RECIPE: Sano e Semplice, Fish Fillet

So many people I speak with -- clients, students, friends -- tell me they're afraid of cooking fish. Everyone seems to think that because a fillet of white fish is relatively delicate, it's a complicated task to prepare. Not so. A white, flaky fish fillet (and not canned tuna!) is, to my mind, the chicken of the sea: everybody likes it, and you can almost always find some variety of white fish where you purchase fresh seafood, filleted and ready to be cooked and eaten. The local catch varies from place to place, of course, and in many cultures, fish is usually sold whole. This is not to save the fishmonger the work of filleting the fish, but more for the discerning customer who wants to judge the freshness of the fish by checking to see that its eyes are clear, and that the fish's gills are a rosy red. But in the U.S., whole fish can be hard to come by. Seafood shops resemble sushi counters, with a variety of already-filleted specimens arranged on ice for the customer to select. Here, since you can't look the fish in the eyes, it becomes important that you trust that your fishmonger is getting in a constant supply of fresh fish.

But regardless of where you are on the globe, how you buy your fish, or what your local catch may be, you can always whip up a healthy, fresh fish meal in about 30 minutes. Recently, I found a gorgeous fillet of locally-caught wild blackfish. I wanted a light, healthy meal for a warm September evening. I often plan my plates using color as a guide -- a surefire way to pair foods containing a variety of vitamins and minerals -- so here I accompanied the fish fillet with diced oven roasted sweet potato and fresh snap peas. The result is a dinner plate filled with a riot of eye-catching color, and great flavor. Since it's easy to prepare a pan sauce after cooking the fillet, I decided to make use of a fresh lime and some sauvignon blanc I had on hand.

This recipe is for one; it can easily be multiplied for any number of guests you may have.

You'll need:

*Fillet of white flaky fish: any fresh catch will do, from sea bass to snapper to flounder and anything in between. 6-8 ounces per serving.

*Sweet potato or yam

*Handful of snap peas

*1 lime or lemon

*1/4 cup crisp white wine

*dash of white balsamic or rice wine vinegar

*good quality olive oil

*pat of butter

*salt and pepper

*Sriracha sauce (if you like a bit of a kick)

- Preheat an oven to 350 degrees farenheit/175 celsius. Scrub a sweet potato or yam clean under running water. I left the skin on. You can peel it if you like. Cut the potato into 1/2 inch dice, sprinke with salt and pepper, and toss with a dash of good quality olive oil. Arrange on a baking sheet and bake, tossing occasionally, for about 30 minutes, until the pieces are cooked through and lightly browned.

- In the meantime, bring a small pot of water to boil. Clean the snap peas (a handful per person) by pulling off the stringy membrane on the flat side of the pod. When the water is boiling, add a healthy pinch of salt. Toss the snap peas into the water and cook for 2-3 minutes. Drain the snap peas and dump them immediately into ice water to stop the cooking. Once completely cooled, drain.

- Heat a nonstick saute pan over medium-high heat. Drizzle a glug of good quality olive oil in the pan. Heat until it shimmers a bit and tilt the pan so the whole surface is covered in the oil. Sprinkle the dry surface of the fish fillet with salt and pepper, and place skin side up in the pan. Do not touch the fillet for at least 3 minutes. This is important: when cooking delicate white fish, patience is a virtue!

Sprinkle the skin side with salt and pepper, and shake the pan a bit -- when the first side is done cooking, the fillet should shake free from the surface of the pan. With a fish spatula, gently flip the fillet. Turn the heat down to medium. Continue cooking another 3 minutes until the fish is cooked through. Remove from pan and put on a plate.

- With the flame still on, cut a lime or lemon in half and squeeze the juice directly into the pan. Add 1/4 cup crisp white wine (per serving), and a dash of white balsamic vinegar. Turn the heat up to high and reduce the liquid by 2/3. When it's been reduced, turn the heat down to medium-low. add a pinch of salt and a tablespoon or two of butter, gently swirling the pan to melt but the butter, but don't allow the sauce to bubble.

- In the meantime, take the potatoes from the oven, and serve as is or toss with a squirt of Sriracha sauce (sweet potatoes are a great foil for a piquant sauce and can stand up to the heat). Plate the potatoes and place the fish fillet on top. 

- If the sauce is a little thick, add a touch of warm water to the pan and swirl to blend. Taste and adjust for salt. Drizzle the sauce over and around the fish fillet.

- Turn the heat up on the pan, toss the snap peas in, and warm through. This will also coat the peas with the remaining pan sauce. When they're warm, put the snap peas on the plate alongside the fish and potatoes.

- Serve immediately...and pour yourself a glass of that crisp white wine. Enjoy!

QUICK BITE: ITALIAN CLASSICS: Prosciutto e...

Every so often, we pay homage to the Italian classics: flavor combinations so wonderfully matched, it's like they were created by ancient Roman gods of taste with perfect palates! We recognize that the creation of prosciutto alone is a miracle in and of itself -- a product so varied and nuanced in the many parts of the world where it's produced that it elicits rapturous poetry and steadfast allegiances. But that's for another time, another blog post. 

Right now, it's all about the salty with the sweet. The unctuousness of a silky paper-thin slice of prosciutto (the best is when they're actually gossamer, like a whisper of a silk curtain hanging in the window of a Renaissance palazzo...sorry, but you can see what I mean about eliciting poetic phrases!). The perfume of a sun-ripened melon, its flesh so sweet it practically melts as you slice it. Now, I'm usually a San Daniele girl when it comes to prosciutto (and yes, I do lerrrv pata negra, the Rolls Royce of cured pig, but that's Spanish, and for now we're sticking to Italian) -- I love San Daniele's sweetness and complexity. But here, paired with melon, I'm going to have to come down on the side of the classic Prosciutto di Parma. It's saltier than most hams, in part due to the diet of the local pigs used (they're fed leftovers from the parmigiano-making process). This saltier prosciutto is a nice contrast to the sweetness of the melon.

And since we're in late summer, we can also enjoy the crops of fresh figs available now. Prosciutto e fichi  might be an even better pairing than the classic prosciutto and melon. Blasphemy? Not at all! Italians celebrate this pairing both raw and cooked. I always anxiously awaited the day that the Forno in Campo de' Fiori's next-door takeout sandwich shop posted the hand-written sign "Pizza Prosciutto e Fichi" in the window. 

This meant that while the ingredients were still on hand, one could order a piece of their famous pizza bianca, warm and stuffed with prosciutto and sliced fresh figs. Sometimes I'd stop by my favorite cheese shop-on-wheels in the Campo market, to slather some buffalo milk ricotta cheese inside this glorious panino. I can taste it in my mind right now. Another delicious summer treat, at the beginning or end of a meal, is a fresh juicy fig cut in half and wrapped in prosciutto, thrown on the grill to slightly char the ham. What the figs add, besides their unique flavor, is the textural crunch of the hundreds of little seeds inside the fruit. Salty, sweet, crunchy, savory...and a touch of umami . What' not to love about prosciutto and melon? And figs?

Buon estate!

(Happy summer!)

QUICK BITE + ESCAPES: Mangiare al Mare!

There's nothing that captures the essence of the estate romana (Roman summer) like eating a seafood meal at the beach. Rome is only 22 kilometers (about 15 miles) from the Mediterranean Sea, which makes it an easy day trip in a car or even on a scooter. If you're free, it's great to go midweek for lunch, when it's less crowded, or on the weekend mid-afternoon to stay for aperitivi, sunset, and a seafood dinner. Dining alfresco while looking at the water really heightens the enjoyment of a great meal of antipasto, pasta, frutti di mare, and pesce.

Along the coast near Rome, the beaches of Ostia, Torvaianica, and Fregene are filled with locals coming to enjoy the sun, the sea, the sand, and the foods of summer. Popular dishes include antipasti like alici marinati (marinated fresh anchovies), and polpo con patate (octopus and potato salad), dressed in extra virgin olive oil with a spritz of lemon. These dishes are perfect with a crisp white wine or even a glass of prosecco, as is customary as an aperitivo in Italy. 

After the antipasto, moving on to a primo piatto featuring local ingredients is a must. The classics? Either spaghetti con le vongole veraci (spaghetti with tiny clams in a garlic, olive oil, and white wine sauce), or pasta allo scoglio (a mix of shellfish, shrimp, calamari -- whatever is local and fresh -- with tomatoes, olive oil, parsley, garlic, and a splash of white wine). 

