Good food is as subjective as aesthetic beauty, but in both realms I believe elegance is defined by a degree of effort and a degree of ease.

There are few things that I love more than a dinner party. If I’m hosting one—even if it takes rather a lot of prep—an imminent dinner party lends the day ahead a sense of expectation and excitement. Like Mrs. Dalloway buying the flowers for her party, mundane preparatory activities are imbued with a special significance: they will contribute to an episode of convivial conversation and the pleasures of friendship and food.

I learned long ago from my mother—who appears to easily churn out four course meals for eight or ten from her miniscule kitchen—that it’s essential to be organized in order to enjoy the fruit of your labors while the dinner is actually occurring. Hence, I’m all for making a stew the day before that can thicken and intensify in flavor overnight, so that all you need to do night of is simmer it, cook up some wild rice to sop it up and chop up some herbs to garnish it. However, if you’ve elected to make something more laborious—for which this one, two, or even three days ahead method is not viable—then for heaven’s sake have your mise en place ready before your guests arrive.

Once there, guests will be happily loitering around your workspace, peering into pots, looking for a corkscrew, leaning on your counter, gossiping in your ear, ashing in your sink, and this is not the moment to begin chopping your vegetables. This is the moment to gently (but firmly) refer them to the “bar”—or whatever beverage-focused area you have had the clever foresight to set up. Use the momentary ebb in your guests’ attention while they find themselves a drink to easily toss your pre-sliced shallots into a pan of warming olive oil, to be joined by the tomatoes that you already blanched and peeled and the chicken that’s already been trimmed and seasoned, or whatever you need for that night’s meal. Your mise en place will not fail to impress your guests, who will think you a serious chef when they see your pretty little line up of bowls containing the pretty little line up of ingredients you’ll need for the meal. This preparation is the effort that allows you to cook with ease despite the distraction of your adoring hungry cronies, and it is eighty percent of what will make your dinner party elegant.

My friend D. entertains at home with this exquisite balance of attention to detail and nonchalance. His home is chic and his art collection impressive (Helmut Newton photographs abound; a Rodin sculpture on an end table, and even a Cocteau print in the kitchen!), but the rooms are inviting and the sofas comfortable. Every space that he inhabits takes on this luxurious yet comfortable feel. D.’s deft effortlessness extends to his abilities in the kitchen, and nothing exemplifies this relaxed precision like his poached pears. D. plans ahead and poaches the pears (“always in Bordeaux”) earlier in the day—or even the day before—so that when entrée plates are being cleared from the table, D. needs only drizzle some heavy cream over each fruit or guide a few berries onto each plate. Though they are incredibly easy to prepare, the pears are alluring in their shocking fuchsia shade and an exceedingly elegant addition to any dessert or cheese course.

Here D. shares his go-to recipe for poached pears, but concedes they could just as easily be poached in Champagne with a bit of orange blossom essence, or for that matter Riesling with a hint of Earl Grey. Needless to say with their beauty and subtle flavors they beg to be enjoyed and though simple never fail to impress.

Ingredients  (Serves 6)
6 ripe but firm Bosc or Anjou pears
¾ bottle of Bordeaux
2 tablespoons mulling spice mixture (or 1 cinnamon stick plus a large curl of orange peel punctured with cloves)
1 cup white granulated sugar
juice of one half lemon
2 bay leaves

With a peeler or paring knife remove the skin from the pears in long even strips. The idea is to preserve the beauty of the shape and surface of the pear. If the pears won’t stand on end, cut a flat slice from the bottom so that they easily stand upright.

If you have cheesecloth, use it to create a sachet for the spices, which will eliminate the need to strain the liquid later.

In a large heavy pot, combine Bordeaux, lemon juice, sugar and spices and bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Reduce to a simmer. Lay the pears on their sides in the liquid and turn up the heat again to a gentle boil or strong simmer. Loosely cover the pot. Let cook for about 20 minutes, turning the pears every few minutes so that they cook and color evenly.

For the last few minutes, add the bay leaves to the cooking liquid. Being careful not to mar the fruit, use tongs or a slotted spoon to remove the pears from the cooking liquid and arrange them on individual plates or platter. If you haven’t used a sachet, strain the cooking liquid and discard solids. Return liquid to the pot and bring it to a boil. When the liquid is reduced to near a syrup remove it from the heat and spoon it over the pears. Refrigerate if necessary, but serve at room temperature with red berries, cream, vanilla ice cream or a chocolate truffle. Or serve them as is, but garnish with bay leaves.

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Baby Octopuses with Garlic and White Wine

On Saturday morning as I skimmed bleary-eyed through my phone, the words “popets amb cansalada” popped out at me from my twitter feed. This is a signifier of a couple of things: 1) my Catalan needs work (cansalada has nothing to do with salad…in fact it means bacon) and 2) I was experiencing one of those fantastic moments when one has a sense of alignment. I’m reading Colman Andrews’ seminal book on Catalan cooking, which—published way back in 1988—was an early harbinger of the fanatic appreciation of Spanish cuisine that was going to play out over the next two decades. (Symmetrically, Andrews is also the biographer of the reigning king of Spanish cooking, Catalan chef Ferran Adría.)

