Erica De Mane

This dish should be voluptuous; to make it so, keep the eggs soft and runny so the yolks can mingle with the saltiness of the olives and the rich olive oil. Choose thick, juicy asparagus, and peel the stem ends so they’re tender all the way up.Olivata is Italian-style olive paste, very much like France’s tapenade. This recipe makes more of it than you’ll use, but it will keep well in the refrigerator for about a week, and it tastes good on many things. You can use it on grilled or roasted seafood, for instance, or on grilled lamb chops, or spooned onto crostini (little toasted bread rounds) for an appetizer. I especially like to toss it with spaghetti. If you do that, add the olivata to your al dente spaghetti and then moisten it with a few tablespoons of cooking water and a generous splash of fresh olive oil to loosen the sauce, and add a handful of chopped basil at the last minute.

(Serves 2 as a first course or a brunch dish)

1 cup Gaeta black olives, pitted
1 garlic clove, roughly chopped
A palmful of salt-packed capers, soaked in cool water for about 1/2 hour and rinsed
2 salt-packed anchovies, rinsed of excess salt, filleted, and rinsed again (and soaked in cool water for about 20 minutes if they are excessively salty)
The zest and juice from 1 small lemon
A few thyme sprigs, the leaves only
A tiny splash of grappa or brandy
A teaspoon of Dijon mustard
Freshly ground black pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil
10 fairly thick asparagus stalks, the stems trimmed and peeled
2 very fresh eggs, preferably organic
Salt
A handful of basil leaves, cut into thin strips

To make the olivata, place the pitted olives, garlic, capers, anchovies, lemon zest, and thyme in the bowl of a food processor and pulse for a few seconds until you have a rough paste. Add the grappa or brandy, mustard, a few grindings of black pepper, and about 1/2 cup of good extra virgin olive oil. Add enough oil to lubricate all the ingredients so the texture is no longer crumbly.. Pulse a few more times, just until everything is mixed but the texture is still chunky. I don’t like my olivata smooth, but I do like it luxuriously oily. Because of all the salty things you’ve added here, you won’t need extra salt, but do taste for balance; depending on your preference, you may feel you need a little more garlic, or lemon flavor (a squeeze of lemon juice might be just the thing). You can transfer the olivata to a small bowl and refrigerate it for a few days, or you can use it right away. If you do refrigerate it, make sure to bring it to room temperature before using it, so the finished dish can be warm and runny with no hard edges.

Put up a large pot of water and bring it to a boil. Drop the asparagus into it, tips up (it’s okay if the ends of the tips stick out of the water a bit). Blanch until just tender, no more than about 4 minutes, depending on how thick it is. Scoop the asparagus from the water with a large strainer, and lay it out on paper towels to drain. Arrange the asparagus on two small plates, all pointing in the same direction. Sprinkle it with salt, and drizzle it lightly with olive oil.

Fill a shallow saucepan with water and bring it to a very gentle simmer. Add a little salt to it. Gently crack an egg into a small cup and release it smoothly into the water so the yolk isn’t jarred. Do the same with the other egg. Let the two eggs poach, without moving them around at all, until the whites are set but the yolks are still runny. This should take about 3 minutes. Gently scoop them from the water, one at a time, and drain them on paper towels. Place one egg on each serving of asparagus.

Spoon a generous spoonful of olivata onto each egg. Give each dish a squeeze of lemon juice and a grinding of black pepper. Garnish with the basil and send to the table right away. Serve with good Italian bread, toasted, if you like (if you do choose to toast it, you might as well go all the way and rub the toast with raw garlic, brush it with olive oil, and finish it with a pinch of salt).

I like serving this with or after a plate of thin-sliced prosciutto, accompanied perhaps by buttered Italian bread.

Whole wheat berries are used in Southern Italian cooking to make all sort of salads and for cuccia, a mix of wheat berries, ricotta, and a sweetener such as sugar or cocoa. I love serving wheat berries warm, tossed with seasonal vegetables almost the way you might compose a pasta dish. Make sure to buy hard wheat berries (usually label “hard spring wheat”). The soft winter wheat cooks up a little too mushy. You’ll most easily find wheat berries at health food stores and Middle Eastern markets.Zucchini blossoms should be very fresh and unwilted when you buy them. They are quite perishable and will keep for only about a day, so plan to use them right away. Sticking their stems in a small glass of water in the refrigerator can prolong their freshness for perhaps one additional day. To clean the blossoms for this recipe, open each one and pinch off its stamen, checking while you do this for any dirt that might be trapped inside (just wipe it off with a damp paper towel). Cut off the stem and quarter the blossom lengthwise. I try not to wash zucchini blossoms (they easily become waterlogged). If they are really dirty, dunk them very briefly in cool water, lift them out right away, and drain them on paper towels. But I usually find that wiping the surface with damp paper towels cleans them well enough.

(Serves 4 as a first course or side dish)

1 1/2 cups hard wheat berries
1 bay leaf, fresh if possible
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
3 thin slices of pancetta
4 or 5 scallions, thinly sliced, using some of the tender green part
5 tiny young zucchini, cut into small cubes
About 6 zucchini blossoms (cleaned, see note below)
A splash of white wine
The zest from 1 lemon
A handful of pine nuts, lightly toasted
A handful of basil leaves, cut into thin strips
1 cup fresh ricotta

Place the wheat berries in a large pot and cover them with about 4 inches of cold water. Add the bay leaf and bring the water to a boil. Adjust the heat to medium-low and cook the wheat, uncovered, at a low boil (a bit more vigorous than a simmer but not a rolling boil), for about 45 minutes to an hour. Add hot water if the water level shrinks to less than an inch above the wheat. When done, the grains will have swelled to about twice their size and will be tender to the bite with just a bit of resistance. Some of the grains will have started to burst. Drain well and pour the wheat berries into a large serving bowl. Drizzle with a few tablespoons of olive oil and season lightly with salt and black pepper. Gently mix.

In a large skillet, heat about 3 tablespoons of olive oil over a medium flame. Add the pancetta and sauté until crisp, about 4 minutes. Add the scallions and the zucchini and sauté until the zucchini is just tender, about 5 minutes (really young, tender zucchini will cook especially quickly). Season with salt and black pepper. Add the sliced zucchini blossoms and sauté very quickly, just until they wilt, about a minute. Add the white wine and let it bubble for a few seconds (the wine will loosen up juices on the bottom of the skillet so they can be incorporated into the wheat, adding a lot of flavor). Add the zucchini mixture, with all the skillet juices, to the wheat berries. Add the pine nuts, lemon zest, and basil. Add a drizzle of fresh olive oil, and toss everything gently. Taste for seasoning. You might want to add a little fresh lemon juice to pick up the flavors.

Serve warm in a small pasta bowl with a dollop of ricotta on top of each serving.

This is a reworking of a pasta dish I had for lunch in Trapani, on Sicily’s western coast. It used dried favas that had been cooked down to a rough purée, and the taste was good, but the color was a sort of mossy gray green. By using fresh favas I get a brilliant green shade that cheers my American heart (Southern Italian cooks almost always go for flavor above presentation). Mint is one of the first herbs available at my greenmarket in spring, so I make this dish to celebrate the beginning of warm weather.Freshly dug spring bulb onions start showing up at my greenmarket in May. They are relatively small, shiny-skinned, and juicy (because they haven’t been stored). They also are often sold with their green stem still intact, which is sweet and edible once you pull off the outer layer; I always try to use a little of it. If you can’t find these onions, use five or six scallions instead.

To prepare fava beans, first remove the beans from their fuzzy pods. You’ll notice that each bean is covered with a thin skin. This skin cooks up a little tough and can be slightly bitter, so you should remove it. To do so, blanch the beans in a pot of boiling water for about 30 seconds, drain them, and refresh under cold water. Drain again. The skin will now slip off easily to reveal the brilliantly green bean underneath.

If you can’t find, or don’t want to bother with, the fava beans (they are a little work), fresh peas, about a cup of them, make a wonderful springtime substitute.

(Serves 6 as a first course or 4 as a main course)

Extra virgin olive oil
2 medium spring bulb onions (see above), thinly sliced, using some of the tender green stem
1 pound orzo pasta (or another small shape, such as tubettini)
2 pounds fava beans, removed from their pods and skinned (see above)
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A few scrapings of fresh nutmeg
A splash of dry white wine
1/2 cup homemade or low-salt canned chicken broth
4 thin slices prosciutto di Parma, trimmed of excess fat and cut into strips
A squeeze of lemon juice
A chunk of aged Pecorino cheese
A small handful of mint leaves, lightly chopped

Set up a large pot of pasta cooking water and bring it to a boil.

