Erica De Mane

Woman Gathering Herbs, Camille Pissarro, 1880.

Recipe: Escarole Salad with Sautéed Rosemary Pears, Pine Nuts, and Ricotta Salata

Italian-Americans were way ahead of everyone else in their love of bitter, a cooking angle that’s recently been taken up by restaurant chefs around the country. Bitter greens are now trendy, but their pull has always been in my blood. And on it goes, a bittersweet holdover from my ancestors’ days spent foraging for wild greens on sun-baked hillsides. Arugula, broccoli rabe, dandelions, escarole, and chicories of all sorts were on my family table when I was a kid, cooked and raw. Arugula wasn’t available at all in most markets in the sixties and seventies. My father planted cuttings that our neighbors had smuggled in from Sorrento. The stuff grew like the weed it is, taking over his little garden. Dandelions we picked from our lawn. I adored all those greens back then, and my admiration just grows. I’m constantly looking for new ways to serve them, stepping away easily from the traditional garlic and olive oil treatment.

My mother made raw escarole salads, usually with red onion, tomato, and maybe a handful of cubed provolone (this was before it was popular to shave cheese), tossing it all in a simple vinaigrette, whose only drawback, as far as I was concerned, was the presence of dried oregano, never a favorite taste for me. It was a great salad, and escarole is my favorite salad green. I love its ruffly edged, sturdy leaves, and light green color. It is faintly bitter when raw but also juicy, and it’s a really good mixer. Capacollo, pecorino, fruit, nuts—whatever you want to add, it can take it, so it’s an excellent base for improvisation.

Here’s my new fall take on the escarole salad.

Escarole Salad with Sautéed Rosemary Pears, Pine Nuts, and Ricotta Salata

(Serves 4)

2 ripe but firm pears (green or red Anjou, Bartlett, or Bosc would be my choice), unpeeled and cut into approximately ¼-inch-thick slices
Extra-virgin olive oil
A small shallot, red if available, thinly sliced
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A big pinch of sugar
2 sprigs rosemary, leaves well chopped
1 large head escarole, torn into small pieces
A big handful of pine nuts, lightly toasted
¼ pound ricotta salata, crumbled
1½ teaspoons Spanish sherry vinegar
½ teaspoon soy sauce
A few scrapings of nutmeg
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed

In a medium skillet, heat about a tablespoon of olive oil over high flame. When hot, add the pears and shallots, and season with a tiny pinch of salt, black pepper, a big pinch of sugar, and the rosemary. Sauté quickly, just until the rosemary gives off its aroma, about a minute or so. You only want to take the raw edge off the pears, not cook them through.

Place the escarole, pine nuts, and ricotta salata in a large salad bowl. Add the pears.

Whisk together the vinegar, soy sauce, nutmeg, garlic clove, and about 2 tablespoons or so of olive oil, seasoning with salt and black pepper. Pour this over the salad. Toss gently.

Italy in the fall.

Recipe: Broccoli Rabe with Serrano Ham, Black Olives, and Piment d’Espelette.

Are you in a fall vegetable rut? Squash and cabbage got you down? I hear you. How about this, for the moment: Put those impenetrable pumpkins aside and focus on the bitter cool weather vegetables broccoli rabe, escarole, chicory, and radicchio. Aren’t they a little more exciting? I think so, but sometimes figuring out how to get a new slant on a bitter vegetable can be difficult. Their natural flavor is so profound that I tend to think it best not to try to one-up it. Just let their bitter beauty shine, unadorned. But you needn’t be held hostage by radicchio or broccoli rabe.

Broccoli rabe is a vegetable that inhabited my childhood, like many Italian-Americans’. It was always on the table, seasoned simply with sliced garlic, olive oil, and sometimes a few anchovies. It seemed to go well with everything. (Now that I think about it, I suppose that’s because my family always made Southern Italian food.) Everyone who ate at my family’s table encountered broccoli rabe, either as a side dish or tossed with pasta. Non-Italians almost always pulled back, maybe nibbling a bit but inevitably not caring much for it. I can only say I’ll bet they’re eating it now. It’s on every trendy restaurant menu. It’s a gorgeous and amazing work of nature. Orecchietti with broccoli rabe and anchovies remains to this day one of my all-time favorite pastas.

