Recipe in text below: Roasted Sweet Peppers Filled with Leftover Baccalà Mantecato
This was the first time in two years I had a happy Christmas and New Year’s. I was pretty sure it would be good, because the problems that had plagued the previous two years had lifted. It felt like such a luxury that I cooked myself silly, not only making too many dishes, but making a lot of each. As a result I’m a little tired but damned grateful.
When it was all done, I had about three extra cups of Christmas Eve baccalà mantecato, the whipped salt cod that has become a newish family tradition for me. I stuck it in the freezer, thinking I’d deal with it somewhere down the line, but then I got a heavy craving for it the day after New Year’s, so out it came. I also had four twisted red bell peppers. They weren’t ideal for stuffing but were deep red and smelled good, so I decided to stuff them anyway, just shoving the baccalà into all their little nooks.
The colors of my after–New Year’s pepper and salt cod dish.
Taking inspiration from the traditional Basque dish of salt cod stuffed into piquillo peppers—the sweet pointed ones you can buy in jars already roasted—I just winged an Italianized take on that. I was pleased with the way it turned out. If you happen to have baccalà mantecato, or the Provençal version, which is called brandade de Morue, on hand, use it; if you just find this dish as intriguing as I do but need to whip up some creamy salt cod from scratch, here’s a link to my recipe for it.
This photo may look like one of Soutine’s dissection paintings, but believe me the dish tasted very good.
What I did to get the thing together was split the peppers lengthwise, pulling out their seeds, and drizzle them with a little olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. I then sat them cut-side-up on a pan and roasted them until they were just starting to soften but not yet collapsing, about 15 minutes at 400 degrees. I pulled aside one of the roasted pepper halves to use in the sauce, and then spooned the baccalà into the remaining pepper halves, gave their tops a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of Parmigiano, and stuck them back in the oven, turning it up a few notches, to roast until their tops were browned (they could have been a touch less browned) and the whole thing was bubbling.
While that was happening, I roughly chopped the saved pepper half and sautéed it in a pan with a little olive oil and a few slivers of garlic. Then I added about a cup of heavy cream, a little salt, and a drizzle of Spanish sherry wine vinegar, and I let that warm through and bubble gently for about a minute or so. Then I poured the sauce into the food processor and whirled it until smooth. The sauce was divine. I can see tossing it with fettuccine.
I served out the sauce onto four plates and placed two peppers on each plate. Actually one plate got only got one pepper, but that one was for me, which was okay, since I’d been eating bits of the baccalà while putting the thing together and was already full. For the final touch I garnished it with freshly chopped thyme and a sprinkling of pimenton d’espelette. A nice little dinner. It felt good to use up leftovers, and it felt good to have peace in the household.
Recipe below: Scialatielli with Shrimp and Miso Butter Tomato Sauce
Recipe below in text: Escarole Salad with Pear, Almonds, and Montasio
My plan was to make this pasta with calamari, but the squid I found was too large. I needed it small because my idea was to cook everything quickly, keeping the taste fresh and the texture bouncy. Bright red sauce, white calamari. Larger squid needs a slow simmer to become tender, and that would have compromised the freshness I was going for. So I went with shrimp instead.
The Lobster Place, in Chelsea Market, has a good retail fish counter. A lot of people don’t know that because they go there only to eat the fancy sushi and steamed lobsters that are mentioned in all the New York City guidebooks. The place is always mobbed with Japanese tourists, who ignore the fish counter, likely having no place to cook, so it stays freed up for the locals. The other day they had good-looking wild-caught medium-size shrimp from the Gulf of Mexico. It smelled sweet, and I could sense that its pretty gray shells would make a nice broth for the pasta. And they did.
The sauce I had in mind for the dish was a little unusual, mixing together miso, ginger, shallot, butter, vermouth, rosemary, and tomatoes. But I tell you it worked. It tasted like Christmas, and I might just go with it for my Christmas Eve fish dinner, maybe with calamari, as I originally intended, or with lobster. My grandfather Erico, who I never met, used to make pasta with lobster every Christmas Eve. I obviously never tasted his version, but that makes the nostalgic pull of the dish even stronger. My mother said he added a lot of brandy.
While I was at Chelsea Market I made my way downstairs to Buon’Italia. If you’ve never been, just think of it as an intimate, more manageable Eataly. I never leave it pissed off, unlike Eataly. And it’s just starting to get its Christmas decor together. I’m not usually big on Christmas decorations unless they have a dark edge, but I do love holiday food displays. Here are photos of a couple of appealing ones at Buon’Italia. I need to go back and get some of that marzipan.