In Lazio and south, oversized paccheri are often featured with shellfish -- we enjoyed this one particular version with shrimp, cherry tomatoes, and arugula. No matter which pasta you choose, these dishes are made to then"fare una scarpetta," using some crusty bread to sop up all the delicious sauce. The go-to main dish along the coastline, the dish by which you can judge a restaurant's seafood chops, is the fritto misto, or mixed fish fry.

Here, pieces of calamari, baby fish fried whole, and shrimp so tender and delicate you eat the shell and the legs along with everything else -- are dusted lightly with flour, tossed in the fryer (olive oil gives the seafood great flavor and crispness), and gently sprinkled with sea salt. A squeeze of lemon at your discretion. When it's not done properly, it's very average, but when it's prepared well, it's the essence of the mare mediterraneo: the perfect Italian summer meal.

Allora, tutti al mare!

EAT, PLAY, LOVE, Part 2: Cake & Compleanni

The first thing I ever cooked for Patrick was a birthday cake. We'd only met a few weeks earlier, in the Trastevere neighborhood of Rome. My friend Elizabeth came to me one day in May '99 and said, "I met your future boyfriend today" (which still makes me chuckle) -- he owned the Lavarapido, where she'd gone to do her laundry because it was one of few places in the city with dryers. Patrick was the owner: an American, she'd said, my age, cute, and very nice. And then one lazy Sunday afternoon at Stardust, the bar that would become our second home in Rome, I showed up for brunch and there he was outside the bar, sitting on a bench against an ivy-covered stone wall. He was wearing a blue t-shirt: I remember because it matched his eyes. (Blue still makes me think of Patrick). He was cute, yes -- but more importantly, he was incredibly sweet, with an infectious, full-body laugh. We instantly hit it off over our capacity for snark and jokey, sarcastic comments made at the expense of our new mutual friend Martin, the American bartender at Stardust who served us our drinks and lots of conversation to go with them. It was all in good fun, and it didn't take us long to assemble the beginnings of what would become our group of expats and colorful Italians that eventually formed our famiglia romana -- our Roman family. 

And so I found myself baking Patrick a birthday cake on June 10th,1999. I'd found a shop down the street from my apartment off the Campo de' Fiori that sold some specialty items from the U.S., including Betty Crocker cake mix and Philadelphia cream cheese. I wanted to make a retro, all-American cake of the kind my mother made for my birthdays in grade school: chocolate cake with cream cheese icing. Martin was having a gathering at his place in honor of Patrick's 27th birthday. But sadly, by the time 9:00 rolled around and I arrived proudly with cake in hand, Patrick had gone home. Seems he'd had a little too much to drink and had to call it a night before the sun went down. I remember being disappointed -- but it was just like Patrick to pull out all the stops, as early as possible, and occasionally burn out before the party got started!

A few weeks later, I hosted my first real dinner party in Rome (shades of many future nights to come). I'd invited Martin and Elizabeth, my English friend Monica and my Italian friend Federico, and Patrick. This was the summer before I started culinary school, and so while I enjoyed cooking, I was by no means yet a professional. (I hadn't even figured out how to work the oven in my apartment. It gave off a terrible odor every time I turned it on, and I found out the night of my dinner party that I needed to manually light the pilot light...so I'd basically been gassing everything I'd baked!) Anyway, that evening, I served a salad and a pasta, and had made a flourless chocolate cake, from scratch, for dessert. I served it with fresh local strawberries from the nearby hill town of Nemi, and a sprinkling of powdered sugar. Or so I thought. I'd been running low on powdered sugar, so had picked up another pouch of it-- same brand, almost same packaging. After sprinkling a few slices of cake with the sugar I had on hand, I started on the new pouch. 

I served all the cake slices at one time, with a sweep of the wrist and a "buon appetito!" to all of my guests. We tasted the cake -- always a crowd-pleaser -- and everyone noted how delicious it was. But some guests said, "you know, this is interesting, it's really coming alive in my mouth." I thought it was a slightly strange descriptive for the dessert, but shrugged it off. And after a few more bites, Patrick said, "it's kind of like Pop Rocks. Don't get me wrong, it's tasty, but this cake is...frizzante," a word used to describe fizzy water, meaning sparkling or carbonated. At which point a light bulb went on in Martin's head, and he pulled me into the kitchen. "Show me the sugar you sprinkled on this cake," he said, and when I did, his eyebrows raised: "this is bicarbonato: it's baking soda!" We immediately broke out into hysterics, Martin falling against the kitchen door, hand covering his mouth, cackling. I was doubled over, holding my stomach in happy pain. "Why don't you sprinkle some baking soda on it?" became a running joke at my expense in Rome. And, I was 0 for 2 on cakes.

Fast-forward to the summer of 2003. It was the hottest summer anyone could remember, when people were literally dropping from the heat all over southern Europe. I was the executive chef of a place called Ristorante Cibus, in the same Trastevere neighborhood where we passed so many of our days and nights in Rome. Patrick and I had become pretty inseparable, and now I was working full-time in our "hood." He used to come visit me at the restaurant, passing through the air conditioned dining room back into the kitchen, where it was always 10 degrees hotter than anywhere else, with 8 burners, 2 ovens, and one huge hot water boiler for pasta -- all of which were constantly going during the 9-10 hours of our prep and dinner service. "Oh wow, it's hot in here!" is what he (and everyone) said upon entering the kitchen, as if it was some revelation to me, standing there melting! Sometimes Patrick would bring me an icy granita to help me cool off. Sometimes he'd show up when we were wrapping things up, after a night where I'd been sweating my butt off and he'd been cooling his off in a chair sipping Jack-and-Cokes next door. For his birthday that year, we decided that our group of friends would celebrate with a dinner at Cibus, and I would prepare a special menu for the group, as well as a very special gourmet birthday cake.

Patrick shared a birthday with our friend Caroline, and both were present to celebrate that summer. The meal itself consisted of what was surely a pasta dish and probably a beef fillet for the main course. I don't remember the details. But I definitely remember that I made a baked chocolate mousse cake with chocolate buttercream and ganache. And that cake? A winner! It was rich and chocolaty and light as air. It seemed the third time was a charm indeed.

This year on June 10th, I did not bake Patrick a birthday cake. I went out and bought the cream cheese and powdered sugar, got the hand mixer from a friend here in Rome, and tried to find chocolate cake mix -- just for old time's sake, and for our friend Caroline, who was back in Rome this year and spent her birthday with us, with our extended famiglia romana. But I couldn't bring myself to actually make the cake. Patrick would have been 39 years old on June 10th this year. Instead, he is forever 38 and 1/2. Patrick was born 3 months and 24 days before I was born, but now I'm older than he is, and I can't get my head around that concept.

This year on June 10th, instead of baking Patrick a birthday cake, we gathered our "Roman family" from near and far, to celebrate Patrick's life. Roman style.

We returned to Trastevere, our neighborhood full of wonderful memories. Stardust no longer exists, and though Patrick's laundromat is still there, sign and all, he sold it when he left Rome in '05 and it's now shuttered. But still, this will always be our neighborhood. So, we found a beautiful apartment around the corner from those spots. And we came together, from Rome, from all over Italy and Europe, from Malta, from the United States. We drank to Patrick's full life, we exchanged stories and memories, we saw videos and photos of those golden years in Rome that Patrick felt were some of the best of his life. We ate at one of our favorite neighborhood trattorias, we toasted to his life, we sang, we cried, but most of all we laughed, remembering Patrick's full-body guffaw and his capacity to laugh about everything, even in the face of tragedy. He was able to see the good in everyone and everything, which is what made Patrick so sweet, so refreshingly optimistic, and so beloved by so many.

In the whirlwind and haze of that Roman evening, which for me was surreal, I did notice something. Many people wore white, the complete opposite of the traditional black that signifies mourning, and a color that celebrates light and life. But more interesting still: even more people wore blue -- unwittingly, I think, but it was Patrick's color, and it was so fitting. He was the one thing so obviously missing from a birthday party he would have LOVED. But there we were, friends and family, gathered together to eat, drink, and celebrate the life of our lovely Patrick, dressed in colors of light and summer and Patrick's pool-blue eyes. He had, once again, pulled out all the stops and left the party early, way too early. But we celebrated on into the night, and to sunrise, in his honor.

Above, Patrick on his 30th Birthday in Rome (with a cake his Mom made and is presenting to him).

We love you, Patrick, and miss you terribly.

Auguri, auguri, auguri, from your Famiglia Romana...