I experienced a little jolt of excitement seeing Andrews’ tweets in Catalan and realizing he and I were in the same city. I swallowed the urge to go and stalk him and decided to make popets (octopus in Catalan) for supper instead. It bears noting, however, that I don’t LOVE to eat octopus. If it’s prepared phenomenally then I enjoy it, but I’ll skip it as sushi and certainly it is out of my comfort zone to prepare it at home. Baby octopus—pulpitos in Castillian—are another story. I have yet to find them prepared in a manner I don’t like. Any chef will tell you that in order for it to be tender, you must either cook octopus for a looooong time or cook it quick. With these tiny treasures, it seems not to matter as they are always tender. I pushed off to the Boqueria to buy my eight-legged babies.

It’s not advisable to play with one’s food (let alone talk to it), but it was hard to resist with these precious little pulpitos. They were so exquisitely beautiful with their layers of translucent iridescent derma freckled between their wide set eyes. Though babies they wore ancient expressions. I was besotted. Alas, once hauled from the Mediterranean, the greatest show of respect I could bestow upon them was to cook them well and savor each and every one.

Ingredients (Serves 2)
1 lb. baby octopus
1/2 cup white wine
bay leaf and herbs (optional)
2 cloves of garlic, roughly chopped
juice from half a lemon, reserving some zest
handful of flat-leaf parsely
olive oil, salt and pepper

Cleaning the Octopus: Lay the pulpito on a cutting board face down and carefully separate the mantle from the body (on the back there are layers of tissue near where the hooded top meets the trunk of the body). Using a small sharp knife, carefully slice into the tissue without severing the octopus in half. Grasp and firmly pull out the viscera—including the organs, ink sac, gills and glands—from the “hood.” Remove the eyes. In these little ones there appeared to be no beak to remove. Rinse thoroughly under cold water removing any ink that may have leaked.

Marinade:  Pour ¼ cup white wine over the cleaned octopi; add a bay leaf, some lemon zest and ¼ teaspoon sea salt. I had some rosemary and added this too. Cover and marinate for up the 3 hours in the refrigerator.

Cooking: In a large cast iron pan heat 2 tablespoons olive oil over medium to high flame. When the oil shimmers place the octopi on the pan with their tentacles splayed. Once you put them down, don’t move them for about three minutes. The octopi will give off some liquid; If there seems to be too much, pour the liquid out and reserve, then start again with fresh olive oil. After three minutes, turn over the octopi and cook them on their sides, at this point it’s okay to toss them around in the pan so that they cook evenly. When the octopi have turned a rather shocking bright reddish purple they are done. Using a slotted spoon, move them into a serving dish and cover to keep them warm.

Add chopped garlic to the pan and sauté for about 20 seconds. Deglaze with the juice of half a lemon and ¼ cup of remaining white wine. Let this mixture simmer for a couple of minutes, then add chopped parsley for the last 30 seconds. Pour the sauce over the octopi. Serve and eat immediately.

Note: I served my pulpitos with artichokes, alioli and a salad.

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I’m not sure whether I deserved a holiday, but I was given one. We spent Easter just outside Marrakesh with Bat’s sister and her family, and the plane ticket was my belated birthday gift. Two days of torrential rain gave new meaning to the term “water garden” as the tiled pools overflowed and flooded the flowerbeds. The three little girls—four, six and ten—combated the chill with woolen djellabas and busied themselves with tortoises the size of golf balls purchased at the souk. One morning we sang songs with the girls, pulling lyrics from our memories like postcards with faded words from a long forgotten drawer. We read to them from the only children’s book in the house, a book of brutal Moroccan folk tales that portrayed brothers beheading sisters and old friends proving their loyalty by giving each other the livers of their children. We stopped reading and prayed that the next day would be sunny enough for the girls to explore outside. Then there was sunshine, crisp warm air that bathed the heretofore hidden horizon of snow-peaked mountains in clear light.

For five days we ate like kings. Malika, the lovely young cook, plied us with delicacies: tagines, sardines, cherry tomatoes in a sauce vert, home made frozen yogurt, banoffee pie. On Easter morning the little girls in their djellabas hunted for chocolate eggs in the olive groves. At lunch we gorged ourselves on chicken-almond-dried plum tagine and a salad of beans fresh from our hostess’ garden, blanched for an instant and served simply and deliciously with morsels of feta and a drizzle of olive oil. Despite the very drinkable Moroccan rosé, we adults reached for the children’s pitcher of irresistible fresh lemonade infused with orange blossom and mint. We were served Moroccan mint tea dutifully each afternoon, accompanied by tiny elephant ear pastries and biscotti. We left on Monday, slightly browned and much more round.

One of the most beloved of our meals there was a spinach and feta pie served at lunch which even the children devoured without criticism. It was a cross between spanokopita and quiche, and shared the flavorful and comforting sensibilities of both. Malika was generous with her secrets and after lunch, recited the recipe quickly and par cœur under the shade of the trellis. I think that when I am next reunited with my best girl friends, I will make this easy yet impressive dish and serve it with a salad and a bottle of rosé, after all, spring is finally in the air.