While at Buon’Italia, I picked up a bag of Setaro pasta to go with my shrimp dish. Setaro is a great old pasta company in Napoli. I chose scialatielli, a thick, stubby fettuccine-type shape from the Amalfi coast that I love for its chewiness. It’s used primarily for tomato and seafood sauces. When it’s made fresh, parmigiano and basil are sometimes worked into the dough. Made dry, it never seems to have that flavoring. I have made it fresh myself, and maybe I will for Christmas. If so, I’ll get a recipe together for you.
If you’d like to try my Scialatielli with Shrimp and Miso Butter Tomato Sauce, here’s what you’ll need to buy and do.
Scialatielli with Shrimp and Miso Butter Tomato Sauce
1 ½ pounds large shrimp, shelled and deveined, but you’ll want to keep the shells Salt Aleppo pepper A big pinch of sugar A drizzle of olive oil ¾ stick unsalted butter ½ cup dry vermouth 1 heaping tablespoon white miso 2 shallots, diced A 1/2-inch-thick chunk fresh ginger, minced A long stem of rosemary, the leaves chopped 2 fresh bay leaves 1 28-ounce can Italian plum tomatoes, roughly chopped, saving the juice
In a bowl, toss the shrimp with a little salt, Aleppo to taste, a big pinch of sugar, and a drizzle of olive oil. Stick it in the fridge until you’re ready to cook it.
Put half of the butter in a saucepan, and melt it over medium heat. Add the shrimp shells, and sauté them until they turn pink. Add the vermouth and miso and about 2 cups of water. Stir to dissolve the miso. Let the mix simmer, uncovered, until it’s sweetly shrimpy smelling and has reduced by half. Strain it.
In a large sauté pan, melt the remaining butter over medium heat, and add the shallots and the ginger. Sauté until soft and fragrant, about 3 minutes. Add half of the rosemary and the bay leaves, and sauté a minute longer, just to release their essences. Add the shrimp broth, and simmer for about another 3 minutes. Add the tomatoes, and cook for about 5 minutes.
While the sauce is cooking, set up a pot of pasta water and bring it to a boil. Add salt. Add the scialatielli.
Get out a another large sauté pan, and get it hot over high heat. Add the shrimp, and sear them quickly until they’re lightly browned but still a little undercooked. Add them to the tomato sauce, stirring them in. Add a little more Aleppo if you like, and taste for salt. You may or may not need it, depending on how salty your miso is.
When the scialatielli is al dente, tip it into a large, wide serving bowl. Pour on the shrimp sauce, and give it a gentle toss. Sprinkle the remaining rosemary over the top. Serve right away.
To follow this pasta, I served a salad of escarole, pear, almonds, and Montasio cheese (also from Buon’Italia). If you’d like to try it, buy a head of escarole, and pull off the tough outer leaves (saving them for a sauté or a soup). Tear the tender inner leaves into bite-size pieces, and put them in a salad bowl. Scatter on a sliced pear, some lightly toasted whole almonds, and some slices of Montasio. I tossed this with a dressing of sherry wine vinegar, good olive oil, salt, and black pepper. I really like that combination.
Recipe in text below: Roasted Red Onion Crostata with Anchovies, Thyme, and Sherry Wine Vinegar
I took a couple of weeks off from blogging to regain my head after the election. I’ve come out less sad but with a lingering feeling of disgust that has been working its way into my dreams. Obnoxious dreams. Among other things, I’m worrying about immigrant families being torn apart and all the heartbreak that will create. Promises made, promises kept.
And speaking of immigrants, last week I made my way down to Little Italy to check out the newly reopened Italian American Museum, on Mulberry Street. Didn’t know there was such a thing? It opened in 2008 in the elegant nineteenth-century Stabile bank building on the corner of Mulberry and Grand. I visited a bunch of times back then, always expecting it to be something more. Ellis Island ship manifestos are fine, but they’re really only interesting if your own grandmother is on one. I wanted the place to have more. More of what? More of the sounds, colors, and smells that have made up the Italian American experience. Several times I proposed to the director what I thought were fun and exciting culinary programs, but there was no follow-through.
The Stabile building was demolished in 2014 for what looks like purely financial gain for developers. The 1830s building was not protected by the city’s landmarks preservation laws, even though it was structurally intact. There was a lot of protest at the time, but the developers won out. A higher building now stands in its place. In it the Italian American Museum has reemerged.
The main exhibit there now is a collection of puppets made by a Sicilian family named Manteo who settled in Little Italy in the 1920s and began making Sicilian-style marionettes and putting on shows for the community. The things are lovely and funny, with all hand-hammered metal and historical costumes. They are almost life-size. There were a few of the puppets on display at the previous museum, but the new place is showing a lot of them, so a step up, I guess. This new space, which includes a 60-seat theater, looks to be about three times the size of the old one. I’m not sure what they’re planning to fill it with, but I’m optimistic that they’ve got ideas.
