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Coppertoned Eggplant

14 Aug

I don’t know what is more abundant, the summer eggplant crop or the recipes on what to do with all of them. And here I am joining the fray with one of my own.

This one is not unfamiliar. It’s the summer version of eggplant parmigiana. The difference between the summer and non-summer is that the eggplant is  grilled as opposed to the traditional egg-dipped, breaded and then fried (though my non-summer version is baked, never fried, but that’s another story).

 Ingredients

2 medium to large eggplants-sliced into ½  inch rounds*.

3 tbs of olive oil

1 ½ cups shredded mozzarella

½ cup of grated parmigiana or pecorino cheese

4-6 cups of marinara sauce (recipe below**)

6 fresh basil leaves

Salt and crushed red pepper to taste.

*You could peel the eggplant if the tough skin bothers you. I peel them when I am making eggplant parmigiana in the oven. But I think charring the skins adds to the summery flavor of this dish.

After slicing the eggplants, sprinkle with salt (Kosher or sea salt preferred) and coat with olive oil.

If using a gas grill, turn it on and warm it up. Using a charcoal grill is a bit trickier, but the results will be more satisfying. The eggplant will gain a smoky flavor that can’t be replicated with the gas grill. The problem is trying to keep the eggplants from falling through the cooking grate as a sacrifice to the charcoal gods. You’ll need one of those vegetable and/or fish baskets to go over the original grate. I have yet to find one I really like so I tend to cook vegetables on the gas grill. And even when grilling on a gas grill, I usually lose a few through the grates no matter how careful I am.

Grill the eggplant until it has that nice, even Coppertone tan. Tan lines, in this case, are more than acceptable. The char lines from the grill grate add to the beauty of the eggplant’s appearance.

Tan lines accepted.

Remove the eggplant from the grill and let them cool while you put the parmigiana together.

Copptertoned eggplant

Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees. Using a 9 inch, by 13 inch baking dish, (or something similar) spread about a cup and a half of the tomato sauce on the bottom of the dish. Arrange the eggplant slices on top of the sauce, add another half cup of sauce over the eggplant and sprinkle half of mozzarella over all.

Building the parmigiana

Add another layer of eggplant slices and repeat with the sauce and mozzarella. Continue until you have used all the eggplant. Make sure you’ve saved some sauce and mozzarella to coat the top of the last layer.

Scatter the fresh basil leaves evenly over the sauce and mozzarella and then sprinkle the parmigiana cheese over all.

Put the dish in the oven and cook for about 15 or 20 minutes or until the sauce bubbles and the cheese has melted. Remove from the oven and serve warm.

 

Coppertoned eggplant parmigiana

 

**Simple marinara Sauce recipe

1 28 ounce can of good Italian whole peeled tomatoes

3 tbs olive oil

2 cloves of garlic, sliced or chopped. (The finer the slice or chop, the more garlicky the flavor).

¼ tsp of crushed red pepper

4-6 fresh basil leaves

Salt to taste

 

Empty the tomatoes in a bowl and crush with your hands.

Pour the olive oil into a skillet and heat to medium-high.

Add the garlic and cook until very slightly browned.

Toss in the tomatoes.

Add the crushed red pepper and basil and a moderate sprinkling of salt. Bring to a simmer and cook for 20 minutes.

Marinara sauce can be made well ahead of time and kept in the refrigerator for up to a week or frozen and then thawed when needed.

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Red Sauce Revisited

8 Aug

Dominick’s

2335 Arthur Avenue

The Bronx

There was a restaurant in the Bronx. It was a small, red sauce Italian joint that didn’t take reservations. You couldn’t pay with a credit card either. And there was no menu. When seats opened up, you squeezed into a table, oftentimes sharing with an extended family from Jersey who remembered the place from the “old days.” One of the two waiters would come over. Usually it was the one who was missing a thumb.  “Whaddya want?” He would brusquely ask before you were even settled.

“Whaddya got?” was the usual response.

“We got baked clams, stuffed artichoke, veal marsala, veal francese, chicken scarpariello. We got steak, linguini and calamari. We got mussels, ziti marinara, rigatoni with sausage and broccoli rabe. We got zuppa di pesce. We got steak…” And it went on and on. The menu recited.

“Do you have veal chops.”

“Veal chops?” The waiter who was missing a thumb stared dully. “Lemme check.”

He would disappear into the kitchen.

A few moments later he would reappear. “Yeah, we got ‘em. You start with a salad?”

Of course we would.

Wine was served in juice glasses poured from an over sized jug behind the small bar.

The salad came. Our group shared the large platter of iceberg lettuce redolent with red wine vinegar, speckled with onions, out of season tomatoes, and a smattering of provolone cheese.

The place was filling up. It was cold outside and no one wanted to wait in the cold. The bar area was packed. There were people overhanging our table. Our stuffed artichokes came. The eyes of those waiting were upon us…and the artichokes. We didn’t care. Let them wait.

“Hey, can we get a piece of your bread while we wait?” a wise guy snickered, his hand moving to our bread basket.

“Don’t be an idiot, Ralph,” the woman with him with the big hair and overpowering perfume spat back at him.

“Hey, this is a family place. We’re all family. What’s wrong with breaking bread with brothers?”

“Jerk off,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically to us while her companion continued to grin like an idiot.

We polished off the artichokes easily, soaking up the olive oil dampened breadcrumbs with the crusty bread from the aforementioned bread basket. Butter never accompanied it—unless someone with no class or dignity stooped so low as to request it.

