Erica De Mane

The fish market in Siracusa, Sicily.

Recipe: Roasted Sea Bass with Tomato, Orange, and Chervil

When I travel to any place in Italy that’s near the sea, I want my first stop to be the fish market. Gotta go. The blend of beauty and  carnage is a huge draw (that happens for most people, in many areas of life). You don’t want to look, but you can’t turn away. The aroma of an outdoor market is best, since the fish aren’t cooped up (though being dead, they are stuck where they are, I suppose), and sea breezes, hopefully good ones, waft by. The Trapani market in southwestern Sicily is possibly my favorite. It’s small but startling. Politically incorrect 60-pound swordfish and tuna drip blood onto the stone street below. Colored plastic tarps hang above to cut the sun and keep out the rain. Sicily is full of all the big bad fish nobody’s supposed to touch anymore, but it’s also loaded with “good” fish too, the intense little oily ones, sardines, anchovies, so shiny, and piles of octopus, cuttlefish, squid, mussels, both big and minuscule. It’s been a few  years since I’ve experienced a Sicilian fish market in person, but I shop in Manhattan markets, not as raw and pagan an experience, nothing sending me down on my knees to soak up the puddles of blood, but still.

I like the fish shop at the Chelsea Market, The Lobster Place. It’s no Trapani or Siracusa, or Catania, but it smells right, and the selection and freshness are about the best one can do, outside of buying at the Greenmarket. The big slabs of sea bass looked particularly fresh the other day, so I brought one home and began thinking of ways to make it say spring to me. Chervil was what I wanted to taste with it.

Chervil is not a particularly Italian herb, but its gentle cross between anise and fennel is a very Italian taste. In the south of Italy wild fennel, a much stronger herb, grows rampant and is used in many fish dishes, most famously in pasta con le sarde. Chervil, so much gentler, so soft to the touch and lacy, is overlooked, I believe. I think we must as cooks think about it. Maybe the reason many people ignore it is that they don’t hear its message. What it’s telling you is that it’s best matched not with sardines but with more delicate fish.

Roasted Sea Bass with Tomato, Orange, and Chervil

(Serves 4)

2 approximately 1-pound sea bass fillets, skinned
Extra-virgin olive oil
¾ cup dry breadcrumbs, not too finely ground
Salt
A generous pinch of hot paprika
¼ teaspoon sugar
2 pints grape tomatoes
2 garlic cloves, very thinly sliced
A few large sprigs of thyme, the leaves lightly chopped
The juice and grated zest from 1 large orange
Freshly ground black pepper
A splash of Pernod or another pastis
A palmful of small capers, rinsed
A large handful of chervil, lightly stemmed, the sprigs left whole

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Run your fingers over the top of the sea bass fillets. If you feel any bones, pull them out with tweezers. Choose a baking dish large enough to hold the fish fillets comfortably with no overlapping. Drizzle the bottom of the dish with a little olive oil. Lay the fish fillets in the dish.

Place the breadcrumbs in a small bowl. Drizzle with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, and season with salt, the hot paprika, and the sugar. Mix well. Pat this mixture over the tops of the fish fillets to coat them lightly all over. Give them an extra little drizzle of olive oil, and place them in the oven until just tender and beginning to flake, about 10 minutes.

While the fish is cooking, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. When hot, add the grape tomatoes. You should hear a nice sizzle. Shake them around a bit so they cook evenly. After about a minute, add the garlic, and keep shaking the skillet. After another minute or so the tomatoes will start to burst and let off a little juice. Now add the thyme, orange juice, and zest, and season them with salt and black pepper. Let this bubble for about a minute or so, allowing the orange juice to reduce a bit. Add a splash of Pastis to the skillet, and let it bubble away for about 30 seconds. By this time the tomatoes should be bursting but still holding their shape. Add the capers.

When the fish is ready, take it from the oven. Set out four dinner plates. Divide up the fish onto the plates, and spoon some of the tomato sauce, with its pan juices, on top. Garnish with the chervil sprigs. Serve right away.

Dead ducks and such, painted by Jacopo da Emoli, 1551-1640.