As much as I love broccoli rabe, it can sometimes take a little prepping to bring out its best flavor.  When it’s not cooked enough or not cooked properly, I often detect a slight Clorox taste. That taste, it seems to me, only emerges when I (or somebody else) sautés the greens without blanching them first. I always blanch them, just for about two minutes. Not enough to break down the broccoli rabe, but enough to wash away that flavor. What does that chlorine taste come from, I wonder? I never taste it in regular broccoli. Have you noticed it? I became curious, so I decided to find out what exactly is in broccoli rabe. It turns out it contains pantothenic acid, zinc, copper, vitamins A, E, C, K, and B6. It also has  thiamin, riboflavin, niacin, folate, calcium, iron, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium, and manganese. Wow. Sorry I asked. Very healthy stuff. Clorox is primarily chlorine and sodium hydroxide, so, gee, any scientists out there?

To my palate, bitter blends best with sweet or salty. For my broccoli rabe I chose to go salty, adding Serrano ham and a handful of black Niçoise olives. I find Serrano ham sturdier than prosciutto. It doesn’t get spoiled by a little heat, and you can actually chop it into neat strips. And Niçoise olives have a nice mellow note, not taking over a dish the way, for instance, kalamatas might. I finished it off with my current favorite mild pepper, piment d’Espelette, from the Basque region. (I know. You’re asking, do I have to go out and buy this? Yes. You’ll be doing yourself a big favor. It’s a sweet, deeply flavored but only mildly hot paprika, perfect when you want just a touch of heat but a lot of savoriness.)

I sometimes like to make one well-thought-out vegetable dish my entire dinner. It’s a great way to lose weight without boring yourself to tears. (Steamed vegetables? Not for me, thanks.)

Broccoli Rabe with Serrano Ham, Black Olives, and Piment d’Espelette

(Serves 2 as a main course)

1 large bunch broccoli rabe, tough stems removed
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
A splash of chicken broth
3 thin slices Serrano ham, cut into thin strips
The grated zest from 1 lemon
A dozen or so black Niçoise olives, pitted
Piment d’Espelette pepper
Salt, if needed

Blanch the broccoli rabe in a large pot of boiling water for 2 minutes. Drain it, and plunge it into ice water to stop the cooking. Now squeeze out as much water as you can. Cut down any really big pieces to a more manageable size.

In a large skillet, heat a tablespoon or so of olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, and cook just until it gives off an aroma but doesn’t brown. Add the broccoli rabe, and sauté for about 2 to 3 minutes. Add a splash of chicken broth (just enough to add a touch of moisture). Turn off the heat, and add the ham, lemon zest, olives, and a generous pinch of piment d’Espelette. Toss well. Taste for salt. You might not need it.

Serve with slices of garlic-rubbed bruschetta. Follow with a ripe pear and a chunk of Fontina. A perfect dinner.

Here’s my aunt Filomena on vacation in Key Largo, I would guess around 1952 or ‘3.  She’s got herself a flying fish. Not sure how exactly, but there it is. The guy who took the photo, Nick something or other, became so upset by her “haughty” attitude, owning that fish (which she soon threw back in the water),  he left her stranded in the Keys, with 15 bucks but with a much clearer outlook on life.

So here’s a rule, be you man or woman, or landing someplace in between: If a potential date can’t deal with you on tiptoes, dressed in hibiscus, and proudly posing with a gorgeous force of nature, that person is not worth the trouble. And what happened to lovely Filomena? Well, she opened the most influential trinket shop in the Keys, stocked with sand dollars,  fishing nets, dried seaweed, bug spray, and maps of Cuba. She was a charming delight and hosted many memorable parties for local fisherman, even creating her own signature drink, the Salty Miss, a blend of gin and sea water, garnished with an anchovy-stuffed olive.  Several  worthwhile lovers, bolder and smarter than that idiot Nick,  took photos of her with various fish, including a giant squid ( all on display in her shop),  up until the day she passed peacefully, from sun stroke,  at age 68. Good show aunt Fil.

Still Life with Peaches, Herculaneum.