An enormous platter of linguini with calamari in a rich red sauce came next along with two dinosaur-sized veal chops with grilled onions and peppers. The calamari was fork tender; the sauce tangy with tomato and red wine. The veal chop was cooked to medium rare perfection; a slight char on the outside; the juices running from it with every forkful.

We finished everything.

The waiter minus one thumb returned. “Anything else? Some espresso?”

We needed the espresso to revive us after all that food. Clear glasses with stove-top espresso appeared along with a bottle of sambuca. The coffee and the liqueur combining to act as a jolting digestif.

“We’ll take the check,” we said to our waiter the next time he scurried past.

I would watch as he conferred with the bartender who wrote down something on a small scratch pad and handed it back to the waiter.

“$65,” the waiter said, not showing us what he held in his hand. There were no words on the piece of paper from what I could see; just check marks and cross outs, like a sloppy tic tac toe game.

We had no complaints. We paid and left a generous tip. Gathering our stuff we pushed through the overflowing crowd that was now ready to pounce on the seats we just deserted.

That was a long time ago. During the restaurant’s glory years. But nothing stays the same. The crowds got more unruly. One time a strange hand even reached into the bread basket. They soon opened up another room upstairs to handle the overflow. The platters got a little smaller, the calamari was not as tender, the red sauce not so special, and the number barked by a waiter—the one missing a thumb retired to the Jersey shore—kept going up. And up. It was time to say goodbye. Or at least take a leave of absence.

The divorce lasted almost twenty years. But I was ready to reunite. To make amends. To give Dominick’s, the red sauce joint in the Bronx, another chance. And what better way to experience nostalgia than with two old friends who I spent many an evening with at the same tables over twenty years ago.

But before entering, I noticed something unusual, at least for Dominick’s. It was a menu. A big one. And it was on prominent display right next to the entrance. I scanned it. There were even prices attached to the Italian-American classics I was very familiar with.

The Menu on the door.

I was a few minutes early. I ordered a drink at the bar and marveled at how deserted the small dining room was. Only a couple of the tables were occupied.

I sipped my drink and tried to recall if I was with Gerry or Paulie D, the two friends I was waiting for, the time Mayor Ed Koch and his entourage were hustled immediately to a large table. There was no waiting for hizzoner.

And, on this day, when my friends arrived there was no wait for the three of us either. Maybe change is good, I thought.

Paulie D, who I hadn’t seen for probably as long as it had been since I had been to Dominick’s, was the impetus for this reunion. He, also after a long hiatus, had returned to Dominick’s recently and relayed to Gerry that it was as good as ever. Gerry, a founding member of the Chow City group, whose adventures have been and continue to be chronicled on Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, passed the word to me and our dinner was arranged. Not only could I catch up with Paulie D, but I would also see if my youthful infatuation with Bronx red sauce stood the test of time.

A waiter approached us at the bar. Despite his complete lack of hair and that he was now wearing glasses, I recognized him from the “old days.” He had both thumbs and unlike his former colleague, did more than grunt when taking our orders. He shook my hand. “Good to see you again,” the waiter, whose name was Patsy, said as he looked into my eyes as if I were a still a regular.

We shared a long table and ordered more drinks. Wine, I was surprised to see, was served now in a stemmed glass. I handled it gingerly.

“So what are we gonna have?” Patsy asked, leaning over the table. There might have been a menu on display outside the restaurant, but we weren’t getting any table side. That was encouraging.

No one said anything.  But I, for one, had to hear it. So I opened my mouth. “Whaddya got?” I asked.

And then the recitation began: “We got mussels, baked clams, calamari. We got veal marsala, veal francese. We got chicken scarpariello. We got steak…”

“What about stuffed peppers?” Paulie D inquired.

Patsy nodded.

“Chicken francese?” Gerry asked.

“Sure, we can make it.”

“And ziti marinara,” Paulie D added.

“Anything else?”

I looked at Gerry and then at Paulie D.

“Let’s get the mussels,” Gerry said.

I thanked Gerry for not neglecting them.

“You gonna start with a salad?” Patsy asked, but he really didn’t have to.

“You gonna have salad?”

And then Patsy, who wrote none of our order down, departed.

Bread was brought to the table; crusty pane di casa, probably from Addeo’s bakery across the street. I noticed that along with the bread, there was a small plate with individual plastic packets of butter. And we didn’t even have to ask for it. I had to rethink my earlier belief about change.  Maybe it wasn’t as good as I originally thought.

The salad was as I remembered it: iceberg lettuce, onions, a few unripe tomatoes, and slices of provolone all in a vinegary dressing. The platter was just enough for the three of us.

Next to arrive were the peppers. On the plate were two extra large bell peppers stuffed with seasoned ground beef and smothered with a chunky tomato sauce.

Paulie D, who, before we ordered, reminded us that he was a “picky eater.”  In Paulie D’s case, that meant no seafood, no chicken on the bone, not even steak. But stuffed peppers were fair game and knowing Gerry and I would be eating the mussels, we left most of the peppers to him. Paulie D did himself proud; devouring one of the monsters effortlessly.

The remains of a stuffed pepper…smothered in a red sauce with a little penne.

The big platter of mussels took up most of the room at our table. Gerry and I worked methodically through the mound, plucking the sweet tiny bodies from their shells and swirling them in the garlicky, wine infused marinara sauce.

When the ziti arrived, penne on this night, I piled a few of the mussels on top of it, creating my own makeshift “ziti” and mussels.