Recipe: Seared Duck with Farro and Watercress Pesto

Have you tried buying a whole duck lately? I don’t know what’s going on, but the price is completely out of line. And I’m not talking Greenmarket, superorganic, locavore here, I’m speaking of the ducks I always used to pick up at a supermarket for, oh, a few  dollars more than I’d pay for a good chicken. Now I’ve discovered that I’d be paying $34 for a measly little fatty bird. I find this outrageous. Why should it be? I got really, I must say, really mad when I saw it. But since I don’t stay mad for long, especially for a Sicilian, my eyes glanced over to the pre-cut duck breasts and legs. Reasonable. I can by a cut-up duck for a lot less than a whole one (of course not the same thing, culinarily speaking, but still). So I picked up a whole antibiotic-free duck breast, went home, bolted myself into my little kitchen, and came up with what I feel is a nice spring recipe. I hadn’t experienced the seared rare duck breast of 1980s restaurant menus for a long time, so I thought I’d give it a whirl again. It’s easy to do at home. And you don’t need to make it so ridiculously blood rare you need saber-toothed tiger fangs to eat it. Rosy pink is what I like.

The trick to searing duck breast to pink perfection is to melt out the fat until the skin is crisp. Gently score the fatty side to help this process along. Then you’ll want to start the cooking with the duck breast fat side down, in a preheated skillet. You want to hear the sear. But watch what’s going on in the skillet, so the duck doesn’t burn before much of the fat has melted away. Just watch, and turn down the heat if necessary. It’s no big deal, but it’s essential.

Seared Duck with Farro and  Watercress Pesto

(Serves 2 as a main course)

2 duck breasts (one whole breast, split), of the Long Island type
¼ teaspoon ground allspice
¼ teaspoon ground fennel seed
¼ teaspoon ground coriander seed
¼ teaspoon ground black pepper
¼ teaspoon salt
1½ cups farro
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 bunches watercress, well stemmed
Salt
½ a garlic clove, roughly chopped
¼ teaspoon sugar
A small palmful of pine nuts
The juice from about ½ a lemon
1 carrot, cut into small dice
2 scallions, cut into thin rounds, using the tender green part
¾ cup freshly shucked spring peas
½ cup chicken broth, or possibly a little more

With a sharp knife, gently slice a few  cuts into the fatty side of the duck breasts, without cutting into the meat. Then mix all the spices together, including the salt, and rub them all over the duck, getting some into the slits. Let sit unrefrigerated while you get on with the rest of it.

Put the farro into a medium pot, and cover it with water by about 4 inches. Add a little salt, and bring it to a boil. Turn the heat down a bit, and let it bubble, uncovered, until the grains are just tender. Time can vary. The stuff I cooked up last night took only about 20 minutes, but I’ve had brands that have taken 30 minutes or longer, so just taste it from time to time. Add more hot water if it gets too low.  Drain the farro, and put it in a bowl. Drizzle a thread of olive oil over it, and give it a toss.

Put up a small pot of water, and bring it to a boil. Add one of the watercress bunches, and blanch it for about 30 seconds. Drain, and run under cold water to set its color. Then squeeze as much water out of it as you can.

Put the blanched watercress in a food processor. Add a little salt, the pine nuts, and the sugar. Pulse a few times until it’s well chopped. Add about ¼ cup of olive oil, and process until the sauce is fairly smooth. Add the lemon juice, and pulse again. If the sauce is too thick (it should have some weight but still be pourable), add a little more olive oil. Pour the pesto into a small bowl.

In a medium skillet, heat two tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the carrots, and let them soften. Add the scallions and the peas, and sauté a minute, adding salt and some black pepper. Add the chicken broth, and simmer, covered, until the peas are just tender, about 4 minutes. Add a bit more broth if it dries up (you should have a little liquid left in the skillet when the peas are tender). Add the farro and a generous drizzle of fresh olive oil, and mix well.

Put a heavy-bottomed skillet on medium heat, and let it get good and hot. Add the duck breasts, fat side down, and sear until the skin is very brown and much of the fat has been released. Lower the heat if they’re browning too quickly. This should take about 8 minutes. Turn the breasts, and sear the other side, about another 3 minutes for medium rare. Pull the duck from the skillet, and let it rest about 3 minutes.

