Erica De Mane

My July column for Curves magazine is now up, another 400-calorie-per-serving meal in a bowl. What I did was cut out about half of the olive oil by sautéeing the vegetables in groups instead of individually, adding a little liquid, either tomato juice or wine, near the end of each sauté so I didn’t have to keep adding oil to prevent sticking. This is an especially good technique for cooking eggplant, the main ingredient in ratatouille. Eggplant soaks up oil like a sponge.  I hope you enjoy it. Happy summer cooking to all my food-happy friends.

Recipe: My Aperol Martini

My first encounter with Aperol was in the early nineties at the Siena train station. I was there waiting for the arrival of my sister-in-law Lili. As usual, the train was late. (I know train schedules exist in Italy. I’ve seen them.) I was getting hot and sweaty and also anxious and bored (a bad combination all around), so I wandered where I will wander, over to the bar. I stared at all the lovely and some unfamiliar glistening bottles of booze. My eyes fixed on a bottle filled with a bright pinky orange liquor, a color I’m drawn to wherever I see it (Matisse loved it, Christian Lacroix draped his women in it, my grandmother had a ruffly vase glazed that color). I was told it was Aperol. “Rinfrescante” said the barman, adding  “for a young lady.” The lady part had me worried, but I went ahead, letting him pour a glass of approximately half Aperol and half sparkling water, no ice, of course. It tasted something like a Campari and soda but less bitter, sweeter, fruitier, and the color knocked me out. I tasted orange, sort of, but I knew this had to be one of those complex amaro concoctions made all over Italy from a zillion secret ingredients. It went down quickly, the way those sparkly-water drinks tend to do, but in my continuing quest for bigger and better, I immediately thought it would be nice to replace the water with vodka. I was afraid to ask for that. Nobody drinks vodka in Italy. It’s considered depraved, especially in the afternoon, and especially for a girl, for god’s sake. But I was happy enough to guzzle down two of these nice drinks the way they were offered. And before I knew it, in rumbled Lili’s train.

When I got back to New York, I was eager to buy a bottle of beautiful, delicious Aperol, only to discover it wasn’t exported. What a terrible disappointment. I became so focused on it that I spent much time doing research. I discovered it had been invented in Padua in 1919 and in fact had another one of those secret recipes, like Averna, Cynar, or Campari, that will never be divulged. (Aperol is now made by the Campari company.) However, I did find out that its color and flavor came partially from bitter orange and rhubarb, which made perfect sense, plus the usual but still somewhat spooky “assorted herbs and roots.”

A handful of years later I spotted Aperol in my local liquor shop. How exciting. I immediately scouted out good drinks to make with it. There’s one listed on their official site called an Aperol spritz, which is made of prosecco, Aperol, of course, and a big spritz of sparking water. Why do Italians have to turn every potentially decent drink into a spritz? Well, when I went about making my version, I got rid of that sparkly water right away. Aperol with prosecco is a fine drink, but what I really wanted was a gorgeous pinky orange martini. I messed around with variations (vodka or gin? sweet or dry vermouth?) and finally liked this one the best. Actually I really love this.

My Aperol Martini

2 parts Bombay Sapphire gin
1¾ parts Aperol
¼ part sweet vermouth
A long orange peel

Have all the liquids well chilled. Add ice to an old-fashioned glass. Pour in the Aperol and the gin. Add the sweet vermouth. Twist the orange peel a bit to release its oils, and drop it into the glass. Give the drink a quick stir.

Still Life with Mussels, Monique Serres.

Recipe: Mussels with Pistachio Pesto, Tomatoes, and Mint

The more I cook, the more predictable my experiments become. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just mean that now most of my ideas turn out pretty well. Improvisation is learned. I know that seems counterintuitive, but I’ve found it to be true. I’ve come to a point in my cooking where the tradeoff for experience is less disaster but also less surprise. I suppose that’s both good and not so good.