In addition to getting mildly excited by the return of the Italian American Museum, I’ve been purchasing a lot of round red onions, a good cool-weather item. I love their deep crimson color, their glossiness, and the pretty rings of red you see when you slice into them. I eat them raw, but they’re also good cooked, as most varieties retain their strength and their sweetness gets concentrated.
Nobody I spoke to at grocery stores or the Union Square Greenmarket knew what varieties they were selling. Maybe Red Bull, or Red Burgermeister, or Giant Red Hamburger. Those are a few names I found on Google. I bought beautiful ones from Madura Farms. The seller, who was not someone who works at the farm, said they were a type of Spanish onion. They were powerful but cooked up sweet, and, importantly, they held their shape after being baked two times. I cut them into thick rings so they looked almost like roses after being baked into a crostata. I’ll be making the crostata again for Thanksgiving.
If you’d like to give it a try, you’ll want to start with the pastry, so it’ll have time to rest. Here’s what you’ll need for that:
2 cups unbleached white flour, plus a little extra for rolling out the dough About a teaspoon of salt A tablespoon of sugar The leaves from about 6 thyme sprigs 1¼ sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into little pieces ⅓ cup dry Marsala, chilled 1 teaspoon sherry wine vinegar
Put the flour, salt, sugar, and thyme leaves into a food processor, and pulse a few times to blend. Add the butter, and pulse a few more times so you break the butter up further. Add the Marsala and the vinegar, and pulse briefly until you have a bowl of moist crumble that holds together when you pinch it.
Turn the crumble out onto a work surface, and press it together into a ball. Next flatten it out into a thick disk. Cover it with plastic wrap, and stick it in the refrigerator for at least an hour or as long as overnight before using it.
Set the oven for 350 degrees. For the filling, you’ll want to purchase two large, round, shiny red onions. Peel off their papery outer skin and then slice them into ¼ inch thick rounds. You’ll want a dozen or so slices. Coat a large sheet pan with olive oil. Place the rounds on top in one layer. Drizzle them generously with olive oil, sprinkle on little dry Marsala, and season them with salt and black pepper. Roast them until they’re slightly browned, tender, and fragrant, about 20 minutes. Sprinkle them with drops of sherry wine vinegar, not too much but just enough to balance the sweetness of the onions. Let them cool.
While the onions are cooling, take 8 or 9 good-quality oil-packed anchovies, and mash them up in a mortar. Work in enough olive oil to form a thick paste. Add a few drops of sherry wine vinegar and mix it in.
Turn up the oven to 400. Roll out the dough to an approximately 10-inch round and place it on a buttered sheet pan. Brush the dough with the anchovy paste, leaving about an inch rim all around. Add a thin layer of grated Gruyère, which not only will taste good but will also help hold the tart together. Layer in the onion rounds. They should be a tight fit. I find a spatula works well for getting the rounds off the pan in one piece. Sprinkle the onions with freshly chopped thyme leaves. Fold the edges up all around, so you have an approximately 1-inch border of fairly neat folds. Press the folds down so they stay put, and give everything a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of sugar.
Bake until the crust and onions are nicely golden, about 25 minutes. Let it cool for about 10 minutes before slicing. You’ll now have an antipasto offering for 5 or 6 people.
Recipe in text below: Maccheroni with Baccalà, Black Olives, Pastis, Basil, and Spicy Breadcrumbs
One of the aromas ingrained in my culinary soul is the slightly nauseating but still alluring smell of baccalà standing upright in wooden barrels, looking like snow-covered roadkill and smelling of fishy death. Razzano’s Italian shop in Glen Cove was where I first came up against it, that dark fish smell mingling with a strong hit of provolone. Powerful. As a child I first took it as an assault, but after a few visits to that wonderful food shop, the putrid smell went from a gag in my throat to miraculously good. At some point I stopped telling my father I’d wait in the car. I needed to smell it again and again.
Now I love the aroma of baccalà, and also the ritual needed to prepare it for eating. My recipe here is an improvisation on a Sicilian version of pasta with baccalà usually called alla ghiotta, which translates, I’m thinking, as lady glutton style. Salt cod is rich, especially when brought together with tomatoes, olives, wine, onion, garlic, sometimes capers, and lots of herbs, so I guess the dish was so good you couldn’t stop eating it, or, specifically, women couldn’t stop eating it. Often it includes potatoes, in which case it can be made with or without pasta. I wanted the pasta, so I left out the potatoes.
