Hedonia

Guanciale and spaghetti all'amatriciana

2010-02-27T11:48:41-08:00

"You wouldn't be interested in hog jowls, would you?"

It's the sort of question that stops you in your tracks. There I was, at the Noe Valley Farmers Market, chatting up the good fellas at the Prather Ranch stand, when one of them popped that question. When my eyebrow went up, he went on to say that a local restaurant had ordered them, but decided they didn't need them upon delivery. The jowls were now taking up valuable space in their freezer cart, and he had no intention of bringing them back at the end of the day. He offered them to me for two dollars a pound. And just like that, they were mine.

As I sauntered into the house, DPaul asked how the market was. "I got hog jowls!" I squealed, to which he replied with a nonplussed, "oh?" The unspoken reply, I suspect, was "but did you pick up anything we can make for dinner?"

Sure, we could have rendered them then and there, made some chicharrones, but that would be a terrible waste, for hog jowls are the source of one of the most precious and coveted cured pork products: Guanciale. Like pancetta, guanciale (pron. gwan-CHA-leh) is an unsmoked bacon, but it's got a richer flavor and tends to have a higher fat-to-meat ratio. It's what's most traditionally used in the classic Italian dishes pasta alla carbonara and bucatini all'amatriciana. But, it's relatively rare here in the states, so when you order these dishes, you're more likely getting it with pancetta -- or, criminally, American bacon.

And so I knew I wanted to make guanciale with my lovely pig face fat, but I wasn't really prepared to undertake that project in the moment. The jowls went into the freezer, and stayed there for a few weeks while I got things in order.

Among the resources I found on how to cure guanciale was one from a veritable master of salumi, Mario Batali. The technique was simple enough: Create a rub of salt and sugar, with pepper and thyme. Coat the jowls, let rest in the fridge for a week, then tie and hang them in a cool, dry place for a few weeks. Luckily, we have a basement that manages to stay under the recommended 60ºF during these cool winter months.

Having never cured meat before, I was both fascinated and trepidacious. Would I botulize both us and our friends with my lovingly cured guanciale? I then came across an excellently written account of one other man's guanciale-making expedition, and took comfort in knowing that he survived to tell his story.

So, at the beginning of the year, I thawed my lovely jowls, patted them dry, covered them with the prescribed rub, rested them in the fridge and finally tied them up and hung them to cure in the basement. A small basin lay on the floor to catch any wayward porky drippings. Over the course of a few weeks, the jowls shrank and withered, and the exterior took on a slightly leathery cast. At five weeks, I decided they had reached the desired result, and I cut them down.

Once upstairs, I rinsed off the salty protein coating, and cut them in half. I was pleased to see rosy pink meat marbling through pearly white fat. There was no off odor, just a faintly porky smell. I cut away a thin slice, and gave it a quick fry in a pan like bacon. Once it was drained and cooled, I took a bite. I stopped mid-chew, and my eyes rolled up in my head. The guanciale had an undeniably pleasant pork flavor, and an unexpected but very welcome subtle sweetness. It was tender, with a gentle snap as it gave way to the closure of my teeth. It was, in short, the best bacon ever.

I cut the jowls into quarters, which each came to about 6 ounces apiece. Conveniently, this is about how much you'll need to make spaghetti all'amatriciana.

Spaghetti all'amatriciana

Traditionally, this is made with bucatini, but around these parts that pasta shape is as difficult to procure as guanciale itself. (Also, you know how I feel about bucatini.) Spaghetti works in a pinch. Pecorino romano is also the traditional cheese to grate over the top, but if you use parmigiano reggiano, I won't tell.

4-6 oz guanciale, cut into 1/2" lardons
1 large onion, minced
1 large pinch chili pepper flake
1 qt chopped tomatoes or puree
1/2 lb spaghetti or bucatini
Pecorino romano cheese

Place the guanciale in a large skillet, and set over medium-low heat. Cook until the fat is rendered and the lardons are golden and crisp, but not until fully browned. Remove the lardons with a slotted spoon and transfer onto a paper towel. Drain off the rendered fat, leaving about 1 Tbsp in the pan. (Don't disposed of the rest of the fat. It's damn good for all your sautéeing and frying needs.)