In a skillet large enough to eventually hold the sauce and all the pasta, heat about 4 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the onions and sauté until soft, fragrant, and just starting to turn golden.

When boiling, add a generous amount of salt to the pasta water (the water should actually taste slightly salty) and drop in the orzo.

Add the skinned fava beans to the skillet, season everything with salt, black pepper, and a few scrapings of nutmeg, and sauté over medium-low heat for about 3 or 4 minutes, just to coat the beans with flavor and to soften them slightly. Add a splash of white wine and let it boil away. Add the chicken broth and simmer for about a minute, just to finish cooking the beans and to blend the flavors (the sauce will also thicken a bit).

When the orzo is al dente, drain it and add it to the skillet. Toss briefly over low heat for about 30 seconds. Add the prosciutto and toss to distribute it throughout the dish. Pour the pasta into a large, warmed serving bowl. Add a squeeze of lemon juice, a generous amount of freshly grated Pecorino, the chopped mint, a few gratings of black pepper, and a healthy drizzle of fresh olive oil (because of the saltiness of the prosciutto, you will not need more salt). Give the whole thing a final toss and bring it to the table, along with the remaining chunk of Pecorino for those who would like a little extra cheese.

Little chokeless artichokes and tiny new potatoes are best for this dish, which is an Easter classic in many parts of Southern Italy, celebrating spring and the renewal of the earth. You can double the recipe if you want to serve a larger group.A word about trimming baby artichokes: Since these small vegetables have not yet developed their chokes, you need only pull off their tough outer leaves until you get to the tender, light-green ones. But be thorough enough so you don’t wind up biting down on anything indigestible. Trim the top, and trim and peel the stem. Then place the trimmed artichokes in a big bowl of cold water with the juice of a large lemon until you’re ready to cook them.

(Serves 4)

Extra virgin olive oil
2 thin slices pancetta, well chopped
2 dozen baby artichokes, trimmed (see above) and placed in a bowl of cold water with the juice of 1 large lemon
4 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A dozen small red potatoes, cut in half
A splash of dry white wine
A squeeze of lemon juice
A few large sprigs of fresh mint, the leaves chopped
Shavings of young Pecorino cheese

In a large skillet, heat 3 or 4 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the pancetta and sauté it until it’s just starting to crisp. Drain the artichokes well and add them to the skillet. Sauté, uncovered, until lightly golden, about 8 to 10 minutes. Add the garlic about halfway through the sautéing, so it doesn’t burn. Season with salt and black pepper, cover the pan, lower the heat, and cook, stirring frequently, until the artichokes are just fork tender (you should be able to do this without adding liquid, but if the artichokes start to stick or burn, add a splash of white wine).

While the artichokes are cooking, blanch the potatoes in boiling salted water until just tender, about 5 minutes. Drain them well.

When the artichokes are almost tender, uncover the pan, add the potatoes, and cook both vegetables together for a few minutes to blend their flavors and to lightly brown the potatoes. Add a splash of white wine and let it boil away. Add a generous squeeze of lemon juice, and reseason with a touch of salt and a few fresh grindings of black pepper. Scatter on the mint and give everything a gentle toss. Place in a serving bowl and shave the Pecorino over the top.

For me Easter means, among other things, the real beginning of spring. I have memories of my sister and me putting on matching sleeveless pink-and-turquoise mini dresses and white straw hats and standing against the front door, our bare legs shivering in the 35-degree suburban New York weather, while my father took pictures with a Polaroid camera. I have several years’ worth of these blue-lipped photos, and they’re a reminder of how slowly spring can come around here. Now that I’m grown up and spend much of my time obsessing over seasonal produce and hunting down exquisite things to cook, my irritation with early spring is even more pronounced. April at the Union Square Greemarket still smells of hot apple cider, while I’m dreaming about artichokes, fresh peas, fava beans, asparagus, wild strawberries, and all the beautiful springtime dishes cooks are already preparing in Southern Italy, where a proper spring is in progress by now.

Here are a few anticipatory dishes I’ve been cooking lately, admittedly using California asparagus and hothouse herbs. I look forward to cooking them again using the real things.

I’ll be sharing more Spring recipes with you as the season progresses.

Recipe: Sautéed Artichokes with Pancetta and New Potatoes

Recipe: Orzo with Fava Beans, Spring Onions, Prosciutto, and Mint

Recipe: Wheat Berries with Pancetta, Zucchini Blossoms, and Pine Nuts

Recipe: Asparagus with Poached Eggs and Olivata

Recipe: Steamed Mussels with Spring Herbs and Green Garlic

Recipe: Braised Tuna with Artichokes and Mint Pesto

Recipe: Agnello alla Cacciatore

Recipe: Veal Scaloppine with Dandelion, Spring Onion, and Caper Salad

Recipe: Rhubarb and Strawberry Compote with Grappa

Recipes:
Roman-Style Tripe with Mint, Potatoes, and Cacio di Roma Cheese
Oxtail Stew with Red Vermouth and Orange
Short Ribs with Chianti and Celery Gremolata

In February and March, when the Union Square Greenmarket in Manhattan offers shoofly pie, beeswax candles, balls of wool, and potatoes, I take my inspiration not from seasonal produce but from New York trattoria cooking. I love slow-braised meat dishes, and I’m drawn to restaurants that offer renditions made from unusual cuts like oxtail, tripe, lamb shank, or short ribs. My grandmother used to occasionally cook tripe and oxtail, to the horror of everyone in the family except my grandfather. I was a young girl when she brought these dishes to the table, and I don’t remember actually eating them (probably I didn’t). We shared a winter house in Florida with my grandparents, and about the only thing I vividly remember having for dinner there was coconut patties, which my sister and I were wild for. Why my grandmother insisted on cooking oxtails and tripe in the Florida heat I can’t say, except that my grandfather was a tyrant who probably insisted on them. She also made pig’s knuckles, which my grandfather had discovered and fallen in love with at his weekly lunches at Luchow’s, the grand old German restaurant on 14th Street in Manhattan. Tripe and oxtail went out of my life completely when I was about ten, until a decade or so later when I began visiting Rome.

Rome’s Testaccio neighborhood once housed that city’s stockyards, and even though that business is now gone, there are still many restaurants around the area, some surprisingly fancy, that specialize in hearty dishes made from butcher’s cuts such as oxtail and pajata (stuffed cow’s intestines), always long-simmered in wine or tomatoes and herbs. In Rome these cuts, along with organ meats, are known as quinto quarto, or “fifth fourth,” because they make up a fifth part of an animal that is traditionally butchered in four main sections. I wouldn’t want to eat this food every day, but I find it sensational a few times a year. When I can’t get to the Testaccio, I go to Bar Pitti on Sixth Avenue in Manhattan, a few blocks from my apartment. Bar Pitti’s tripe with potatoes and rosemary is elegant and unexpectedly light. In addition to this Roman-style tripe they also cook up a red-wine-hued oxtail stew and serve it with a mound of soft polenta.

I cook oxtail and tripe in my own little kitchen, always buying my tripe from Faicco’s on Bleecker Street, where I know it will be extremely fresh. Tripe is actually cattle’s stomach lining, which sounds a lot less desirable than it turns out to be when lovingly cooked. There are several cuts of tripe, but the most tender one is honeycomb (in Italy tripe stews are often made with three different cuts, some a little tough and gnarly). Any tripe you buy nowadays comes already partially cooked, which cuts preparation time by several hours, although to become meltingly tender even precooked tripe needs at least two hours of simmering to soak up all the wine and herb flavors and make a softened and nuanced dish.

Short ribs are not usually associated with Italian cooking, although they sometimes find their way into Italian-American Sunday meat sauces, along with sausages, bracciole, and pork chops. They make a smart addition there, for their rich taste and gelatinous texture produces a thick-bodied sauce that clings well to pasta (I use the sauce to dress the pasta and offer the meat as a second course, usually with a vegetable or salad, in true Southern Italian style). Short ribs are the meaty end sections of ribs. If you really love the taste of beef, they’re a great cut for you, tough and fatty to start with but cooking up soft and rich. They’re too tough to just throw on the barbecue like other ribs; they need a slow braise. The long, gentle cooking dissolves much of the fat, and you skim it off the top of the braising liquid.

