caponata del ventresca di tonno

One strange thing about traveling alone as a woman: The night managers all want you to hang out with them. This isn’t really surprising, as they’re bored and lonely, and I’m clearly on my own; I just wasn’t expecting it. My suspicion is simply that they can’t fathom what I’m doing traveling by myself. In Roma, Simone looked momentarily taken aback when I answered that I was not in fact in town for work but for la vacanza, though as I was renting a room in a B&B, it would have been hard for he or his brother to really look out for me.

In Napoli, Alfredo offered me a glass of wine when I returned from dinner, then shocked me by pouring himself a glass and sitting down for a chat with a plate of sfogliatellini con nocciola (I ate one to be polite…they were delicious, actually). I did appreciate his wanting to chat with me despite my speaking crap Italian after a bunch of wine, but it was all just a little awkward.

Now, in Positano, the night guy, effusive Peter, offers me a glass of limoncello on my arrival home, thankfully leaving me in peace to admire nighttime Positano and the fireworks across the harbor in Praiano (I think); but he also knows exactly which room I’m in before I tell him (they must put a flag on the solo-traveler loser rooms) and insists on a friendly kiss-kiss before I retire. It’s not creepy, just awkward.

But the limoncello does make for a nice digestif after what turned out to be hands-down the finest meal of my trip so far. Luck is with me today, from learning (via Alfredo) of a post office 50m from my Napoli hotel to snagging one of the last seats on the SITA bus to Positano, I’ve been doing pretty well. (The monstrous hike from the bus to my hotel here wasn’t so lucky but also couldn’t be avoided — everything here requires belay gear.) Dinner was serendipitous, too, really: After spending a couple of hours watching embarrassingly tacky American college kids, overbronzed Italians, and Amalfi daytrippers on the beach for a while, I decided to try out the stairs instead of the road back up the hill, thinking they’d join the street eventually. They did, about 20 stories up, but conveniently deposited me right in front of my hotel. Seriously. I almost passed out at my luck.

Parking myself on a bench to catch my breath, I scoped out the two restaurants at the foot of the scala to the hotel, and decided on impulse to walk across the street to da Vincenzo and book (shocking everyone once again with a request for una tavola per una).

They must have felt really bad for me, because I ended up with one of about 8 outdoor tables, which put me basically 3 feet from passing traffic (nothing much here is further) but with a direct view of the bay. Damn.

When I’m around this much fish, I just have to go for it, and I figured with prices this steep and most of the tables already reserved, how bad could it be? That and I’d eaten a single panino all day and was starving.

So, the menu: First they brought an amuse-bouche, fried mozzarella stuffed with some kind of pesto, I think — a greenish, very delicious little bite. Next, caponata del ventresca di tonno, which was basically a cold composed salad highlighting fresh tuna belly, which I really couldn’t pass up. A little more olive oil, and it would have been perfect, but I ate every last bit of it, admiring even the knifework on the little squares of potato and zucchini interspersed with the tuna and bits of olive and peperoni.

I could have eaten my pasta dish all night, would I not gain 600 pounds and never get to the secondo (yes, I went for a secondo this time…fish are powerfulfully persuasive). Mixed pieces of pasta are thrown together with mixed seafood in a light broth — who cares, right? Probably leftovers or all the bits left over after they portioned the secondi. But holy christ, that was genius at work: The perfectly cooked, insanely fresh seafood — several kinds of clams, mussels, a huge piece of octopus, squid, and god knows what else — worked in lockstep with the different kinds of pasta, matching textures and shapes, all the different nooks and crannies of the pasta picking up different elements of the fish. Wow. Octopus and squid should be cooked like al dente pasta, who knew? Not a clam unopened, the mussels briny and plump…damn.

But oh, no, I didn’t stop there, though I kept it simple, laying waste to most of a plate of alici alla brace, or grilled anchovies. I don’t know if there’s a difference between alici and acchiugi, but I do know that fresh anchovies bear zero resemblance whatsoever to those nasty bits people toss on pizza at home, nor the quality marinated filets I sneak into sauces at home (which in Italian I know as acchiuga, for what that’s worth). The finger-size fish were gutted, then grilled with just some olive oil and lemon, leaving deliciously crispy skin and sweet flesh that pulled just taut enough to allow for basically one-stroke deboning. I didn’t manage the entire plate, but I did finish with a rather large stack of doll-size skeletons.