QUICK BITE: Bresaola Salad

It's a perfect flavor combination -- a concept which appears in Italian cuisine so frequently. Think about it: who first conceived of tomato, mozzarella, and basil together? Genius! And so it goes with bresaola, rughetta, e parmigiano. Bresaola is prosciutto's beefy cousin, cut from the lean top round of the cow, and salted and air-dried. It hails from Valtellina in Lombardy's northern alps, but is eaten all over the Italian peninsula. When sliced extra-thin and arranged on a plate, it's topped with peppery arugula tossed in extra-virgin olive oil, and shavings of parmigiano reggiano cheese. Drizzle a bit of a balsamic vinegar reduction on top, and via! You've got an amazingly flavorful light lunch that delights the eye and the palate. And it's much better for you than pizza -- though, admittedly, it makes a great sandwich stuffer nestled inside a piece of warm Roman pizza bianca. 

Perfetto!

EAT, PLAY, LOVE: Patrick, Food, and Rome -- Part 1

In May 2005, I sat down in my living room in Largo Arenula and wrote the following:

I just said goodbye to my best friend in the piazza beneath my house... "So many years, huh? So many years," he'd said. Six years of friendship in a foreign country can seem like a lifetime. And seeing that time together end can seem the end of a life, too. Well, at least the end of an era.

My friend Patrick had just left for the airport, to fly to the U.S., and to leave our adopted city of Rome, for good. I was reeling. Our friendship wasn't over, of course, but our time in Rome together was. We'd experienced so much, jam-packed into those six years, so many amazing memories. And since we were living in Italy, and I'm a chef -- well, many of those memories revolved around food. 

Below: Patrick in front of his Trastevere apartment

It must be explained that left to his own devices, Patrick would have subsisted on a diet of fish sticks and toast, with the occasional PB and J or tuna fish sandwich thrown in for good measure. This is not because he was a difficult eater -- if placed in front of him, he would eat most anything, including healthy greens, salads, vegetables, meats, fish, and the numerous delicious pastas we were fortunate enough to be surrounded by in Rome. But Patrick did not prepare this fare for himself. His tiny kitchen corner in his Trastevere apartment didn't really allow for the preparation of anything beyond the super-simple. So I took it upon myself to feed Patrick when I could, with labor-intensive, sophisticated meals at my dinner parties, and, more frequently, with simple home-cooked meals I'd make for us at my apartment. Patrick would buzz the citofono downstairs between 4 and 4:30 p.m., on average, four days a week. I'd pick up the hand-held receiver to hear his cocktail hour credo: "It's 5 o'clock somewhere!" He'd climb the five long flights of stairs in the name of shared aperitivi (he kept a bottle of Jack Daniels stored in my liquor cabinet for convenience) and if we didn't go out after, he'd often stay for dinner and a movie. "Dumb and Dumber" and "Fargo" were our favorites. Each time he'd stay over for a meal he'd make me imitate the line from Fargo: "Daaaaad? Ya stayin' for supperrrrr?!" in a strong North Dakota accent. He laughed hysterically every time -- even this past December, over the phone, when I indulged his request for me to "Say the line! Say it!"

There was one year in Rome when we watched what was basically the Italian version of American Idol, "Operazione Trionfo" every Wednesday night. Patrick would come over an hour before it came on, for some pre-show libations. I'd make dinner. We'd discuss who we surmised wouldn't make the cut that week. Martin often joined as well. Our friends called us idiots, but they were missing out on cheesy Italian entertainment! One week, Patrick had decided he wanted to cook dinner for meinstead of the other way around. His dish of choice? Something he called his Mom's Special Fried Chicken -- that is, chicken drumsticks shaken in a bag with seasoned bread crumbs, then fried in a pan, until, a few minutes before the chicken was done, he dumped a cup of water into the pan. We'd debated about this for months on end: how could "fried chicken" remain fried if you then doused it with water? Wouldn't it just become soggy fried chicken? I never understood what made him wax poetic about this dish. And the irony, as it turned out, was that I had a terrible stomach flu the night he endeavored to recreate this dish at my apartment. I never got to try it. I was on saltines and San Pellegrino.

I always enjoyed pushing Patrick to his culinary limits. Our friend Anna, owner of our second-home bar, Stardust, would order crates of fresh oysters from Normandy around the holidays. One cold December night, Patrick and I were having drinks in the dimly-lit bar after dinner. Anna asked me if I knew how to shuck oysters -- and since I will happily suffer shucking for a taste of pure deliciousness, she told me to step behind the bar and prepare 6 or 8 oysters for us. Patrick got nervous. First because we were discussing ostriche (oh-stree-kay), the Italian word for oyster, which he assumed meant "ostrich." Once we cleared that up, he remained nervous because he'd never tried a raw oyster before. I brought over a plate of them with lemon wedges and some Tabasco sauce for the first-timer. By then, the entire bar had overheard our conversation, and everyone was rallying behind Patrick to slurp the briny bivalve from its shell. The next 20 seconds were hilarious, for the range of expressions that came across his face, and the trouble he had choking the thing down. Once he did, the bar erupted in cheers, as Patrick laughed, sheepishly proclaiming "mai piu'!" (never again!).

I reviewed restaurants for various guidebooks in Rome, and so frequently, I'd take friends along to help me "judge" a meal. Patrick was happy to accompany me on numerous occasions, the most memorable of which was our outing to Checchino, an old, elegant restaurant in the Testaccio neighborhood that's been around since 1887. Checchino is famous for perfecting the Roman cooking of the "quinto quarto" -- basically, it's the cheaper cuts of meat and organs and everything that makes up offal (and to Patrick's palate, AWFUL). We ordered some classic Roman pasta dishes, but I insisted that we also order a few of the more 'adventurous' dishes. Patrick was not a fan of liver, lungs, brain, or anything else that I made him try that afternoon, though we did have a fun time misbehaving in the starched-linen elegance of the restaurant. The topper was a bollito misto, traditional more of northern Italy but served here as a plate of mixed boiled animal parts with a piquant green sauce.

Now, I've had great versions of this dish. This was not one of them. The meat pieces were mostly gelatinous and jiggled when Patrick shook the plate. What didn't shake was overcooked and in the grayish-taupe color family. Present in the collection of meat-ish products were brain, tripe, and various sections of a cow's and pig's face. Patrick and I were only able to make a dent in the dish by coercion to eat specific parts: P: "I dare you to eat that gray slice of meat". D: "Only if you eat that jiggly piece of cartilage." P: "No way! Only if you eat that squiggly thing too." D: "Can I dump green sauce on it?" P: "Yeah, okay." D: "Deal." We laughed our way through lunch, and washed everything down with some crisp white wine. And chalked it up to another interesting Italian food experience.

Riding home on the back of Patrick's scooter, zipping along the Tiber River on a sunny afternoon, belly full: it was the height of contentment. It was another perfect moment in Rome, one of countless wonderful memories I have with Patrick.

I miss him every single day.

To Be Continued...

RECIPE: Easy Meal of Spring Chicken

There are countless ways to cook a chicken. Some preparations are boring and plain, some are complex and interesting, others still are homey and comforting. It's always good to have the last kind in your cooking arsenal: an 'old reliable' that gets the job done every time, whether it's making an easy meal for yourself with limited time and budget, or cooking a tasty and uncomplicated meal for friends or family.

In the name of having a simple, reliable method for cooking a roast chicken -- and sides as well -- I've developed a really simple update on roast chicken with potatoes and a green veggie. Here's the idea:

- For one chicken, mix together a few tablespoons of whole grain mustard with a few tablespoons of good quality olive oil.

-Add some chopped fresh herbs. For this version I used chives and a little rosemary, just a tablespoon or two.

- Add the zest and juice of a citrus fruit (here I actually used kaffir lime, which adds a dimension of flavor and complexity to the dish. These limes can be hard to find. Lemon is fine. Something more interesting -- blood orange, meyer lemon, etc. -- is even better).

- Add a shake of salt and pepper, and mix. This becomes your FLAVOR PASTE for the chicken.

- Once the chicken is rinsed and dried thoroughly, spread the flavor paste over the skin of the bird and under the skin, in the pockets between the breasts and the outer skin. Leave a little to spread on later when you turn the bird.

- Clean and dice a couple of potatoes, and toss in a little olive oil and salt.

- Line a sheet pan with parchment paper or foil. Spread the potatoes in a layer on the pan. Place the chicken, breast side down, on top of the potatoes.

- Roast in a preheated oven at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. In the meantime, bring a pot of water to a boil, generously salt the water, and cook your green veg for a couple of minutes until it's just barely tender. Remove from the pot and place immediately in ice water to stop the cooking.

- After 20 minutes, pull the tray out of the oven and turn the chicken over, so it's breast side up. Spread a little more of the flavor paste on the top of the chicken. Toss the potatoes in the pan juices. Add the green veg (here I've used broccoletti) to the pan as well, with a sprinkling of salt. Turn the oven up to 375 and return pan to oven for 20 minutes or so, until the top of the chicken is nicely browned and the potatoes are golden and cooked through.