Mussels…marinara of course.

Even the lemon-tinged chicken francese was soon swimming in red sauce, but I didn’t’ care.

There was bread left over. I broke off a piece and soaked it the soup of sauce that remained on my plate. And then I did it again—until all the sauce on my plate was gone.

Patsy returned. “You want espresso? Coffee?”

I thought for a moment. In the “old days” I could still fall asleep after a late night espresso. No more. And I wasn’t alone. None of us needed coffee.

Patsy conferred with the bartender and returned with the scratch pad scribbled with the unintelligible tic tac toe scrawl.

“$120,” he said to us.

I quickly tried to calculate what the rate of inflation of Italian red sauce joints in the Bronx might be since Ed Koch was the Mayor. The challenge being too much for my red sauce inebriated brain, I gave up that idea quickly and just decided to pay my share without thinking any more on it.

We rose and headed for the exit. The busboys quickly cleared our mess, but there was no urgent demand for our table.

Patsy waited by the door. “Hope to see you soon, gentlemen,” he said, seemingly looking me in the eye. There were no questions asked about my long absence. Even if I was totally wrong, and Patsy’s heartfelt greeting and hand shake were all just an act to suck me back to Dominick’s and its addictive red sauce, which I noticed was now sold in local grocery stores by the jar, I tried not to believe it. In my somewhat twisted, ego maniacal mind I sensed that maybe my presence was missed at this place.

Outside, Arthur Avenue was as quiet as Dominick’s was inside.

“It’s Monday,” Paulie D said. “That’s the secret. Come on a Monday and you’ll have the place to yourself.”

I’d have to remember that, I told myself.

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The Hero of Mott Street

17 Jul

Parisi Bakery
198 Mott Street
Little Italy (also known as NoLita)

They call it a bakery, but in reality the bakery is a few blocks away on Elizabeth Street. This Parisi’s outpost specializes in magnificently-crafted heroes.

Heroes on the walls.

Maybe the pictures of Babe Ruth and other New York Yankees provide heroic inspiration.

Parisi’s meatball hero.

But finding hero nirvana is never easy and at  Parisi’s there is the little problem of the line. The line begins to form just before noon and soon snakes out the door and onto Mott Street. I’ve many times preached my feelings about waiting on line for food. Unless times are very hard, don’t ever do it!

Even for this.

Parisi’s pepper and egg hero

There are ways to avoid the line quandary. It just takes a little planning. You’ll need to set your schedule around your visit to Parisi’s. Make that your priority for the day. Take a late breakfast or an early or very late lunch and you should be fine.

Tell me that’s not worth a schedule adjustment?

There is no seating at Parisi’s but who cares? You’ve got your hero.  Don’t ask for more.  Or maybe just a few loaves to take home.

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The Fazool Trilogy: Part Three

9 May

Of the Italian-American all star bean trio I have written about in the Fazool Trilogy, it is this dish that most refer to when they speak in that slang my high school Italian teacher reviled, “fazool.”

And in honor of my high school Italian teacher’s pet name for me, “pigrone” or lazybones, I’ve titled my version of pasta e fagioli accordingly.

It’s not just because I was a lazy student  in my high school Italian class that I’ve named the dish this way but because, by using canned beans instead of dried, which require soaking and then cooking on their own, I’ve cut a huge corner in preparation. I’m all for cutting corners in cooking if the results are pretty much negligible either way. And in my experience, I find little difference between taking the time to soak the dried beans instead of using canned. Certainly not enough to warrant the extra time and effort.

Unlike pasta e ceci, and pasta lenticchie, my grandmother did not make pasta e fagioli much for me. I remember her serving heaping bowls of it to my grandfather at lunch when he would come in from gardening, construction, house painting; whatever  handy work he was doing at the time. I don’t recall my brothers and I being forced fed what my grandfather ate heartily. Maybe she assumed that we would totally reject the concept of the pale cannellini bean and rather have a tuna fish or peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And looking back now, that’s a shame. As a result, I came to my appreciation of pasta e fagioli later in life.

When they say “fazool” this is what they mean.

My grandmother, I do know, made pasta e fagioli with the legume of choice for the dish, the cannellini bean. I have known Italians, however, who swear by the kidney bean when making their “fazool.” To me that changes the dish completely, but who am I to judge anyone on their fagioli preference?

All of the bean dishes in the Fazool Trilogy are unique and not just because of the type of bean. The first in the Trilogy, Pasta e Ceci, is more like a pasta dish; the pasta being the dominant part of the dish with the chick peas folded into the pasta.

In the Fazool Trilogy: Part Two, Pasta e Lenticchie, the lentils are the main attraction while the strands of broken spaghetti fill out and balance the dish by adding much needed starch to the heftiness of the lentils.

Pasta e fagioli, at least the way I like to make it, is more like a soup, or stew, than the other two. And because it has a more liquid consistency, unlike the others, I add a little meat flavoring, chopped smoked ham or pancetta. If you want to keep it meatless, you won’t lose much; the same can be said with adding meat to the other two in the Trilogy.

What follows below is my pretty standard, and hopefully not too difficult, recipe.

Lazybones Pasta e Fagioli

Ingredients

1 tbs of olive oil

2 cans of cannellini beans, (15-16 ounces) drained and rinsed.