Add about a tablespoon of the watercress pesto to the farro, and give it a stir. Check for seasoning.

Spoon a good helping of the farro onto two dinner plates. Slice the duck thinly on an angle, and fan it out around the farro. Decorate the plate with the fresh watercress, and spoon a generous amount of the watercress pesto near the duck. Serve right away.

Recipe: Tagliatelle with Treviso Radicchio, Guanciale, and White Wine

Being a gal of Southern Italian spirit, I never quite know what to do with the very northern seeming Treviso radicchio I find in many food shops in winter and spring. Such a beautiful deep Venetian red, a red with pink undertones (for lipstick I prefer red with a hint of orange, better for olive skin, I think). Cooking this gorgeous vegetable is sad for me, as it darkens almost to black right before my eyes, a turnoff, to be honest, and a reality that has dampened my creative energy for this member of the chicory family, the beautiful bitters, as I like to call them. I like Treviso radicchio best when it’s cooked, but that’s when it goes all ugly on you.

Around the Venice area, where the most exquisite radicchio is traditionally grown, there are many types to choose from.  Here in Manhattan I can usually find the round Chioggia variety all year, and the Treviso, which in Venice is called Treviso Precoce, that I chose for this pasta dish, in season. It resembles a blowsy red endive.

I’ve tried cooking Treviso radicchio with pasta several times but have never been completely satisfied with how it ended up looking. Now I’ve given up on preserving its color and just concentrate on its flavor. Red happens to be my favorite color, so any red vegetable I’m bound to get hung up on. Can’t be helped.

I wanted a pasta that was bitter, unmistakably vegetable, but also just a little rich. My mind turned to lardo (actually my entire brain often feels like lardo). I was thinking pork fat, maybe not lardo per se; guanciale or pancetta would do the trick as well. I settled on guanciale, unctuous but not as fatty as pure lard, perfect to smooth out radicchio’s sharp edges and add suaveness.

I also found that adding the radicchio to a warm sauce base right as I turned off the heat, and letting it wilt, would retain a hint of its lovely red. That works if you happen to think the color of dried blood is lovely. I have to admit I do.

Tagliatelle with Treviso Radicchio, Guanciale, and White Wine

(Serves 2)

2 medium Treviso radicchios
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
A little less than ¼ pound guanciale, cut into small cubes (if you can’t find guanciale, use pancetta)
1 large shallot, minced
1 garlic clove, very thinly sliced
2 sprigs rosemary, the leaves well chopped
½ teaspoon sugar
About ¼ cup dry white wine
½ cup homemade or good quality prepared chicken broth
½ pound tagliatelle
A handful of lightly toasted pine nuts
A small chunk of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
A handful of Italian parsley, lightly chopped

Cut the radicchio in half lengthwise, and core it. Slice it into half moon shapes.

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

In a large skillet, warm 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the guanciale, and let it release its fat and crisp slightly. Add the shallot, and let that soften. Add the garlic, the rosemary, and the sugar, and let them heat just until everything gives off a nice aroma, about a minute.

Drop the tagliatalle into the water.

Add the white wine, and let it bubble for a few seconds. Add the chicken broth, and simmer for a minute or so. Turn off the heat.

Add the radicchio to the skillet, and stir it around for about a minute, just until it starts to wilt. Season with salt and black pepper.

When the tagliatelle is just tender, drain it, and pour it into a warmed serving bowl (I like a shallow and wide one for this pasta so it can spread out and stay loose). Add a generous drizzle of fresh olive oil. Add about a tablespoon of grated  Parmigiano and the pine nuts, and give everything a gentle toss. Pour on the radicchio sauce, and toss again. Top with a little sprinkling of Parmigiano, and garnish with the parsley. Serve right away. A Fiano di Avellino, a rich white from Campania with no oaky undertones, would be a good wine with this pasta.

Ravanello il candela di fuoco, from Southern Italy.