Southern Italians use baccalà more than they use stoccafisso, the air-dried version of preserved cod. Baccalà tends to be meatier and have a stronger, brinier flavor that I really love. Quite different from fresh cod. A unique taste. When buying baccalà I look for packages that contain thick middle cuts, not just scrawny end pieces. In my experience they take two days of soaking, changing the water repeatedly, to be rid of excess salt. I love the funky, briny smell baccalà releases into my kitchen as it gives up its salt to a big bowl of cold water. You’ll see it’ll start to swell and look whiter.
To make my maccheroni with baccalà, get yourself a one-pound package of salt cod, and start soaking it in a big bowl of water, changing the water a few times. At night, stick it, with its water, in the refrigerator. The next day take it out and let it sit out, changing the water a few more times. By evening, taste a piece from the thickest section. If it still tastes really salty, change the water again and put it back in the fridge for another night. By next morning, after rinsing it again, it should be sufficiently desalted. I’ve never known it to take longer than that.
Place the baccalà in a wide-sided pan. Add water to just about cover, a big splash of dry vermouth, a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil, a few fresh bay leaves, and a few peppercorns. Turn the heat to medium, and get the water up to a simmer. Then turn the heat down a little, cover the pan, and simmer gently until the cod flakes easily when you poke it with a knife. That should take about 8 minutes. Don’t cook it past this point, or it’ll get tough. Take the cod from its poaching liquid, and put in on a plate. Keep the liquid. When the cod is cool enough to handle, break it into 1-inch chunks, discarding any bones or skin you might come across.
Set up a pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add salt. Add a pound of maccheroni and give it a stir. I used Martelli’s I Maccheroni di Toscana, which is like a ridged, curved ziti (I ordered it from Gustiamo). I’ve also seen this shape referred to as sedani (which means celery, though it doesn’t look like celery to me). Rigatoni or regular penne would also be good here.
While the pasta is cooking, get out a large sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Add a big drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil. Add a chopped shallot, a chopped fresh red peperoncino, a sliced garlic clove, a fresh bay leaf, and a palmful of ground fennel seed. Let it all soften for about 2 minutes. Add 2 pints of grape tomatoes. Season it with a little salt (keeping in mind how much salt you’ve got left in your baccalà), and let it cook until the tomatoes just start to burst, about 8 minutes. Add a splash of vermouth and a little of the cod cooking liquid. Add the broken up baccalà, a handful of pitted olives (I used Kalamatas), and let it all warm through for a minute or so. Turn off the heat, and add a few drops of pastis.
When the pasta is al dente, drain it and pour it into a large serving bowl. Pour on the baccalà sauce and a big drizzle of fresh extra-virgin olive oil. Add a handful of lightly chopped basil leaves, and give it a good toss. Taste to see if it needs salt.
Top each serving with a sprinkling of spicy sweet breadcrumbs. I made them by crushing a bunch of red pepper taralli with the side of my knife.
Apples Still Life, by Lion Ferjen; I have the exact same old confit pot.
Recipe below in text: Seared Pork Chops with Apples, Onion, Thyme, and Calvados
I almost never think to eat a whole raw apple. I don’t know why this is. But I did it the other day. I picked a Jonathan out from a large variety of apples displayed at Montgomery Place Orchards’ farm stand in Red Hook. I chose it for its deep red color; its taste was spicy-sweet-sour, its inside slightly warm. I had an excellent time eating that apple, and I wondered why I didn’t eat raw apples more often.
I have, on the other hand, always loved cooking with apples. New York is a good place to be in the fall if you want the aroma of apples. Montgomery Place Orchards grows 75 different kinds. When I was there I saw about 30 on display. Their skin colors and textures ranged from lumpy beige to cinnabar, including yellow, light green, orange, orange red, streaky red orange, brilliant pink red, and crimson, and some with pink insides. Here are a few of the varieties that caught my attention.
If this makes you want to explore the world of apples further, go to Montomery’s website, where they list all their apples in three categories: modern, traditional, and antique. I find the list very moving. It’s beautiful that these people are preserving all these varieties. I think one of the reasons I don’t eat a whole raw apple more often is that the supermarket types I have to choose from have no smell at all. The air at Montgomery Orchards was strong with apple.
The idea for this pork chop and apple dish started with one I used to cook at Restaurant Florent back in the day. That one was blood sausages with apples, onion, thyme, and Calvados. All I did here was switch out the blood sausages for pork chops and add an anise spice rub for the chops, a good flavor blend with thyme.
Of all the apples I stared at that afternoon, I decided Esopus Spitzenberg would be the one with these pork chops. Not only was it Thomas Jefferson’s favorite apple, but I was told by one of the farm ladies that it had a good mix of sweet and sour and held its shape well when cooked. Two important qualities for this dish.
I really can’t stand when cooks describe a recipe as simple when it might look somewhat rustico on the plate but is actually a big pain in the ass to pull together. This dish really, truly is easy and quick, yet its flavor is deep.