1 medium onion, chopped fine

1 celery rib, chopped fine

1 medium carrot chopped fine

3 garlic cloves, minced

1 tsp dried oregano

¼ tsp red pepper flakes

3 to 4 cups of chicken broth (beef broth works too)

2 cups water

1 tsp salt

1 28 ounce can of diced or chopped tomatoes with juices (I like pieces of tomato in my broth, so I usually go with diced or chopped; sometimes crushed is just puree)

3 ounces smoked ham, pancetta, or bacon (I prefer the first two to bacon just because bacon’s strong flavor influences the dish more than I like, but it still works. For this batch I’ve used smoked ham).

1 secret ingredient (that’s not so secret anymore, to find out what it is, refer to The Fazool Trilogy: Part Two.)

Secret ingredient

8 ounces of a small pasta shape (I like ditalini, but small shells, elbows, and tubetini also work).

¼ cup chopped fresh Italian parsley

Grated Parmesan cheese

The pasta of Pasta Fagioli

Heat the oil in a heavy Dutch oven or wide bottomed pot over medium-high heat.
Add the ham, pancetta or bacon and cook until it browns lightly, around 5 minutes.

Chopped smoked ham

Stir in the onions, celery, and carrots, until they are softened. Around 7 minutes.

Add garlic, red pepper flakes, and oregano, stir for about 1 minute.

Pour in tomatoes and the secret ingredient that’s not so secret anymore and bring to a boil.

Pasta e Fagioli minus the pasta and the fagioli.

Add the broth, water, 1 teaspoon salt, beans, and bring to a boil and then simmer for about ten minutes.

Drop the pasta into the pot and cook until it is a minute from being al dente. Timing depends on the pasta shape and brand; check the package. (Beware of overcooking the pasta; you don’t want mush).

Turn off the heat, stir in the parsley, ladle into bowls, and add the desired amount of freshly grated parmesan cheese.

Pasta e Fagioli

Like the others in the Trilogy, Pasta e Fagioli is best served with a crusty bread and a green salad.

Thus concludes the Fazool Trilogy, however, I am always open to suggestions and ideas on how this series can be continued and transformed into epic status. So please don’t hesitate to comment with your fazool insight.

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Adventures in Chow City: The First Decade

27 Mar

This past January, our group celebrated ten years of traveling New York City’s environs searching for mostly unheralded, inexpensive, usually ethnic eating establishments. To honor this very important anniversary, we hoped to gather at a place somewhat representative of the restaurants we had been visiting the past decade. We were looking for something maybe slightly more broadly appealing than a place where cow foot soup and goat belly were the signature dishes. And since this was supposed to be a special occasion, we also decided to invite spouses, partners, significant others; anyone our members wanted to bring along.

Gerry recommended an old time Italian place in Mount Vernon, just over the Bronx border, called the Lincoln Lounge. From his description; “good pizza—old school, family-style Italian in a run down neighborhood with a full bar,” the Lincoln Lounge sounded exactly what we were looking for.

It took numerous group emails to nail down a date when all could attend. And then things happened. A wife dropped out due to family obligations; a girlfriend couldn’t come because of a conflict until we got an email from Rick saying “Sounds like its turning stag. Should we just commit to no wimmin?”

We never did commit to it, but as it turned out, no “wimmin” were in attendance.

And on the appointed day, neither was Rick; a family emergency denying him our celebration.

To make up for the loss of Rick, we were graced with the presence of original member, Charlie, who left us in 2005 for the greener pastures of the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania.

It was a Friday night and the Lincoln Lounge was mobbed with large groups; the small bar two deep with “regulars,” including one uniformed policeman who ate at the bar with his bullet-proof vest on and gun holstered around his waist.

No room at the Lincoln Lounge bar.

After we were seated; cramped in a corner, we quickly ordered a sausage pizza and here the Lincoln Lounge did not disappoint. With its thin crust, sauce bursting with flavor, nicely charred crust topped with fresh sausage; the pie, as it turned out was the highlight of the meal.

Lincoln Lounge’s excellent pie.

The antipasto salad, a bowl of greens topped with provolone, sopressata, and olives and doused in a vinegary dressing was passable while the steamed clams in white wine and garlic, standard and more than acceptable.

The calamari pasta, however, along with the shrimp scampi were disappointments. Apparently, when the dishes at the Lincoln Lounge are advertised as family style, they don’t mean our gluttonous family.

The shrimp, of which here they most definitely count, were barely enough for each of us to get a taste. As it turned out, a taste was more than enough.

The modest amount of spaghetti adorned with a light tomato broth and tiny pieces of calamari was devoid of flavor.

Calamari compromised

Zio shook his head as he gazed at the miniature calamari.  “I like big fat calamari rings,” he said. “Not these little ones.”

“Was it really worth slaughtering baby squid for this?” I questioned indicating the “family-sized” platter.

“Yeah, it’s inhumane,” Gerry said as he speared one with his fork.

Thankfully, the pork chops with peppers and onions were good enough to almost redeem the travesty that was the squid and shrimp.

Pork chops with vinegar peppers and onions

While we cleaned our plates, Eugene began to, once again, muse on a trip to a Caribbean all-inclusive he was soon to embark on. “You know what I like to do,” he swooned. “Eat a big breakfast, stay at the beach until two, take a nap, and then eat dinner. You never have to leave the hotel.”

Trying desperately to divert the conversation back to why we were at the Lincoln Lounge, I was curious about our group’s memories of the past ten years.

“Remember the bean dessert,” Eugene barked out. “At the Filipino place in Queens. The worst!”