Turn up the heat to medium, and add the onions and pepper flake. Saute until the onions are translucent and begin to take on some color (again, not until they brown). Add the tomatoes, bring to a simmer, and cook until the sauce is thick. Add the browned lardons to the sauce.

Meanwhile, cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling, salted water until just al dente. Use tongs to grab the pasta and drop directly into the cooked sauce, and toss to combine.

Serve in warmed bowls with a grating of pecorino romano cheese over the top.

Variation: For pasta alla gricia, omit the tomato sauce, and just toss the pasta with the remaining ingredients, adding rendered fat if necessary to coat the pasta.

Related:

Wrightfood uses Michael Ruhlman's recipe to cure their guanciale. As does Mike's Table.

The Kitchn uses guanciale in a salad of wilted dandelion and raw kale. Yum!

Better yet, Apple Pie, Patis and Pâté uses guanciale fat to sauté some ramps, a delightful and fleeting early spring vegetable.

Object of affection

2010-02-14T22:04:25-08:00

Happy Valentine's Day!

If you came here expecting hearts and candies, you're outta luck. DPaul and I do not really observe Valentine's Day, or at least not with the kind of fervor that maybe we once did when we first started dating. Or maybe we didn't. It's been a long time.

Not that I haven't had love and affection on the brain lately. I had the opportunity to express my devotion to an item in our kitchen for Leite's Culinaria -- not a favorite item, per se, but favored, an item that has endeared itself to my heart. I wrote about our kitchen table. It's a tale of passion and conflict, and there's a happy ending to boot. Check it out.

It's not the first time I've written a mash note to an inanimate object. Time was, I used to wax rhapsodic about kitchen products all the time, from wooden spatulas to Popeners, and during my time writing for social shopping site ThisNext, I even wrote a potboiler to Recchiuti fleur de sel caramels. But can you really blame me?

At any rate, I'm thrilled and honored to be in such good company along with such other luminaries as David Lebovitz, Clotilde Dusoulier, Monica Bhide and many others.

What kitchen item has your undying devotion?

Puppy (Bowl) chow

2010-02-03T19:15:35-08:00

Dude. Can you feel the excitement? This Sunday, folks everywhere are polishing their wide-screen TVs for one of the most exciting events in television all year.

That's right, I'm talking about Puppy Bowl.

Of course, I know not everyone is as much of a sports enthusiast as I am, so perhaps instead you'll be tuning into some lesser event. I'm sure there's bound to be something on. Whatever you are watching, though, you might as well make an event of it. You know, have a few buds over, bust out the chips, dress for the occasion, enjoy a little quality bro time.

Whoa, those guys are really crazy for puppies.

Anyhow, I may not know much about sports, but I do know any televised event that contains the word "Bowl" requires copious amounts of hardy, gut-building man chow.

Wait, what? You were expecting us to conjure up some fancy new thing to serve this Sunday? Look, we have cooked our fingers to the bone for the last four years. I'm serving leftovers from the archive. Hey, they're still good. Maybe a little freezer burn here and there. You'll eat what you're given. Children are starving in Haiti. Finish your plate.

A favorite for another animal-themed sporting event, Hot Browns are big, messy, fatty sandwiches commonly eaten at the Kentucky Derby. We miniaturized them into hors d'oeuvre form. Cuz, you know, we're dainty like.

Why not honor all the good-hearted men and women at Rocket Dog who rescued countless four-legged friends by serving up a piping hot bowl of New Orleans Jambalaya? I seem to recall they also have human sports teams in the Big Easy.

Meat is man food, and another New Orleans treat is the Least Vegetarian Sandwich Ever, the might meaty Muffuletta. Wash down with a cold bottle of Abita.

They may make you think of church socials and Easter potlucks, but believe me when I tell you that if you whip up a few dozen deviled eggs, they will get scarfed up by halftime.

It just ain't Puppy Bowl without pizza. Problem is, everyone and their bitch is ordering out; in fact, more pizza is ordered on this one Sunday every year than on any other day. So make your own, why don't you? Break from the pack and try a white pizza, pizza quattro stagioni or get creative with your toppings.

Cream of curried parsnip soup

2010-01-26T19:53:40-08:00

Back in 2003, the year of our respective 10th anniversaries, we traveled to England and Scotland with our dear friends Sally & Lisa. We started in London, as one might expect, where we spent a few chilly but sunny days in March. From there, we took the train to Edinburgh.