At this point I feel I know the flavors of Southern Italy very well. No matter how I juggle those flavors or how innovative I choose to be, my dishes will still taste somewhat familiar to a Southern Italian. I don’t stray from core flavors. But sometimes an idea can still produce unexpected results, even in a positive way. I love when that happens. I didn’t have high hopes for this mussel dish. I had made baked mussels with pistachio pesto before, even putting a recipe into my book The Flavors of Southern Italy, it came out so good. But somehow steaming them in wine, with the pesto, plus the tomatoes, I figured the liquid would dilute the pesto in an unappealing way, making it look and taste murky. I went ahead with it anyway, mainly because I wanted to use up some stuff in the refrigerator. I was surprised. The sauce came out creamy and rich, not at all watery. It tasted much like a Sicilian pesto, which always contains tomatoes along with nuts and herbs. I really liked the way the pistachios mellowed the brininess of the mussels. I also used very little garlic. I’m a little sick of the typical restaurant preparation of mussels in a really garlicky, winy broth, especially when the chef doesn’t even bother to cook the alcohol off.

Give this a try. It’s different but familiar. I’d say it’s successfully familiar.

Mussels with Pistachio Pesto, Tomatoes, and Mint

(Serves 4)

¾ cup very fresh, unsalted, shelled pistachios (if you can find ones from Sicily, all the better)
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 fresh summer garlic cloves, sliced
Sea salt
2 pints grape tomatoes
A big splash of dry white wine
½ cup chicken broth
3 pounds mussels, cleaned
Freshly ground black pepper
A handful of mint leaves, lightly chopped
A handful of flat leaf parsley, lightly chopped

Put the pistachios, half of the garlic, about ⅓ cup olive oil, and a little salt in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse until you have a fairly smooth paste, but still with a bit of texture.

In a large pot (one that’s heavy and wide, like a Le Creuset, would be best for this), get a drizzle of olive oil hot over medium-high flame. Add the tomatoes, and sear them until their skins just start to crack. Add the rest of the garlic and a little salt, and continue to cook until the tomatoes start releasing some liquid, about 3 minutes longer. Add the white wine, and let it bubble for a few minutes to throw off its alcohol. Add the chicken broth, and simmer to blend the flavors, about another 2 minutes or so. Now add the  mussels, and cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until they open. Turn off the heat. Add the pistachio pesto, a generous amount of black pepper, and the mint and parsley. Give it a good stir. Serve with garlic and olive oil-rubbed bruschetta.

Red on Red,  Joseph Keiffer, 2013

Recipe: Long Radishes with Anchovy Butter and Chervil

Radishes are in season. Doesn’t that get you fired up? No? I never used to think much about radishes either, or what their season might be. They were just something to knock around my salad plate, pretending they didn’t exist. That was until I discovered the French custom of smearing radishes with softened butter and a sprinkling of sea salt. Now, that is something special. The sweetness of the butter along with the salt and the hot bitter of the radishes blend together to produce a truly voluptuous flavor. So simple. I’ve been serving it for years now. But I knew my culinary head would eventually feel the need to Southern Italianize this already perfect appetizer. That usually means working either a little anchovy or pancetta into the mix. I chose anchovy to replace the sea salt, and the results, I think, are excellent.

The varieties of radishes I find at my Greenmarket always take me by surprise. They start to show up right about now. Along with the common round red type, there are Easter egg radishes, bunches of pink, purple, and white ones that grow together. Those are stunning. I find the long red, white-tipped French breakfast radishes. (The French don’t really eat radishes for breakfast, and I haven’t been able to find an explanation for the name, although I’m sure they’d be a good wake-up stomach cleanse after an evening of pâté and cognac.) I’ve seen a really long, skinny white variety called icicle. I’ve brought home big, round light green ones that, once cut, reveal a striped pink interior. They look like candy.

The red breakfast variety have gentler heat than most of the others, plus there’s more cut surface space to spread my anchovy butter on, so they are my radish of choice for this preparation (I can’t really call it a recipe). Try it as an antipasto, along with black olives, sliced raw fennel, and a glass of dry rosato wine.