To make it for two, get two medium-thick bone-in pork chops, preferably from a local organic farm (mine were about ¾ inch thick; any thicker and you’d probably need to finish off in the oven, which I didn’t want to bother with).
Grind up a palmful of fennel seeds. Mix them with about an equal amount of ground star anise, some salt and black pepper, and a pinch of sugar. Rub this all over the pork chops, and let them sit while you slice up a medium onion and thinly slice two firm, not-too-sweet apples (Granny Smith, Cortland, and Pink Lady are other tart varieties you might consider). I think it’s best not to peel the apples. I like the way their red skins look in the dish, and it helps the slices hold their shape.
Get out a heavy-bottomed pan (cast iron is good), and a large sauté pan.
Have on hand extra-virgin olive oil, a bottle of Calvados, salt, freshly ground black pepper, and the leaves from about 7 or 8 thyme sprigs (plus a few whole sprigs for garnish, if you like).
Drizzle olive oil into the sauté pan, and let it get hot over medium flame. Add the onion, and let it soften for a few minutes. Add the apple slices, season them with salt and black pepper, and add the thyme leaves. While that’s all cooking, put a high flame under the cast iron pan. Drizzle in some olive oil, and when it’s really hot add the pork chops. Brown them well on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Next add a big splash of Calvados, turn off the heat, cover the pan, and let them continue to cook gently in the waning pan heat until they’re just done through but still pink at the bone, about another 3 or 4 minutes.
When the apples are tender but still holding their shape, add a big splash of Calvados to their pan and let it bubble for a few seconds. By this time the chops should be perfect.
Uncover the pork chop pan and plate the chops. Pour a little of the pan juice over them. Pile the apple-onion mix on top of and alongside the chops. You might want to sprinkle a little coarse salt on, too. I did. Garnish with thyme sprigs if you like. Eat hot.
Recipe in text below: Mezzi Paccheri with Butternut Squash, Pancetta, Rosemary, and Walnuts
Butternut squash can get to seem boring right now, when it’s all over the place, piled up in bins not only at the Union Square market but also at places like West Side Market, a local supermarket I have a love-hate relationship with (their fish department borders on disgusting). Butternut squash is clunky, bulbous, and colored a strange, dull peachy beige, but it has wonderful qualities, too. It tastes good, like pumpkin but gentler, sweeter, and less stringy. It’s easier to peel than pumpkin. Its seeds are contained in a little round pocket inside its bulbous bottom. Peeling that part can be a challenge, but the neck is smooth and clean and easy to cut into uniform cubes, so there’s an elegance to that alone. To make it easy for myself I often purchase a large butternut squash (or two smaller ones if they’re all I can find). I separate its long neck from its bulby bottom and then skin and dice the neck—a sharp chef’s knife slides right down the skin. I leave the bottom for another day, usually to cut in half, scoop out the seeds, and roast. A nice side show for two, along with, say, pork chops sautéed with apples.
Butternut squash is sweet, sometimes a little too sweet, but you can awaken it. In my recipe here I did so with a little dry vermouth and a few drops of rice wine vinegar that brought it into balance. I find that butternut squash is nice paired with something fatty and salty, so I included a good amount of pancetta, too.
I’m getting to really love this vegetable. It makes fall cooking an event.
I also wanted to mention Faella pasta, my new favorite brand. It’s from the grand dried-pasta capital of the world, Gragnano, a town just south of Naples. I cook a lot of different brands of dried pasta, but lately this one has really been speaking to me. I love the way the pieces clink together in the bag, and the semolina dust they leave on your hand when you grab a bunch. Their color is a warm yellow with a rough, almost velvety look they get from the traditional bronze dies used to extrude them but also from the slow drying process used to finish them to perfection.
Faella is an old family-run company, started in 1907. In my opinion it’s still doing everything right. For my butternut squash recipe I chose Faella’s mezzi paccheri shape, one of my favorites. It’s not as giant as paccheri; it’s the same idea, hefty and bold, but easier to get into your mouth. Faella pasta is available from www.gustiamo.com. I love looking and choosing from all the shapes they carry. Almost as exciting as shopping for shoes.
Before I show you how I put together this butternut squash pasta, I’d like to remind you that the Siena early Renaissance show has just opened at the Metropolitan Museum. I went to a members’ preview the other day. The beautiful show covers the years 1300 to 1350, a time of phenomenal artistic creation in Siena, a first break from the Byzantine style and the dawn of the Italian Renaissance. You’ll see works from the four major artists, Duccio di Buoninsegna, the brothers Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, and Simone Martini, brought together from museums and churches all over the world. The colors are rich and bright, ultramarine, scarlet, vermillion, a powdery pink that I love. Lots of gold leaf. The medium is mostly egg tempera on wood. And you can get up close to many of the remarkably well-preserved works. A brilliant show. It’s up until January 26, 2025.