Ingredients (Serves 4)
6 organic or free-range eggs: 5 for the pie filling, 1 additional yoke to seal the pastry sheets
300g (10½ oz) feta, slightly crumbled
50g (1¾ oz) Emmentaler, Gruyere or Cheddar cheese, grated
1 tablespoon dried oregano
zest of 1 lemon
olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
400g (14 oz) washed & roughly chopped spinach
1 pack of 270g pack of pate feuillettée (filo pastry), round or rectangular depending on the shape of the pan you’ll be using

Preheat oven to 400°F (200°C).

Whisk together 5 eggs in a mixing bowl crumbling in feta cheese. Add the grated Emmentaler, Gruyere or Cheddar, fresh pepper, oregano, lemon zest and 1 tablespoon of olive oil.

In a frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon each of olive oil and butter. When melted gradually add the spinach and sauté until it just wilts. Mix the wilted spinach in with the whisked eggs and cheese.

Place a piece of parchment paper in either a round cake pan or a rectangular baking dish (this will help you lift your finished pie out of its pan without it sticking or breaking). Lightly coat the center of the paper with olive oil.  Individually place three pieces of filo pastry in pan, seasoning each with olive oil, cayenne pepper, grated nutmeg, salt and fresh pepper as each is laid. Pour your egg-cheese-spinach mixture into the center of the filo sheets, and one by one fold the sheets around the mixture like a parcel. Seal the folded edges of the sheets with egg yolk and a pastry brush. Sprinkle a little cayenne on top for color.

Bake on the top shelf of the oven until the pie crust is golden and crisp (about 20 minutes).

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Originally printed in the Saltwater Farm Vineyard Spring 2012 Newsletter

Scallops are such intriguing mollusks. Like flamenco dancers with their paper fans, scallops swim by coquettishly opening and closing their peach and pink ribbed shells. Their sex adapts according to their circumstances: scallops shift between male and female and may be both sexes at once (which bodes well for their population staying consistent, despite the rigorousness with which they are fished).

Scallop shells are steeped in symbolism, most famously as a reference to the Way of Saint James or in Spanish, El Camino de Santiago, referring to the Christian pilgrimage toward the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, where St. James the Apostle’s remains are allegedly buried. The most renowned scallop dish, Coquille Saint Jacques, takes its name from the legend that St. James’ divine intervention saved a drowning man’s life, as manifested by the scallop shells that covered him when he emerged unharmed from the sea.

It is a scallop shell that carries the goddess of love to shore in one of the Renaissance’s most indelible images: Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. But for all their myth and mystery, scallops are also a sumptuous but simple meal. Their meat is dense yet tender, their flavor subtle and unmistakable, and certainly their briny lushness is best enjoyed with wine. Scallops were the obvious choice when Merrily and Michael Connery (my aunt and uncle) of Salt Water Farm, asked me to contribute a recipe for their spring newsletter. After all, along with the gem of Salt Water Farm Vineyards, Stonington is home to Bomster Scallops, praised for their quality and freshness up and down the East Coast and much enjoyed by M. and M.

Here is a recipe for Seared Scallops with sautéed endive, radishes and a parsley pesto, which will complement the spring season in terms of taste and tone.

Ingredients  (Serves 2)
Flat leaf parsley
Half a garlic clove
1/3 cup of olive oil plus 2 tablspoons
1 (about 9-12 radishes) bunch of radishes
3 Belgian endives
¼ cup water
2 tablespoons butter
Salt Water Farm Estate Chardonnay (2 TBSP for cooking and the rest for drinking with dinner)
6-8 Sea Scallops with muscle removed

Preheat oven to 200. Soak the radishes in a bowl of cold water, so that the dirt loosens and is easily removed under the tap or with a scrub brush.

Parsley Pesto: Run a half a clove of garlic and a half a cup of flat leaf parsley through a food processor.* Add a ¼ teaspoon of lemon zest. Pour in 1/3 cup of olive oil. Add a pinch of salt and fresh pepper to taste. If you don’t have access to a food processor, this can all be done by cutting and mixing by hand or ground with a mortar and pestle. * I suggest making more as this will be a wonderful addition to a soup or spread on a sandwich tomorrow.

Radishes: If the radishes are the elongated ones with white tips, cut them into ¼ inch slices. If they are round radishes, quarter them. Melt 1 tablespoon of unsalted butter in a pan. When it’s melted but before it starts to brown, add the radishes and a pinch of sea salt. Toss them over medium heat so that they cook evenly and the color bleeds a bit and they are tender and sweet (4-6 minutes depending on whether the radishes as sliced or quartered). Reserve pan without washing and keep radishes warm in oven or covered bowl.

Endive: Remove any discolored outer leaves and trim the root. Slice the endive in half lengthwise. In the same pan that you cooked the radishes, melt 1 tablespoon butter and arrange the endive, cut side up, in a single layer in the pan (crowding is fine). Sprinkle them with lemon juice and salt, and pour ¼ cup of water and two tablespoons of SWF Estate Chardonnay down along the side of the pan. Cover and cook over medium heat until the cooking liquid is almost entirely gone (7 minutes). Remove lid and flip endive so that the cut sides are facing the pan, allowing the endive to caramelize in the reduced cooking liquid. Remove from stove and place in warm oven.

