve absorbed in a deep way is Moroccan. The flavors immediately made sense to me, since Southern Italian cooking still carries hints of its Arab past. My only problem with traditional Moroccan cooking is its reliance on cilantro. I can’t even be in the same room with the stuff. I’ve gotten around it by subbing mint, basil, or parsley (and sometimes thyme or oregano), creating different dishes to be sure, but in the process coming up with ones that are truly my own. Here’s one of my Southern Italian–Moroccan hybrids.
2 pounds monkfish, cut on an angle into ½-inch-thick medallions Salt Piment d’Espelette Extra-virgin olive oil 2 tablespoons butter 2 shallots, cut into small dice ½ teaspoon ras el hanout (here’s my recipe, if you’d like to try making your own, in a post that also includes my recipe for carrots roasted with ras el hanout, summer savory, and crème fraîche) 1 1-inch chunk fresh ginger, peeled and minced 2 summer garlic cloves, sliced 2 fresh bay leaves 6 thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped A big splash of dry vermouth A big pinch of saffron threads, lightly dried, ground to a powder, and opened up in about ½ cup of hot water 1 35-ounce can Italian plum tomatoes, chopped, using some of the juice (if yours are packed in a thick purée, wash most of it off) 1 teaspoon honey About ½ cup flour A handful of fresh spearmint leaves, lightly chopped A palmful of toasted almonds, lightly chopped
Pat the fish pieces dry. Season them with salt and some piment d’Espelette.
Get out a wide sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Add a big drizzle of olive oil and a tablespoon of butter. When hot, add the shallot, ras el hanout, and ginger, and let it soften for a couple of minutes to release its flavors. Add the garlic and a little salt, and sauté for another minute. Add the bay leaves and thyme, and let them warm through. Add the dry vermouth, and let it bubble for a minute. Add the saffron water, tomatoes, honey, and another good pinch of piment d’Espelette. Simmer uncovered for about 5 minutes. Turn off the heat.
In another wide sauté pan, turn the flame to high, and add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil and a tablespoon of butter.
Put the flour on a plate, spread it out, and coat the monkfish slices on both sides with it, shaking off excess.
When the oil is hot, add the fish slices. Brown them quickly on both sides.
Turn the heat back on under the tomato saffron sauce, and add the fish to it, spooning the sauce over the top and cooking just until the fish is tender, about 3 or 4 minutes, depending on thickness. Check the seasoning.
Transfer to a serving platter. Scatter the mint and almonds over the top.
I served this with a buttery couscous seasoned with a pinch of cinnamon, but you could instead just buy some good bread to go with it. Or make rice.
I and the Village, by Marc Chagall, 1911. He loved his goats. If you’d like to see this painting, it’s at MoMA in New York City.
Last week was my husband Fred’s birthday. We had a small party where I made a couple of roasted chickens, spatchcocked, with tarragon, good olive oil, and rice wine vinegar. Sometimes when I flatten chickens that way I’m so intent on getting a good crisp, browned skin that I hammer them dry. It didn’t happen this time, but I did achieve the brown skin, an exact hit. A birthday gift. It was a nice, loud party that culminated in a painting session and an unexpected guest sleepover. Limoncello martinis anyone? I also made this goat cheese tart for a starter.
It was a cold night for May, raining off and on, but my kitchen was warm from the oven, and the tart turned out surprisingly well. I say surprisingly because when I first tried this idea last spring what I expected would be a smooth, custardy filling came out grainy. So I chucked the recipe and forgot about it until a few days ago, when I decided to try it one more time. What got me thinking about the tart again was the summer savory popping up in my little herb garden. I love that herb. To me it tastes like a mix of thyme and black pepper with a hint of sweet pine, a slightly gentler version of its bold winter cousin. I already knew how good it was with fresh goat cheese as I often scatter it over supermarket goat cheese logs to deepen their flavor. Even though summer savory is milder than the winter version, it’s still strong and its flavor is magnified by heat, so I pay attention to how much I add. I used only four sprigs for this filling and about the same amount worked into the pastry.
The tart came out creamy and custardy, like a sugar-free New York cheesecake. I served it as an antipasto offering with a plate of prosciutto and a bowl of Taggiasca olives.
And speaking of supermarket goat cheese, some of it is terrible, overly tangy or gritty or both. I’ve learned by trial and error which ones to avoid. West Side Market, where I usually shop, carries a fresh goat cheese log made by Président, a cheese company in western France that’s been around since the 1930s, the same people who supply us Americans with Président brie. It’s a big company, and its goat cheese logs are industrial, but their taste is good. They are tangy but not aggressively so and smooth on the tongue, so they’re great for baking.