“Yeah and the cheap Polish place in Greenpoint,” Zio added. “I went back once.”

“What about that one in Chinatown. The place with fish stomach and goose feet,” Mike from Yonkers reminisced.

“Sheesh, that was inedible,” Eugene spat. “Even Gerry had a hard time eating it.”

And from there they all came back. The highlights and a few lowlights of our ten years.

Chow City’s Top Ten Moments (Good and Bad)

Presented in chronological order:

  1. Eugene’s bean drink revulsion The Beans of Halo Halo
  2. Cherriolies and Kvass Kvass and Vodka  
  3. Pan fried chicken and old school soul   Across 125th Street
  4. Eating ribs in a South Bronx backyard junkyard Southern (Bronx) BBQ
  5. Traversing mountains of snow to get to the great Tandoori Hut. Dining With Sikhs

    Tandoori Hut

  6. The rending padang at Upi Jaya  Spice Tsunami
  7. An after dinner espresso served on my lap. The Un American African Place
  8. Broccoli rabe pizza, the choice meal of strippers. Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona

    Bronx broccoli rabe

  9. Fuzhou fish stomach and goose feet. F(e)asting on Fuzhou Style Fish Stomach
  10. Zio’s upper body massage apres fufu and four fingers. The Bistro that Serves Fufu and Four Fingers

And let us not forget those who are no longer with us.

R.I.P

La Fonda Boricua

LeWoro Dou Gou

La Pollada de Laura

Southbound Bar-B-Que

M&G Diner

Bay Shish Kebab

Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew

Malaysian Rasa Sayang

Zabb Queens

Florence’s Restaurant

Yamakaze

Spicy Mina

World of Taste Seafood and Deli

Treichville

M&G Diner circa 2010

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The Fazool Trilogy: Part One

1 Mar

I had an Italian teacher in high school who was about four and a half feet tall. She had gray-hair she wore in a strict conservative bun and dressed like a Sicilian widow. She was no-nonsense in class and compensated for her diminutive size by never hesitating to come down hard and loud on a slacker. Her pet word for me was “pigrone,” or lazybones. She was also a stickler for classic, traditional Italian; no dialect, and definitely no Italian-American slang was tolerated. Whenever she heard the hated, vulgar misuse of her native Italian, she would spew venomously: “It’s fagioli. Not ‘fazooool.’ It’s capicola, not ‘gabagool!’ And this was way before Soprano’s speak made the slang even more popular.

Just getting some sun while waiting for an order of gabagool.

I don’t know where my teacher is now, but I hope she doesn’t mind too much that I’ve titled this series, The Fazool Trilogy. I promise I’ll never utter such an abomination in public.  What follows is part one of the trilogy.

Pasta e Ceci a la Nanny

After my grandfather died, I would try, whenever my schedule permitted, to visit my grandmother for lunch. If it wasn’t a Sunday, when lunch was red sauce, polpette and other meats, the lunch would usually include some sort of pasta and bean combination. My grandmother, we called Nanny, knew that I loved her pasta e ceci (pasta with chick peas); one of the few in the family, besides my grandfather, who did.

So a big hearty bowl would be waiting for me which I would devour much to my Nanny’s pleasure. Nothing made her happier than having the food she prepared devoured.

Now Nanny is also gone and with it the recipes that were in her head alone…she never wrote any down.

Over the years I’ve done my best to re-create her dishes, including pasta e ceci.

The recipe that follows is my version and incorporates the lazybones label I earned in my high school Italian class. I cut a few little corners, but the result, I found, really hasn’t suffered.

This is what you’ll need.

1 15 ounce can of chick peas, preferably Italian*

1 garlic clove, sliced thin

½ cup of chopped onion

½ tsp of dried oregano

¼ teaspoon of dried hot red pepper flakes

¼ cup of olive oil

¾ pound of dried pasta (medium shells, pipette, or any other medium-sized cut)

½ cup of grated parmigiano Reggiano or pecorino Romano.

Salt to taste.

Chopped parsley for garnish

*Where I’ve cut a huge corner is using canned chick peas instead of dried. I’ve done the bean soaking thing and though it is slightly more economical, I find it not only time consuming, but sometimes, for whatever reason, you end up with beans that never soften. And maybe it’s my unsophisticated palate, but I really don’t notice a major difference in bean quality or taste; certainly not enough to justify the effort. Though some canned beans are better than others, but I’m not naming names.

Drain the beans and rinse with cold water.

Heat the olive oil on a medium flame and then add the onion. Sauté for about three minutes or until the onion softens. Add the garlic and cook for about two more minutes. Toss in the oregano and red pepper flakes and toast for one minute. Add the beans and a quarter cup of water.

Simmer all on low.

Pipette: the preferred pasta cut for ceci.

Meanwhile, boil a big pasta pot full of water. When it boils add salt and the pasta. Cook until al dente or a minute less and then add the pasta to the saucepan with the chick peas. Scoop in about three tablespoons of the pasta water to the chick peas and cook together for about another minute or so. Toss in a quarter cup of the grated cheese, mix, pour into a big bowl and garnish with the parsley.

There should be enough to feed four adults. Sprinkle more cheese into your individual bowl if desired. Serve with a salad and a hard crusty bread. Devour heartily

Pasta e ceci a la Nanny

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Seven Fishes for Seven Dishes

22 Dec

The day before Christmas, it’s no meat for me,

Even though I’m a non-believer,

on Christmas Eve,

I only eat from the sea.