Scallops: Pat scallops dry and slice them ¾ of the way through from the side to create a joint.  Open scallop at side and spoon a messy teaspoon of Parsley pesto into scallops (think of it as though you’re making a parsley pesto sandwich and the scallops are the bread). Let them sit while you warm 1.5 tablespoon olive oil in a pan. When the oil is hot, place the scallops in the pan. They should cook for about 2 minutes on each side, flipping them once.

Arrange the endive on a warm plate with scallops and radishes. Drizzle a little more parsley pesto on top and enjoy with SWF Estate Chardonnay.

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In appreciative awe of the Curried Mussels from the Breslin Bar and Dining Room

I can’t give you this recipe without telling you a little bit of background. From March of 2011 to January of 2012 I was a waitress at the Breslin. It was an experience that far exceeded my expectations of what a waitressing job might provide. I worked as a waitress four years ago in Los Angeles while I was living there as an actress, and I can unequivocally say that stint was the most unpleasant employment experience of my life thus far. I won’t get into the details of that Art Deco-inspired torture chamber now, because I am saving them for a salacious memoir or an article on the atrocities of Hollywood, but let’s just say it made me question humanity as well as my own sanity.

Back to the more recent experience, I started working at The Breslin while I was taking a four-month class at the French Culinary Institute. I wanted to learn a lot about food (independent of what I had absorbed through osmosis from my mother). I needed to get a job while I took the class and tried to figure out the minor issue of what I wanted to do with my life. I decided that the Breslin was my optimal target for the following reasons:

1) April Bloomfield’s food is delicious and serious without being pretentious or hoity-toity
2) I could wear whatever I wanted
3) I only had to take one subway from home in Brooklyn to get there
4) I had a friend who knew the owner, which boded well for me getting hired

What began as a means to make some cash while I went to school, evolved into far more complex and rewarding experience. Simply being in the presence of such carefully-made food made me a better cook. It was a completely different experience working in a Michelin-starred restaurant in New York as a budding food blogger than it was waitressing at a cheesy restaurant in Los Angeles as a struggling actress. In both instances I took the food very seriously. Even five years ago in L.A., I noticed if the kitchen forgot to garnish the gratin with parsley or drizzle the beets with hazelnut oil. The difference is that at the restaurant in L.A., other than the chef, pretty much no one else noticed or cared. At the Breslin everyone takes the food seriously. To the kitchen every detail is an obsession (occasionally one worth hollering over). The front of house staff does everything in their power to honor the kitchen and guide their tables short of being obsequious. Everyone there is committed to the cause of an excellent experience, and if they’re not, then they’re not there for very long.

I made friends that I didn’t expect to make. When I started working there, I looked on as another server, Robinson, gave hello bear-hugs to our coworkers and thought, “Gosh, I hope I’m not supposed to greet everyone with a hug.” A month later, I looked forward to Robinson’s embrace as one does their daily first cup of coffee, which is to say, I couldn’t do without it. One evening during a pre-shift meeting, sous chef Katharine Marsh waxed poetic on her efforts for sourcing organic produce, and went on to say that the Arctic Char on the menu was “spear-caught by Inuits in Arctic waters.” I knew I’d found a kindred spirit.

I learned a thing or two about camaraderie and a helluva lot more about humility, when I did an internship in the kitchen. One of my favorite memories is of the frantic day before “Fergustock” (when English chef Fergus Henderson and his team take over the kitchen at the Breslin and serve food from St. John, their London temple to nose-to-tail dining). The prep kitchen was full to the gills with cooks and the air vibrated with meticulous nervous energy. I stood on one side of the island shelling beans and trying to be inconspicuous.

Across from me, Chef April stood shoulder to shoulder chopping onions with members of her crew. I surreptitiously watched her and marveled at her calm. I couldn’t help but think of soldiers carefully cleaning their weapons as they prepared to go over the top; and here was their leader standing side by side with her soldiers, keeping the calm, leading by doing what needed to be done. With dexterity and quiet grace she performed the most basic exercise a cook can do—the first thing they teach you in cooking school—she chopped onion after onion. In that moment, my fear and awe of April—darling of the New York food scene, talent behind three exceedingly adored and successful restaurants—crystallized into the deepest respect.

I can’t tell you how many times I asked what was in the Breslin’s Curried Mussels, but it was enough to make myself a nuisance. After a good deal of pleading, Katharine Marsh (who is currently head chef at The Spotted Pig but who worked at the Breslin when it opened and came up with this gem) shared the lengthy list of ingredients for the curry base. The dish—the Breslin’s nod, perhaps, to the English curry habit—is shockingly delicious with its surprising nuances, and remains one of my favorite menu items. Piquant and fragrant, it’s artfully balanced by the soothing, thickening dollop of Greek yogurt which melts and slides, curdles and combines with the curry base. The cilantro cools the chili’s heat. The chickpeas punctuate the smooth broth-y base. At the Breslin the mussels are Prince Edward Island, the plumpest and most perfectly formed I’ve ever seen…there is nary an unopened one served or left behind!