Have ready a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom
For the pastry:
1¾ cups unbleached flour 1 tablespoon powdered sugar A big pinch of salt 4 large sprigs summer savory, the leaves chopped 1 stick cold unsalted butter, cut into approximately ½-inch cubes 1 large egg 2 tablespoons cold white wine, or possibly a bit more
For the filling:
1 4-ounce log fresh goat cheese, at room temperature ¼ cup heavy cream 2 large eggs, plus an egg for the egg wash 1 tablespoon runny honey, plus an extra drizzle for the egg wash ¼ teaspoon allspice Salt Black pepper A few drops of sherry wine vinegar 4 or 5 sprigs summer savory, the leaves chopped 4 chives, chopped
To make the pastry, put the flour, powdered sugar, salt, and savory in the bowl of a food processor. Give it a few pulses to blend everything. Add the butter bits, and give it a few short pulses to further break up the butter. You want approximately lentil-size bits. Crack the egg into a cup, along with the white wine, and give it a good stir. Pour it on top of the flour, and pulse quickly, one, two, three, four, possibly five times, just until you have a bowl of moist crumble. If it looks too dry, add a tiny drizzle more wine, and pulse again.
Dump it all out on a work surface, and press it together into a ball. Flatten it out into a thick disk, cover it in plastic wrap, and stick it in the refrigerator for at least an hour, or overnight if that’s more convenient.
Lightly butter the tart pan.
Roll the pastry out to a round about 2 inches larger than the tart pan. Drape it in the pan, pressing in into the sides. Cut off all but about ½ inch of overhang all around. Working around the top of the pan, fold the overhang into the top of the inside of the pan. Then push it upward so it comes up just over the top of the pan. Stick the pan in the refrigerator while you make the filling.
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
Put all the ingredients for the filling except for the savory and chives into a food processor, and whirl it to blend. Taste for seasoning. Add the savory and chives, and give it one quick pulse, enough to blend them in but not to purée them.
Put the extra egg in a little bowl. Add a drizzle of water, a pinch of salt, and a drizzle of honey. Mix well.
Take the tart shell from the refrigerator, and pour in the filling. Brush the pastry edges with the egg wash. Bake for about 30 to 35 minutes, just until the filling is set and the pastry takes on some color. Let it sit about 30 before slicing, so it can firm up.
Every engaged cook has patterns. Themes with variations. Repetitive behavior semi-disguised by fresh thoughts. One of my themes is seafood teamed with a starch. If you’ve been following my cooking journey for any length of time, you are all too familiar with my numerous takes on pasta with fish or shellfish. I could write a book on pasta with clams alone, although I would never do that, since it would be ridiculously nuanced.
Pasta is where I most frequently turn when I have the good fortune to get my hands on really fresh seafood. It stretches a luxury ingredient in a very fine way. But I also consider potatoes; rice, in red, black, and risotto varieties; grains, such as farro; and of course all varieties of beans, my favorites for marrying with seafood being ceci and any firm, largish, white bean, like cannellini or the extra huge corona I used here in this shrimp dish. Have you ever tried braised octopus with big white beans, rosemary, fennel, and a hit of Aleppo pepper? It’s pretty good, a nice alternative to the more usual octopus with potato pairing. Swordfish chunks make a good addition to a spring rice salad, especially if you include a seasonal vegetable like freshly shucked peas. I find that that makes much more sense than a pasta salad, which almost always seems stupid and gummy to me. Ceci with mussels is another theme I keep going back to, especially in high summer, when I’ve got tomatoes or sweet peppers and lots of basil. Have you ever tried bits of grilled tuna tossed with warm farro, black olives, and arugula? That’s a thought. Or a warm zucchini and couscous salad with scallops and tarragon. That’s something I’ll be making as soon as the first mini zucchini shows up in the markets, which should be only a few weeks from now.
A Chinese sculpture of a shell with a shrimp, with a robin’s-egg-blue glaze.
So many choices. This time around I’ve gone with calamari-potato and shrimp-bean combos. Beyond the starch-seafood pairing, what ties these two dishes together is spring garlic, something I wait for, the kickoff to my warm-weather cooking. It’s such a welcome jolt after a long haul with that papery, often acrid supermarket garlic, which at this point in my cooking career I’ve almost completely rejected, preferring to use leeks or shallots in the cold months. When spring garlic first appears in my farmer markets, usually early April, it’s indistinguishable from scallion, long, lean, and white, maybe tinged with purple at its base, working its way up to a dark green, leafy top. As the season progresses, a bulb starts to form. You can see that in my photo. But it still hasn’t broken out into individual cloves. This is when I like it the best. Juicy and sweet but emerging with clear garlic flavor.
I’m just starting to emerge from a long cold spell brought on more by our horrible political atmosphere than by winter weather. Spring cooking is beginning to lift my spirits. I hope it lifts everyone’s.