Recipe: Peach Crostata with Lavender and Rosemary

So much fruit, so little time before it returns to dust. Wilting peaches lay in my kitchen, and I felt the urgent need to prepare a fruit tart. Being a tad agitated to start with, and knowing quite well how measuring and fiddling with flour and weights can make me more agitated, I sensed the need for a loose approach. That’s where the free-form crostata came in. It doesn’t need a tart tin, blind baking, custard or eggs, or, really, much measuring. This is a recipe, but only on paper. It’s really a suggestion, something for your head. If you don’t have much experience with pasta frolla (short crust), use my proportions and it’ll be fine. Sometimes I add more flour, less butter, or vice versa, but I haven’t gone wrong yet.

The construction goes like this: Roll out a big round of pastry onto a sheet pan. Pile on sliced fruit (I don’t even peel it), flavored with whatever suits your mood. Turn up the pastry’s edges, folding it as you go to contain the fruit, and bake the thing. I love this because there’s no binder to get in the way of pure fruit flavor, even if I add spice or herbs, as I have here. The design is perfect. I make these with any fruit that will cook relatively quickly. Plums, apricots, fresh figs, and even cherry tomatoes will work. Soft, thinly sliced apples and pears will, too.

Next I’m tackling the pile of shriveling Italian plums on my counter (and I’m not talking about myself here).

Peach Crostata with Lavender and Rosemary

For the crust:

1¾ cups all-purpose flour, plus a little extra for rolling
¼ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
2 large sprigs each rosemary and lavender, leaves chopped
1 stick cold unsalted butter, cut into tiny pieces, plus a bit extra to oil the baking sheet
¼ cup cold semi-dry white wine, like a Riesling, or you can use a dry vermouth

For the filling:

6 medium-size unpeeled ripe peaches, cut into slices
¼ cup sugar, plus a little extra for the top
About a tablespoon of Calvados or cognac
1 large sprig each rosemary and lavender, leaves chopped
1 egg yolk, mixed with a little water

In a food processor, combine the flour, salt, sugar, rosemary, and lavender, and give it all a few pulses to mix everything. Now add the butter, and pulse quickly 2 or 3 times, just to break up the butter a bit. Add the wine, and pulse a few more times. The dough should look crumbly and a bit moist. If it seems dry, add a splash of cold water or wine, and pulse again quickly.  Turn the dough out onto a work surface, and press it into a ball. Now give it a few brief kneads, just to make sure it holds together. Wrap in plastic wrap. Refrigerate about an hour.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Flour a work surface, and roll out the dough into an approximately 11-inch circle. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Trim the edges to neaten it up. Place it on a buttered sheet pan, and stick it in the refrigerator.

Put all the ingredients for the filling in a bowl, and give them a good stir.

Take the pan of dough from the fridge. Pile the peaches in the middle of the round, letting them spread out in a natural way but leaving about a 2-inch border all around. If they’ve given off a lot of juice, leave some of it in the bowl. Fold the edge of the pastry up and around the fruit, pleating as you go (check out the photo). You should have a large opening in the middle where the peaches stick out.

Brush the exposed part of the crust with the egg wash, and sprinkle a little sugar all over the tart.

Bake until the crust is golden, about 35 minutes. Let it cool for about ½ hour before slicing. Good for breakfast, with a tumbler of grappa.

Me, left, with my grandmother’s cousin Tony and his lady friend in Castelfranco in Miscano, mid-1980s.

Recipe: Pasta e Fagioli with Escarole, Guanciale, and Fresh Olio Santo

Beans simmering, greens sautéeing, these aromas remind me of several places, several kitchens, my grandparents’ house in Port Chester and also their wicker-and-Fiestaware- stuffed cottage in Hollywood, Florida, where a slew of relatives spent part of every winter. Those two homes always smelled of pasta fazool. My grandmother preferred the soupy kind, with wilted greens, often dandelions, floating around in it. It smelled of vegetation. It was what she wanted to cook in southern Florida’s humid heat, in that clammy, un-air-conditioned little house. I loved the dish.

My mother’s Long Island fazool had a different aroma. It filled the kitchen with the scent of pork, very nice to come home to after a long day screwing off at school. She braised pork chops with the beans, but then always pulled them out to serve as a second course, often with sautéed escarole or a chicory salad. Garlic and hot chili flakes were the undertones in all these preparations, no matter who in my family cooked them.