Recipe: Radish and Anchovy Antipasto

I’ve always liked radishes well enough, but when I discovered how great they taste smeared with soft butter, I started to love them. That isn’t an Italian flavor combination but a French one. It’s at its best in late spring, when I find long, red French breakfast radishes at the Greenmarket, or white ones, which are usually called icicle radishes. If I’ve got either of those and a block of lightly salted French butter, I’m in heaven. Both of those radish varieties are less bitter than the round red ones you see all over the place (even under my bed sometimes, since my cats love to play with them).

Enough French talk. Let’s get back to the entire point of my devotion to cooking, which obviously is cooking with an Italian spirit. With that in mind, I’d like to introduce you to an excellent flavor combination, radishes and anchovies. Maybe you already know about that, but it’s worth thinking about again if you haven’t for a while.

I believe my first encounter with this perfect match was at Aurora, a fine little Italian restaurant in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when it first opened about seven years ago. I’m not sure how I had missed out on the little treat during all my trips to Italy. I mean, almost every time anything with anchovies appeared on a menu, I was on it.  But most of my traveling has been in the South, and I didn’t often come across ravanello, the radish’s Italian name. Even though Southern Italians love bitter anything, and even though cauliflower and broccoli, both related to the radish, are huge favorites all through the Mezzogiorno, radishes just don’t seem to have much of a presence. I have seen very long, skinny, red ones at a Palermo market, going by the name il candela di fuoco, which is exactly what they look like, but I don’t believe I ever ate one. I’ll have to ask my Greenmarket farmers if they’ve ever tried growing them. They look beautifully obscene.

In any case, mixing radishes with anchovies to produce something really delicious couldn’t be simpler. All you need to do is halve (or quarter if they’re huge) some decent looking radishes (the round reds ones are fine for this, but if you see long sweet radishes for sale, grab them and quarter them lengthwise); then mash a few oil-packed anchovies, very good quality of course (Flott are great, but so are Agostino Recca, both from Sicily) with a generous amount of fine extra-virgin olive oil, until you have a loose paste. I’ve made this with salt-packed and with oil-packed anchovies, and even though for uncooked dishes I usually prefer salt-packed, the oily ones seem to work better with the radishes, maybe since they’re richer, more like a condimento. Salt-cured anchovies, after soaking, can revert back to tasting like fresh fish. Now you’ve got a nice oily, fishy sauce. All you do is pour it over the radishes and give it a gentle toss. Simple. And that is exactly how they were served at Aurora. It’s kind of like bagna cauda, except it’s not hot. It’s just as messy, so have a pile of napkins nearby. It’s a nice change from a bowl of olives.

The recipe I’ve provided for you is my little spin on the theme, but I didn’t want to stray far from the pure treatment, so I’ve added only a couple of flourishes.

Radish and Anchovy Antipasto

(Serves 6 as an antipasto)

2 bunches of very crisp, round red radishes, washed, stemmed, and halved
5 oil-packed anchovies
½ a small garlic clove
About 4 tablespoons very fruity extra-virgin olive oil (preferably a Sicilian variety such as Ravida; Tuscan oil, I find, adds too much bitterness)
A handful of lightly toasted pine nuts
Freshly ground black pepper
A palmful of tender celery leaves, left whole

Place the radishes in a serving bowl.

With a mortar and pestle, grind the anchovies with the garlic, adding the olive oil a little at a time. You’ll want a fairly smooth consistency, but it’s okay if it still has some texture. Pour this over the radishes, add a few grindings of black pepper, add the pine nuts, and give it a toss. The sauce should be a little loose, so add a bit more oil if you think you need it. Right before serving, scatter on the celery leaves. Serve at room temperature.

Recipe: My Pizza Rustica

My girlfriend Barbara told me that my last posting, the one about how Easter has become so unnecessary for me, was too depressing.  She was right. And I realized it’s not even true. It’s not unnecessary.  I might not be religious but I  rejoice in the rebirth of the earth and I honor it -a celebration for an almost green day.  And I bake pizza rustica, a traditional Southern Italian Easter torta.  This thing is a sweet-crusted pie filled with all sorts of savory Italian salumi and cheeses, an easily transportable creation many Italians take with them on picnics on La Pasquetta, the day after Easter. I was thinking of doing something like that myself. Not much picnic perfect sights in Manhattan, especially when it’s still Easter chilly.  Maybe I could take  one of those folding chairs into the middle of Times Square, along with a blanket, a slice of pizza rustica, and a double espresso, and watch all the Absolut vodka ads flash before my eyes. Better than nothing.  Fun even. Everything is coming back to life.