Calamari Salad with Potatoes, Spring Garlic, and Mint
About 1½ pounds small Yukon Gold potatoes, cut in half Salt Rice wine vinegar A big glass of dry white wine 1½ pounds small calamari, cleaned and cut into not-too-skinny rings, the tentacles halved if large 1 tablespoon white miso Your best extra-virgin olive oil 3 scallions, cut into thin rounds, using a lot of the tender green part 1 thin spring garlic, chopped, including some of the green part A small palmful of green peppercorns, coarse-ground A larger palmful of Sicilian capers, soaked in a few changes of water to remove excess salt and then drained A handful of fresh spearmint leaves, lightly chopped A few large sprigs of Italian parsley, the leaves chopped
Put the potatoes into a good-size pot and cover them with at least 2 inches of water. Add a decent amount of salt and a big drizzle of rice wine vinegar. Bring to a boil over high heat, then turn the heat down a bit, and cook at a medium bubble until just tender, about 8 minutes. I like the potatoes still firm enough so their skins haven’t detached. Drain them into a colander.
While the potatoes are cooking, set up another pot of water, add a large glass of white wine and a good amount of salt, and bring it to a boil. Add the calamari, and blanch it until just tender, about a minute. Drain the calamari into a colander, and then spread it out on paper towels to soak up any additional moisture.
Put the miso in a small bowl, and add about 1½ tablespoons of rice wine vinegar. Stir to dissolve the miso. Add about 2½ tablespoons of your best extra-virgin olive oil and a little salt.
Put the still somewhat warm potatoes and calamari into a large serving bowl. Add the scallions, garlic, green peppercorns, and capers. Pour on the miso vinaigrette, and toss (I like using my hands for this, so I don’t break up the potatoes). Add the mint and parsley, and toss lightly. Taste for seasoning. Serve warm or at room temperature.
3 cups dried Corona beans (I used Rancho Gordo), cooked (see note below on how I cooked them) 1½ pounds shell-on large shrimp (if you can find fresh American shrimp, all the better) Extra-virgin olive oil A big splash of dry vermouth Salt A big pinch of saffron threads, lightly dried and then crushed with a mortar and pestle 3 scallions, cut into thin rounds, using some of the tender green part 1 thin spring garlic, chopped, including some of the tender green part 1 teaspoon cumin seeds, ground Piment d’Espelette A drizzle of sherry wine vinegar A handful of Italian parsley leaves, lightly chopped
Cook the beans (see note below on how I cooked them).
Shell the shrimp, and put the shells in a pot with a drizzle of olive oil. Turn the heat to medium, and sauté the shells until they turn pink, about 2 minutes. Add a splash of dry vermouth, and let it bubble away. Add about 1½ cups of water and a little salt, and simmer at a medium bubble for about 8 minutes. Strain the broth into a small bowl or cup. Add the crushed saffron, and give it a stir. The broth will turn a beautiful dark yellow.
Drain the beans, saving the broth for a soup or stew.
Set a large sauté pan over medium heat. Add a big drizzle of olive oil. When the oil is hot, add the scallion, garlic, and cumin, and warm everything through for about a minute to release its fragrances. Add the beans, and sauté for a minute or so, seasoning with salt and piment d’Espelette.
Set up another large sauté pan over high heat. Add a generous amount of olive oil. When the oil is hot, add the shrimp, spreading it out, and season it with salt. Sauté until the shrimp is just tender, turning it once, about 2 minutes in all. Add the shrimp broth, scraping up any cooked-on bits from the bottom of the pan, and pour the shrimp and broth over the beans. Add a drizzle of fresh olive oil and a few drops of sherry wine vinegar, and give everything a gentle toss. Taste for seasoning. Add the parsley, and toss lightly. Transfer to a large serving bowl. Serve warm.
A note on how I cooked the beans: I covered the beans with cool water by about 4 inches, added 3 fresh bay leaves, a chunk of spring garlic, and a big drizzle of olive oil, and brought it to a boil. I turned the heat down low, covered the pot, and let the beans simmer for about 50 minutes. Then I added a drizzle of sherry wine vinegar and a little salt and continued cooking until the beans were just tender, which took about another half hour. I find that with Rancho Gordo beans I don’t have to presoak, since they’re not overly dry to begin with.
I am a chef, food writer, and herb lover who specializes in improvisational Italian cooking. I am the author of The Flavors of Southern Italy and Pasta Improvvisata, as well as Williams-Sonoma Pasta, which is available at Williams-Sonoma stores. A member of the Association of Culinary Professionals, The New York Women's Culinary Alliance, The New York Culinary Historians, The Herb Society of America, and the Italian-based International Slow Food Movement, I live in New York City.
Erica De Mane 