When I dine out alone, I will skip reading while eating if the scenery or food is worth its own attention, and needless to say, between a packed restaurant, traffic careening by about 3 feet from my toes, alici to be dismantled, and a spectacular view I could enjoy without craning, I wasn’t reading. (The small bowl of wild strawberries and cream chantilly I chose for dessert didn’t change that.)

But I did think about eating alone, eating together, and what my boys would make of the meal (the girls, I know, would take it all in stride). One would have freaked out about anchovies in general, then secretly loved them while spitefully demanding that I debone all of them. One would have grimaced and wished me a good time, likely trying none and ordering some fried shrimp. One would have made catty remarks about how much I ordered, but going nuts over the fish bonanza and absence of cheese split the plate with me and loved it. And one, I know for sure, would not only have gone crazy for the alici; he might have even picked them first, as they seemed the most radical of the fish choices, then suggested we try the octopus and artichoke spiedini as well. Alas.

I thought I made a horrible mistake landing here — gawdy, overtouristed, vertical, full of American coeds, loud tourist shops, and smoochy couples — but if for that meal alone (and the sick view from my hotel room, which may be the best extra 20 euros a day I ever spent), I’m glad I came. Tomorrow, Capri.

street of snakes

Crossing a street in Roma is about taking a deep breath and just going for it. It’s exhilarating and terrifying to step in front of 400 scooters, taxis, and a bus or two, but if you don’t swallow the fear of certain death, you’ll never get anywhere.

(If you need help getting started, lock step with an old lady or purposeful businessman. It took me 3 hours to start throwing myself into traffic like a true Roman. Just keep walking.)

And just as I’m becoming confident in my avenue-crossing skills, clever navigation of the inscrutable bus map, and a near-faultless sense of direction and comfort with the winding streets of the Centro Storico (read: ability to walk home well over a few blocks without consulting a map after drinking half a bottle of wine), it’s about time to go. And possibly at the right moment, after my second and most winning bowl of bucatini all’amatriciana (god, that’s good). On to Napoli and then Positano, where, according to Lonely Planet, the food is generally mediocre tourist fare, and expensive to boot. Here’s hoping for a surprise. Or molti sorpresi. I dreamed of vongole tonight — maybe that’s a good sign.

The novelty of arrival having worn off, plus the combination of overeating on day one, heat, and loneliness, has actually made me want to eat less, which is better on the stomach, and on the pocketbook, honestly. Swearing off secondi (well, eschewing for the moment, anyway) and a post-cena espresso is an experiment in progress. On the loneliness, it waited until day 4 (or is it 5?) to set in, but I’m banking on a change of scenery and the challenges of navigating a completely unknown city to squelch it.

Today’s deliciousness: Not starving but knowing full well that I’d never find anything worth ingesting near Piazza di Spagna later, I found a nice little place in Monti near Via de Serpenti (Street of Snakes) that served up crispy, chewy pizza with bufala, carfiofi (artichokes), and prosciutto, a perfect light meal paired with a beer, ideal not least because it didn’t require a post-meal nap. Unfortunately, my outing later to Trastevere and a leisurely couple of Proseccos at a neighborhood bar did me in, but this is why I love Roma, and Italy in general: You can wake up at 9:45 pm and not worry about missing dinner. In fact, you might have trouble finding a table.

For dinner, simplicity: prosciutto e melone, and that fantastic pasta. And wine. Lots of wine.

A few things that suck about dining alone:

• You can’t try everything.
• You feel like a cow when you attempt it anyway.
• Indifferent service feels like a personal affront.

A few great things about dining alone:

• You can go wherever, whenever you want.
• You can embrace wanton people-watching.
• Indifferent service can strangely turn into very earnest entreaties to walk that way for the ottimo view, or smiles and a very firm handshake and grazie mille at the end of the meal.

beer and ravioli for lunch in Trastevere

Who knew the Italians were caught up in the small-production beer trend? Well, “caught up” is likely an overstatement, but then, this is the birthplace of Slow Food, so why not?