My Pizza Rustica

For the pastry:

1 cup all-purpose flour and 1 cup semolina
A generous pinch of salt
2 tablespoons  powdered sugar
A big pinch of ground nutmeg
1 large egg
1/3 cup dry white wine
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

For the filling:

15 ounces whole milk ricotta
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
A 1/2 inch thick slice of capocollo, cut into small cubes
A 1/2 inch thick slice of prosciutto di Parma, cut into small cubes
1/2 cup chopped caciocavallo cheese
1/2 cup chopped gruyere
A handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, chopped
A few marjoram sprigs, leaves chopped
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 egg, beaten with a tablespoon of water, to brush over the top

To make the pastry, put the two flours in a large bowl, and stir in the salt, sugar, and cinnamon. In a small bowl, beat together the egg, white wine, and olive oil. Pour this over the flour, mixing it in with a fork until uniformly moist. Dump the dough out onto a lightly floured surface, and knead very briefly, pressing the dough together to form a ball. Cut it into two pieces, one slightly larger than the other. Wrap the pieces in plastic and let sit, unrefrigerated, for about an hour.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. In a large bowl, mix together all the ingredients for the filling.

Choose a standard  9-inch American-type pie plate (or a smooth sided tart pan with a removable bottom), and grease it lightly with olive oil. Roll out each dough ball, one into an approximately 11-inch round, the other about 9 inches. Fit the larger round into the pie plate and trim the edges so you have a more of less even 1/2 inch overhang all around. Pile in the filling, and smooth it out. Place the other dough round over the filling. Fold the overhang up over the top of the pie, making little pleats all around to seal it. Cut 3 short slashes into the top in a star pattern, and brush the top with the egg wash. Place the pie plate on a sheet pan, and bake for about 50 minutes or so, or until it’s golden and puffy (it’ll flatten down as it cools). Serve at room temperature with a cool glass of Falanghina.

Jesus Appearing to the  Magdalene, Fra Angelico, 1400-1455.

Recipe: Roasted Asparagus with Arugula Pesto and Parmigiano

Easter for those, like me, who have emptied themselves of Catholicism, can be a nonevent of the highest order. And here in Manhattan the weather is predictably cold, often overcast, which never adds much to the  pagan springtime renewal. My bonnet is usually a pilly black beret.  And my progressively more irritated family (I’m talking mainly about my mother) no longer gives a damn about Easter or any of the traditional preparations for it that seemed so carefully planned when we were kids. Big deal. I don’t really care either. I do love some of the classic Southern Italian Easter dishes, especially the ricotta-based ones—pizza rustica on the savory side, pastiera on the sweet. Those are gorgeous dishes. You can find a recipe of mine for pizza rustica on page 285 of The Flavors of Southern Italy, and one for pastiera here.

From some reason this Easter I’m thinking bitter—not thoughts (well maybe a little) but flavors. I’ve wanted to create a new asparagus dish, something warm but biting, so I’ve married the elegant spring vegetable with a loose arugula pesto. I didn’t mix cheese into the pesto but instead just shaved it over the top. Cleaner. And I used lots of lemon. Astringent. Really nice with a traditional Easter leg of lamb, if you happen to be going in that direction.

I’m usually quite sad when I see my Italian traditions drift away, but in this case it seems there’s not much I can do about it, so I’m moving on, possibly skipping Easter dinner altogether—I might even go out (horrors)—and having this lovely asparagus dish on Palm Sunday instead.

To all my loyal readers who still go the entire nine yards, light a few candles for me this Easter Sunday.