Despite the lengthy cooking time these meats require, once up and simmering they don’t need to be coddled; they’re pretty much on their own, except for occasional skimming. Once they’re tender, all you need do to fine-tune the dish is a final check of the seasoning, balancing the flavors with salt, a squirt of lemon juice or vinegar, a drizzle of fresh olive oil, and maybe a handful of freshly chopped herbs. You can always reduce the sauce over high heat (after removing the tender meat) to concentrate the flavors, if you like.

Here are my interpretations of classic Roman tripe and oxtail stews, plus my improvisational short-rib ragu. I hope these warming recipes will help get you through the rest of the winter.

Happy cold-weather cooking to you.

Roman-Style Tripe with Mint, Potatoes, and Cacio di Roma Cheese

I learned to cook tripe at my first restaurant job, at Florent in the meatpacking neighborhood of Manhattan. When Florent first opened, we served many butcher-type dishes, including kidneys, sweetbreads, tongue, brains, and even animelles (beef testicles). It was interesting learning how to prepare those things, but I can’t say I’ve had a longing to cook up a batch of testicles since. I have, however, developed a real fondness for tripe, and I make it a couple of times every winter. Here is my interpretation of the classic Roman way to prepare it.

(Serves 5)

2 1/2 pounds honeycomb beef tripe
1/4 cup white-wine vinegar
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
A few tablespoons of unsalted butter
A few thin slices of fatty prosciutto end, chopped
4 shallots, cut into small dice
2 carrots, cut into small dice
1 celery rib, cut into small dice
Freshly ground black pepper
2 whole allspice, ground to a powder
1 bay leaf, fresh if possible
1 1/2 cups light white wine such as Frascati
1 35-ounce can plum tomatoes, well drained and chopped
About 1 1/2 to 2 cups homemade veal, mixed-meat, or chicken broth, or low-salt, canned chicken broth (Swanson is best)
A few small sprigs of mint, the leaves lightly chopped
A generous handful of basil leaves, chopped
6 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and halved
A chunk of Cacio di Roma or other mild Pecorino cheese

Place the tripe in a large casserole fitted with a lid. Add the vinegar and pour on cold water to cover. Season with salt and bring the liquid to a boil over high heat. Turn off the heat and let the tripe sit in the casserole for 15 minutes. Drain the tripe and rinse it under cold water. This step refreshes the tripe and wakes up its flavor, and if any scum on the meat floats to the surface, it will rinse away. Dry the tripe and slice it into thin strips.

In the same casserole, add about 2 tablespoons each of butter and olive oil over medium heat. Add the prosciutto and let it sauté for about a minute, just to give off some of its fat. Add the tripe, shallots, carrot, celery, bay leaf, and ground allspice. Season with salt and black pepper and sauté until the vegetables have softened, about 5 minutes. Add the wine and let it boil down by half. Add the tomatoes, about 1 1/2 cups of broth, and about half the chopped herbs. Bring to a boil again and then turn the heat down to very low, cover the casserole, and cook at a gentle simmer until the tripe is very tender, about 3 hours (you can instead, if you prefer, place the covered casserole in a 325 degree oven). If the liquid evaporates to uncover more than about 1/4 of the tripe, add a little more broth (or if you run out, warm water).

When the tripe is tender, taste for seasoning, adding more salt or black pepper if needed. Add the rest of the chopped herbs and a drizzle of fresh olive oil. Right before serving, boil the potatoes until just tender, drain, and dress with olive oil and salt. Serve the tripe in deep pasta bowls or soup bowls with a few potatoes alongside. Sprinkle with a generous amount of freshly grated Cacio di Roma cheese.

Ideas: Mint is the traditional herb used to flavor this dish in Rome, but Bar Pitti in Manhattan uses rosemary, whose woodsy oils also blend nicely with tripe. I love this variation. If you’d like to try it, omit the mint and basil and add two small sprigs of rosemary to the casserole when you add the bay leaf. You don’t need to add additional fresh rosemary at the end, as you would with the mint and basil. Rosemary always tastes better to me when it has had a chance to open up with the heat of cooking. Fresh rosemary sprinkled on a finished dish can taste a little harsh (and the needles can be spiky).

Oxtail Stew with Red Vermouth and Orange

Oxtails were originally actually cut from oxen, which are castrated bulls. Now they are cut from everyday beef cattle, but I suppose oxtail sounds more folklorico than cow tail, so the original name of the stew has endured.

I’ve flavored the stew with a generous amount of orange juice and with sweet red vermouth. That may sound like an odd combination, and it’s not how my grandmother made it (she used tomatoes and possibly white wine, but nobody seems to remember exactly), but the long cooking blends the sweet and acid notes of the vermouth and juice into a lively sauce that gently lifts the richness of the very rich meat.

(Serves 4)

Extra-virgin olive oil
4 pounds oxtails (try to get the wider, meatier middle cut, not the tiny tail ends)
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A small chunk of fatty prosciutto end, in one piece
2 leeks
2 carrots
2 garlic cloves
2 whole cloves, ground to a powder
1 cup sweet red vermouth
1 1/2 cups dry red wine
1 cup fresh orange juice, plus 2 strips orange rind
1 1/2 cups homemade beef broth or mixed meat broth (or use Perfect Addition or another high-quality frozen beef broth)
A few sprigs of winter savory, the leaves chopped
A splash of balsamic vinegar
A handful of flat-leaf parsley sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Choose a large casserole that will hold the meat more or less in one layer (a little overlap is okay). Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. Season the oxtails with salt and black pepper and brown them well on all sides. Add the prosciutto chunk, the leeks, carrots, garlic, and ground clove, and turn the heat down to medium. Sauté a few minutes to soften the vegetables. Add the red wine and the red vermouth and cook at a lively bubble for about 5 minutes. Add the orange juice and rind, the broth, and the savory. The meat should be almost completely covered with liquid. If not, add more broth or water. Bring this to a boil. Cover the casserole and place it in the oven. Let the stew cook at a low simmer until very tender, about 2 1/2 to 3 hours (the meat should be falling off the bone).

Take the casserole from the oven and remove the meat with a slotted spoon. Skim most of the fat from the surface of the sauce. (Oxtail throws off a lot of fat. If you like, you can make the stew the day before serving, refrigerate it overnight, and them skim the cold fat from the surface before reheating.)

Add a splash of balsamic vinegar to the sauce and give it a taste. Reseason with salt or black pepper if needed. Also if needed to intensify the flavors, boil the sauce down over high heat for a few minutes. Return the oxtails to the sauce and reheat briefly. Add the parsley. Serve in deep pasta bowls, over polenta if you like, but I prefer a simple accompaniment of good Italian bread to soak up all the sauce.

Short Ribs with Chianti and Celery Gremolata

Short ribs can be butchered in two ways, either lengthwise along the bone, like traditional ribs, or crosswise through the bone, into shorter sections. Either cut is fine for this recipe. In New York markets I most often find the short cut, sometimes called the flanken cut. One thing you should now about that cut is that just when the meat gets really tender and juicy, some of the short bones sometimes pull away and float around in the cooking liquid. I just discard them and serve the ribs semi-boneless. This doesn’t happen with the long cut.

Gremolata, a seasoning usually associated with osso buco (veal shank), is a mix of finely chopped lemon zest, parsley, garlic, and sometimes a little sage. You either mix it into the sauce or scatter it over the top of the osso buco right before serving, for a burst of flavor. I’ve added celery leaves to the gremolata mix, picking up on a prominent flavor in the sauce. They add a refreshing and pleasantly bitter note to the very rich meat.

You’ll notice that I season the dish with a few anchovy fillets. This is common in Italian meat cooking, and also in Provençal cuisine (in Provence they often spoon anchovy butter over grilled steaks, which I love). Anchovies add a little kick to a braised meat dish like this one, and the long cooking dissolves the fish, leaving behind a gentle enrichment that is not detectably fishy at all.