The Trentatre Ambrata pale ale-style beer I tried was actually quite good, and stood up nicely to the ravioli, cool breeze, and excellent people-watching I enjoyed in Trastevere over lunch. You can read more about the beer on the Italian site Cronache di Birra (Chronicle of Beer).

Since I ate way too much today, I’ll omit the play-by-play, but some observations:

• Artichokes properly fried giudia-style are my new favorite anything.
• Italians usually wield the knife with their strong hand, eat with the other. I continue to cut up my food at will…that’s how I roll.
• Romans love salt. Love it.

On Italian secondi: I don’t know why I keep ordering them, as they’re rarely worth the price of admission. I’m apparently experimenting to see whether they’re honestly mediocre or I’m simply too full by then to fully enjoy whatever it is I’ve ordered.

On a whim I went for the grilled baby lamb to follow a small bowl of bucatini all’amatriciana and its gloriously crispy guanciale bits. I skipped the fried lamb’s brains and sweetbreads in favor of an antipasto of Giggetto’s famous fried artichokes, fiori di zucchini ripieni (zucchini flowers stuffed with anchovy, I believe), and stockafisso (baccala). There’s really only so much fried I can do in one sitting.

Italians tend to cook the crap out of their meat (the exception being the nearly raw and phenomenally awesome bistecca alla fiorentina). My chop? For one thing, it seemed to have been hacked in one slice from the rib, the bone removal was such a pain in the ass, but the flavor was powerful: My lamb sported the charred, crusty bits that make the Italian grigliata so remarkable. But worth the trouble? I’d save room for gelato instead.

I’m back in Roma, which is strange in so many ways, the weirdest and most wonderful being that I know now that my Italian has improved infinitely since I was here last. They understand me! And dining alone is less boring when you can understand what the ragazzi at the next table are complaining about.

I landed finally at my little bed and breakfast in the Jewish Ghetto , and after a nice chat with Simone (”my inglese is horribile!”) killed some of the jet lag with a nap and long shower, then first real order of business: coffee. Pronto.

At the bar I met clearly retired and bored Enzo, who was terribly excited by the fact that I was not only traveling da sola but could also chat (sort of with him) and his handsome young barista friend. No one seems to understand why on earth I’d learn Italian, but they love it. Good start.

On to food: a late-evening snack of some thin pizza from Forno di Campo de’Fiori, hacked from a counter-wide slab, folded, and delivered into my grateful hands in about 4 seconds and 2 euros.

Restored, I wandered over to the Forum for a short evening visit (in the waning light, devoid of people, it looks like a stage set – completely unreal), realizing along the way that I was thinking in Italian. Short phrases, but still.

For dinner I headed near Piazza Farnese, landing at Da Sergio, on a quiet back street, with an outside table. Success: some solid cacio e pepe (why are Italian basics always so much better than anything I can do at home?), beef with rucola, un quarto di vino rosso, and an espresso – cheap, easy, and all I needed to get on with a late-evening stroll along the river. And now I collapse.

I’ve been going a little hog-wild on the summer vegetables.

Well, not quite as much as I’d like — I still can’t choke down $5.99 a pound tomatoes, beautiful as they may be. Just a hint of mealy and I’ll feel guilty even looking at my wallet.

But fava beans, totally different story. I’ve enjoyed fava beans for ages partly as one of those delicacies you rarely toy with at home but love to order in little locavore-oriented restaurants along with your farm-raised whatever and a much-deserved glass of wine.

Anyway, I got over the precious factor and fell madly, deeply in love the day we arrived with Erminio for our annual visit to Davide’s fattoria in Panzano, in the Chianti. Yeah, I know, and it gets better. It was a beautiful day, and quiet, with only a few wine tourists arriving for lunch, a light mist over the vineyard (I am not kidding), and I was hungry, nearly salivating in anticipation of Davide’s mom’s grigliata or pappardelle con cinghiale. Or both. God.

Then here comes Mom herself, strolling out of the garden with a cheery ciao! and a basket full of fave, just picked, young, pert, so, so fresh.

Needless to say, we ate them all.

The second time I fell madly in love occurred only a few days later. (You can fall madly in love twice. It was in Italy, for god’s sake!) Dinner at Lino’s, always brilliant. Lino is a joker, but he does not fuck around with the food. I spoke bad Italian with Noriko, who’s been hiding out in Lino’s restaurant for years, learning Italian and very little English, cooking and serving, and refusing to return to her family in Japan.