Here is my approximation of the Breslin’s exquisite curried mussels:

Ingredients  (Serves 4)
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
5 large shallots, thinly sliced, 4 for curry base, 1 for garnish
4 fresh garlic cloves, chopped
2 tablespoons fresh ginger, grated
1/2 teaspoon each of the following ground spices: fennel, coriander, cumin, turmeric, fenugreek, cinnamon, clove, allspice, chile, black pepper
1/2 lemon, for juice
1/2 lime, for juice
2 tablespoon pineapple juice
1 (15-ounce) can tomatoes in juice, chopped
1 fennel bulb, trimmed and very thinly sliced
1 cup of small chickpeas, rinsed
1 cup fish stock
3 pounds cultivated mussels, scrubbed and de-bearded
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup fresh cilantro, leaves picked off stem and stems reserved
3/4  cup plain Greek yogurt
sea salt and fresh pepper to taste

Let de-bearded, scrubbed mussels soak in a basin of water with a few ice cubes. Poor 1/4 cup of plain flour into the water, stir and let sit while you prepare your curry base. (The mussels will ingest the flour and will expel any sand or grit that is in their digestive system, which makes them a good deal more pleasant and plump.)

Curry Base: Sauté garlic and shallots in 2 tablespoons olive oil. When golden, add fresh grated ginger and 1/2 teaspoon each of ground fennel, coriander, cumin, tumeric, fenugreek, cinnamon, clove, allspice, chili and black pepper. Cook over high heat. Add chopped tomatoes, and chopped cilantro stems and let simmer. Add lemon, lime and pineapple juice, continuing to simmer. Purée until smooth.

To Serve: Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in an 8-quart heavy pot over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add thinly sliced fennel and sauté until just tender. Add curry base, chick peas and fish stock. Check for seasoning (add a few drops of lemon juice or pinch of salt and fresh pepper to taste). Add mussels and cook, covered until they are just open.

Spoon mussels with the tomato, fennel, chickpea-laden broth into bowls. Garnish with several spoonfuls of Greek yogurt, a tangle of cilantro leaves and thinly sliced shallots, and a drizzle of olive oil. Serve with slices of grilled ciabatta or flatbread toast doused in olive oil.

To purchase April’s book, A Girl and Her Pig, click here.

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There’s so much talk of aphrodisiacs these days, but I can’t think of a more sensual food than uni. Fresh urchin is firm yet supple; delicate and sweet, yet carries a dose of the sea’s brine. Occasionally I encounter notes of coconut or vanilla in the creamy meat, the consistency of which plays on the tongue like caviar or shad roe, but with beads so smooth and fine they are barely discernible if at all. In fact the tendrils’ shape is tongue-like and luscious, akin to the buttery richness of foie gras. Of course it’s said that the salty wetness that gives way in your mouth is reminiscent to the sensation of an oyster sliding down your throat, though it’s ever so much more voluptuous and creamy as it gushes. The urchin’s musk is undeniably feminine.

At chef Zoë Feigenbaum’s eponymous Lower East Side restaurant, I gorge myself on her perfectly cooked bucatini with cracked black pepper and uni, which is fantastically garlic-laden and makes me literally high. Uni is the piéce de la resistance at my favorite Japanese restaurant, Hasaki, either as sashimi or as a crown atop a bowl of hot rice laced with torn shiso leaves. The one and only time I’ve eaten at Eataly, Mario Batali’s rather daunting Italian cave of wonders, I had the most exquisite dish: three urchin shells void of their spicules (their spiky endoskeleton) lay on a bed of ice. Each contained five perfectly intact tendrils of the meat that had been harvested from fresh urchins, rinsed and placed in the clean shells and dressed very simply.

My plan was to buy mussels, but today as I walked through my local market and surveyed the fish purveyors with their gently writhing gambas and percebes creepily wriggling like goblin’s fingers, I couldn’t resist my precious urchins, or erizo de mar, and I cast aside my other lunch plans and other blog post ideas, and came home to write an ode to the golden gonads (in fact, it is a misconception that the delicacy that foodies like me find orgasmic is not the urchin’s roe, but their gonads).

I wanted to taste local uni in their purest form so decided against emulating Zoë’s devilishly delicious pasta. I thought of my lunch at Eataly, and decided to try my hand at something raw and pure. I used a pair of kitchen sissors to cut an opening around the mouths of the urchin and a spoon to carefully remove the meat. Inside the spiny organism there was a salty world of slimy viscera that ranged in color from purple to red. In fact this was the uni’s internal organs as well as semi-digested kelp….yum.

By the second one I’d gotten the hang of removing the crescents of mustard-colored morsels without marring them, and rinsed them in an ice bath of cold bottled water to avoid altering their flavor with water from the tap. After rinsing and draining the uni, I drizzled them with lemon juice, olive oil, sea salt and and fresh pepper, and placed them on similarly dressed lettuce leaves. I garnished each tendril with a cilantro leaf. Anything more, and I feared I would be gilding the lily.