En route, we were seated across the aisle from an Edinburgher couple. We remarked to them how clear the weather had been, and expressed hope that it would continue during our sojourn in Scotland. In unison, they looked at us through sad eyes and said, "oh, no." It was inconceivable that the the sun would persist in the northern hinterlands.

Our first evening in the city proved them right. The winding streets were filled with moody, low fog. You gain an appreciation for the warming jolt of whisky on those gloomy, atmospheric nights. However, the next day broke as clear and bright as could be, and so it remained through the rest of our trip.

On the train, we had asked our aislemates about food options, and were surprised when they rattled off an amazing array of cuisines. "You'll be spoiled for choices," the man said, and right he was. But as tempting as the selection of ethnic restaurants were, the most memorable food we had decidedly and indigenously Scottish.

Of course we had haggis. I mean, why would you fly halfway across the globe just to ignore Scotland's most infamous foodstuff? And here's the thing: It's good. I mean, sure, you hear snouts and intestines and other gutsy bits with oats stuffed in a stomach, and you think, "ew." But guess what's in that breakfast sausage you ate this morning, hmm? Yeah. Anyway, you won't have to take my word for it too much longer. Soon, you'll be able to get haggis in the states once again, after a 21-year embargo.

We were also struck by the refinement of the food. At a nouveau Scottish restaurant, the national sausage was served in delicate phyllo parcels, with a blackberry reduction. We also had incredible venison.

Later, as we were visiting Lisa's family in Alloa, outside Stirling, her cousin Sheena remarked that the Scots' relationship with England has ranged from strained to outright adversarial, and hence they've looked toward France for cultural affinities. These roots clearly run deep; after all, Mary I was queen of France, albeit only for a year or so.

Sheena herself is a dab hand in the kitchen, and fed us both in great quality and quantity during our stay. One dinner, she started off the meal with a soup that I found hauntingly delicious. Smooth and creamy, it was also redolent of spice and something not immediately familiar. That strange flavor was parsnips, an ingredient I had little experience prior. Luckily, I was able to extract the recipe from her.

This soup is rich without being overly fatty, and has extraordinarily complex flavor for so few ingredients. Best of all, it's dead simple.

Cream of curried parsnip soup

I've strayed from Sheena's original recipe a little, in that she called for cream instead of yogurt. However, I found the tang of yogurt to add one more remarkable layer of flavor that I find harmonious with the parsnips and curry.

1 large onion, diced
1 lb parsnips, peeled and cubed
2 tsp curry powder
1 qt chicken or vegetable stock
Salt and pepper
Several tbsp lowfat plain yogurt

Sauté the onions in 1 tsbp butter until softened. Add the parsnips and sauté another few minutes. Add the curry, toss, and cook 1-2 more minutes, until fragrant. Add the stock, and simmer 20 minutes, until the parsnips are extremely tender.

Transfer the soup to a blender, in batches if necessary, and purée well. Pass through a sieve to remove any fibrous bits. Season to taste. Swirl in a spoonful of yogurt when serving.

Tending our gardens

2010-01-18T10:52:26-08:00

Sometimes, you just have to get your hands dirty.

For me, that mostly means finding strata of food under my nails after a sweaty day in the kitchen. But on a chilly morning in December, my hands got dirty with real, actual, honest-to-god dirt. As in, from the earth.

Me and dirt are like oil and water. Gardening is not something I have an innate passion for, but there is one garden I have a soft spot for. Tucked between modern apartment buildings on a dead-end street on the slopes of Eureka Valley, the Corwin Street Community Garden is more than a patch of pretty flowers.

As a tour guide in the neighborhood, I often drag my more ambitious groups up the steep incline to the garden and to the Seward Mini-park below. Here, deep in the residential tracts and close to the geographic heart of the city, they offer surprising morsels of our city's history.

The garden and park combined fill a narrow strip of land that spans between Corwin and Seward Streets. After a house that occupied the Seward Street plot fell off its foundation and slid into the street below in the 1950s, the land lay vacant for nearly a decade. Plans were laid for a 105-unit apartment building to be erected on the land, spurring neighbors to take the issue of preserving open space up with City Hall. Years of hearings ensued. In 1966, on the day the contractors arrived to begin construction, the neighbors staged a sit-in, and the developers backed down. Ultimately, these actions led to legislation that set standards for a minimum amount of open space in the city.