Roasted Asparagus with Arugula Pesto and Parmigiano

(Serves 6)

2 bunches of arugula, stemmed
1 small garlic clove, roughly chopped
Extra-virgin olive oil
Salt
2 bunches of asparagus, on the thin side, the ends well trimmed
Freshly ground black pepper
The juice from 1 small lemon
A small chunk of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
A palmful of lightly toasted pine nuts

Blanch the arugula in a small pot of boiling water for 30 seconds. Scoop it from the pot with a large strainer, and run cold water over it. Drain very well.

In a food processor, add the arugula, garlic, about 1/4 cup  of olive oil, and a little salt. Pulse until you have a fairly smooth but loose paste.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Place the asparagus on a sheet pan. Toss it with olive oil, a little salt, and some black pepper, and then arrange it in one layer. Roast until it’s fragrant and browned at the edges, about 10 minutes (possibly longer, depending on the pieces’ thickness, so just keep an eye on it).

Transfer the asparagus to a warmed serving platter, and squeeze on a little lemon juice. Spoon the arugula sauce down the middle, and then shave some thin sheets of Parmigiano on top. Garnish with the pine nuts. Serve hot.

Recipe: Strawberries with Blood Orange Syrup and Mint

Okay, hold that pose. Right now I’m finding decent blood oranges and strawberries in my markets at the same time, a coming together of winter and spring. Neither is local in New York, of course, but I’m so happy to have them. And at a fleeting moment like this, you’ve just got to combine them, right? When will your next chance be? Maybe never?

The strawberries come from Florida, the blood oranges from California. So what? The oranges are especially bloody, too, deep red, some almost burgundy, extremely beautiful, my favorite colors. Caravaggio reds.

Strawberries with Blood Orange Syrup and Mint

(Serves 2 or 3)

The juice from 4 or 5 fresh blood oranges
About 2 tablespoons sugar
A few drops of high quality balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon Cointreau liqueur
1 pint strawberries, the sweetest ones you can find (smell them—if they smell like strawberries, they’ll probably be good)
A few large sprigs of fresh mint

Pour the blood orange juice into a small pot, and add the sugar, the vinegar (no more than a few drops), and the Cointreau, and bring it all to a boil. Let bubble for about a minute, and then turn off the heat. Have a taste; you should get a good balance between sweet and tart. If not, balance it out. Strain the sauce into a small bowl, and let it cool completely. It should then be the consistency of a very light syrup.

Hull the strawberries, but keep them whole, unless they’re humongous, in which case you might want to cut them in half lengthwise.  Place them in a pretty serving bowl, and pour on the blood orange syrup. Garnish with mint sprigs. Serve right away.

A study for The Sirens by Edward Burne-Jones, 1833-1898.

Recipe: Chicken with Arugula, Grape Tomatoes, and Raschera

I occasionally get blog comments that start off with something like, “Oh, you’re always putting up recipes for elaborate things enclosed in pastry, or for octopus. What I’d really like are a few easy, midweek dinners I can pull together for my family, quickly and inexpensively.” As someone who finds both joy and therapy in cooking, I do lose sight of what can be done with plain ingredients that people might actually have on hand, like chicken cutlets, for instance. Sorry about that, but often the siren song of bottarga calls and I’m pulled right into the sea.

I was thinking about this last night when I came in late from a day of hunting for kitchen space for my spring cooking classes. (Not an easy task in financially complicated Manhattan; if it’s a recession, why are prices still so high? You see empty storefronts all over town, but landlords must be getting tax breaks or something. How else could they go more than a year without budging on their asking price, I ask you. And even to rent a little kitchen space for a few hours, boy what a chore. If anyone has any ideas on this subject, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know.) I don’t know about you, but in addition to the colatura, bottarga, guanciale, lardo, and all the other stinky and glorious Italian pantry items I seem to live on all winter, I eat tons of grape tomatoes. I crave tomatoes all year long, and what else can you get right now in the tomato department that’s decent? And they are decent, maybe not always for eating raw, but great for roasting or quick sautéing for, say, a pasta sauce, and if they turn out to be a little sour, you can always adjust with a pinch of sugar.

On my way home I had bought a couple of those pre-flattened chicken cutlets at the supermarket. They’re not my favorite thing, a little flavorless, but they’re okay for a quick dinner, and they do cook quickly, very quickly, so you need to get your oil hot, and you want to lightly brown each side with your best flash-cook technique, so you won’t wind up with a piece of  shoe leather.

