Erica De Mane

Still Life with Clam Shells, by Barney Levitt.

Recipe: Fregola with Clams, Tomatoes, and Moscato

Clams always meant Daddy to me. That may not be true for many people. But in my Italian-American family, in the summer in the sixties and seventies, my father and his buddies would go clamming for littlenecks in the refreshing but horseshoe-crab-filled waters off Sea Cliff Beach, waters that were tainted by a constant day-glo oil infusion, compliments of the nearby Long Island Lighting Company. My father thought nothing of eating dozens of these clams at a time, raw, on the half-shell, as they say, with a squirt of lemon or bottled cocktail sauce. “Pollution, what are you talking about? These are as fresh as they get.” My mother had her doubts, but I, being my father’s daughter, figured if they tasted normal they were normal. I really got into the act. It was tons of fun letting those soft, rubbery things slip down my throat. Looking back at that time now, it’s amazing what we put into our bodies—menthol cigarettes, food dye galore, amyl nitrites for dancing pleasure, to name just a few of my favorite things.

 As much as he loved his “fresh as they get” clams, we’d often take a health break and order raw clams at a restaurant. Clams on the half-shell, usually cherrystones, were then a popular starter at steak places on Long Island such as Manero’s in Manhasset, and in the city too. You don’t see them around much anymore, except in certain retro steakhouses that serve them with a hint of irony. But god they were good. There’s nothing like the cold, briny jolt you get when a raw clam (a live clam!) hits the back of your throat. And as my father showed me, they tasted just as interesting with a vodka martini at Manero’s as with a cold Ballantine in our back yard.

Raw clams, steamed clams, clams baked with breadcrumbs, garlic, and oregano, all good. Clams were always lurking in our kitchen, either wrapped in a few pages of Newsday or spread out on the counter. There were the clay-colored littlenecks and the darker ones with brownish stripes bought at the Italian fish shop in Glen Cove. My family had one of those giant steamer pots, the kind that came in two parts and had a faucet at the bottom where clam juice could trickle out. I think it was made of a heavy aluminum. It had originally belonged to my Sicilian grandfather, my mother’s father. But my father was its ruler all through my childhood and beyond. I come from a family of shellfish fanatics, a trait I’ve certainly inherited. They ate clams, mussels, oysters, raw and cooked. I loved that clam steamer. Its emergence always signaled a summer party. A vodka on the rocks in one hand, a Kent hanging from his lips, my dad and a few neighbor guys wrestled, half loaded, with big messes of clams and mussels and seaweed and sometimes corn and lobster, stuffing it all into that contraption. It heated at a slow steam, and little by little the clam juice would drip to the bottom. Coffee mugs were offered, so that anyone who wanted (I wanted) could pour themselves a shot of hot clam juice, add a pat of butter, and slug it back. A fabulous aperitivo. I don’t know what happened to that steamer. It probably got left behind when they sold the house and moved to a small condo in Royal Palm Beach. The pot was quite large. I wish I had it now, but where would I put it in my tiny city apartment? It would have to serve as a chair.

And then, of course, there’s the Southern Italian classic, pasta with clams. My favorite, something I always requested for a birthday dinner. It was a standard on our table on Christmas Eve, but you’d never know when it would show up. A good day’s catch at Sea Cliff beach and it might appear on Fourth of July, covered in fresh parsley and basil from my father’s little garden. My family usually made the white sauce variety, no tomatoes. I like it all ways, with tomato sauce, with just a hint of tomato and lots of white wine, with pancetta and hot chilies added. I’m always playing around with different types of pasta and flavorings to see where I can take it. Fregola, a Sardinian pasta made something like couscous, was not anything my father would have been familiar with, but I now often find it, even in mezza-mezza grocery stores. Fregola is roasted, so it takes on a deep, almost smoky taste. And it happens to be excellent with clams. Here’s a new recipe for pasta with clams, an offering to my late, great, clam-loving father. I raise a glass of Ballantine to you (do they still make that beer?).

Fregola with Clams, Tomatoes, and Moscato

(Serves 4 as a main course)

Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 thick slice pancetta, cut into small cubes
1 large shallot, minced
3 summer garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 fresh red chili, minced (a peperoncino is perfect)
¼ cup Moscato or another slightly sweet white wine
4 round medium-size summer tomatoes, skinned, seeded, and chopped
1 cup chicken broth
¾ pound large fregola
About 4 dozen littleneck or Manila clams (which are basically the same), the smaller the better, well cleaned
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
The grated zest from 1 large lemon
A few large sprigs of marjoram
A handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped

Set up a large pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Season with salt.

In a large skillet, big enough to hold all the clams when opened, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the pancetta, and sauté until just crisp. Add the shallot, garlic, and hot chili, and sauté until fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add the moscato, and let it bubble for a few seconds. Add the tomatoes and a little salt, and let everything cook at a lively bubble for a few minutes. Add the chicken broth, and simmer uncovered for about 5 minutes longer.

Add the clams, and cook partially covered for a few minutes. Take off the cover, and give them a stir. As the clams open, pull them from the sauce into a bowl, with tongs. They won’t all open at once, so if you leave the early openers in the skillet, they’ll be overcooked by the time they all decide to pop. Drizzle the clams with a little olive oil. Turn off the heat.

When about half of the clams have opened, drop the fregola into the water.

When the fregola is al dente (after about 10 minutes), drain it, and pour it into a large, shallow serving bowl. Add a drizzle of olive oil, the butter, the lemon zest, the basil, and the marjoram, and give it a quick toss. Add the clams back to the skillet, and heat gently for about 30 seconds. Pour the clams and sauce over the fregola, and toss again. Taste for salt, but you probably won’t need any, depending on your clams.

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.