(Serves 4)

Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A small palmful of coriander seeds, ground to a powder
A generous pinch of sugar
About 1/2 cup Wondra flour
Extra-virgin olive oil
4 pounds beef short ribs
4 medium shallots, cut into small dice
3 inner celery ribs, cut into small dice, plus the leaves from about 5 stalks, reserved for the gremolata
2 carrots, peeled and cut into small dice
4 anchovy fillets, rinsed
2 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
2 bay leaves, fresh if possible
A few large thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped
A bottle of Chianti or another rich Italian red wine
4 cups beef or mixed-meat broth (a mix of high-quality frozen beef broth, Perfect Addition or D’Artagnan, with Swanson’s canned low-salt chicken broth works especially well if you don’t have homemade broth on hand)
1 15-ounce can plum tomatoes, well chopped with juice
3/4 pound penne

For the gremolata:

1 garlic clove, peeled
The zest from 1 large lemon, using no bitter white pith
A few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley leaves
The reserved celery leaves (from above)
A pinch of sea salt

Dry the short ribs and season them with the ground coriander, salt, black pepper, and sugar. Coat them well with the flour.

Choose a large casserole fitted with a lid. Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium flame. When the oil is hot, add the short ribs and brown well on all sides (you may need to do this in batches if your casserole is too small). When the ribs are well browned, turn the heat down a bit and add the shallots, celery, carrot, garlic, and anchovy. Sauté until the vegetables start to soften, about 4 or 5 minutes. Add the bay leaves, thyme, and the bottle of wine. Let the wine bubble and reduce by about a quarter. Now add the broth and the tomatoes. Bring to a boil. Turn the heat to low, cover the casserole, and simmer at a very low bubble until the meat is very tender, about 2 to 2 1/2 hours. You’ll need to skim fat from the surface several times during the cooking, and it’s a good idea to uncover the casserole in the last half hour, so the sauce can evaporate and thicken a little.

While the ribs are cooking make the gremolata by finely chopping all the ingredients and mixing them together in a small bowl (I like doing this by hand; an electric grinder or food processor can turn them into a mush where I prefer a dry, light consistency).

When you are ready to serve the dish, cook the penne al dente, drain, and place in a warmed serving bowl. Place the ribs on a serving platter and pour half the sauce over the penne and half over the ribs. Garnish the ribs with the gremolata. Grate a little Parmigiano or Grana Padano cheese over the pasta if you like. Both dishes can be served at the same time, or, more in keeping with Italian style, you can serve the pasta first, keeping the ribs warm, then make them a second course, along with a green salad or a vegetable such as sautéed escarole or broccoli rabe.

Recipes:
Pork Chops with Gently Vinegared Peppers
Veal and Yellow Peppers

Veal and peppers and pork chops with vinegar peppers were two extremely popular dishes among Italian-Americans during the sixties and seventies, when I was a kid. They have their origins in the cooking of Campania and Calabria, in the South, but variations on them turn up in the mountainous Abruzzi as well. I like both dishes in theory, but I’ve never loved them as made by most Italian-Americans, including, I’m sorry to say, my own family. I want to, but I can’t help thinking that if they’re worth cooking, they must be worth cooking better. My problem has always been with the peppers. People almost always make the pork chops with jarred pickled peppers, which are so acidic they make my eyes water. They overpower the pork, wine, and garlic, and absolutely smother delicate fresh herbs like basil or parsley. And to make the dish even sharper, most cooks pour a healthy amount of the pickling liquid into the pan at the last minute. Those jarred peppers are classically served, as they should be, with rich, oily cured sausage, where their reason for being becomes apparent and they actually taste delicious. Many traditional recipes call for gently pickling your own peppers, but even in Italy they use jarred peppers more often than not. I make a sautéed and gently vinegared pepper for my version of this classic.

Your choice of vinegar for a dish that relies on vinegar for prominent flavoring is very important. Here I use sherry wine vinegar for its earthy, musty tone (most Italian-Americans use white-wine vinegar, which can be good if you choose a high quality one). Also I roast the peppers, which leaves them soft, sweet, and porous (more willing to soak up seasonings).

My problem with veal and peppers is the green peppers with their skins left on. Green peppers are strongly flavored to begin with, and they can become harsh when cooked in their skins. It’s not that they don’t have a place in the world that way; they can be enjoyable as an isolated taste, as in many cooked Moroccan salads that contain only stewed green peppers, usually in the skin, and maybe a little tomato. Since veal is such a mild meat, I’ve chosen roasted, sweeter peppers as a nice change. They don’t radically alter the character of the dish, but they do soften it. I picked yellow peppers, which are not as sweet as red ones but still become mellow when roasted (although the roasting turns them a little brown, so you don’t get that gorgeous color in the stew).

Pork Chops with Gently Vinegared Peppers

Manducatis is an old-fashioned Southern Italian trattoria in Long Island City, New York. They turn out refined versions of standbys such as pasta e fagiole and eggplant Parmigiano that put other old-fashioned Italian restaurants to shame. They make a light and lively version of pork chops and peppers using red Italian frying peppers, the long skinny ones. I prefer the sweetness of bell peppers, so they’re what I’ve used here. Otherwise the dish is similar.

Thick, pink pork chops look so beautiful raw that you just assume they will be juicy and wonderful when cooked, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been disappointed by dry, tough chops, either when eating out or preparing them myself. Now I’ve learned. Pork chops need to be cooked quickly, leaving them slightly pink, or else they will get tough. The best way I’ve found is to brown them on one side over high heat, turn them over, lower the heat to medium-low, and finish cooking them gently and quickly until they are just tender and still fairly pink. The other way to produce tender chops is by long, slow braising. Anything in between will make them tough.

(Serves 2)

2 medium-size red bell peppers
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 fresh medium-hot cherry peppers, cut in half and seeded (these are the kind usually found pickled and jarred)
2 garlic cloves, very thinly sliced
A small red onion, thinly sliced
Salt
2 anchovy fillets, chopped
3 tablespoons sherry wine vinegar
2 large bone-in center-cut loin pork chops about 1 1/2 inches thick
About 1/4 cup Wondra flour
A generous splash of dry white wine
2 large marjoram sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
A few basil leaves, lightly chopped

Roast the peppers under a hot broiler close to the heat until black and blistered all over. Run them very briefly under cold water just to cool them slightly. Peel and seed them and chop them into small cubes.

In a small skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium flame. Add the fresh cherry peppers, garlic, and onion, and sauté a minute to soften. Add the roasted peppers, the anchovy, season with a little salt, and sauté about 3 minutes longer, just until everything is tender and fragrant. Pour on the vinegar and let it bubble until almost evaporated. Set aside.

In a medium-size heavy-bottomed skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high flame. Dry the pork chops well, coat them lightly with flour, and season them on both sides with salt. When the pan is hot, add the chops and brown on one side, about 4 minutes. Turn the chops over, lower the heat to medium-low, and cook until they are tender with a fair amount of pink at the bone, about another 4 or 5 minutes, depending on how thick they are. Add the white wine and let it bubble for a few seconds. Turn the heat to very low, cover the pan, and cook gently for about another minute, until the chops have only a touch of pink to them.

Add the marjoram and basil to the vinegared peppers and stir to blend them in (if the peppers have cooled too much, reheat them gently before you add the herbs).

Remove the chops from the skillet to a serving plate. If you have more than about 3 tablespoons of skillet liquid left in the pan, reduce it over high heat and pour it over the chops; if it is already reduced to less, just go ahead and pour it over as is. Pour the peppers on top of the chops. Serve right away.

My mother always served this dish with chunks of oven roasted potatoes, seasoned with olive oil and black pepper, and I still think they are the best accompaniment.

Veal and Yellow Peppers

When I was a kid, veal and peppers were fast food available at every pizza place in New York, usually spooned into a big hero sandwich. My father loved that, but he said it gave him agita (it was those pepper skins). My version is more a proper stew, with broth and no skins. I like garnishing the finished dish with fried capers and serving it with polenta.

A few words about canned plum tomatoes: I’ve always like Muir Glen Organic whole canned tomatoes. Not only are they fresh, red, and bright tasting, but they’re packed in enamel-lined cans, so you don’t get any of that metallic taste that can sometimes be a problem even with imported Italian brands. I’ve just discovered Muir Glen’s canned diced tomatoes, and they are wonderful. I usually never buy chopped or puréed tomatoes from other companies; they’re generally packed in a thick tomato paste, making them heavy-tasting and adding an unwanted smoothness to the sauce. Muir Glen packs theirs in a light tomato broth. They also cut them into neat, uniform pieces that look beautiful in a sauce, especially if you like your tomato sauces to have a little texture.