The feast should have seven dishes

of fishes that day.

No one really knows why,

it’s just what they say.

Here then are the fishes,

in no particular order.

For the feast,

I present to you.

On my own fingers I counted,

To make sure it’s true.

They call it squid, but it’s calamari we know.

Cook it fast or cook it slow.

Any other way,

and it’s a no go.

Stuff  with breadcrumbs, parsley and nuts.

Enjoy the stuffed squid,

but don’t eat too much.

There’s six more dishes to go,

before you bust.

scungilli

It comes from a snail, is what I’ve heard,

this thing called scungilli;

I know, it’s a funny word.

Italian Escargot?

The French shake their heads

and say, ‘oh no!”

Boil until it’s tender, and then chop it

real fine.

Add to a salad,

and maybe drizzle with lime.

Long and slithery,

it looks like a snake.

With dark beady eyes,

this fish is not for everyone’s taste.

We call it eel.

In Italian it’s  capitone.

Its flesh is oily,

its look surreal.

Be careful there are bones.

You don’t want to choke,

especially while giving the

Christmas Eve toast.

Chop into pieces,

then fry or grill.

With garlic and vinegar,

this eel will thrill.

When the faint of heart see it coming,

they shriek and wail,

‘cause it’s got a slimy body and a prickly tail.

It’s a small fish, the little anchovy,

but the flavor it packs,

makes up for any good looks it lacks.

Dissolve in hot olive oil with garlic, of course.

Add some peperoncini,

and a little broth.

Pour over spaghettini

and you’ll be one of the first,

to line up at the trough.

Four dishes done, three more to go.

The feast of seven fishes,

can become quite a show.

Along the way,

things could get bumpy,

causing anxiety and stress;

a chef could get jumpy.

Time to bring out the fish,

the one that no one complains.

The reliable flounder,

it causes no pain.

Bake it with butter or oil, some

lemon and herbs.

Its mild mellow flavor,

will take the edge off,

will ease the nerves.

It comes in all sizes, this mollusk of grey.

But I like the small ones;

what they call vongole.

Clean them and make sure the sand is all gone.

Add to a pot with oil, garlic and white wine.

When they open just a bit,

they will release their magical brine.

Eat them from the shell or over

linguini.

Either way, you can’t go wrong,

with a clam this teeny.

Oh it smells something fierce,

this fish called baccala,

Just wait till you see it;

it looks even worse.

In a pot or bathtub,

soak it for days.

Change the water

a few times or more.

Yes it’s hard work;

it can be a chore.

Do it until that fish;

the one that smells,

grows larger,

until it swells.

Steam or bake,

soon the tender flesh will flake.

With onions and garlic,

what a delicious dish

this hideous monster makes.

Its appeal is so huge,

There’s even a poem called,

baccala-blues.

The feast over;

all seven fishes you’ve tried.

But now your mercury level is high.

No fear, everything will be okay,

because Christmas comes the very next day.

There will be more food.

Another big feast.

And this one, I’m sure,

will include juicy red meat.

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Name That Place: Christmas Bonus Edition

16 Dec

This one is so easy, I’m a little embarrassed to actually be posting it.  But in the spirit of the season;  a time of tenuous comfort and forced joy, I am offering this bonus round of Name That Place.

There’s obviously a gangster theme going on here. Is that supposed to be Al Capone? Or is it supposed to be this guy?

Either way, it’s just another sad stereotype of the Italian as gangster.

Ooops, I just gave away a hint, as if you need it. Where is this tribute to gangsterism? I won’t use the “M” word to describe what is depicted because my Poppy from Calabria always said there was no such thing.

Since I’m in such a giving mood, I’ll add a few more photos of what you might find at this place.

You can buy calf brains there.

And even fresh coniglio, also known as rabbit.

Is it a meat market? One with a statue of a gangster? Am I confusing you now? I certainly hope so, but doubt it.  No, from what I’ve revealed here, I might as well just wrap this gift up and put it under the tree for you.

As always, leave your answers in the comment section below. The place will be revealed here on Monday.

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Neck Bones Anniversary Tomato Sauce

14 Oct

Not that I need a reason to make a big batch of Neck Bone Tomato Sauce, but I figured the one year anniversary of this site, Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, would be as good a time as any to share my recipe.

The sauce, called by many of the misinformed as “Sunday Gravy” (more on that in a future post), is thick and rich, almost like a tomato stew, but don’t be fooled, it is most definitely a sauce. And the combination of the sauce and the meat from the slow cooked, fatty pork neck bones and the sauce poured over a sizable pasta cut (rigatoni preferably) produces what to me is the ultimate comfort food.

Instead of neck bones, you could use any variety of spare ribs; country, baby back, or St. Louis cut, but that’s usually more expensive. Pork neck bones are not only cheaper, they also produce the heartiest sauce and the meat from the bones, no matter how long you cook them, is always moist and tender.

Though not a difficult recipe, it is time consuming. My grandmother didn’t mind making a version of this (minus the neck bones) every Sunday. While she was working in the kitchen from 6 am until Sunday dinner around 3 pm,  I was wasting all Sunday watching Abbott and Costello movies on television. Occasionally she would mutter from the kitchen, “piu pigro” or “your lazy” to me. And yes, I still can be lazy, certainly  lazy enough not to spend every Sunday, or Saturday (the sauce is even better made a day or two in advance giving the ingredients more time to get to know each other) making sauce. So I make enough for leftovers (the sauce freezes very well) and spare me a few weekends of work until I run out of whatever I have in the freezer.