- Carve and enjoy!

SEASONAL INGREDIENT + RECIPE: Artichoke: The Prickly Sign of Primavera

Few vegetables say spring like the artichoke. For me, in Rome, it was always the ultimate sign of la primavera, especially where I lived in the Jewish ghetto, which is known for its numerous restaurants specializing in the deep-fried "Jewish style" artichokes in-season. In the U.S., California provides almost 100 percent of the nation’s artichoke crop. Castroville, in Monterey County, calls itself “The Artichoke Center of the World,” and is host to an annual festival held since 1959, which celebrates the perennial thistle. Still, fifty years seems like a drop in the bucket, when we consider the fact that artichokes have been consumed in the Mediterranean region since the sixth century B.C.

From There to Here: A Brief History of the Thistle

Cynara cardunculus, the globe artichoke, is thought to have originated in Northern Africa. Its name comes from the Arabic al-kharshuf or ardi-shoky, meaning “ground-thorny,” which became carciofo (car-CHO-foe) in Italian. A relative of the cardoon, the artichoke was cultivated in Sicily during the Greek occupation, as early as 500 B.C., and eventually made its way to mainland Italy.

It reached Naples in the 9th century, and was supposedly brought north to Florence in the 1460’s by Filippo Strozzi, a wealthy Florentine banker who’d been exiled to Naples by the Medici family. From here, it traveled further north to Venice and then into southern France, reaching Avignon by about 1532. The artichoke spread throughout Europe to eventually flower in Henry VIII’s gardens in the 1540’s, though it had probably always been a staple in the Southern Mediterranean regions historically touched by Greek, and later Arab, influence: Spain, Portugal, Italy, Greece, and Southern France.

It was the French who first introduced the artichoke to 19th century Louisiana, and therefore to the American table, though Spanish immigrants are the ones credited with bringing the vegetable to California, where it’s flourished ever since.

When In Rome…

It’s the Roman artichoke, the carciofo romanesco, the Cynara scolymus: a gorgeous, deep purple-and-green globe. Synonymous with the celebrated Roman Spring, it's perfectly paired with Easter specialties like baby lamb, fava beans, asparagus, and spring peas. Anyone who has ever tried an artichoke in The Eternal City knows that there may be no better place on earth to eat one. It is the single most popular vegetable in Rome, and has become the city's culinary symbol.

The two most common local artichoke preparations are alla romana – Roman-style, slow braised in oil and wine with wild Roman mint and pecorino cheese, and alla giudea – Jewish-style, deep-fried twice so the crispy outer petals open up but the heart remains tender within. Unlike botanically similar varieties found elsewhere, the romanesco artichoke is eaten young, before it gets woody. This allows a greater portion of the flower to be edible, though local cooks generally pare down the leaves quite a bit. Romans tend to go straight for the tender heart.

Cooking with Carciofi 

Romans believe artichokes reduce cholesterol, cleanse the liver…and are an aphrodisiac to boot. Whatever their benefits may be, nutritional or otherwise, artichokes are labor-intensive but well worth the work.

A trip to any Roman market in the spring months will reveal numerous carciofare, or artichoke trimmers, in quick action with gloved hands, a sharp knife, and a container of water with cut lemons floating in it: the acidulated water keeps the chlorophyll oxidation to a minimum, so the artichokes remain green and beautiful. Look for artichokes that are heavy for their size, with tightly-packed leaves.

CARCIOFI ALLA ROMANA

4 artichokes

2 lemons

2 cloves garlic, minced

4 TBS. Chopped fresh flat leaf parsley

4 TBS. Chopped fresh mint or mentuccia

½ cup Pecorino Romano cheese, grated

1 cup dry white wine

2 TBS. Minced olive oil-packed anchovy fillets (optional)

salt & pepper to taste

extra-virgin olive oil, as needed (about 1-2 cups)

-Fill a large bowl with water and squeeze the juice of one of the lemons into it.

-Trim artichoke stems, cut the top of the artichoke bulb off, and peel the outer leaves of the artichoke.

-Carefully scoop out the choke with a melon baller or paring knife.

-As each artichoke is trimmed, put it into the acidulated water.

-In a small bowl, combine the garlic, parsley, mint, bread crumbs, and anchovies, if using. Season with salt & pepper.

-Pat dry the artichokes, stuff the stuffing mixture into the cavity left by the choke and between the leaves. Close leaves over filling.

- Place artichokes stem-up in a baking dish and add 1 part olive oil to 1 part white wine to 2 parts water, to almost cover artichoke bulb.

- Cover and cook until tender when tested with a toothpick/skewer, about 45 minutes to an hour (either in oven or on the stovetop).

- Can be served warm or eaten at room temperature, kept in the braising liquid. Serve with lemon wedges.

RESTAURANT REVIEW: Riverpark, New York City

Celebrity toque and Top Chef King of Snark Tom Colicchio quietly opened RIVERPARK, a restaurant situated on an underused stretch of the East River in Murray Hill, this past autumn. And over the course of these recent cool-into-cold months of Manhattan's fall and winter seasons, Riverpark has gained a foothold in the city's dining scene. 

Admittedly, I've always found office buildings and corporate structures to be strange settings for restaurants (which probably accounts for my propensity to head downtown to eat). The Alexandria Center is no different, except its sterile, shiny newness is in stark contrast to the surrounding old buildings and to the warmth of Riverpark once you...get past the security guards at the Center's front desk, walk down the corridor, and step inside the actual restaurant. It's decorated in handsome tones of copper, limestone, and dark blue, and its position overlooking the East River makes the interior feel modern nautical, and not necessarily very New York-y: the day these photos were shot was a damp, gray afternoon that reminded me of eating on the Thames rather than dining in Manhattan. 

Regardless, the bar is a nice place to have elegant drinks and nibbles or raw bar selections (or a full dinner) after work -- something the nabe has long been lacking. And as for the dining room itself (divided into 2 areas: one cozy interior, and one by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows), these are lovely spots for lunch or dinner, where one can enjoy a reliably good meal, professionally executed, with little fanfare and warm service. Put succinctly: Riverpark is the perfect place to come with someone you like, someone with whom you'd like to enjoy a conversation. Nothing about the place overwhelms or takes the focus off of your company, and you don't have to worry about the food disappointing. Many a spot has become an institution in this town for accomplishing less.

Now, to the food: not overly pricey (particularly for a Colicchio joint), not terribly exciting, but reliably delicious. Chef de Cuisine Sisha Ortuzar exhibits his skill honed in Colicchio's kitchens, along with his facility with market-fresh ingredients and Euro-American food with influence from The Americas (Ortuzar is Chilean). So, we can kick off our meal with a decadent starter of duck liver pate' with grilled toast and a cherry compote, or go the lighter route with a salad of field greens and lightly pickled vegetables -- or find the middle ground with a beef carpaccio with arugula and shaved parmigiano.

For seconds, try the Arctic char (replaced by branzino in the photo) with fingerling potatoes, pickled red onion, capers, and a salsa verde. The pork scaloppine with farro and wilted spinach was also delicious -- though no longer on the menu -- and the lunch item of the fried chicken sandwich with homemade potato chips (available as a bar snack) was a tasty plate of food. The pastas, like the squid ink chitarra, are well-balanced, and other meatier second dishes are accomplished as well.

Desserts tend towards updated classics-with-a-twist, as in the cinnamon panna cotta with rosemary ice cream and caramelized pumpkin seeds. The molten chocolate cake is there (with espresso gelato and burnt sesame brittle), and so is the apple crumb with cool cream to pour onto it. Classics, yes -- but with good reason.

Here's the thing: the experimentation, research, and reinvention of the wheel may be happening in this building, but in the pharmaceutical and venture capitalist offices and biotech labs upstairs -- not in the kitchen. On the ground floor at Riverpark, highly-skilled, professional execution of American and European flavors, using top-quality primary ingredients is the name of the game. That it's happening in a fairly underdeveloped slice of Manhattan overlooking a lovely spot on the East River (this should be a great locale come late spring and into summer) is all the more incentive to check out this neighborhood anomaly.

Diner: please pack your wallet and go.

RIVERPARK

450 E 29th St. New York, NY 10016

Reservations

212.729.9790

info@riverparknyc.com

RECIPE: Zuppa di Cavolo Verde con i Ceci e Pomodori

I've always considered March to be an unpleasant month. In the northeastern U.S., and particularly in New York City, it's still pretty much winter. It could rain or sleet, we could get bombarded by a blizzard, or we could wake up to a lovely, short-lived spring morning. But mostly, it's gray and cold. Tonight, it's chilly and rainy and windy, and it's Sunday. It's a perfect evening for a warming, and healthy, bowl of homemade soup. Italian-style, ovviamente.