Long Radishes with Anchovy Butter and Chervil

(Serves 4 as an antipasto)

2 bunches French breakfast radishes
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
10 oil-packed anchovies
A handful of chervil sprigs

Slice the radishes lengthwise.

Put the soft butter in a good-size mortar, add the anchovies, and grind with a pestle until well blended (you can also do this in a mini food processor).

When you’re ready to serve, simply spread a generous layer of anchovy butter down the length of each cut radish. Place them on a plate, and decorate with the chervil sprigs.

Still Life with Anchovies, Antonio Sicurezza, 1972.

Recipe: Asparagus with Anchovy Almond Breadcrumbs

In my ongoing quest to work a little anchovy into just about every dish I put on the table, I’ve recently revisited the  marriage of asparagus and anchovies.  I’d been focusing on using asparagus in gentle spring pastas or with herby vinaigrettes, forgetting how well it stands up to bolder flavors. I don’t know why I let this beautiful match drift away, but it has now found its way back to my kitchen, and my life is much improved.

Actually, to my Southern Italian palate, almost all green vegetables go well with a hit of anchovy, except possibly spinach. I just can’t make that taste association. When spinach was first introduced to Sicily by the Arabs, around 800 A.D., the natives soon sent it packing, and it moved north, where it found its true Italian home. And, with Catherine de’ Medici’s love of it, the vegetable eventually became associated with the dishes of Florence, her birthplace. Southern Italians don’t do much with spinach, preferring greens with a touch of bitter. It’s almost impossible to find in the markets down there, maybe because it goes better with cream and fontina than with anchovies.

At any rate, anchovies are certainly excellent with asparagus, and I’ve given this recipe a full-on Southern treatment. For my breadcrumbs I used ground up taralli, which worked great. (Try to find an imported brand, such as Puglia Sapori. They have the best flavor.) I didn’t even have to toast them. I just stuck them in my food processor along with a handful of almonds, mixed that with the anchovies and a few other strong flavors, and came up with an instant topping for my fresh-from-New Jersey asparagus. Try this with grilled rosemary-flavored lamb chops.

(Serves 3 to 4 as a side dish or first course)

1 large bunch medium-thick spring asparagus, ends trimmed, and stalks peeled if they seem tough
8 plain taralli, roughly ground in a food processor (you’ll want about ¾ cup ground)
½ cup blanched almonds, lightly toasted and then roughly ground in a food processor
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
7 oil-packed anchovies, minced
The grated zest and juice from 1 medium lemon
8 large thyme sprigs, leaves lightly chopped
2 small cloves of fresh spring garlic, minced
Salt
Piment d’Espelette or another medium hot, dried, ground chili

Blanch the asparagus spears in a pot of boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes, depending on their thickness. You’ll want them left a bit crunchy. Scoop them from the water into a bowl of ice water to cool and bring up their green color. Drain well.

When you’re ready to serve the asparagus, preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

In a medium skillet, heat about 3 tablespoons of olive oil with the butter, over low heat. Add the anchovies, and let them melt into the oils. Turn off the heat, and add the ground taralli, almonds, and the rest of the ingredients, seasoning with a pinch of salt and the hot chili to taste. Mix everything well. The crumbs should be moist. If they seem dry, add more olive oil.

Place the asparagus spears in a baking dish that fits them snugly with some overlap. Drizzle them with a little olive oil and a pinch of salt, turning them around in it to coat them lightly. Evenly sprinkle on the taralli mixture. Now bake until the crumbs are just crisp, about 12 minutes or so. Serve hot or warm.

A menu cover for the much missed Chanterelle restaurant in Tribeca, by Marcel Marceau, 1987.