I seared the grape tomatoes in olive oil to make a little warm salad to plop on top of the chicken. Pretty healthy and easy, I figured. I did happen to have a lovely chunk of Raschera cheese on hand (no quick-and-easy goes unembellished by this dame). Raschera is a cow’s milk cheese from the province of Cuneo in Piemonte. You can buy it young, when its  texture is soft and its flavor gentle, or choose a stronger aged version, good for shaving or grating, as I did. The aged Raschera  has a complex and subtle saltiness with a sweet undertone. It tastes a little like Asiago, only a lot more sophisticated. You can buy it at Di Palo’s cheese shop on Grand Street in Manhattan, or order it through their website at www.dipaloselects.com. You can substitute Asiago if you like. I think this easy but slightly pungent piatto unico would go very nicely with a glass or two of Dolcetto wine. In terms of cooking time, the entire recipe goes down in about ten minutes.

Chicken with Arugula, Grape Tomatoes, and Raschera

(Serves 2)

Extra-virgin olive oil
1 pint sweet grape tomatoes
1 garlic clove, very thinly sliced
Salt
A pinch of sugar, if needed
Freshly ground black pepper
A big handful of baby arugula leaves, stemmed
The juice from 1 lemon
1 teaspoon coarse-grain Dijon mustard
½ cup all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon ground allspice
A pinch of hot paprika (I like Aleppo, a Syrian variety)
2 large chicken cutlets, about ¼ inch thick
About 8 thyme sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
A small chunk of aged Raschera or Asiago cheese

In a medium skillet, heat a tablespoon of olive oil over medium-high heat. When hot, add the tomatoes, and sear them quickly, just until they’re lightly browned and starting to burst. Add the garlic, salt, and black pepper, and sear a few seconds longer, just to release the garlic’s flavor. Add a splash of water to the skillet, and turn off the heat.

In a small bowl mix together about half the lemon juice, the mustard, salt, black pepper, and 2 tablespoons of olive oil.

Place the flour on a plate, and mix it with the allspice and hot paprika and a generous amount of salt and black pepper.

In a large skillet, heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high flame. Dredge the chicken in the flour. When the oil is hot, add the chicken, cooking it quickly, just until golden. Give the cutlets a flip, and cook the other side just until golden. The entire cooking should take only a little more than a minute.

Place the cutlets on two dinner plates. Add the tomatoes and the thyme to the arugula. Pour on the dressing and toss.

Squeeze the remaining lemon juice over the cutlets, and then pile some salad on top of each one. Shave a few thin slices of Raschera over the top, and serve right away.

This is not a painting on the wall at Orso’s New York restaurant, but an eleventh-century fresco from the church of Sant’Orso in Aosta, Italy (artist unknown).

For some strange reason I’ve gotten five requests in the past few weeks for a recipe for the “pizza bread” served at Orso, a restaurant in the theater district of Manhattan. Even weirder, last year around this time I also got a bunch of requests for the same bread. Nobody has said it was a particularly Eastery type of bread, so both flurries of requests baffle me. I’ve never tasted Orso’s pizza bread, and I can only imagine it must be something extremely special. Last year, when the first round of requests came in, I emailed Orso’s kitchen and management several times to see if they might help me out. No response. I even got bold and gave the restaurant a call, but I got a major runaround (very secretive, those people who work there).  On the menu “pizza bread” is described as being served either of two ways, with olive oil and rosemary or with olive oil and garlic. How complicated could that be? So I took a stab at it and worked out what I thought was a very good recipe for a type of crisp, somewhat flat focaccia. A reader told me it wasn’t exactly right.

Just to address all my readers who have recently written to me about this bread, if I could sneak in and grab a few slices of this obviously amazing pizza bread and flee, I would do so and come up with a recipe that would definitely be closer, but that does seem quite sleazy. Still, I want  you to know that I will try harder this time to wrestle the recipe from Orso, and if I do obtain the grand document, I will post it (with their permission, of course). Could it be that they just buy the stuff and don’t want anyone to know?