We finished dinner and were relaxing with the rest of our wine as the last real customers trickled out when Lino sat down with a huge bowl of shelled but unpeeled fresh fava beans, chunks of crystally pecorino (a rare pleasure, as Erminio prefers the fresh and far milder cheeses), and a bottle of unmarked, weeks-old olive oil.

There is no better finish to a meal. I nearly cried.

So the fava beans are sort of near to my heart, and with their short, short season, I can’t help myself when I pass the bean and artichoke people at the market. Yes, they’re still $4.99 a pound, and yep, a pound of favas in their pods equals about four tablespoons of shelled and peeled beans (and yes, preparing them does take an ungodly 20 minutes or so), but I love them.

And I’m worth it.

So tonight, in honor of me, a play (courtesy of Biba Caggiano) on bucatini alla gricia, with bacon in lieu of guanciale, spaghetti in favor of the very difficult to eat gracefully bucatini.

How to make it? Put your water on and shell the beans (a couple of pounds). When you’re done shelling, the water will have boiled, so you can blanch the beans quickly, which will make peeling easier. Pop them out of their skins while the water returns to a boil. Now chop up an onion and a few strips of bacon, then cook ‘em up in that order in some olive oil. At the same time, start cooking your spaghetti.

When your onion is sweet and soft, and your bacon is near-crisp, add the peeled beans, the zest of a lemon (my addition), and lots of black pepper and stir it around for a minute. Add the cooked pasta with a little of its cooking water, toss with a large pile of freshly grated Parmigiano or Pecorino Romano, and you’re done. It doesn’t quite take me back to the farm, but it’ll do for now.

If you don’t make pasta for dinner at least a couple of times a week, you’re an idiot. Or you don’t have a day job.

It’s the only food that can take so many variations, so many sauces, pairs so brilliantly with nearly every food (meat or veg, and that includes potatoes), and can be prepared so quickly.

Nearly every cuisine has an equivalent of a starch with some delicious topping, but pasta is simply my favorite. And since I’m taking Italian classes on Mondays now, and I arrive home late and starving to death, it’s the ideal Monday dinner: fast, easy, Italian, delicious.

You’ve read that you can make a pasta sauce in the time it takes to boil the water. Well, that’s absolutely accurate. Here’s a good one to try when you need something quick and punchy. Vary at will.

Linguine with Sun-Dried Tomatoes

large handful of sun-dried tomatoes (dried, not the ones packed in oil)
2 large cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
a shake or two of chile flakes, or a crushed dried chile
3 medium slicer tomatoes (or a few more plum tomatoes)
olive oil (quarter cup or so)
handful of parsley, chopped
1 lb dried linguine
freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (fresh only)

Set a large pot of water to boil. Now we steal an idea from the brilliant Mark Bittman: Mince half of your sun-dried tomatoes, and cut the others in half so they’re more or less bite-sized but not too hard to fish out of some boiling water.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat, then toss in your minced tomatoes, garlic, and chile. Turn the heat to low so the garlic starts to soften but won’t burn. While that’s cooking, dice your fresh tomatoes. When the garlic has turned golden, add the fresh tomatoes to the pan — juice, seeds, and all — and a pinch or two of salt.

When your water comes to a boil, drop in the large pieces of tomato. Let the tomato pieces float around for a couple of minutes, then fish them out and add them to the skillet (that’s the other part of the Bittman technique).

When the water comes back to a boil, salt it heavily, then cook your linguine. When it’s nearly done, save some of the cooking water (in case your fresh tomatoes were dry), then drain the pasta and add it to the skillet, tossing with your now insanely delicious-smelling sauce and a little of the cooking water, if needed, plus the parsley and some Parmigiano-Reggiano.

(I used to forego parsley in many recipes, since I didn’t always have it on hand, but the parsley is really a beautiful touch here, adding both freshness and some lovely contrasting color. Try not to skip it.)

Serves 2–4, depending on how hungry you are.