Recipe: Tagliatelle with Chanterelles, Favas, and Basil

An annoying defect in my body chemistry makes me allergic to porcini mushrooms. It’s not a standard allergy (swollen tongue, closed throat, choking, hives, the symptoms people with, for instance, true peanut allergies suffer from). It’s more of a food intolerance (vomiting, fever, cramping, sometimes lasting for three days). This inability to cook with, eat, or even take in the aroma of the grand porcini mushroom, one of the stars of the Italian table, is ironic and infuriating for an Italian cook, and it’s one of the reasons I became an atheist.

Luckily this stupid problem doesn’t carry over to other wild mushrooms, so every spring I anticipate the arrival of the chanterelle with excitement. I love this mushroom. And it’s not just for the French. In Italy they’re called finferli or gallinacci, and they’re cooked with pasta or risotto or just sautéed with olive oil and herbs and eaten on bruschetta. In the Northeast and in many other places in the U.S. they pop up in the spring under various trees, not discriminating between oaks, pines, firs, or spruces, so if you’ve got the knowhow (and you really need to know how), you can go and collect them in the woods. I play it safe and get mine from a forager in Ulster County who brings them to the Union Square market.

I often cook them with pasta. It’s such a perfect combination. The gentle floral aroma of chanterelles lets the taste of the pasta come through. I  looked for other subtle ingredients to include in the dish so the taste of the mushrooms wouldn’t in anyway be compromised, and I chose fava beans, because they’re in season and they marry beautifully with this mushroom. For more on the slightly irritating ritual of prepping fava beans, see my previous post.

Tagliatelle with Chanterelles, Favas, and Basil

(Serves 2 as a main course)

¾ pound fresh fava beans, in their pods
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 small spring onion, cut into small dice
1 spring garlic stalk, thinly sliced, using some of the green top
¾ pound chanterelle mushrooms, halved, or, if very large, quartered
A large pinch of ground coriander
Freshly ground black pepper
A splash of cognac or brandy
¾ pound homemade or fresh store-bought tagliatelle
½ cup homemade or high-quality purchased chicken broth, or possibly a bit more
The grated zest from 1 small lemon
A heaping tablespoon of crème fraîche
A handful of basil leaves, cut into chiffonade
A small chunk of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese

Remove the fava beans from their pods. Set up a small pot of water, and bring it to a boil. Add the beans, and blanch them for 2 minutes. Scoop them out with a strainer spoon into a bowl of ice water. Drain them. Now remove the outer skin from each bean. Put the lovely green favas in a small bowl.

Set up a large pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt.

In a large skillet, heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion, and let it soften for about 2 minutes. Now add the chanterelles, the garlic, the coriander, and a little salt and black pepper. Sauté a few minutes to soften the mushrooms. Now add the cognac or brandy, and let it burn off.

Drop the tagliatelle into the boiling water.

Add the chicken broth to the skillet, and let everything in it simmer until the mushrooms are tender, about 3 minutes longer. Turn the heat off under the skillet, and add the lemon zest, crème fraîche, and the favas, seasoning with a little more salt and black pepper. The heat from the sauce will further cook the favas, leaving them tender but firm.

When ready, drain the tagliatelle, and place it in a warmed serving bowl. Drizzle it with some fresh olive oil, and give it a toss. Now add the chanterelle sauce, about a heaping tablespoon of grated Parmigiano, and the basil, and toss again gently. If the sauce seems dry, add a splash of chicken broth. Bring the rest of the cheese to the table.

Still Life with Fava Beans, Giovanna Garzoni, 1600-1670.

Recipe: Fava Bean Salad with Chicory, Pecorino Toscano, and Tarragon

It was while running the garde manger station at Le Madri restaurant many moons ago that I learned how to prep fava beans. I was young and anxious, and all the fast, sweaty self-assuredness going on around me made me terrified. So when the chef dumped a gigantic pile of long, green, overblown-looking bean pods at my station and explained what I was supposed to do with them, I thought it was either a sick joke or I was being punished for some kitchen crime I had unwittingly committed.