(Serves 4 or 5)

Extra-virgin olive oil
3 pounds veal shoulder, cut into approximately 2-inch chunks
1/2 cup Wondra flour for dredging
Sea salt
A few thin slices of fatty prosciutto end, well chopped
1 small onion, cut into small dice
2 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
A few gratings of nutmeg
3/4 cup dry Marsala
1 1/2 cups homemade or low-salt canned chicken broth (Swanson is the best)
1 15-ounce can plum tomatoes, drained and well chopped (see above for a brand I like)
1 bay leaf
3 roasted yellow peppers (broiled on all sides until blackened, and then peeled), cut into medium dice
1/4 cup salt-packed capers, soaked in several changes of cool water for 1/2 hour and then well rinsed
The juice and zest from 1/2 lemon
A large handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, chopped

Choose a large casserole fitted with a lid. Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high flame. Dry the veal chunks and toss to coat them with the flour (Wondra is a finely ground white flour that will give a nice crisp crust to the meat as it browns and also thicken the sauce lightly as the stew simmers). Add the veal to the casserole and brown well all over (you may need to do this in batches if your casserole is small). Veal can sometimes give off a foam as it begins to cook, and this can impede browning. The best thing to do is to let the veal cook without moving it around (moving it can actually cause it to give off more foam) until the foam evaporates and the meat starts to brown. Season the meat with a bit of salt. Add the chopped prosciutto and the onion, and sauté until the onion softens, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic and grate the nutmeg on. Sauté a minute longer, just to release the flavors. Add the Marsala and let it bubble for about 2 minutes. Add the chicken broth, the tomatoes, and the bay leaf. Bring to a boil. Turn the flame to low, cover the casserole, and simmer for about an hour.

After an hour, add the roasted peppers and simmer, uncovered, for about another half hour, or until the meat is very tender (uncovering the casserole in the final stages of cooking will evaporate some liquid and help thicken the sauce). Skim the surface of excess fat and foam.

Dry the capers well with paper towels. In a small sauté pan, heat about a tablespoon of olive oil over medium flame. When hot, add the capers and sauté until they start to open up (looking like the little flowers that they in fact are) and become crisp, about 2 to 3 minutes.

Add the lemon zest and juice and the parsley to the stew. Stir and taste for seasoning. Garnish with the capers. Serve with polenta or rice, or just with good Italian bread).

Recipe: Whole Baked Fish with a Mellow Marinade

You know that feeling, when you’ve cooked a dish, tasted it, and found it good but not great? There’s something flat about it, or there’s a sharp note that isn’t working, or maybe there’s an unintegrated taste that throws the flavor out of balance. In short, it needs a little help. Most cooks have flavoring secrets that help fine-tune their cooking. Some finish a flat dish with a splash of good vinegar, and a sharp one with a few tablespoons of butter. I tend to use either lemon zest or nutmeg for that kind of balancing.

When I want to tame a vinaigrette, especially if I’m using it on a seafood salad, where I don’t want anything too sharp that might compete with the delicate sea flavors, I sometimes add a few scrapings of nutmeg, which seems to bring the oil and vinegar together in a mellower bond. A slightly sharp tomato sauce can be softened by a hint of nutmeg (I believe this is the reason sauces flavored with pancetta, which is usually seasoned with nutmeg, always taste so lush). I also include a few scrapings to soften the sharp edges of cooked escarole or broccoli rabe. If the wine I’ve added to a fish stew tastes a little obvious, I’ll sometimes add a pinch of nutmeg to cut its acidity. Nutmeg underscores the sweetness in lobster or shrimp, and one of my favorite ways to cook calamari is a slow braise with white wine, tomato, and pinches of both nutmeg and cinnamon. I also add a pinch of nutmeg to tapenade and to roasted red peppers, just to introduce warmth. When I make spaghetti dressed with anchovies and olive oil and the result is too assertive, a few gratings of fresh nutmeg will usually bring it into balance.

Lemon zest is nutmeg’s counterpart. I’ll grate some into a finished meat stew, especially pork or duck, to cut its richness, especially if I’ve added a heavy stock and it weighs down the sauce. When I make traditional Southern Italian pork sausages with roasted peppers, I often grate lemon (and sometimes orange) zest over the dish just before bringing it to the table; the zest brightens it up, cutting the fattiness. And lemon zest is a helpful acidic ingredient to include in a fish marinade, where lemon juice might whiten or cook the fish’s surface, making it mushy. You don’t want excess liquid in a marinade when you plan on sautéing or grilling or the fish may steam instead of browning. Try including lemon zest in vegetable and ricotta fillings for ravioli or torts where you feel the creaminess needs a little reining in. I’ve never been a big fan of cream sauces, but I occasionally make one for a first-course pasta that contains hints of both lemon zest and nutmeg, expanding the sweet cream in both directions to include warm and sharp notes. I use lemon zest in pasta e fagiole to break through the sea of starch, making the dish feel contemporary.

Whole Baked Fish with a Mellow Marinade

Here’s an instance where I use nutmeg and lemon zest in the same dish, adding both warm and sharp tones.

(Serves 2)

1 approximately 2-pound whole sea bass or red snapper, scaled and gutted but with the head left on
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
The zest from 2 lemons (without any white pith), plus the juice from 1 lemon
3 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
About 1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
Freshly grated black pepper
Sea salt
1/2 cup sweet white wine (a Moscato is perfect)
A large handful of basil leaves, cut into thin strips
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

Place the fish in a low-sided baking dish.

In a small bowl, mix together the olive oil, lemon zest, garlic cloves, nutmeg, and black pepper. Pour the mixture over the fish, and move the fish around in it until it is well coated inside and out.

Heat the oven to 425 degrees. While it is heating let the fish sit at room temperature to absorb the marinade, about 20 minutes (you can marinate it and then refrigerate it for a few hours before cooking if you want).

When you’re ready to bake the fish, season it all over with salt. Tuck the garlic cloves from the marinade inside the fish’s cavity, and pour the wine and the lemon juice around the fish.

Bake the fish without turning it until it is just tender, about 20 minutes. (Check by poking a knife into the backbone and gently separating the flesh from the bone; it will be white and just starting to flake when cooked.) If the wine evaporates during cooking, add a splash more, or a little water.

Transfer the fish to a warmed serving platter. Scatter on the basil. Add the butter to the baking dish and stir it into the cooking liquid. Pour the sauce over the fish. Fillet the fish and spoon a little sauce over each serving.

Recipes:
Seafood Salad with Lobster, Pistachios, and Lemon
Quick Shellfish Broth, to use in the sea-bass recipe
Strozzapreti with Mussels and Arugula Pesto
Whole Roasted Sea Bass with Sicilian Caper Sauce
Orange, Fennel, and Pomegranate Salad

Growing up in what I considered to be a relatively contemporary New York Italian-American family, I never had for Christmas eve dinner the seemingly endless procession of fish dishes I witnessed being prepared at the houses of my more “Italian” friends. Their feasts consisted of whole roasted eels, octopus salad, fresh anchovies, baccala, snails, scungilli, fried sardines, pasta with lobster, pasta with clams, pasta with calamari, swordfish slabs, and ten-pound whole fish with huge heads, not to mention the stuffed artichokes, stuffed tomatoes, and stuffed zucchini. All this was set out before four generations of screaming relatives. Not that that kind of gathering and gluttony wouldn’t have been a lot of fun; it just wasn’t my parents’ style. Southern Italian tradition prescribes seven, nine, or thirteen dishes on Christmas Eve, depending on the region, seven for the seven sacraments, nine for the Trinity multiplied by three, or thirteen for Jesus and his twelve disciples. My mother cooked just one fish dish, but it was always something wonderful like garlicky scampi or spaghetti with clam sauce, or my favorite, bucatini with mussels and hot pepper.

Our Christmas Eve was intimate, just parents and kids, but it always included several stray friends, like the girl down the block whose father had died when she was seven and whose mother had subsequently lost all Christmas spirit, or the chain-cigar-smoking friend of my father’s who always managed to get kicked out of his house on holidays. Dinner was served late, around 10:30 or 11. Candles played a big part in setting the atmosphere, possibly helping make up for the decided lack of explicit religious observance in our house. My mother would wear a long cocktail skirt, and an exciting sophisticated mood would fill the air.

After I moved from Long Island into Manhattan, in my early twenties, the entire family before long followed suit and left the island, my brother to Los Angeles and my parents eventually to West Palm Beach. But the family dispersal was not as dramatic for me as for some Italian-Americans, who were more accustomed to huge holiday gatherings. I had my sister living near me in the city, and before long I had a skinny WASP husband to impress with my newfound passion for Southern Italian cooking. But Christmas Eve in Manhattan soon became mostly a feast for friends. It’s amazing how many free spirits you can meet in this city and how uplifting it can be to bring them together for what in my case became more than ever a nondenominational celebration of life and friendship.