PS: I would have included a picture, but I decimated the dish almost immediately.

radicchio

My deep love for radicchio may have something to do with its glorious color or some feeling that I’m doing my body good, but I chalk it up more to my undying love for all things Italy. Some of the farms around here grow the very Italian radicchio di Treviso, which I buy unfailingly at the market whenever it appears, generally with a quarter pound of pancetta in the other hand.

If you’ve never tried it, let me be the first to tell you that radicchio wrapped in a salty cured meat is one of the best goddam things you’ll ever put in your mouth.

So here’s tonight’s absolutely ravishing, surprisingly quick, and thankfully not-too-bad-for-you dinner (you’ll be glad when you’re licking your plate clean). You’ll need to run to the store for this one, but with only a few ingredients, the trip won’t take long.

What you’ll need for you and a friend:

about 1 cup of polenta
a pat of butter
freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
one or two heads of radicchio
3–6 oz. very thinly sliced prosciutto or pancetta
2/3 c. balsamic vinegar
extra virgin olive oil

Part 1: Make some polenta. I am not fond of the instant variety, and handmade is so, so easy: Just boil some water and salt it. Add the polenta (rough cornmeal) in a slow stream, whisking constantly, then simmer over medium heat, stirring often with a straight-bottomed spoon, for 20 minutes or so. You want it soft, so go with a ratio of 4–5 parts water to 1 part polenta. Add a little milk if you like, and always, always finish with a pat of butter and a good handful or two of Parmigiano-Reggiano. You’ll have more than enough for two.

Part 2: Quarter your radicchio. I prefer the tubular Treviso, but if you can only find round Chiogga radicchio, that will do just fine. Wrap each quarter tightly in a piece of prosciutto (if the pieces are narrow, use two). Heat a little olive oil in a pan and place the wrapped radicchio in the pan, seam-side down. Turn the radicchio often until the prosciutto crisps up. Remove the quarters from the pan and give them a nice sprinkling of pepper.

Now add another tablespoon of oil and the balsamic to the pan and boil it until it has reduced and thickened up a little bit. This is your sauce — wonderful on the food, but don’t hold your face over the pan, or I guarantee you’ll start sneezing.

Time to eat: Spoon some polenta onto your plate, then a couple of quarters of radicchio. Spoon some sauce over both…then eat quickly before your friend steals it off your plate.

These last few weeks have been so busy, I haven’t even made time to call my mother, and my eyes are now so sunken I look like I’m 60. My boyfriend Zinedine Zidane got himself thrown out of the World Cup finals, but I couldn’t be upset when my want-to-be-adopted homeland of Italy took the trophy home, and they lit Rome on fire. (I love Roma, but it looks even better with firecrackers.)

In any case, the cooking bonanza began. In unintended deference to the French soccer captain, or perhaps in honor of Ty’s favorite part of Barcelona, the Crepe Man, I’ve been on a serious crepe kick.

Ty’s favorite:
The crepe man

July 4th, Independence Day, I was manning the fort at home, watching the Italy-Germany game on the Spanish channel, with the 30-second delayed ESPN feed going on the computer, and developed a burning urge for blintzes. I had already made some ricotta, which would last only another day or two, so why not? I lifted a recipe for whole-wheat crepes from the Williams-Sonoma site, and off we went. Blintzes with sweetened ricotta, lightly hit with some cinnamon, then pan-fried in butter. Yum. And so good for me, too.

A batch of crepes produces about 10, which means leftovers! In a self-proclaimed masterwork of refrigerator scavenging, I put together Wednesday dinner with bits and pieces from the fridge: A bit more ricotta made pink with some bolognese I’d frozen a few weeks earlier, mixed with some spinach, then wrapped in crepes and baked like cannelloni — or, more accurately, crespelles — honoring my newly championed Italian boys.

My crepe obsession (which likely started when I was six, and Mom and Dad first took us to The Magic Pan) went a little nutty when Traci and I decided to throw a birthday brunch for Kevin at my house. I don’t give parties much, and when I do, I go a little overboard. OK, fine, a lot overboard, but it’s always fun to cook like a maniac for a week, and plans menus, and arrange invites, and crepes! It was a brunch, after all.