This soup is something I made with 3 things in mind:

1. I wanted the soup to be a meal-in-a-bowl, and healthy.

2. I wanted to use the organic kale I'd bought at the market, which I purchased also in the interest of healthy eating.

3. I wanted to utilize pantry staples so the soup could be easily reproduced and made on a budget of very little -- and when you don't feel like braving the weather outside.

So, here you have it. Of course, it's even better if you soak and cook your own chickpeas, and if you have fresh tomatoes in season. But since it's March, and I'm a realist, I'll pick my battles and encourage you only to make your own stock. It's easy, it's inexpensive, and it makes your kitchen -- your whole apartment or house, really -- smell like home. 

Zuppa di Cavolo Verde con i Ceci e Pomodori

1 small onion, finely chopped

4 stalks of celery, finely diced

4 carrots, peeled and finely diced

2 TBSP. extra-virgin olive oil

1/4 cup dry white wine

10 cups chicken or vegetable stock (homemade is best)

1 small can (14 oz.) chopped San Marzano tomatoes

1/2 teaspoon dried chili flakes

1 small can (14 oz.) chickpeas, drained from liquid and rinsed under water

1 head of kale (cavolo verde), or Tuscan cavolo nero if available, washed and dried

salt & pepper, to taste

- In a large soup pot, heat the olive oil until warm, and then add the onion, celery, and carrot. Saute on medium-low until onions are translucent, about 5 minutes.

- Add the white wine to the vegetables, and turn the heat up to medium until most of the liquid is cooked off.

- Add the stock and cover until it comes to a boil.

- Add the tomatoes and chili flakes, cover, and cook for approximately 10 minutes.

- Add the chickpeas, lower the heat to medium-low, cover, and continue cooking.

- With a sharp knife, cut the base of the head of kale off, remove any thick veins, and then slice through the leaves, horizontally, cutting the kale into strips about 1/4 inch wide, so the kale leaves become a sort of "confetti."

- Add the kale to the soup (the leaves will wilt). Stir, and continue to cook for another 15 minutes, allowing flavors to blend. Taste for seasoning, and add salt and pepper to taste.

* This soup, like most soups, is best served the day after it's made, allowing the flavors to develop and blend overnight.

Valentine's Day: Cooking with Love, and for Patrick

I am a chef by profession. Despite my experience cooking for various celebrities and ambassadors, tourists and strangers, and the hours spent sweating in top restaurant kitchens, at the end of the day, I am a cook -- not a chef -- at heart. I like to define myself not so much by my professional culinary ventures, but by what I cook for those I love. It is this that measures not just skill and talent and speed, but what comes from your heart, as I believe all good cooking should.

I wrote this almost six years ago when I was living in Rome, and I still feel the same way. For me, cooking is an expression of love. It's something to be shared among friends, family, and loved ones. Cliché as it may sound, it's about more than filling stomachs, it's about feeding souls. When you're lucky enough not to worry where your next meal will come from, cooking is about pleasure: flavor and memory and sensation and smell and yes, hunger -- but in a good way. It's the ultimate sensory experience. I always say, cooking and eating are the only activities for which you utilize all five of your senses...other than sex, of course. So for me, Valentine's Day is as much about food as anything. 

This Valentine's Day, I'm reflecting on cooking for loved ones, and one loved one in particular. This past Christmas Eve, my dear friend Patrick passed away suddenly. We'd been friends since we met in Rome in 1999, and he was one of my favorite people on the planet. In a terrible twist of irony, I was a week away from seeing him. I was supposed to be his New Year's "date" and spend five days in Las Vegas with him and his Mother, his Stepfather Gary, and his 2 little boys, Sebastian and Elliott.

I was looking forward to this time with him so much that it's beyond something I can express in words. I was excited to get some good, quality time with the boys, excited to see his Mom again (she'd lived in Florence while we all lived in Rome) and to meet Gary, excited for our famous Dana-Patrick heart-to-hearts, and for our imitations and goofy accents and belly laughs, and to just hang out again with no particular agenda, like we'd done in Rome countless times over the years. And, I was really looking forward to cooking for him, and particularly for Sebbi and Elliott. When I last saw Sebbi, he was too young to have his teeth yet, and the boys had been living in Sweden with their mother until Patrick brought them back to America in 2008. They'd been living on the other side of the country from me, and though we often tried to plan visits to see each other, daily life had always seemed to get in the way. Until this year. We were going to kick off 2011 on the right foot. "I can't wait to cook you guys some good Italian food, you need my help!" I'd told Patrick on the phone back in November. He'd joked about his "master cheffing skills" as he simultaneously prepared dinner for the boys -- peanut butter sandwiches, mac and cheese. Patrick's own diet also tended towards the simple kids' menu fare he served the boys. 

I thought about all the wonderful Roman meals we'd enjoyed -- pasta all'amatriciana, Roman broccoli cooked down to a velvety mush with garlic, olive oil, and peperoncino...thin-crust pizzas and juicy beef tagliata on a bed of arugula with balsamic. I wanted the boys to taste this. For Patrick and me, it would be taste memory. For Sebby and Elliott, it would be cultivating tastes. But I didn't get that chance.

Instead, I flew out to Vegas 3 days earlier than originally planned, for Patrick's funeral. It's still surreal, even as I write this. I don't actually believe he's gone. It seems impossible. But I was there, I attended the service, I saw his family and friends, and made some new ones. We wept, we drank, we talked. And eventually, I got to cook. The day after the funeral, Barb and Gary were hosting everyone at their home. When I arrived there with my friend Gareth, the house smelled delicious. James Taylor was cooing from the speakers (Patrick's favorite -- and mine, too. I've cooked countless meals along with "Sweet Baby" James). I wanted to do something to help the family, wanted to make myself useful in some small way. So I relieved Barb of her kitchen duties, and turned the bubbling broth on the stove into a soup. It was a simple job, really: picking turkey meat off of the carcass, chopping parsley and garlic, menial tasks. But that's what I wanted, to go through the motions and occupy my time. I cooked for Patrick's family and friends, and for me, too. His sister Andrea came and put her arm around me as I worked. "You're doing what you do best. It feels comforting, doesn't it?" It did, and it didn't. The last thing I wanted to be doing was cooking under those circumstances...but under those circumstances, the only thing for me to do was to cook. Patrick's niece Sophie was my sous-chef. She'd decided over the course of those few days that she wanted to be a caterer. Strange timing for a 10 year-old to choose a career path, perhaps, but I can tell that she has what it takes, beyond already formidable knife skills: she likes to feed souls, too. Barb said that day, "Having you and Gareth and Erica in my kitchen again, it seemed like Florence -- almost normal." Almost. The one thing that was missing, so sorely, unfairly missing, was Patrick. What a presence. He always lit up the room.

Once all the family had arrived at Barb's house, we ladled out the cream of turkey soup and passed around the garlic bread. All the adults and Barb's 10 grandchildren slurped the soup happily, and I loved seeing them enjoying it, loved hearing the clink-clink of their spoons hitting the bottom of their cups. When he was done, Sebastian, Patrick's older boy, came running up to me and smiled and proclaimed, "You make the best soup in the whole world!" There was no higher praise imaginable. It broke my heart. In that moment, he was a 7-year-old version of his father. There too, no higher praise.

Patrick is gone much too soon, but he packed a huge amount of life into his 38 years. He lived all over the world, and he often said many of his happiest moments were with us in Rome. Patrick truly enjoyed to eat, drink, and be merry, something he cultivated to perfection in the aria and among the cobblestones of the Eternal City. He was an honest, caring man -- absolutely one of the good ones -- with a huge heart, which, as it turned out, was also a weak one. For better or worse, the words "heart" and "Patrick" will forever be linked in my mind.

I wish everyone much love, and time to spend with those you care about this San Valentino, and hope that you can all share some delicious food with loved ones. I'll be blogging about food-related Patrick stories now and throughout the year -- there are so many! This is a piccolo valentino to you, Patrick. I love you and miss you so much. We all do.

RECIPE: LA GRANDE MELA: Apples, The Big Apple, and Apple Crumb

Autumn and apples: for me, they go hand-in-hand. The anticipation of heading to the green market in the fall is terrific: poring over the myriad apple varieties, sipping warm apple cider while I stroll along, crisp and colorful fallen leaves under foot. If I can find a good caramel apple, then I'm a sucker for it -- I'm hard-pressed to pass up a chewy, crunchy autumnal treat. And I love an excursion outside of the city for some apple picking, too. When time allows, this is a great fall weekend pastime we in the northeast are lucky enough to enjoy.