My mother always served just one spectacular fish dish, but I’ve found myself settling on three. The number has no spiritual import; it’s just what I can comfortably manage to turn out in my apartment kitchen without going nuts. Every year the dishes are slightly different, but they’ve grown to share a certain style that has now become tradition for me. I always serve a seafood salad with the cocktails. If I expect a lot of people to drop by, I’ll also make baccala mantecato, a Venetian dish of salt cod puréed with olive oil and garlic (it’s almost identical to Provencal brandade). Everyone then sits down to a pasta or rice first course that more often than not includes shellfish (I especially love pasta with mussels). Then I’ll serve a whole roasted fish, usually a sea bass but one year a huge salmon. Sometimes I’ll flavor it with black olives and tomatoes, and sometimes with garlic and fresh herbs, but I always keep it simple. Then comes the orange and fennel salad, which, in my opinion, is the best thing in the world to eat after all that fish.

What I love most about my city Christmas Eve celebration is its fluidity. Some people drop by for drinks, others stay for the whole evening. Pets are always welcome. Kids are invited, but only if they’ll tolerate squid. My friend Tobi always brings her Bedlington terrier, one year dressed in a faux-Burberry raincoat and a very Christmasy matching red-and-black plaid hat. Jay, my bartender friend, always conjures up one very fancy bottle of wine that none of us could ever have afforded to actually buy. The evening usually ends with some utterly informal dancing. I still love all the Louis Prima and Jerry Vale records my father played during our childhood Christmas Eves, and they still make their way onto the stereo.

Comparing your life now to that of your childhood is always tempting, and when you do it’s always easy to find something lacking, but I realize that my way of celebrating Christmas Eve is actually very similar to the way my family did it when I was a kid, a little fancy but free-spirited, and open to anyone with no place to go or no place they’d rather go. My father died eleven months ago after a relatively short but quite painful illness. As sad as this still is for me, it also brings an opportunity to have Christmas Eve dinner with my mother again, for the first time in many years. She has moved back to New York to be near me and my sister. This year will be a celebration of family and friends. I hope you’ll enjoy my menu too.

P.S. About wine: There is one advantage during the holidays to not having your own children. You can focus on wine instead of dessert. I always try to serve Southern Italian wines on Christmas Eve, and I’ve chosen three to go with this menu, all with very different characters. For the seafood salad I like a light, crisp Vermentino from Sardinia (it may be a bit of a stretch to call a Sardinian wine southern, but I like this one so much with cold seafood that I had to include it). For the pasta with mussels I’ve suggested Regaleali’s rosé, from Sicily, which has a gentle bitterness that is not only almost sweet with the briny mussels but complements the bitterness of the arugula as well. One of my favorite southern white wines is Fiano di Avellino, from Campania, which has a slightly honeyed edge. This beautiful wine has become a Christmas Eve tradition for me over the last few years. I always serve it with the main fish course. Feudi di San Gregorio is my favorite producer of Fiano di Avellino, and it is luckily fairly easy to find in this country.

Seafood Salad with Lobster, Pistachios, and Lemon

For me the most delicious seafood salads are ones that are simply designed, without any vinegar, raw green peppers, huge amounts of garlic, dried-pepper flakes, or any of the other harsh-tasting additions delis like to throw in. The most important ingredients are gently cooked, very fresh seafood and your best extra-virgin olive oil. I like to include just a very few flourishes. Here I’ve added pistachios, lemon zest, and a few gentle fresh herbs. For wine with it I’d select La Cala Vermentino di Sardegna, produced by Sella & Mosca.

At the end I’ve appended a recipe for a quick shellfish broth, in case you’d like to use the shells you’ll be left with to prepare one for the Whole Roasted Sea Bass with Sicilian Caper Sauce that’s part of the same menu.

(Serves 6 as an appetizer)

Sea salt
2 bay leaves, fresh if possible
2 live lobsters, approximately 2 1/2-pounds apiece
1 pound very fresh calamari, on the small side, cleaned and cut into rings, the tentacles left whole (if desired, save any trimmings for the broth for the sea-bass recipe)
1 pound medium shrimp, peeled but with the tails left on (if desired, save the peels for the broth for the sea-bass recipe)
About 1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil (I’d ideally use a Sicilian oil like Ravida)
4 scallions, cut into thin rounds, using some of the tender green part
1 garlic clove, minced
A generous pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
The juice and zest from 1 lemon
1 teaspoon soy sauce (not the light variety)
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup unsalted shelled pistachios
A dozen basil leaves, cut into thin strips
A few large tarragon sprigs, the leaves chopped
A small handful of flat leaf parsley leaves, lightly chopped

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add a heaping tablespoon of sea salt and the bay leaves. When the water returns to a boil, drop in the lobsters and boil them until the meat is completely cooked and tender, about 15 minutes for an approximately 2 1/2-pound lobster (cook them one at a time if you don’t have a very large pot). Remove the lobsters from the water and set them aside to cool. Return the water to a boil and add the calamari, cooking it just until it turns opaque, about 30 seconds (cooking longer will make it tough). Scoop the calamari from the water with a large strainer spoon and spread it out on a large sheet pan lined with paper towels. Return the water to a boil and add the shrimp, cooking them until they turn pink and are just tender, about 1 minute, depending on their size. Scoop them from the water and spread them out on another sheet pan lined with paper towels. Let cool.

When the lobsters are cool enough to handle, crack them open with kitchen scissors and a claw cracker, if needed. Remove all the meat from the tail and claws over a shallow pan so you can catch any juices. Cut the meat into not-too-thin slices, and, if you like, reserve the shells to make broth (below) for the sea-bass recipe.

Place all the ingredients for the salad, except the cooked seafood and the fresh herbs, into a large serving bowl. Blend well. Add the seafood and toss gently. Taste for seasoning, adding additional sea salt, black pepper, lemon, or olive oil if needed to balance the flavors. Right before serving, toss in the fresh herbs. This salad is best made about 1/2 to 1 hour before serving and not refrigerated. It can be served with slices of toasted Italian bread brushed with olive oil and eaten as a stand-up appetizer, or spooned over a bed of lightly dressed arugula or chicory for a sit down, plated first course.

Quick Shellfish Broth, to use in the sea-bass recipe:

Since you have all those shells, you may as well put them to good use. I use them for this quick broth for the sauce for the Whole Roasted Sea Bass with Sicilian Caper Sauce in the same menu. It has a gentle, sweet flavor that blends well with the capers and herbs that flavor the fish.

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
The lobster shells, cracked into smaller pieces, plus any juices the lobster has given off
Any trimmings you have left from cutting the calamari (such as small tentacles you didn’t want in the salad)
The shrimp shells
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 garlic clove, mashed with the side of a knife
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Heat the butter in a medium-size saucepan over a medium flame. Add the lobster and shrimp shells and squid trimmings, and sauté them about 3 or 4 minutes (the shrimp shells will turn pink). Add the white wine and let it reduce by half. Add the garlic and about 2 cups of cool water (depending on how you’ve broken up the lobster shells, the water may or may not cover them, but it doesn’t really matter). Bring to a boil over high heat and then turn the flame to medium and simmer at a low bubble for about 20 minutes. Strain the broth through a fine sieve and pour it into a clean saucepan. Discard all the shells. Boil the broth over high heat until it has reduced to about 1 cup. Season with salt and black pepper.

Strozzapreti with Mussels and Arugula Pesto

My favorite wine with this is Regaleali Rosato, a Sicilian rosé.

(Makes six first-course servings)

For the pesto:

1/2 cup whole blanched almonds
1 large garlic clove, peeled
1 large bunch arugula, washed, dried, and stemmed
A large handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, washed and dried
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup grated Fiore Sardo (Sardinian Pecorino) cheese, or an aged Pecorino Toscano cheese
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 pound strozzapreti (gemelli or cavatelli are other good pasta choices)

For the mussels:

3 pounds small mussels, washed and, if necessary, bearded
1/2 cup dry white wine
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
A drizzle of olive oil
Freshly ground black pepper

To make the pesto, place the almonds in the bowl of a food processor and grind them finely. Add the garlic, the arugula, the parsley, and the olive oil, and process briefly, just until you have a rough purée. Add the pecorino and process a few seconds to blend. Season with salt and black pepper. Transfer the mixture to a small bowl, and cover it with plastic wrap. You can make the pesto in the morning and refrigerate it, but make sure to bring it back to room temperature before dressing the pasta.