Christ and the Samaritan Woman, from Duccio’s Maestà predella.
If you’d like to try making my Mezzi Paccheri with Butternut Squash, Pancetta, Rosemary, and Walnuts, here’s what you’ll want to do:
Start with a large butternut squash. Separate the rounded bottom from the neck with a sharp chef’s knife, and save the bottom for another day. Skin the long stem section, and cut it into approximately ½-inch cubes. You’ll notice how pretty and uniform they look, and how orange. You’ll want about 2½ cups of them.
Get out a large sauté pan, and drizzle in a tablespoon or so of extra-virgin olive oil. Let it get hot over medium heat. Chop a ½-inch-thick round of pancetta into small dice, and add it to the pan. Let it cook slowly until it’s crisp and much of its fat has been released. Remove the pancetta bits with a slotted spoon, and set them aside. I do this so they stay crisp, a good contrast to the soft squash, and I’ll add them back toward the end. Add a large shallot cut into small dice (you can use a leek instead). Add the butternut squash, and season with salt and black pepper and a little hit of allspice. I’ve still got decent-looking rosemary in my garden, so I added the well-chopped needles from a large sprig. Rosemary goes well with hard squash, and it’s a nice change from sage, which can turn a little musty with heat. Give it a stir, and let everything sauté for a few minutes.
While it is cooking, set up a pot of pasta cooking water, salt it well, and bring it to a boil.
Add a splash of dry vermouth to the sauté pan, and let it bubble out. Add a splash of chicken broth or water, cover the pan, turn the heat down a touch, and let the squash steam cook until tender but still holding its shape, about 6 minutes.
Drop a pound of mezzi paccheri into the water (or use another similar pasta, such as rigatoni).
Uncover the sauté pan, add about ½ cup of crème fraîche, and stir it around until it’s melted and creamy. Let it simmer, uncovered, for a few minutes. By now some of the butternut squash will have broken down and blended in with the crème fraîche, creating a sweet light orange sauce. Give it a taste. You might want to add a few drops of rice wine vinegar for acidity, or maybe not. That’s a personal taste call.
When the pasta is al dente, drain it, leaving a little water clinging to it, and pour it into a large, warmed serving bowl. Add a drizzle of good olive oil, and toss briefly. Add the butternut squash sauce, the crisp pancetta bits, a few big gratings of Parmigiano or grana Padano, and a handful of toasted, lightly chopped walnuts, holding some back for garnish. Add a little more black pepper, and toss. Taste to see if it needs salt. Scatter on the rest of the walnuts. I also garnished this with a little chopped Italian parsley. It wasn’t entirely necessary, but I had it on hand.
Recipe in text below: Rigatoni withRoasted Red Peppers, Crème Fraîche, Thyme, and Basil
In the late 1800s Carmine Street and the surrounding blocks of the West Village became a destination for Italian immigrants, mostly from Liguria. Our Lady of Pompeii Church, at Carmine and Bleecker, was their refuge, providing not only spiritual support but also helping new arrivals with housing, jobs, and medical care. It has continued to comfort all the Sicilian and Neapolitan people that followed. My friend Sandy Di Pasqua’s family landed on Carmine. My next-door neighbor on Long Island Lou Mastellone’s older brother was born in a walkup, cold-water apartment on Christopher Street, about five blocks away.
Pompeii is still an Italian church in spirit, having a daily Italian-language mass for the remaining elders, but it also offers one in Tagalog, as the congregation is now heavily Filipino. I took Italian classes at its adjoining school in the 1990s. And for years I would get together with a bunch of friends for its Good Friday Mass. For me, a nonreligious type, the attraction to the vigil was the darkness, the yellow light, the smell of the paraffin candles, and the repetitive, hypnotic song we all sang as we walked over and over around the pews. The refrain “Sono stati i miei peccati, Gesù mio, perdon, pieta” is, I’m pretty certain, stuck in my brain forever. In the old days they even took the song and candles out onto the street. After the vigil we’d all go to Rocco’s for fritto misto and chianti (the old Rocco’s, not the new faux–Italian American hotspot it’s become). Our group has now dispersed, so we don’t do it anymore, but the show goes on, although with fewer participants each year.
There are still a few legit Italian places in the neighborhood. Rocco’s pastry shop (not related to the now trendy restaurant on Thompson Street ), Ottomanelli’s butcher, Joe’s pizza, and Faicco’s Pork shop (which now, unfortunately, has an aggressive MAGAroni vibe to it that I don’t appreciate) are all around the corner on Bleecker.