And believe me, I don't take this for granted. All the years I lived in Italy, fall had some wonderful food connotations for me: wine harvests, polenta festivals in Umbria...sausages and lentils and pumpkin ravioli. But in Italy, well, they just don't do apples (mele) like here on the east coast of the U.S. And where better than the Empire State, the city known around the world as The Big Apple ("La Grande Mela" in Italian), to revel in autumnal apple-y goodness?

I recently had friends here visiting from Rome, and we happened upon the Union Square greenmarket around lunchtime on a sunny, brisk early November afternoon. They'd had a few minutes to wander through the market before meeting me, and they said, "Dana, we'd forgotten what a real apple tastes like!" They were amazed at the variety of apples, the colors, shapes and sizes, and how some were sweet and fragrant and others were crisp and tart. It was as if they'd tasted an apple for the first time. They bought several varieties to take back with them on the international flight, because as they exclaimed, "you can't find apples like these in Italy!" I reminded them that they were in The Big Apple, after all -- and it all made sense to them. A very funny moment.

Of course, I stocked up on apples as well. My beloved varieties for various uses, from eating out-of-hand to baking in desserts, include Cortland, Braeburn, Rome (named for the town in New York state, not Italy!), Macoun, Honeycrisp, and Staymen Winesap. A love of good apples was ingrained in me from childhood by my father, who considers himself to be a shrewd apple expert. To him, the granddaddy of all varieties is the Ida Red. He carts bags and bags of them from the northeast down to south Florida when he heads down each November, since they're not readily available outside of their local growing area. So yes, I had to get some Ida Reds as well. Some apple cider, too. Maybe some hard cider, good for drinking as well as making sauces for pork dishes. Is apple overload possible? I'm testing the limits!

So, how will I consume all of these apples? Some, I eat with a fresh local Camembert-style cheese called "Bianca" from Hawthorne Valley Farm in Ghent, NY (another greenmarket purchase) -- the cheese slightly melted, the apples sliced, smeared with a little Tuscan millefiore honey on some crusty bread. Others, I'll slice and dip in some homemade salted caramel sauce, a sophisticated version of the street fair favorite. Some apples I toss with caramelized onions and kale, and sprinkle with cider vinegar and a little brown sugar in the pan for a great seasonal side dish to a meat main course.

And then there's my favorite apple dessert. It would seem un-American to diss the staple apple pie. And I do love a good one. But even better, to my taste buds -- and just as American, in the tradition of crumbles, brown betties, slumps, and cobblers -- is the APPLE CRUMBLE. It's simple. It doesn't need a crust. It bakes in about 30-45 minutes and can be eaten warm: no waiting! Perfection.

APPLE CRUMB

(Serves 4)

6 apples, peeled, cored, and cut into slices (about 10 per apple)

8 oz. plus 2 TBS. AP flour

3 oz. granulated sugar

2 oz. brown sugar 

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. salt

4 oz. (1 stick) + 1 TBS. butter, softened to room temp

- Butter individual ramekins or medium, shallow baking dish 

- Toss the apples in a bowl with the cinnamon, 2 TBSP. sugar and 1 TBSP. flour, to coat.

- Distribute apples in even layers in baking vessels.

- Mix softened butter, flour, salt, and sugars until a dough is formed (cookie dough-like in consistency).

- Drop dough on top of apples and bake in 375 degree oven until golden brown and crispy on top, 30-45 minutes. 

- Allow to cool enough so you won't burn your tongue devouring the crumble!

* Great with fresh whipped cream or vanilla ice cream

La Fiorentina

Yeah, I like vegetables. Sure, a good salad can be fab. And fresh seafood is one of my top gustatory pleasures, especially in warm weather. But what food really hits the spot, scratches an itch, makes me go ahhh? (Well, yes, chocolate...but that's for another time). For me, it's a primal thing. A visceral thing. And when I get that craving, I need it: meat. Specifically, beef. A wonderful, toothsome-but-tender steak. And the granddaddy of them all -- I don't care who you are, or where you're from -- is the bistecca alla fiorentina.

Now, I lived in Rome for a long time. And there are Tuscan restaurants in the country's capital city, for sure. But there's something about actually being in Tuscany that speaks to the overall experience of sinking one's teeth into this beautiful hunk of meat. I've enjoyed the bistecca alla fiorentina  in its city of origin, at some famous old-school trattorie in Florence ("fiorentina" means Florentine, for the uninitiated) -- which is great. There, you're surrounded by like-minded eaters, feasting on roasted rosemary potatoes, perhaps some wilted spinach sauteed in garlic and olive oil (another Florentine staple), and washing it all down with a nice Chianti. A recent trip to the outskirts of Florence had me enjoying just that, with the fiorentina artfully presented to us as the photo here shows, almost as if we were guests at a regal banquet: gorgeous, ruby-red beef sliced from the bone...bone included, of course!

But I've also enjoyed the bistecca in the countryside of Tuscany, sitting in the patio of a roadside trattoria in Chianti, hidden from view of passers-by. For a few lucky locals and my friends and I, the high flames of the outdoor grill licked the meat and singed its outer crust. Its only seasoning? A few twists of cracked pepper and sea salt, a squeeze of lemon and a drizzle of that opaque Tuscan olive oil, in all its tannic, electric-green glory. Or in the outdoor patio restaurant of our agriturismo, overlooking hills where the very beef we're eating has been raised. 

Here it's served with a green peppercorn and rosemary-infused olive oil drizzle, and it's amazing, lip-smackingly tasty, particularly with another classical accompaniment: fagioli all'uccelletto ("bird style" cannellini beans, cooked with tomatoes and sage). Is it sweeter outside of the city, eaten closer to the Val di Chiana where the Chianina beef -- the beautiful bovine breed that makes the fiorentina what it is -- comes from? Sometimes it feels that way. But whether in the urban setting of Florence or the hills of Tuscany...well, either way, you're pretty close to paradiso!

Call it an Italian Porterhouse or T-bone, containing both the fillet and the controfiletto  -- the tenderloin and the short loin -- but the bistecca alla fiorentina must be about 3 fingers thick, and it must be cooked only to rare or medium rare, otherwise the consistency is ruined (let's not speak of the integrity of the beef itself). It requires no seasonings other than salt and pepper -- preferably a flaky sea salt with some texture. Then dress with great-quality olive oil and a squeeze of lemon to cut the richness of it all. Basta. That's all. When enjoying a great piece of meat, you need no more than the basics to really, profoundly scratch that itch, that carnal craving. Just add fire.

DINING OUT: SHEPHERD'S PIE, Rockport, Maine

The lovely, sleepy town of Rockport, Maine is a thriving summertime destination -- despite the fact that it's not a terribly easy spot to get to, nor is it terribly inexpensive. But it is picturesque, temperate (3 months a year, anyway), and manages to strike a balance between 'Unspoiled Nature' and 'Manicured Lawn.' Rockport's sister village is Camden, which perhaps grabs a bit of the spotlight from Rockport itself, with its perfectly-preserved New England Main Street and Harbor, pretty inns and a handful of sophisticated dining spots. The owners of one of these spots, Francine's, realized that Rockport could use a locale that serves what the locals (and visitors) crave. And so, Shepherd's Pie opened last year in an old warehouse building next to an art gallery, on the main street above Rockport's harbor. And what a welcome addition to the dining scene it's proved to be.

The 'theme' of Shepherd's Pie could be labeled Sophisticated American Gastropub Fare with eclectic international touches -- though it's best to leave the idea of labels behind and just stick to the notion that Shepherd's Pie serves good food and tasty drinks in a great atmosphere. Period. The bartenders get creative with their cocktails, and they feature a few interesting concoctions each night. This included a peach-raspberry "shrub" one warm August evening -- a southern drink with rum and a fruit syrup and vinegar base that takes the edge off of a potentially too-sweet libation.

Appetizers run the gamut from fried calamari with hot peppers and herbs that's all traditional crunchy deep-fried squid with the tang and heat of Italian marinated antipasti thrown together. Also on offer is a crab ceviche (tasty, though could have used more kick from chiles), and shrimp tacos. 

Second courses include bar food like burgers, duck hot dogs (great idea!), and a pork belly sandwich that will convert any "Skinny Bitch" to Atkins devotee with the first unctuous, memorable bite. Also savory and delicious are the spice-rubbed ribs, packed with loads of concentrated flavor. 