When the moment of truth arrived, my fork and knife proved useless. I picked up each lettuce leaf and used it as a cup to spoon the urchin and cilantro into my mouth, though olive oil escaped down my chin and between my fingers. It’s a primitive urge, uni, so once you’ve gotten past the prickles, why not just give in to it?

While I was admiring my uni, I felt compelled to introduce them to my urchin ring, a treasured gift from one of my oldest and bestest friends, Emilie Jean, who designed it when she was barely old enough to vote. The bracelet, which is an antique Rajasthani bangle, also wanted in on the spiky action. Available through emiliejean.com.

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I’ve been unforgivably quiet, whilst stuffing myself with pescadito frito, bouillabaisse and spaghetti vongole. We have been on a road trip from Spain, through France to Italy, to pick up furniture for our Barcelona apartment and visit Sebastian’s new goddaughter. Such things are possible when living in Europe! Try not to hate me.

One of the trip’s highlights was lunch in Reggio Emilia at Canossa, a bastion of traditional regional cuisine. “When I don’t feel like cooking, I come here,” Bat’s friend Sonia said of the forty year old restaurant that she’s frequented since childhood. Sitting in the spacious back room, we drank a bottle of local Lambrusco, rich and velvety. This Caprari Cuvée Bollino Rosso was a far cry from the fizzy grape juice that un-sophisticates guzzle in pubs. The Lambrusco grape varietal can be traced back to the Etruscans, who populated the area two thousand years ago.

At Canossa you are not offered a menu. A gentleman just explains which pasta the chef has prepared fresh that day. Our “waiter” was an older man in a black sweater vest, who in fact may be one of the owners of the restaurant. Some snooping online revealed a video of him in the kitchen at Canossa, wearing an apron and hat stirring an enormous vat of broth. The owners apparently work both front and back of house in this Reggio Emilia institution, which only furthers the sensation of being at a family gathering that permeates the rooms and terrace.

On most days (and thankfully on the day of my visit) their legendary Tortelli di Zucca is available. The handmade ravioli-like pasta pillows originated in the 1500s when pumpkin began to be imported from the Americas, and are particular to the areas bordering the river Po, which runs mostly through the Emilia region. Two sixteenth century families—the Rossettis and the Gonzagas—claim to have come up with the recipe, which functions as a far more affordable alternative to the more rarefied meat-stuffed agnolini. These days recipes for tortelli di zucca vary in terms of pillow shape, folding technique, components and hence taste, and since the recipes are handed down by family matriarchs, next door neighbors are likely to have different formulas.* The recipe at Canossa boasted the traditional presence of amaretto biscotti, nutmeg, and lemon zest. I opted to also try some tortelli di spanici (spinach), the slight bitterness of which beautifully balanced the sweetness of the pumpkin.

After the pasta, the man in the sweater vest wheeled over a cart of meats. Roasted veal, pork and faraona (guinea hen), offered in a pool of their cooking juices; boiled ham, cotechino (rustic medallions of pig’s trotter sausage), and other carnivorous delights were doled out from the steaming trays and served with creamy mashed potato. Three bowls of traditional sauces—Italian salsa verde, a spiced pomodoro (tomato) and pickled vegetables—were placed on the table so that we could help ourselves. Most intriguing was the Mostarda di Cremona, a condiment made of mustard seed-infused syrup, candied cherries and yellow plums. It looked saccharine but tasted surprisingly sharp and peppery, and elevated the simple boiled meats with its taste, texture and, of course, its fetching appearance.

Dessert rolled over as well (appropriately, since we would have to be rolled out of there): a decadent array of tarts, poached pears and fluffy irresistible tiramisu. Bat asked for coffee, and the grey haired waiter replied simply, “Dopo,” meaning afterward. Espresso—the only kind of coffee Italians find acceptable to drink post breakfast—comes after the meal to aid with digestion.

Perhaps because the food tasted as though it was cooked by someone’s Italian grandmother, the room had a rather geriatric feel, though pleasantly so. The other patrons, like our host Sonia and her beautiful bambino Luca, were locals who seemed to be lifelong friends, or family members gathering for a lunch out, perhaps giving the matriarch an afternoon off from her culinary duties. As I slowly stood up to go, I pictured an old Italian woman sitting down to rest, looking out the window at the clear sky and an afternoon off before she began to prepare for the family dinner.

Ristorante Canossa
Via Roma, 37
Reggio Emilia
Telephone: (+39) 052 454 196
Chiuso il Mercoledì

*For further information on the history of tortelli di zucca, read the article by Alessandro Cagossi here, and for his authentic recipe from the Seven Fishes website click here. For a much less extraordinary version, try my Butternut, Seed & Sage Pasta recipe here.

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I’ve been meaning to give you the recipe for the most sinful and addictive artichoke dip. I tasted it years ago at a cocktail party at Eliza Dyson and Joel LeVangia’s old apartment on East 10th Street, and have been dreaming of it ever since. The first time I asked Eliza what was in it, she said, “You don’t want to know.” The second time she recited the recipe by memory.