The neck bones alone will flavor the sauce, but I like to throw in some other meats along with the neck bones, usually chunks of pork shoulder I’ve trimmed and browned, or Italian sausage and/or braciole and whatever else I can fit into the pot. If I also want meatballs to be part of the meal, I’ll make them separately (see Goomba Joe’s Polpetti https://friedneckbones.wordpress.com/2011/02/18/goomba-joes-polpette/ for the meatball recipe) and add them to the bowl of cooked meats, just before serving.

Goomba Joe’s Polpetti

Here then, is my Neck Bone Tomato Sauce recipe starting with the basic ingredients.

2 lbs of neck bones

4 28 ounce cans of Italian whole peeled tomatoes, not San Marzano.*

6 ounce can of tomato paste**

1/2cup of olive oil

8 cloves of garlic (chopped)***

2 cups of water

¼ teaspoon of dried red pepper

Salt and pepper to taste

Rigatoni (How much depends on how many you are feeding. Always err on too much rather than too little)

Pork shoulder, braciole, sausage, and meatballs (optional)

Rigatoni

*Spending the extra money for genuine San Marzano tomatoes for this sauce is a waste. The flavor will be overwhelmed by the meat. Stick with your favorite brand of  Italian whole peeled tomatoes, preferably imported from Italy and with a basil leaf or two included in the can.

Canned Italian tomatoes

**I like to use tomato paste, but you can substitute a 28 ounce can of crushed tomatoes instead; both add density to the sauce. And this should be a dense sauce.

***My general rule is two cloves of garlic per one 28 ounce can of tomatoes. I can be swayed to alter my rule depending on the size of the garlic cloves.

Run the tomatoes through a food mill, separating the seeds and whatever skin might be on the tomatoes. If you are lucky enough to have an electric “passata” machine that basically does the same thing as a food mill minus the physical labor, the muscles of your forearms will be grateful.

Elbow grease required.

Salt and pepper the neck bones.

Add ¼ cup of olive oil to a skillet.

Brown the neck bones, about 3 to 5 minutes per side.

Browning the neck bones.

Drain on a paper towel and put aside

Add ¼ cup of olive oil to a very large soup kettle or pasta pot with a heavy bottom.  Turn the heat on to medium and add the garlic. Cook just until the garlic begins to lightly brown and quickly lower the heat so it does not burn.

Add the can of tomato paste or a can of crushed tomatoes. If using tomato paste, sauté with the garlic and then add two cup of water, stirring until the tomato paste is looser and all chunks are gone. Cook until it bubbles and then add the strained tomatoes and bring to a boil.

The sauce

Once the tomatoes begin to boil, add the neck bones and any other meats, but make sure there is enough room in the pot to stir it. If you can’t stir, you’ve put too much meat in.

Turn the heat to medium low and leave, uncovered.  If your burners are hot and medium low brings on too rapid a boil, lower it to a slow bubbling simmer. Cook uncovered, stirring occasionally for two to three hours and then turn off the heat.

Let the sauce sit, covered, on the stove for another three hours and then, if the sauce is for the next day, put the pot in the refrigerator. The next day, skim some of the fat off the top of the sauce—or don’t. I’ll leave that up to you.

Neck bones ready to be shredded.

With tongs, take the neck bones out of the sauce making sure you fish around the pot for any loose small bones that might have fallen apart in the cooking process. You really don’t want your guests or family to take a tooth-loosening bite out of a neck bone instead of the meat that was once connected to it. Cut away the meat from the bones and the fat and then put the chopped bits of meat back in the sauce. You could skip this process and just leave the bones in the sauce, but that would depend on who you are serving and if they don’t mind gnawing on neck bones. Some people enjoy gnawing on bones and you don’t want to deny them that pleasure.

Boil water in a big pasta pot(s). Add the pasta and cook until al dente.

Just before the pasta is done, remove the other meats from the sauce and put them in a bowl.

Rigatoni and Neck Bone Sauce

Drain the pasta, pour into a big bowl and coat with a generous portion of the sauce, but please don’t drown it. Serve into individual bowls and let guests add freshly grated cheese;  parmesean Reggiano or pecorino Romano work, but never use a grated cheese that comes in a green cardboard container. I’m not mentioning names here, but you know the kind I mean. If more sauce is desired, have a bowl of extra sauce on the table along with the bowl of the other cooked meats; the meatballs, sausage, braciole and whatever.

Enjoy and if you are lucky, there might be leftovers for next Sunday.

You call those leftovers?

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Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona

11 Oct

Fratelli Pizza Café
404 Hunts Point Ave
Bronx

It was a clear Tuesday evening as I, accompanied by Zio, headed toward the Hunts Point Market where the Fratelli Pizza Café, our destination for the night, was located.  Traffic was backed up on the Willets Avenue Bridge, most heading north towards the Major Deegan and Yankee Stadium where the Yankees were about to begin their game. We were heading east and once we found ourselves under Bruckner Boulevard, the traffic completely vanished leaving us, literally, the lone vehicle on the road. The spooky feeling became almost post-apocalyptic as we turned onto Leggett Avenue, passing chop shops and auto glass and tire repair shops, the road still practically barren.

Turning onto Hunts Point Avenue, there was a bit of activity around an adult entertainment establishment called Mr. Wedge and soon after Hunts Point Avenue became a one way street, we located our destination. We could hear a pounding bass beat coming from the Hunts Point Triangle, another adult entertainment establishment located right next to the Fratelli Pizza Café.*  A few of the “entertainers” and their clients were sitting in a make-shift café outside of the club sipping beers from a bottle and eying Zio and I curiously.