We enjoyed the grilled pork with caramel sauce, too -- a take on Vietnamese pork ribs cooked down to sweet, sticky goodness -- but the scoops of canteloupe were a bit too one-note with the sauce. Better to amp up the contrasting flavors and add more cilantro, cucumber, and other crunchy, cool elements. But overall, the menu that globe-hops is a success in its comforting flavors and generous portions. We're sure the desserts are tasty as well, but we only had room for liquid left: a dessert of Dark and Stormies? Yes, we can. Perfectly sweet enough to send us off along the harbor, to bed.

QUICK BITE: How to Beat the Roman Heat? Grattachecca, Grazie!

In the heat of the dog days of summer, there are few things more refreshing than the typically Roman frozen treat: grattachecca.

This is shaved ice with a flavored syrup (usually fruit) poured on top -- anything ranging from cherry to mint, tamarind to watermelon. And its origins can be traced back to 50 or 60 B.C., and Quintus Fabius Maximus, a Roman General and statesman aligned with Julius Caesar. It is said he used to order snow to be brought down from the Appenine mountains outside of Rome, which would be drizzled with fruit juices. 

The grattachecca is different from granita, which is an Italian "slushy" or icy beverage that's basically frozen fruit syrup the consistency of crushed ice, drinkable with a straw. (Granita can be considered the precursor to 7-11's -- and America's -- "Slurpie"). The grattachecca is all about the fluffy ice: shaved, not crushed, so it achieves the consistency of snow, light and ethereal. The really old-school spots shave the ice from a big block by hand. The name grattachecca basically means the 'queen of shaved ice' and most Romans I know would agree that this delicious solution to Rome's August heat is just that.

During the punishing summer of 2003, during which so many people in Southern Europe died from the heat, I was heading a restaurant kitchen in Trastevere. The worst of the heat began in June -- normally a pleasant month in Rome, but that summer it was reaching 100 degrees farenheit for what would be every day, in a row, for a month. Nighttime did not bring a respite. And add 10 degrees to the kitchen temperature, with several ovens on at all times, 8 burners going, and since we're in Italy, we mustn't forget the boiling cauldron of water for pasta. On my walk to work each day, from Largo Argentina to Trastevere, I was lucky enough to cross the Ponte Garibaldi right past my favorite grattachecca spot: La Fonte D'Oro, there since 1913 on the Lungotevere.

During my first summer in Rome back in '99, an older Roman resident introduced me to his nightly summer refresher: a glass of "coccolimone" juice from the Fonte D'Oro. It's coconut-lemon, with the tart fresh-squeezed lemons offsetting the sweetness and richness of the coconut. It's a perfect combo in hot weather, and my go-to grattachecca (I prefer it over shaved ice; Vincenzo took his 'neat'). Many of the other flavors seem too syrupy and sweet to me. Coccolimone, however, is juuuust right. It even sounds refreshing...KO-ko-lee-MOH-nay. That summer of 2003, I had one almost every day. The crunchy ice would be melted by the time I go to the restaurant, but I was certainly refreshed and ready to start the long, hot evening ahead of me.

Side note: The closest approximation to a grattachecca in New York City can be found in Chelsea Market, at the People's Pops stand. They usually have a couple of freshly-made seasonal flavors on hand at any given time. Tiny, but tasty.

RECIPE: Panzanella

Panzanella, light lunch of my summer, taste party in my mouth. My snack, my side dish, my soul. Pan-za-nel-la: the tongue plays along the palate down to the denti. Yummy, yummy, yumminess...Pan.Za.Nel.La.

OK, so maybe I'm going overboard here, but if you've ever had a great panzanella in the heat of the summer, you'd know my Nabokovian rant is warranted. This stuff is delicious. In yet another ingenious use of old bread, the Tuscans devised this refreshing salad with cubed bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, red onions, celery, and a generous glug-glug of bold, fruity olive oil and red wine vinegar. Salt and pepper, obviously. Those are the basics; the rest are just additional trappings. Fennel, which I add to my version because it's refreshing raw, is such a Tuscan staple that it seems a natural fit -- and this is how I learned to make the salad so many years ago in Firenze. Some people add chopped peppers, artichokes, or olives. I think these weigh down the light-tasting dish -- but to each her own.

You can grill the bread before cubing it, for added smoky flavor. Using local, candy-sweet cherry or grape tomatoes is much advised at the height of the summer (toss in some golden ones for eye appeal). And note that there are variations on the bread consistency in the salad, from slightly crispy cubes, to water/oil/vinegar-soaked bread that functions as a binding "mush" to the vegetables in the dish. No one version is more correct, just a matter of personal taste. The one constant in the original version, however, is that the bread used is unsalted Tuscan country bread. Yes, that infamous, flavorless Tuscan pane --  so perfect for the region's crostini with salty toppings, so wonderful in its bread soups, so flavorless on its own that perhaps no other region in the world can boast so many untouched restaurant bread baskets. And yes, these taste-deficient baked orbs are so sponge-like, they also doubled as Renaissance instruments with which Tuscan frescoes were cleaned! So, while we must mention the authentic bread used in panzanella, we certainly encourage the use of a more flavorful bread base in this particular recipe.

This is wonderful as a lunch on its own, perhaps with some great quality, olive oil-packed tuna flaked into it. It's also a perfect side dish for another of the region's specialties: grilled bistecca alla fiorentina -- or any meat seared on the grill. With a slightly chilled glass of red wine, or a rosato? What a great summer meal for the weekend!

Panzanella

Serves 4-6

1 loaf of good country bread, cut up into 1 or 2-inch dice (stale or toasted or grilled)

1 lb. cherry tomatoes (cut in half) or vine-ripened tomatoes (large dice)

3-4 stalks celery, cut into large dice

1 fennel bulb, cleaned and cut into thin slices

1 red onion, cut into thin slices and rinsed under cold water

3-4 cucumbers, peeled and cut into large dice

Fresh basil, torn into small pieces

1/3 cup good extra-virgin olive oil (preferably Tuscan)

1/4 cup red wine vinegar

Salt & pepper to taste

- Mix the bread with all of the vegetables and herbs.

- Add salt and pepper to taste.

- Add olive oil and vinegar to make a nicely-dressed salad with enough moisture to soften the bread a bit. Let sit for 30 minutes, then taste and adjust seasoning/dressing. Serve at room temperature.

Quick Bite: Cold Chocolate in Hot Weather

Chocolate. Cold. Cold chocolate treat. Cold chocolate treat with luscious heavy whipped cream. All this wonderfulness, and topped off with a crunchy cone-like wafer? There may be nothing better on a hot afternoon, for a sweet snack between meals, or for dessert after a leisurely lunch. Hell, chocolate cremolata is good any time. 

And serving up this Italian delicacy -- one that's fairly difficult to find on the Italian peninsula -- is the famous Cremeria Monteforte, conveniently tucked alongside the Pantheon in the centro storico of Rome. So what exactly is CREMOLATA? First of all, I'll tell you what it's not. It's not GREMOLATA, the combination of garlic, parsley, and lemon zest that traditionally tops osso buco. That, my friends, would not a tasty frozen treat make -- though a quick internet search found chefs, magazines, and various bloggers making this confusing mistake, preparing osso buco and shellfish dishes with "cremolata" -- which would also be bizarre and not good (veal chop with strawberry frozen treat, anyone?) 

OK...so again, what is cremolata? It's not gelato, it's not granita, and it's not sorbetto. It's usually made of fruit -- it's like a chunky granita or an unfiltered and "unspun" (not put into a gelato maker for even distribution of ice crystals) sorbetto. Lots of times you find pieces of fruit pulp in the cremolata. And sometimes, if you're lucky...it's made of deep, sweet-bitter, dark, luscious chocolate.

FESTA DE SANTO ANTONIO

In traditionally Catholic countries like Portugal, saint days are important holidays for the local population and tradition, and can often be the best "festa" going. This is definitely the case with the Festa de Santo Antonio in Lisbon. What an experience! But first, a little history.

Saint Anthony was born Fernando Martins de Bulhões circa 1195, in Lisbon, Portugal, where he lived most of his life. When he later gained admission to the Franciscan order he took up the name Antonio (Anthony). He was venerated as Anthony of Padua or Anthony of Lisbon. Canonized in 1232 by Pope Gregory IX about a year after his death, St. Antonio was the most quickly-canonized saint in history.

His dedicated church is Sant'Antonio di Padova in northeastern Italy, which contains what is said to be his tongue -- an important relic, as he was distinguished as a great orator (still, seeing his tongue is pretty freaky, I must admit. And people line up for it).