So for me, it’s a celebration when a new Italian-run shop appears in the neighborhood. Yesterday I went to check out Sullaluna, a just-opened cafe and bookshop combo on Carmine, an offshoot of a place in Venice. They specialize in beautifully illustrated children’s books, all in Italian. I felt peaceful in Sullaluna, and the books are fascinating. A whole new world of literature for me. Here’s a book I just had to purchase:
There’s also good coffee and wine, and a small menu with standard items like gnocchi, arancini, carbonara, and salads. They also do brunch. I cannot yet comment on the quality of the food, since I only had an espresso, but the guy next to me ordered a huge gelato-stuffed cornetto that looked enticing. This is a sweet little place. I will be back.
Sullaluna is at 41 Carmine Street. It’s closed on Tuesdays. As of now, It doesn’t seem to have a website, but it does have an active Instragram account that you might want to check out.
After my coffee at Sullaluna I made my way over to the Union Square market to check out all the late summer produce there. We’ve still got lots of tomatoes here in New York City, and those dark and dusty-looking pointed Italian plums, my favorites for tarts. And many of the sweet and hot chilis have now ripened to a deep crimson. I bought an armful of sweet ones labelled Giant Marconi. I think I’ve cooked with them before, but I wasn’t familiar with that name. I love a roasted sweet pepper sauce for pasta, so that was my plan.
Here’s how to make my Rigatoni with Roasted Red Peppers, Crème Fraîche, Thyme, and Basil.
You’ll want to start by roasting your peppers. I used 6 of the Giant Marconi ones, which turned out to be dense and rich tasting, but 4 or 5 regular red bell peppers would also work. I like to do them on a charcoal grill, but a broiler or gas flame does a fine job. Just blacken them all over, and then peel and seed them. Then give them a rough chop. (I really don’t recommend using jarred roasted peppers for this. Their taste is always somewhat acidic, which can really spoil this suave sauce.)
Get out a large sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Add a big drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and a tablespoon or so of butter. Add a chopped shallot and a sliced garlic clove, and let them soften for a moment. Add the roasted peppers, a little chopped fresh thyme, some salt, and a pinch of nutmeg, and let them cook until the peppers are fragrant and tender, about five minutes. Add a splash of dry vermouth, and let it bubble out.
Purée the peppers in a food processor, adding a little water to thin out the purée. Return the purée to the pan, and add about ½ cup of crème fraîche and a sprinkling of Aleppo pepper. Let it warm through.
Cook a pound of rigatoni or another shape you might have on hand, and drain it, saving a little of the cooking water. Pour it into a large, warmed serving bowl. Add the sauce, a drizzle of fresh olive oil, a good sprinkling of grated Parmigiano Reggiano, and a handful of lightly chopped basil, adding a little cooking water to loosen it if needed. Give it a good toss.
This sauce is also very good on mussels or clams. Just open them in a little white wine or vermouth, add the sauce, and toss. Beauty.
Lemon and a Sprig of Lemon Thyme, by Julian Merrow-Smith.
Recipe below, in text: Cool Zucchini Soup with Lemon Thyme
I never used to love lemon thyme. I found it too air-freshener-y. But the more I’ve learned how to work with it, the more I’ve changed my mind. It’s a matter of application, of handling. Lemon thyme is a multipurpose herb. The thyme feature of its personality can make it work as an anchoring herb, one you’ll want to add during cooking so its peppery, allspice-like, woody flavor can open up with heat. (Ever wonder why Jamaican cooks use allspice and thyme together so often? It’s because they taste alike. There’s an affinity there.) But also you’ve got the clear lemon overtones that provide an uplift, especially if you include it at the end. In the case of this soup, I’ve added it at the beginning of cooking and then chosen to wait and add it again after I’ve chilled the soup, so it stays fresh and relevant. It’s deep and good this way. No air freshener, no stupid scented candle.
To make this soup you’ll want to get out a good-size soup pot and set it over medium heat. Drizzle in a few tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil, and add a large summer onion, chopped, using some of the tender green stem. Add a medium-size baking potato, peeled and chopped. Add some salt, and let it all cook for a few minutes. Then add about 6 or 7 small zucchini, chopped, and the leaves from about 4 lemon thyme sprigs. Let it cook until everything is fragrant and just starting to soften. Add a splash of dry vermouth, and let it boil away. Add 4 cups of chicken broth or vegetable broth and enough water to just cover the vegetables. Bring it to a boil, and then turn the heat down a touch and simmer at a low bubble until everything is tender, about 15 minutes.
Next you’ll want to purée the soup in a food processor, probably in batches, pouring it into a large bowl as it’s puréed. Chill it for several hours. When it’s cold, add a little more salt, some freshly ground black pepper, and the chopped leaves from about 5 lemon thyme sprigs. I like this soup with body but still quite pourable. If you find it too thick, thin it out with a little cold water.