Our variations on beans, greens, and pasta came mainly from my father’s family, descendants of a depressed and frankly quite depressing little hill town on the boarder of Puglia and Campania, a place completely landlocked and devoid of any trees that I could see. Castelfranco in Miscano has a crumbling, dusty feel to it, thanks partly to the many earthquakes that have destroyed much of what I can imagine was once its ancient charm, including an 800-year-old white stone church that I’ve seen photos of. Wild greens, beans, and semolina pasta have always been staples of the place, often all three stewed together and eaten with fennel-scented taralli and cloudy, astringent white wine. The town smells like cooked bitter greens.

My Manhattan apartment often takes on many of those bean, greens, and pasta aromas. The pungent, raw smell of beans soaking in my kitchen can still surprise me even after so many years of cooking. I’ll pass by the pot of swollen cannellinis on the counter and catch that strange air of sour, damp earth. Then I’ll eat one, crunching down on it, thinking about what I might do with the rest of them in the morning. This time I decided on a blend of my mother’s and my grandmother’s fazool. Instead of pork chops I chose guanciale, for its richer, more gamy flavor, but like my grandmother, I added the greens in with the dish, not serving them separately. I could barely resist the classic, appealingly musty taste of dried chilies, which are almost always a component and such an olfactory memory, but because we’re at the end of summer and fresh chilies are still in season, I went with fresh heat. And when tasting the result, I was struck by how this one change, as delicious as it was, altered the character of the dish. It no longer tasted like a memory.

Pasta e Fagioli with Escarole, Guanciale, and Fresh Olio Santo

(Serves 4)

2 fresh red peperoncino peppers, with seeds, minced
Extra-virgin olive oil
1½ cups dried cannellini beans, soaked overnight in cool water to cover
1 bay leaf, fresh if possible
Salt
¼ pound guanciale, cut into small cubes
1 small onion, cut into small dice
2 small inner celery stalks, thinly sliced, plus a handful of celery leaves, roughly chopped
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
A few large sprigs of rosemary, leaves chopped
A splash of dry white wine
1 large head escarole, cut into small pieces and quickly blanched
¾ pound cavatelli
A handful of flat-leaf parsley, leaves lightly chopped
A chunk of firm Caciocavallo cheese (optional)

To make the olio santo: Place the minced fresh peperoncini in a small bowl. Add about ⅓ cup olive oil. Give it a good stir, and let it sit, unrefrigerated, while you cook the beans.

To cook the beans: Drain the cannellini beans, and place them in a large pot. Cover them with at least four inches pf cool water. Add the bay leaf, and turn the heat to high. When the water comes to a boil, lower the heat, and let them simmer gently, partially covered, until tender, about 1½ hours (it really depends on how hard your beans are, so start testing them after about 1 hour). Add more warm water if needed to keep the beans covered. When they’re tender but still holding their shape, season them with salt and a generous drizzle of olive oil, and turn off the heat, letting them cool down in their liquid. Drain them, saving about a cup of their cooking liquid.

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 3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the guanciale, and let it get crisp, about 3 minutes or so. Add the onion and celery, and sauté until softened, about 4 minutes. Add the rosemary and the garlic, and sauté a minute longer, just to release their fragrances. Add half to about three quarters of the beans, depending on how beany you like the dish, and the blanched escarole, and sauté everything in the oil for about 3 or 4 minutes. Season with salt. Add the splash of white wine, and let it boil way. Add ½ cup of the bean cooking water, and let the sauce simmer. You’ll have some beans left over to use for a salad or a side dish (I figure that if I’m going to take the time to cook dried beans, I may as well make a good amount and use them for different dishes).

Drop the cavatelli into the water, and cook until al dente, draining well. Transfer to a warmed serving bowl. Add the cannellini sauce and a drizzle of fresh olive oil, and toss. The texture should be a bit loose, so add more bean cooking liquid if needed. Drizzle a little (or a lot) of the olio santo on each serving. In Southern Italy, dishes that contain hot chilies are often served without cheese. I like my pasta e fagioli with a little cheese, but that’s up to you.