Among many other things, St. Antonio is the patron saint of harvests, lower animals, pregnant women, and oppressed people. He's also the patron saint of mariners, lost articles, travelers and mail: 4 things interestingly, that seem inherently linked (especially "lost articles" and "mail" in Italy...). And lastly, St. Antonio is the saint of LOVE in Portugal and Brazil - especially new love, newlyweds, and lost loves who find each other again, as legend states that acted as conciliator to couples.

St. Antonio died 13 June, 1231, so June 13th is the Festa de Santo Antonio in Lisbon -- a municipal holiday. Newlywed couples give thanks and singles pray for a match made in heaven (the previous day, June 12, is the Brazilian Valentine's Day). The festa is celebrated with parades and, since the 1950's, marriages of a handful of "modest" young couples who receive the blessing of Saint Anthony in one large ceremony, the "Santo Casamenteiro" at the historical Sé Cathedral in the ancient Alfama neighborhood. This also correlates with another tradition for couples and Lisboners looking for love, with the gift of Manjerico to that special someone. These little potted plants of newly sprouted Basil (for a newly sprouted love) are given as gifts throughout June, wrapped in red ribbon. Less traditionally, drunken Lisboetas wear flourescent green wigs with a red headband to signify this Manjerico, and hit each other with big red plastic hammers that squeak on impact -- something decidedly un-endearing, resembling dog toys.

Manjerico que te deram,

Amor que te querem dar…

Recebeste o manjerico.

O amor fica a esperar.

Basil that was given to you,

(Is) Love that is wanted to be given to you….

You received this basil.

The love is waiting.

After a colorful parade down the city's main artery, the streets of Lisbon are full of people celebrating in every neighborhood -- but in particular, the Alfama and area around Sé Cathedral are the heart of the festa. Music is in the air. Every restaurant, bar, and storefront sets up stalls and grills for the traditional "poor food" of the festa: sardines and pork. When slapped on a bun, these sandwiches are called Sardinha no Pão and Entremeada no Pão.

The popularity of Lisbon's large, meaty sardines during this time is a tribute to Santo Antonio’s legendary “sermon to the fish” in Padua, and also because it's high season for the healthy, omega-3-rich fish. The cut of pork traditionally used is called entremeada , and is considered the fattiest cut of ribs possible. All this great street food is washed down with cold beer, caipirinhas, sangria, and ginja (a local cherry-flavored liquor - delish). The only negative is the lack of bathroom access -- possibly worse than Mardi Gras in New Orleans -- otherwise, I highly recommend planning a trip to Lisbon around June 13th. They do their local saint proud.

The Breakfast Club, Part 3

And so, with the debut of the first Breakfast Club brunch, we had a hit on our hands. The owners had never seen the restaurant so full in all the months it had been open for dinner. So what did they do? They hired me to be the executive chef of the Ristorante Pasquino in the evenings, in addition to our brunch -- requiring them to fire their current chef at the time, which they did summarily. 

Over the next few days, I spent entire afternoons cleaning out the entire kitchen, top-to-bottom, with the help of my loyal friend/front-of-house man, Martin. It was a frightening task to see all the crap that had accumulated in the few months since the restaurant's opening. The previous chef clearly didn't understand the finer points of Italian cuisine. He had stocked 20 kilo bags of basmati rice, for instance, "for risotto" -- pretty much an impossibility. Ingredients were frozen and of low quality, so we ended up tossing a lot of sub-par foodstuff. We scrubbed the place. We revamped the ordering system. And I developed a menu that would be interesting, offering something for Romans and foreigners, both culinary purists and those with daring palates. The owners said they knew from the first "family meal" (staff dinner) that they were in for something good. Martin became the head waiter and I brought in some of our brunch kitchen help to work during the week as well. Things were looking up.

In the meantime, we'd hit a stride with our brunch over the first few weeks. We had a successful "Brunch di Pasqua" on Easter Sunday, celebrating the Italian springtime and the custom of eating eggs at Easter. We had our regulars: some friends and family, some students from nearby international universities, many expats from various government organizations, television networks, and expat bars. And we had neighborhood locals as well, including well-known Trastevere resident Romina Powers. She and her family loved our American food so much that she was one of our first dinnertime clients as well.

We had some hiccups, of course. Sometimes, some of our staff members were out of town...or out of service (Sunday morning is a rough gig). Occasionally we had the whiney customer. Our timing wasn't always perfect, and there were waits. But there were smiling servers, and lots of Bloody Marys to go around. 

One morning, Patrick took our slab bacon to the alimentari to get it sliced, as usual -- only to find that the shop was closed per funerale: it seemed our sweet, lovely signore had sliced his last piece of bacon for us. And speaking of bacon, one Sunday, a client complained that his bacon was burned. The plate was swiftly returned to the kitchen, where I dumped the bacon and had my cook start on a new order. Appalled at the "utter waste of good, crunchy burnt bacon," 2 of our severs proceeded to eat said bacon. Out of the garbage ("what??? It was on top!"). No one could say we didn't watch our bottom line.

But unfortunately, the local authorities were watching us too. It's common practice in Italy for restaurant and bar owners to pay off the vigili (sort of a police/health department combo) to remain open without problems, fines, etc. Well, the Ristorante Pasquino owners refused to pay off the authorities asking for handouts (moral strength? fiscal parsimony?). And we'd had an inkling that other restaurateurs in the neighborhood were less than happy about our (foreigners') success. 

And so, one night during service, the vigili showed up at the restaurant, barged into the kitchen, and performed a sort of "raid" on the place. A few weeks later, they'd officially closed the restaurant down for some infraction of draconian fire codes. And that was it for the Breakfast Club and Ristorante Pasquino -- for a while, anyway.

To Be Continued...

Restaurant Review: LOCANDA VERDE (New York, NY)

LOCANDA VERDE

Tribeca isn’t lacking in great eateries, but this Italian straddling the rustic/refined line is a welcome addition to the nabe. It’s many things to many people: a great lunch spot for the eclectic local work crowd, and a relaxed crowd-pleaser in the evening – the kind of place where expense accounters, local celebrities, and Manhattanites from further afield come for a reliably delicious Italian-esque meal. Renowned pastry chef Karen DeMasco (formerly of Gramercy Tavern) even turns out pastries and savory-sweet goodies for breakfast. The style is a mix of authentic, accomplished Italian food – traditional dishes tweaked ever-so-slightly for the local palate, or the chef’s amusement, or both – with Italian-American comfort food staples like Chef Andrew Carmellini’s  “ grandmother’s ravioli.”

The dining room is a series of different spaces, cavernous yet warm, with ultra-high ceilings more reminiscent of farmhouses in Umbria or the Maremma than a converted industrial space in downtown Manhattan. I headed to the ladies room at one point, and as I descended the stairs I was immediately swept away to an upscale dining experience (or a combination of experiences) I'd had in Umbria, Tuscany, and Le Marche, both by the aesthetics of the space and the smell of a wood-burning fireplace I'd not smelled anywhere outside of Italy. (I'm still puzzled as to where that exact smell was emanating from, and how...)

To begin to sate your appetite, start with a crostino appetizer like the simple sheep’s milk ricotta with herbs, or go for the Sardines in saor (a classic Venetian dish) – wonderfully paired with homemade focaccia that’s lifted with the addition of lemon. A classic fritto misto is made all’Americano with Ipswich clams and rock shrimp, species native to these shores of the Atlantic. Then, pull yourself away from the appetizers, since the pasta is well worth saving room for. Those aforementioned ravioli are delicious (and, we suspect, much lighter than Carmellini’s grandmother’s original version). So are the orechiette with broccoli rabe and duck sausage, a sauce more pesto-light than anything, lacking both the kick and bitterness of the signature pasta preparation of Puglia, but tasty anyway. Sides include a delicious sauteed spinach with chickpeas and ricotta salata (see photo).

The stuffed mountain trout (photo at right) main course with lentils and pancetta is in homage to landlocked Umbria, and beautifully presented. The garlic chicken is a simple, wonderful joy, meriting the inclusion on the menu of a fowl usually limited to staff meals in Italian restaurants. And when the porchetta sandwich is available…well, just make sure you order it. Period.

At left, savory thin-sliced porchetta  with caramelized onions and vinegar-cured peppers, spices...fantastico.

Desserts are well-executed if a little staid, but desserts were never a strong point of Italian cuisine. With DeMasco’s talents (and they’re evident in the savory breads and the like coming out of the kitchen), I’d like to see her apply some of that Midwestern sensibility that Carmellini wields so successfully, tothe desserts. If there’s one thing the American tradition has perfected – well beyond the Italian tradition – it’s sweets.

LOCANDA VERDE

377 Greenwich St (corner of N. Moore and Greenwich).

212/925-3797

www.locandaverdenyc.com.