When I see our pal Chris’s photos, I’ll recap the menu. (The man is a photo genius, and he snapped shots of the food! I’m hoping for lessons.) But the crepes were key:

Blintzes, of course. I made a rather dry batch of ricotta, so I mixed that with about half as much cottage cheese plus powdered sugar, a dash of cinnamon, and egg. (I hate cottage cheese, by the way, but if used creatively and very well seasoned, it actually makes a brilliant cream sauce, and lightens some heavy cheese concoctions beautifully.) The honey-wheat crepes came straight from my Tyler Florence book, Real Food, as did the fig-orange compote I served alongside. A hit.

The pièce de résistance, however, was Tyler’s smoked salmon torte. I blew a rather large wad on about a pound of smoked salmon, which was by far the toughest part of this misleadingly complicated-looking dish.

To construct: Spread a buckwheat crepe (a fantastic recipe, by the way) with a thin layer of softened cream cheese, then a layer of salmon. Top with another crepe and some cream cheese and sprinkle with chopped red onion, capers, dill, and ground pepper. Repeat about 5 times, then chill, wrapped in plastic in a springform pan and topped with a plate. Just before serving, I spread a last layer of cream cheese on its top and decorated the “cake” with extra onion, capers, and dill. Because the cream cheese had set in the fridge, the torte proved astonishingly easy to slice, so the layers stayed intact — and with all those fixins, how couldn’t it be good? Ty polished off the leftovers before nightfall.

Back a week from our decadently long trip to Barcelona and Italy, and though I haven’t had any time to think since I’ve been home, never mind cook, all I can dream about are these outrageously beautiful strawberries. Our produce is amazing, but seriously, Italy is like another planet.

torta della nonna

Listening to early-’90s punky stuff while stuffing my face with homemade popcorn tossed with cheese and white truffle oil and trying futilely to focus on writing sensible documentation for the hosting world about blog tools…lordy, what have I become? Yet I find myself wondering, What is Plaid Retina doing right now?

The link between music and food is obvious and has been discussed at great length, certainly, but I’m not convinced that the relationship between, say, Jawbreaker and chopping greens for soup, or Nuisance and a lovingly rolled-out pie dough have been fully examined.

Speaking of which, I finally decided to go for it and, though giving up my aspirations to ever make one like Lino’s, put together a homemade torta della nonna. Honestly, the ubiquitous pie can’t really ever be that bad, loaded as it is with lemon and pine nuts and (dreamy) ricotta.

(Actually, a side note: This pie is, I believe, often made with pastry cream, which may explain why some tortas have a puddinglike texture, while mine is fairly dry. Also, I may love photography, but I do not know how to take pictures of food. Side image is for reference only. If you want food porn, visit Nordljus.)

I can’t get enough ricotta, so I don’t know why I don’t make it weekly, but the time is certainly right when it’s the star of the plate. (I also forget that when made with cream, especially, homemade ricotta takes no more than a couple of hours to cook and drain.)

Mario Batali includes a recipe in Molto Italiano that asks for pine nuts in lieu of what I thought were standard wheatberries, which worked for me, since I didn’t have either time or inclination to schlep over to Rainbow in the rain for said wheatberries The dough is a lovely-feeling pasta frolla made with butter, olive oil, egg, vanilla, flour, salt, and sugar, though I’m convinced that Mario’s measurements are short on liquid — it wouldn’t come together without an additional sprinkling or three.

Rest the dough, mix together your ricotta, egg, lemon, and sugar, roll the dough, and line the pan. If you have a removable-bottom tart pan, this is the time to use it — I looked to a nonstick springform for straight sides, and found it simply too slippery and way too high to grip the bottom layer while it awaited filling (I also probably overheated the dough). A royal pain in the ass, in any case.

Still, after a short fight, the crust was laid and filled, and the delicate top layer placed and crimped. A short bake revealed a beautiful golden crust (thank you, olive oil) and puffed filling, just sweet enough to enjoy with coffee but restrained enough to pair brilliantly with some of that dessert wine languishing in my cabinet. (It also works well with framboise, I learned last night….)

But the best praise of all came unexpectedly when Ty, who doesn’t even like sweets, accepted a sliver and announced that that he loved it. (And as an excellent post-script, I brought the rest to work and appeared to make some coworkers happy, other than poor Justine, who made the mistake of asking me for advice on cheesecake. I talked her ear off.) It’s no Lino pie, but that’s not bad.