Give it a taste. I found it needed a tiny drizzle of sherry wine vinegar to bring up its acidity. Your soup may not. Serve cold, garnished with a drizzle of your best olive oil and a few lemon thyme sprigs.
Our Unfinished Revolution: Octopus/Squid, by Alexander Calder, 1975-76.
Recipe below: Black Fettuccine with Calamari, Jalapeño, Basil, and Miso
The past few weeks have been rough. Family problems have kept my cooking and writing unfocused. That’s just the way it goes sometimes. I had what I thought were a few good ideas for blog posts but they came out garbled. I’m letting them sit in their messed-up state for a future time when I hope I can look at them fresh. In the meantime, instead of one of my intriguing stories, I’m sharing with you a good pasta dish.
Pasta with calamari in its many incarnations has always been a favorite of mine. I circle back to it often. If you want to call it comfort food, you won’t be wrong, but for some reason I can’t stand that expression. Any food is comfort when I’m hungry. But I do especially like pasta with calamari.
This recipe drifts a bit into non-Italian flavors. I like the taste of jalapeño. It’s obviously not Italian, but its sharp medium spice goes well with seafood, and by extension, with seafood with pasta. I like jalapeño so much I even decided to grow some this past summer, which I never felt compelled to do before, since it’s piled high in every supermarket year round. I saw cute seedlings at the nursery, and I impulsively bought and planted them. They came up in July, firm, dark green, and abundant. I let some go through their natural progression to deep red. Those were an August treat. I never see them red in supermarkets. I used green ones for this pasta. They blend well with miso, again not an Italian taste, obviously, but I’ve found that it can impart a useful umami, not unlike that of anchovies, when used in an otherwise Italian-leaning dish.
I have a strong attraction to squid ink pasta. Often when I see it I buy it. I also make my own, not only with squid ink but also with cuttlefish ink, which seems easier to find. This time I didn’t make my own pasta, as I ran across a new black pasta, new to me and to Citarella, that intrigued me. It’s from an American company called Al Dente. Stupid name aside, the semidark dried fettuccine, made with eggs and semolina, turned out to be a find. It cooked up silky but stayed firm and slippery, which I loved. The color was good too, a greenish black, a bit dusty looking. If you see it anywhere, give it a try.
The colors of my pasta dish.
Altogether the colors of this pasta were beautiful, like the Italian flag but less patriotic with the jalapeño and miso. Cooking it helped my mood considerably. If you’re having trouble of some sort, and who isn’t, I would consider getting a bag of squid ink pasta and some really fresh calamari and just going for it in a free, improvisational way. Cooking is therapy.
Black Fettuccine with Calamari, Jalapeño, Basil, and Miso
Salt Extra-virgin olive oil 4 scallions, cut into thin rings, using much of the fresh green tops 2 fresh, moist garlic cloves, thinly sliced ½ to 1 green Jalapeño pepper, depending on how much heat you like, well chopped 2 pints grape tomatoes 1 pound squid ink fettuccine or spaghetti 1 tablespoon white miso dissolved in ¾ cup dry Marsala 1 pound very fresh, small squid, cut into rings, the tentacles cut in two A handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped
This dish comes together fast, so it’s best to have all your stuff prepped and ready where you can grab it.
Set up a pot of well-salted pasta cooking water over high heat. While it’s coming to a boil, get out a large sauté pan, and place it over a medium-high flame.
Put about 2 tablespoons of olive oil in the sauté pan, and let it get hot. Add the scallions, garlic, jalapeño, and tomatoes at the same time. Add a little salt. Let cook, shaking the pan frequently, until the tomatoes start to burst, probably about 5 minutes.
Add the fettuccine to the now boiling water, and give it a stir.
Add the mix of miso and Marsala to the pan, and let it bubble for about 30 seconds, to cook off some of the alcohol. Add the squid, stirring it into the sauce, and cook it fast, just until tender, no more than about 4 minutes. Taste a piece if you’re unsure. It should be cooked through and tender, with a slight bite but not rubbery. Take the pan off the heat.
Drain the fettuccine, and pour it into a large, wide serving bowl. Drizzle on a generous amount of fresh olive oil, and give it a toss. Add the squid sauce and the basil, and toss again.
I am a chef, food writer, and herb lover who specializes in improvisational Italian cooking. I am the author of The Flavors of Southern Italy and Pasta Improvvisata, as well as Williams-Sonoma Pasta, which is available at Williams-Sonoma stores. A member of the Association of Culinary Professionals, The New York Women's Culinary Alliance, The New York Culinary Historians, The Herb Society of America, and the Italian-based International Slow Food Movement, I live in New York City.
Erica De Mane 