“Take all the beans out of the pods, then blanch them, and then remove the skin from each bean. Using your thumbnail helps.” Are you kidding me? I have to pull these thin skins off all these measly beans? There were more than a hundred pods, which meant, oh, 700 or 800 beans. I was especially disturbed because every time Chef gave me a task he expected it done in about five minutes. But I forged ahead in a controlled panic. About an hour and a half later I had a small bowl, probably about three cups, of smooth, skinless, brilliantly green firm little beans, and what I assumed was early onset arthritis in my thumbs and index fingers. I was exhausted. That didn’t bother me so much. My main concern was that it had taken so long. But in that hour and a half chef hadn’t yelled at me. Fabio, the pain-in-the-ass grill guy, hadn’t made fun of me for being saddled with such a fiddly task (like he did when I had to run a gigantic pile of baby artichokes through the prosciutto slicer, a job more terrifying than tedious). A lot of the kitchen crew had just walked past and smiled. I guess everyone felt sorry for me.

Fava bean season at an expensive Italian restaurant is a big deal, and obviously labor intensive. And I wasn’t asked to do this only once. It became a three-times-a-week task for months, and I never got any faster at it (lacking any fingernails to speak of, I devised a clumsy method using a paring knife; to Chef’s credit he gave me a helper after the second go-round). And you can be sure this spring restaurant ritual still goes on. Fledgling cooks all over town are no doubt rethinking their career choice at this moment.

But if you want to experience fava beans, and I do, because I absolutely love them, there’s no way around it, you’ve gotta get those skins off, or the beans will be bitter. Luckily for me, I no longer cook in a restaurant (lucky for the restaurants, too). I can now buy a small bag of favas and leisurely go about my prepping while watching animal shows or listening to old tango records. Now it’s enjoyable.

In Tuscany and other parts of Italy favas are traditionally combined with pecorino. That truly is an excellent marriage of flavors. I’ve tried using other cheeses, such as Asiago or Parmigiano, but I always go back to a gently aged Tuscan pecorino. It really is the best match (try to avoid pecorino Romano; it’s too sharp). In Tuscany that’s the entire dish, pecorino and favas. Beautiful, but I sometimes like to take it a step further and add other spring vegetables, lettuces, or herbs, creating a salad proper and dressing it lightly with good olive oil and a squeeze of lemon. At Le Madre they often wound up in a warm morel salad with wild arugula and pecorino.

This spring I’m adding young chicory, chives, and pine nuts. I’ve come to like fresh mint with fava salads, but this time I took a chance with tarragon and I was pleased with the way it blended with the chives.

Please don’t let my restaurant experience dissuade you from buying favas and performing what can  actually be a lovely Zen task, especially if you’re only preparing something for two, not two hundred. You’ll be rewarded with a special spring treat.

Fava Bean Salad with Chicory, Pecorino Toscano, and Tarragon

(Serves 2)

1 pound fava beans in their pods
A small bunch of frisée lettuce or chicory, torn into small pieces (about 1½ cups)
About 6 chives, with purple blossoms if you can find them, chopped into half-inch lengths
½ cup pine nuts, toasted
6 large sprigs tarragon, leaves lightly chopped
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
About a teaspoon of fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, the best you’ve got
¼ pound aged pecorino Toscano cheese

Remove the fava beans from their pods. Set up a medium pot of water ,and bring it to a boil. Add the favas, and blanch them for about 2 minutes. Lift them from the water with a large strainer spoon into a bowl of ice water. Drain them when cool. Now peel off the outer skin on each bean to reveal their smooth, bright green surface (I’m not telling you exactly how to accomplish this. It’s best to just do a few and find your way. And it’s not particularly hard).

Place the frisée or chicory in a small salad bowl. Add the favas, the chives, the pine nuts, and the tarragon. Mix the lemon juice with the olive oil, and season with salt and black pepper. Pour this over the salad, and toss. Now shave about 10 thin slices of the pecorino over the salad, and toss again very gently, trying not to break up the cheese too much.