To cook the mussels, first discard any that don’t close after you’ve run them under cold water and then tapped them with your finger. Place the mussels in a large pot. Pour on the wine and add the butter and a drizzle of olive oil. Season with a few grindings of black pepper. Turn the heat to high and cook uncovered, stirring occasionally, until the mussels open, about 4 minutes. Lift them from the pot with a large strainer spoon and place them in a bowl. Reduce the cooking liquid over high heat until about 1/2 cup remains. Strain it through a medium-mesh strainer. Shell about half the mussels, leaving the smallest ones in their shells.

Cook the strozzapreti until it is al dente, and drain it well. Place it in a large, warmed serving bowl. Add the pesto and the strained mussel-cooking liquid, and toss to coat the pasta. Add the mussels, both in an out of their shells, and toss again gently. Put into into 6 bowls, and serve right away.

Whole Roasted Sea Bass with Sicilian Caper Sauce

Make an effort to find Sicilian salt-packed capers for this dish. They are sweet and floral, with none of the harshness the brine-packed ones can have. They grow on the islands of Pantelleria, Salina, and Lipari, off Sicily, and they’re not hard to find at Italian specialty shops in America. They’re usually packed in small plastic bags, but I’ve also seen them in plastic containers. Before you use them, soak them in several changes of cool water for about an hour, to rid them of excess salt.

You might want to serve a vegetable dish on the side with this. I usually make roasted Treviso radicchio (the long, not ball-shaped, kind) on Christmas Eve. It’s in season, and it’s delicious and pretty. One medium bunch per person should do. Just trim the root ends and place the bunches in an oiled baking dish in one layer (if you can find only very large bunches, cut them in half lengthwise). Add a splash of dry white wine, a little chopped garlic, a few sprigs of chopped thyme, and a generous drizzle of olive oil. Season well with salt and freshly ground black pepper, and roast uncovered at 450 degrees until the radicchio is wilted and tender, which should take about 15 minutes (you can put it in the oven along with the sea bass).

For a wine with this, I like the Fiano di Avellino made by Feudi di San Gregorio.

(Serves 6)

For the fish:

Approximately 1/2 cup olive oil
2 whole sea bass, about 3 1/2 pounds each, gutted and scaled, the heads left on
Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tablespoon freshly ground nutmeg
4 or 5 rosemary branches, separated into sprigs
2 lemons, cut into thin slices
2 tablespoons sherry wine vinegar
1/2 cup dry white wine

For the sauce:

3 tablespoons olive oil
3 medium shallots, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
3 salt-packed anchovies, rinsed, filleted, soaked for 15 minutes in cool water, drained, and then chopped
1/2 cup dry white wine
The zest of 1 large lemon
Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A few small sprigs of fresh rosemary, the leaves chopped
1/2 cup salt-packed Sicilian capers, soaked in several changes of water for about an hour to remove their excess salt and then drained
1 cup Quick Shellfish Broth or other light fish broth (frozen is okay, but if it’s very strong and fishy use half water and half broth)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

Choose a large, low-sided baking dish that will hold both fish fairly snugly. Coat the dish lightly with olive oil.

Make 2 or 3 vertical slashes on both sides of both fish, cutting about half way into the flesh. Rub the fish with olive oil, and season liberally inside and out with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Sprinkle the nutmeg onto both sides of both fish. Place the rosemary sprigs in the slashes and inside the fish. Place half the lemon slices inside the fish. Place the fish in the baking dish, and arrange the remaining lemon slices around the fish. Sprinkle the fish with the vinegar, and pour the wine into the pan. Roast until the fish is just tender, about 25 to 30 minutes, depending on the fish’s size. If the dish starts to get dry during roasting, add a splash of water or a little more wine.

While the fish is roasting, make the sauce:.Heat the olive oil in a medium skillet on a medium flame. Add the shallots, and sauté them until they get soft and just start to turn golden. Add the garlic and the anchovies and sauté a minute longer, just to release their flavors but not allowing the garlic to color. Season with black pepper. Add the white wine, lemon zest, and rosemary, and boil down by half. Add the shellfish broth or fish broth and the capers, and simmer on a lively flame for a few minutes, just to blend the flavor, not to reduce the liquid. Add the butter, and let it melt into the sauce.

When the fish has 3 or 4 minutes left to roast, pour the sauce over it and return it to the oven. Check it for doneness by poking a sharp knife next to the backbone. If the flesh pulls away easily and shows no pink, it is done. To serve, remove the fish to a platter and fillet it. Spoon some sauce onto each serving. Make sure everyone gets a good amount of capers.

Orange, Fennel, and Pomegranate Salad

This time-honored Sicilian salad is in my opinion the only kind to eat after a big fish entrée. The pomegranate makes it look very Christmasy.

(Serves 6)

3 medium fennel bulbs, cored, trimmed, and very thinly sliced
4 medium oranges, peeled and all the white removed, and sliced into thin rounds
The seeds from about 1/2 a pomegranate
About 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
A pinch of ground cinnamon
Salt
Coarsely ground black pepper
A handful of fresh basil sprigs

Choose a large, festive serving platter. Place the fennel slices on the platter in one layer. Top with the orange slices in a circular pattern. Scatter on the pomegranate seeds. Cover the platter with plastic wrap, and refrigerate it until ready to serve. When serving, season with cinnamon, salt, and freshly ground black pepper, and drizzle on a generous amount of your best olive oil. Garnish with basil sprigs.

Recipes:
Spaghetti with Roasted Beets, Escarole, and Anchovies
Spinach Salad with Pears, Spiced Walnuts, and Ricotta Salata
Warm Octopus and Potato Salad with Tomato-Marjoram Dressing
Ricotta Gelato for Christmas Eve

Recreating restaurant dishes in my home kitchen is both an ongoing joy for me and an occasional frustration. Since I cook constantly, I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out dishes I’m served and identifying all their flavors. But it’s far easier to figure out what went into a quick-cooked dish than into a slow one like a ragu or a stew, and sometimes I can be stumped, though I taste with my eyes as well as my tongue, and if I can see an ingredient, recreating the dish is that much easier.

In braised, simmered, or stewed dishes the flavors tend to meld or even combine to form a nuanced and complex new flavor. This can be hard to dissect, especially when the point is to blend and mingle the ingredients for depth of flavor. But you can do so if you let the flavors linger on your tongue. You’ll start to taste its components, maybe red wine, a hint of clove, bacon. Just remember that many long-cooked dishes in restaurants begin with stock, so much of what you taste may be fish or beef stock. Although many restaurant chefs are flattered when you ask how they did it, I tend not to. I like to try to figure it out myself, if only as a point of pride. Doing so has led to me to interesting improvisations and discoveries about technique.

When you try to unlock the secret of a favorite restaurant dish, first consider its name on the menu. Some overly complicated American menus list just about every ingredient, sometimes laboriously adding where each was made or raised, but this fad seems happily to be going out of fashion. Ask your waiter what’s in the dish; he may know. When I cooked in restaurants, bored waiters were always snooping around the kitchen, asking questions and threatening to stick their fingers in the pots. When the plate comes to the table, smell it and stare at it hard. What does it look like? Does it have an aroma of saffron or rosemary? If you think you see chopped carrot, you probably do. Taste slowly. It’s amazing how when long-cooked, a carrot can give up almost all of its flavor to the sauce and and no longer taste like the original vegetable at all.

It’s usually easy to figure out if a dish was long- or short-cooked; telling how the specific ingredients in it were prepared can be much harder. When I first tasted Gigino’s spaghetti with beets, I noticed that the beets were a bit crunchy, so I assumed they’d been sliced raw and sautéed. I tried that at home and they came out too runny and too crunchy, so the next time I roasted them until quite tender, added olive oil, and then tossed them with the cooked spaghetti, after which I sautéed the escarole separately with the garlic and anchovy, reasoning that it would benefit from some seasoning, before adding it to the spaghetti. I don’t believe they sauté the escarole at Gigino, and I’m not sure about the beets either (maybe they steam them and then sauté them). But I really like my blend of roasted and sautéed vegetables, and even though my version contains the exact same ingredients as Gigino’s, my resulting plate of pasta is a little different in taste and texture.