Pre or post pizza entertainment at Mr. Wedge.

The pizzeria was small, just a few tables and, since it was part of the “triangle” at the end of Hunts Point Ave, narrow with an entrance on the other side of the building. There were a variety of pizzas on display behind the counter that looked old and tired, including one, to my horror, with pineapple. Despite my best efforts to disguise it, there was no doubt that my disappointment was obvious. The proprietor, noting the look on my face asked if he could help us. I told him we were waiting for others.

The pineapple and bacon slice

I chose Fratelli’s because I had heard that they were famous for their broccoli rabe pizza as well as their sautéed version, made fresh and supplied by the nearby Hunts Point Market. Scanning the drab offerings behind the counter, there was no sign of what I and many Italian-Americans consider absolutely essential comfort food. Broccoli rabe’s appeal, with its bittersweet flavor, especially combined with garlic, olive oil, and crushed red pepper, goes directly to my nerve center immediately stirring a rare combination of feelings including but not limited to pure pleasure, child-like happiness and a primal sense of contentment.

I asked the proprietor, who introduced himself as “Joe,” if broccoli rabe was available. He assured me that it was. I inquired how he prepared it on the pizza. He showed me a square pie, adorned only with tomato sauce where cheese and broccoli rabe would be added he called a “Grandma.”

While we were conversing, one of the tightly-clothed “entertainers” entered from next door, and ordered a hero. I noticed a picture of Sinatra and the rest of the Rat Pack taped onto the plastic counter along with a small photograph of  writer,  television personality, and former chef, Anthony Bourdain.

“Bourdain says we have the best garlic knots he’s ever had,” Joe proclaimed proudly adding that a segment on Fratelli’s broccoli rabe was filmed by Bourdain and his crew for his Travel Channel program, No Reservations.

Tony and two of the “brothers.” Joe on his far left.

Rick arrived soon after, and giving the high-heeled entertainer wide berth, also examined the pies on display, taking time, I noticed, to dwell on the unfortunate pineapple slice.

Our group, collectively, could be considered pizza snobs. We had been to many of the Tri-State area’s greats; Patsy’s in Harlem, Totonno’s in Coney Island, Grimaldi’s near the Brooklyn Bridge, Sal’s in Mamaroneck, and, of course, the remarkable DiFara, so our standards were high. Maybe we were expecting too much from a 24-hour pizzeria situated next to a strip joint.

Joe took me around to the other entrance to show me the accolades Fratelli’s received from the Village Voice including “Best Broccoli Rabe.” Eugene and Gerry, Mike from Yonkers being conspicuously absent, arrived and we told Joe to go ahead with making a Grandma pie with broccoli rabe.

“Are you connected with the Fratelli’s on Eastchester Road,” Eugene asked Joe.

Joe shook his head.

“The Fratelli’s in New Rochelle?”

Again, Joe responded in the negative. “There are a lot of Fratelli’s around. I’m from Corona.”

We told Joe from Corona to go ahead and make us a Grandma pie with broccoli rabe, a plate of sautéed broccoli rabe, and some of those Bourdain-praised garlic knots. While we waited, Joe brought us out the Fratelli’s version of an amuse bouche of what he called a “Christina” pie.

“This is also one of my most popular,” he said. The “Christina” was a square pie with tomato sauce, fresh tomatoes and topped with fresh mozzarella. The display version he showed me was not impressive, but after reheating was, remarkably, brought back to delicious life; the crust nicely charred, the tomatoes flavorful and the cheese still fresh. Maybe our first visual impressions were wrong.

The Grandma pie minus the broccoli rabe.

The Grandma pie came out, steam flowing from the huge square pie overflowing with broccoli rabe. A few moments later, Joe brought out a aluminum take-out dish with the sautéed broccoli rabe and a plate of garlic knots.

“What you do,” Joe from Corona explained. “is slit open the garlic knots and slather some of that broccoli rabe inside making a kinda garlic knots broccoli rabe sandwich.”

We took his advice and the tender, perfectly sautéed broccoli rabe worked magnificently with the “best garlic knots ever.” Our enthusiasm was evident in the way we were devouring mounds of the greens with absolutely no worries about potential next day consequences from all that roughage.

“When the woman from Channel 7 was here,” Joe said, casually dropping another television plug for his establishment, “she asked how I made the broccoli rabe. I said that’ if I told her, I would have to kill her.’ I can’t believe she actually used that.”

After a few forced chuckles, we resumed eating, Two slices of the Grandma pie remained along with a few of the dregs of the sautéed broccoli rabe and a couple of garlic knots. “I’m done,” Zio groaned.

Bronx broccoli rabe

I couldn’t eat anymore nor could Rick. Gerry and Eugene, sitting at another table shrugged, their eyes on the remains.

“Well if they’re not gonna eat it. . . .”  Eugene said as he and Gerry scooped up the last two Grandma slices without any hesitation.

From behind the counter, Joe lifted up a tray that held a  Sicilian pie and showed it to us. “I make my Sicilian differently than other places. I put the cheese under the sauce. People come from all over for it.”

We nodded. He no longer had to work us. We were convinced.

*The “Hunt’s Point Triangle” has since our last visit, closed and Fratelli’s has expanded, taking over the entertainers dance space.

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