I was longing for an occasion to make it, and late afternoon on New Year’s Day with intellectual extraordinaire Arturo Bomberino De Fournier seemed like as good a time as any. We paused Black Cat, White Cat—the Kusturica film in Serbian which we were watching with French subtitles—long enough for me to make the dip.

Mayonnaise

First, the mayonnaise. Of course you can use store bought, but I like to make my own because any leftover is so easily turned into aioli—delicious with roast vegetables, or tartar sauce chock full of capers and cornichons and herbs to serve with a piece of fish. It’s simple once you give up the apprehension that your emulsion will separate and are confident that it will bind together gladly. The trick is the temperature. Room temperature egg and mustard, and oil a few degrees warmer will make it even easier. A simple ratio (even for a math dolt with a hangover): one egg yolk, one tablespoon of Dijon mustard, one cup of oil. One and one and one.

Separate the yolk from the white and drop yolk into a deep bowl. Sprinkle a generous pinch of salt onto that yolk, because the salt will start the process before you even approach it with a whisk. Add the tablespoon of mustard (a messy, slightly overflowing tablespoon will do as long as it’s not too cold), and a healthy squeeze of a half lemon. It’s then that I reach for my whisk: I combine those four simple elements—yolk, salt, lemon and mustard—and start to drizzle in some oil. I use vegetable oil for the first half-cup because it is thicker and lends more initial body, and then olive oil as the second half for flavor. Start by pulling just a little oil into the emulsion that you’ve already begun with those four initial elements.

Bring the oil into the ingredients that have already bound (not the other way around).

Keep adding oil until your mayonnaise is thick, and then add more until you have added a full cup of whatever combination of oils you choose. Add the rest of the juice from that half lemon. Taste it. If you don’t remember liking mayonnaise but you like what you are tasting then you are on the right track. Don’t be fooled by its yellow color, this is Mayonnaise. This is the real deal, but if you would like it a little paler, add a fewdrops of water watch it blanch.

Artichoke Dip

Remove the contents of two cans* of artichoke hearts packed in water (or one can of hearts and one can of stems) and chop them coarsely. Chop a white onion. Finely chop five or so cloves of garlic. Combine artichoke, onion, garlic and mayonnaise in a large bowl and add some fresh pepper. Taste for seasoning. Add a half a cup of grated Parmesan cheese, saving a bit, and mix thoroughly.  Transfer the mixture into an oven safe dish, perhaps one that you’d use for a soufflé, and add an immodest dusting of the rest of the Parmesan onto the top. Bake at 350 for 30-35 minutes, until you cannot ignore the smell and there is some bubbling and browning occurring on top. Then serve with a spoon and some Carrs table crackers or toasted baguette slices. Dig in, blow off steam, and eat.

Thank you Eliza!! xxxx

* I halved the Artichoke Dip recipe in the photos at right.

Photographs by Arthur Fournier

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Originally published in the Avenue 32 Magazine.
Photograph by: Skye Parrott

Few people can claim an insatiable childhood sweet tooth as responsible for a much-lauded culinary career, but that’s precisely from where Christina Tosi, doyenne of desserts at David Chang’s Momofuku restaurants, derived her gastronomic mojo.  The head chef of Milk Bar and author of a recently launched cookbook that bears the same name draws on her childhood obsession with cookie dough and the “down home” baking style practised by the women of her family for inspiration in her adult oeuvre to create such unexpected delicacies as Compost Cookies, Cereal Milk ice cream and Crack Pie.

It was a somewhat circuitous path that led Tosi to where she is now at the helm of Chang’s New York City sweet shop and as the pastry chef for all four of his restaurants in Manhattan. Despite a lingering love of baking, Tosi completed degrees in Italian and Applied Mathematics before succumbing to her sweet tooth and attending the French Culinary Institute’s pastry program. It was there that Tosi harnessed her predilection for desserts and created a craft of which everyone now wants a slice. A stint at Bouley and in Wylie Dufresne’s kitchen led to an “etcetera” job with culinary genius Chang, who recognized a star in Tosi thanks to the pies and cakes she made for staff meals. In 2008 Chang added Momofuku Milk Bar to his empire, a bakery to showcase Tosi’s talents, and three and half years since its conception, crowds still flock to the East Village bakery and its three additional outposts to get their “fix” of Tosi’s signature sweet and salty creations.

It is Tosi’s adventurous approach to baking that has led to some of her most famous treats. Though most people consider baking an exact science that uses quantities and proportions to create balanced, “properly” textured final products, Tosi admits to never measuring quantities at home: “I bake with a cook’s sensibility of taste: add, taste, add, but it allows me to constantly create something new and different, some of them are successes, some of them are failures, but the process of creating is that much more poignant because I bake with that soul.” That spirit is evident in every mouthful of her extravagant nibbles, which make taste buds reel and ricochet between sugar shock and salty scrumptiousness, and play on the palate with their nuanced textures. Pretzels, potato chips and coffee grounds—relics of a childhood junk food habit, become star ingredients in Tosi’s able hands.