My goal when I explore restaurant dishes at home is not to duplicate them exactly but to borrow what I consider a good idea and then go about making it my own. I’ve learned a lot about cooking doing this. So don’t be discouraged if you try to recreate a beloved restaurant meal and it comes out different (unless, of course, it’s inedible). If you really put your heart into it, your version may even be the better one. Good luck and have fun.

Spaghetti with Roasted Beets, Escarole, and Anchovies

Spaghetti del Padrino is the name of the original for this pink-tinted bowl of spaghetti on the menu at Gigino Trattoria, on Greenwich Street, in Tribeca, New York City.

(Serves 4 or 5)

3 medium beets, trimmed of their tops
Extra virgin olive oil
Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 large head escarole, washed, trimmed, and chopped
3 garlic cloves, very thinly sliced
3 whole salt-packed anchovies, filleted, rinsed of excess salt, and soaked in cool water for about 1/2 hour
A generous splash of dry white wine
1 pound spaghetti
A small handful of salt-packed capers, soaked for 1/2 hour in several changes of cool water and drained
A handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, lightly chopped

Wrap the beets in aluminum foil and roast them in a 400-degree oven until tender, about and hour and a half. Remove the foil and run the beets very briefly under cool water, cooling them slightly, and slip off their skins. Slice the beets into thin rounds, and then slice the rounds into strips. Place the strips (they should still be quite warm) in a large, warmed pasta-serving bowl. Drizzle on about 1/3 cup olive oil and season with salt and black pepper. Mix.

Set up a large pot of pasta-cooking water. Bring it to a boil and add a generous amount of salt. Add the escarole and blanch it for about a minute. Scoop it from the water into a colander with a large strainer spoon. Run cold water over it to preserve its color. Squeeze it dry with your hands.

Bring the water back to a hard boil and drop the spaghetti into it.

In a large skillet, heat about 1/4 cup of olive oil over a medium flame. Add the garlic and sauté until fragrant and very lightly colored, about a minute. Chop the anchovies and add them and the escarole to the skillet. Sauté about a minute longer. Add the white wine and let it bubble a few seconds.

When the spaghetti is al dente, drain it, saving about 1/2 cup of the cooking water. Add the spaghetti to the serving bowl and toss. The beets will turn it bright pink. Add the escarole along with any skillet juices, the capers, and the parsley, and toss to blend well. Season with black pepper and a bit of salt if needed (you may not need any if the anchovies and capers are sufficiently salty). Add a splash of pasta-cooking water to loosen the sauce if needed. Serve right away.

This pasta is best without adding any type of grated cheese.

Spinach Salad with Pears, Spiced Walnuts, and Ricotta Salata

This is a simple, composed salad with a good balance of sweet and salty, inspired by a similar one served at Grano Trattoria, in Greenwich Village. The spice in the walnuts is my own addition.

(Serves 4)

For the walnuts:

A few drops of extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup very fresh walnut halves
A pinch of sea salt
A pinch of grated nutmeg
A pinch of grated cinnamon
A pinch of sugar
A pinch of cayenne

For the dressing:

1 garlic clove, peeled and lightly crushed
A pinch of grated nutmeg
A generous pinch of sea salt
About a tablespoon of fresh lemon juice, or a bit more to taste
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

For the salad:

2 ripe pears, cored and thinly sliced (red Anjou are especially pretty for this)
2 cups baby spinach leaves, washed, dried, and stemmed
1 shallot, very thinly sliced
1/4 pound ricotta salata, very thinly sliced or shaved

Heat a medium sauté pan over medium-low flame for a minute. Add the walnuts, a tiny drizzle of olive oil, the salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, sugar, and cayenne, and sauté, stirring frequently, until the walnuts are fragrant and lightly toasted, about 3 or 4 minutes.

Put all the ingredients for the dressing into a mixing bowl large enough to hold all the spinach, and whisk them until well blended.

When ready to serve, set out four salad plates and decorate their rims with the pear slices. Add the spinach and shallot to the mixing bowl and toss. Remove the garlic and put the spinach on the four plates. Place a few slices of ricotta salata on each and garnish with the walnuts. Serve right away.

Warm Octopus and Potato Salad with Tomato-Marjoram Dressing

This recipe is very loosely inspired by a warm octopus and potato salad that used to be on the menu at Le Zie, a fine Venetian trattoria in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighborhood. The vinaigrette is my addition. Le Zie’s version was mellower, more like a light stew; mine’s more a traditional Italian fish salad.

(Serves 4 as a first course or light lunch)

1 medium-size octopus, about 3 pounds, pre-cleaned, and thawed if frozen
1 bay leaf
2 garlic cloves, lightly crushed
About a half a bottle of dry white wine
A few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley, with their stems
Extra-virgin olive oil
10 small Yukon Gold potatoes, halved
Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A splash of grappa or cognac
2 leeks, cleaned, trimmed, and cut into thin rounds
2 tender inner celery stalks, sliced, plus the leaves from about 4 stalks, chopped

For the vinaigrette:

4 canned plum tomatoes, drained
4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
A tiny splash of balsamic vinegar
Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A pinch of nutmeg
A few large sprigs fresh marjoram, leaves chopped, plus a few whole sprigs for garnish.

Place the octopus in a large pot. Add the bay leaf, white wine, parsley, garlic, and a drizzle of olive oil. Cover with cool water and bring to a boil. Turn the heat to low and simmer, partially covered, until the octopus is very tender, about 1 1/2 hours or longer (the octopus will curl up when it starts to cook and probably pop up out of the water a bit; if so, just add a little extra water to cover it). Start testing after about an hour; it is possible to overcook octopus and make it dry. (Cooking time for octopus can vary, and it is done when a knife goes easily into the thick tentacle area closest to the head, or else just taste-test a piece.) When the octopus is tender, lift it from the cooking liquid and let it cool slightly. Save the liquid.

Place the potatoes in a small saucepan full of cool water. Bring to a boil. Lower the heat and boil until the potatoes are tender, about 5 minutes. Drain them and place them in a large serving bowl. Spoon a few tablespoons of octopus cooking liquid over them and let them absorb it.

Place all the vinaigrette ingredients in the bowl of a food processor and pulse until the tomatoes are in tiny pieces (not completely puréed) and everything is well blended. Taste for seasoning.

Cut the octopus by slicing the tentacles into bite-size pieces and the head area into rings (I sometimes discard the head, but that’s up to you. The thick skin covering the tentacles adds good flavor and is, in my opinion, part of its charm. Some cooks, especially in restaurants here (not in Italy, though) remove it. If you don’t like its texture, peel some of it away, but I wouldn’t bother. The sautéeing crisps it up a bit anyway.)

In a large skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over high heat. Add the octopus, seasoning with salt and black pepper, and sauté until it’s lightly browned, about 4 minutes. Add the splash of grappa and let it boil away. Transfer the octopus to the serving bowl with the potatoes. In the skillet they were just in, heat a few more tablespoons of olive oil and, when the oil’s hot, add the leeks and celery. Sauté about a minute, just to take the raw edge off. Place in the serving bowl. Add the celery leaves and pour on the vinaigrette. Toss gently. Taste for seasoning, and if needed to balance the flavors, add more salt, black pepper, a few drops of balsamic vinegar, or a bit more chopped marjoram. Garnish with marjoram sprigs. Serve warm.

Ricotta Gelato for Christmas Eve

I love having this ice cream with a stewed dried-fruit sauce, especially of prunes or figs, although kids may not go for that. I also like it with a fresh raspberry or blackberry sauce.

If you want to try making your own ricotta for this (not that store-bought won’t do fine), take a look at the easy ricotta recipe I put up in the fall.

(Serves 6)

1/2 cup sugar
1 1/2 pounds whole-milk ricotta
1 pint heavy cream, not ultrapasteurized
A generous pinch (about 1/8 teaspoon) of grated cinnamon
1 teaspoon Madagascar vanilla extract
2 tablespoons dry Marsala (Florio is a good producer)
2 tablespoons wildflower honey

Place the sugar in a small saucepan and add cool water to cover it by about half an inch. Bring to a boil over medium heat and cook until the sugar is dissolved, about 5 minutes.

Place the ricotta in a food processor and process until very smooth. Add the sugar syrup and all the other ingredients and pulse the machine a few times to blend well. Refrigerate until the mixture is very cold.

Pour into an ice cream freezer, and freeze according to the freezer’s directions.