For the lower portion of the plot, a contest was held to design a "mini-park" in 1973. The winning design, by 14-year-old Kim Clark, featured a pair of curved concrete slides. These slides never fail to bring out the inner child in everyone. I've had walkers of all ages toboggan down on flattened cardboard boxes. If the slides are dry enough, and you recline as if in a luge, you can even catch some air on the way down. It's exhilarating.

The park also features a bas relief by local artist Ruth Asawa, whose work can be seen in the lower level of the observation tower at the De Young.

Despite the modern buildings on all sides, pieces of San Francisco's deeper history lay all around. According to a local neighbor, just steps away on Seward Street, marble steps connecting the walkway and the street are in fact blocks from the original city hall, destroyed in the 1906 earthquake. An adjacent retaining wall of red bricks were salvaged from former mayor "Sunny" Jim Rolph's house.

Acme Alley, the cobblestone passage that runs uphill alongside the park, is a vestige of the cow paths forged from the area's days as pastureland in the 1800s. At the top, where it intersects Corwin Street, is the garden.

San Francisco has a rich tradition of community gardens, which by and large offer grave-sized plots of land for locals to indulge their gardening habits in an otherwise urban environment. The Corwin Street garden is different. Here, the "habitat garden" is dedicated to showcasing indigenous and drought-tolerant plants, installed in such a way as to be sustainable with San Francisco's existing rain patterns, and to avoid the use of chemical fertilizers or pesticides.

Unlike other community gardens, the Corwin garden requires a more singularly coordinated effort to maintain. Bill Murphy, pictured above, oversees the care and maintenance of the garden. Once yearly, on the first Saturday of December, he organizes a work day to bring the garden back into shape. Having schlepped perhaps hundreds of strangers by and through the garden, this was my opportunity to give back, at least a little. As part of a work force of some 30 volunteers, I helped plant iris and artemisia, lay mulch and remove rotten logs to make way for new walkway borders.

This year marked a sea change to the garden. The habitat garden would now be supplemented by an "urban orchard" of citrus trees. Future plans include a fence of fruit trees and berries, and raised beds of herb gardens. The orchard should be complete within the year, and Bill is working out a plan to distribute the product of the garden to contributors and community members.

I've often enjoyed the garden as a place of reflection and nourishment for the soul. On balmy spring days, it's a delight to see the butterflies and hummingbirds flit through to feed on the bounty of blossoms. It enthralls me to think that the garden will now become a source of more literal sustenance for the community.

I can't help but wonder: What if we were to treat more of our open spaces in cities this way? What if neighbors came together more often to nurture their communities? What if the fruits of their labors could feed the hungry in their own back yards? How can we better tend our gardens?

The Eatsdropper only eats white food

2009-12-31T16:34:35-08:00

Happy New Year!

I mildly lament not having something a little meatier for you for my last post of the year, but there you are. At least, I will leave you chuckling in the waning hours of 2009.

In 2010, may your life be filled with joy, your heart filled with love, your belly filled with delicacies and your ears filled with foodie funnies. And when they are, shoot 'em my way at eatsdropper-at-seantimberlake-dot-com.

Server: "You know, I am not that smart and only average looking but I am a fantastic liar and that is going to take me places."

- Eatsdropped by Rhonda at work

Coworker, points at a persimmon: "Is that a persimmon?"
Another coworker, pointing at the bowl of figs next to the persimmon: "No, those are called figs."
First coworker: "That persimmon is a fig?"

- Eatsdropped by Genie at work

Customer: "What kind of beer do you have?"
Waitress: "Mostly Mexican."
Customer: "You don't say."

- Eatsdropped by Charlie at Tres Agaves

Manager: "Dude, the urinal is like an ATM -- you have to stand 10 feet back."

- Eatsdropped by Anita at Mastrelli's

Coworker: "Ryan only eats white food."
Boss: "A man can't eat popcorn?"
Mollena: "It's OK, man. I have the same rule."

- Eatsdropped by Mollena at work

20-something girl, talking to friend:
"Like, when am I going to say no to caramelized onions?"

- Eatsdropped by yours truly at Gough and Hayes