As for her personal style, Tosi is partial to clothes imbued with history: a wrap dress that her mother designed and made, vintage shoes handed down from grandmothers and great aunts—clothes “with soul, that feel like home.” Even in the kitchen, Christina’s personal flair is evident: Tosi dons well-worn red Converse high tops rather than the traditional (and decidedly bland) kitchen clogs, and wraps vintage scarves from the matriarchs of her family around her head to tame her auburn locks. For a young woman whose profession necessitates hauling fifty pound sacks of flour and sugar and getting elbow deep in chocolate and dough, Tosi enjoys the occasional day off, when she sports a dress and “relishes being a little lady of the city.”

Tosi’s youthful sensibilities are evident in her uninhibited concoctions, reminiscent of childhood potions with their unexpected and seemingly haphazard ingredients. After all, what could be more pleasantly irreverent than a cake bejeweled by M&Ms or soft serve ice cream infused with Lucky Charms? In a culture obsessed with looking young, Tosi’s confections satisfy the soul that wants to feel young, and other than a slice of Crack Pie, what could be more addictive than that?

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To view the story on the Avenue 32 site, click here.

Sebastian moved to Spain in September, hence the tear-stained scallops a couple of months back. I wasn’t ready to leave my hometown—the center of the universe—New York City, and stayed a while longer to bask in the company of friends and family, trying to make my peace with a trans-Atlantic move.

I’ve been meaning to tell you (though not sure quite how to weave it into the conversation), but I am in Barcelona too, rather open-endedly…and love is in the details. In the morning Sebastian squeezes Valencia oranges for fresh juice and makes pan con tomate for breakfast. (For a tomato lover, the mere fact of eating a ripe tomato in February elicits joy.)

Barcelona—capital of Catalonia, mecca of Gaudí’s oeuvre, and a food fanatic’s paradise—is where I now live. Our grand old apartment boasts magnificent molded ceilings, an antique safe, a bizarre homage to Miró as a mural on one wall, and a persistent smell that disappears for days and then reappears, suddenly and sinister.

We’ve spent these first days gathering the bare essentials. On Saturday in Encants at the flea market, we found three antique sterling forks, a pink lusterware soup terrine and matching bowl and an antique gilt mirror. There is humor and symmetry in this last item, since we never had a full-length mirror in the carriage house; here we have no furniture but can look at ourselves as we sit on the traditional Catalan tiled floor.

On Tuesday Sebastian bought us a refrigerator, oven, and a new batterie de cuisine and with great joy I went to the Boqueria—possibly the greatest market in the world—to pick up what I needed for a very simple meal. For dinner I made veal piccata with caramelized carrots and a mesclun salad—recipes, if you can glorify them by calling them that, ingrained in me by my mother, staples of her repertoire for streamlined suppers that sustained me as a kid after a track meet or origami class.

Our first meal at home was not in the least bit Spanish, and I look forward to the more elaborate and experimental meals that will come forth from my new kitchen in Barcelona. However, on that first night, sitting on the living room tiled floor with Sebastian, surrounded by the shocking space of our new apartment in a city I hardly know, a meal as familiar as a nursery rhyme made the drafts and whiffs of our new apartment feel much more like home.

Veal Picatta for Two

Ask your butcher for four veal scaloppines 1/3 to 1/4 inch thick and pound them if you like them thinner. Pour some flour into a shallow bowl and mix in some sea salt and fresh pepper. Dredge the veal slices in the mixture, patting them over the bowl to remove excess. The veal0 should be coated but not caked. In a frying pan, heat 1.5 tablespoons of butter until it starts to froth. Place the scaloppines in the pan so that they do not overlap, and season with more salt and pepper. Let the veal cook for about two minutes, or until the down-facing side has started to brown in places, then flip the slices. Season the second side. After a minute, squeeze the juice of half a lemon onto the slices mixing it with the melted butter. Place the veal slices on plates, two per person. Let the butter and lemon continue to cook over high heat, adding a tablespoon of water if there is not much liquid remaining. Garnish the veal with roughly chopped flat leaf parsley and drizzle the cooking liquid over the veal.

Caramelized Carrots

With a vegetable brush scrub and/or peal a bunch of carrots and remove the greens at your discretion (if the carrots are nice ones, I scrub them but don’t peel them and like to leave a little green top). Cut your carrots so that the pieces are uniform in size and will cook at the same rate (if you are lucky enough to have those slender youthful carrots that aren’t more than seven inches long, slice them once lengthwise and nothing more. Lay the carrots at the bottom of a pan so that they are lying down in a couple of layers. Add cold water to cover them half way up and a tablespoon of butter. Over high heat cook the carrots uncovered, rolling them around every few minutes. Add salt and pepper and let them continue to cook until the water has evaporated and the butter browns (about ten minutes). Continue to stir/shake the carrots until they are fork tender and slightly browned by the butter.

Our Vinaigrette

In a bowl mix 1/2 tablespoon Dijon mustard, 2 teaspoons anchovy paste, a pinch of sea salt, fresh pepper, two teaspoons Jerez vinegar, and six tablespoons olive oil. Add the ingredients in that order and whisk after adding each tablespoon of oil. Finish with a few drops of lemon juice and pour over clean lettuces.

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