Thanksgiving Just Keeps on Giving

 fig. a:  apple-picker

Canadian Thanksgiving 2013 began with our annual apple-picking excursion to Covey Hill.  There, we picked a couple of buckets of apples (Empires, Northern Spys, Russets, and Spartans, mainly), bought a couple of baskets more,

 fig. b:  apples

and picked up some Flemish Beauty pears, as well.

 fig. c:  pears

The sun was bright, the leaves were vibrant, and it was downright warm (felt more like peach-picking weather than apple-picking weather), and we got a chance to get all caught up with our good friend M. Safian.  And on the drive back we started thinking about all the possibilities we now possessed in the back of our car:  apple pie, baked pears, apple strudel, pear chutney, corn bread stuffing, squash soup, and so on.

The next day, when we actually got around to making our Thanksgiving meal, it was quite the spread.  Not surprisingly, both apples and pears played an important part.

The menu:

smoked Cajun andouille appetizer

sweet potato & peanut soup (with apple cider) 

roasted turkey
corn bread stuffing (with apples & pears)
roasted romanesco cauliflower
roasted Brussels sprouts
roasted carrots
mashed potatoes (with turnips and parsnips)
cranberry sauce
Georgian plum sauce 

mixed greens salad (with apples & pears) 

cheese plate (with pears) 

apple pie
pumpkin pie

Our turkey this year was a huge hit--it was also just plain huge.  When Michelle heard through the grapevine that Société Orignal was offering turkeys raised by the one-and-only M. Bertrand, she put through an order for a "small turkey" immediately.  The turkey that she received was beautiful, and unbelievably fresh (it had just been slaughtered two days before), but it was also almost 20 pounds (!)--the very largest we'd ever made, and not exactly the ideal size for our preferred high-temperature turkey method.  Nevertheless, we soldiered on.  And by now Michelle's got this approach down to such a science that the results were truly phenomenal.  Two tricks of the trade:

1.  Salt your bird generously, inside and out, at least one day in advance, and preferably two. 

2.  When you bring your bird to room temperature before roasting it, cover the bird's breast with ice packs to keep it cool.  Remove the ice packs right before roasting.  Doing so will ensure that the breast meat does not get overcooked, but instead will turn out juicy and succulent (already, even without this fix, we found that the high-temperature method produced the juiciest birds we'd ever encountered, but if you're roasting a larger bird, like we were, this step is essential).

Our cranberries were pretty special, too.  They came from Société Orignal, as well, and they were dry-picked, not wet-harvested.  Neither of us had ever tasted a cranberry sauce with a deeper flavour.

Our stuffing was also rather deluxe.  I've been trying to convince Michelle of the merits of corn bread stuffing for years, but she's always remained steadfastly loyal to stuffing made with white bread or sourdough.  This year amounted to a breakthrough, though.  Michelle officially declared this year's model to be her very favourite of all-time.*

AEB Corn Bread Stuffing 

1 extra-large 3x batch of corn bread
onion
celery
red sweet peppers
parsley
sage
roasted hazelnuts
2 chopped apples
2 chopped pears
bourbon
salt & freshly ground black pepper
butter 

Preheat oven to 425º F. 

Sauté the onion in butter until translucent.  Add the celery and red peppers and continue sautéing until softened.  Add the corn bread, the herbs, the nuts, and the fruit and mix gently but thoroughly (preferably with your hands, once you've allowed the onion mixture to cool slightly).  Adjust the seasoning with salt & pepper.  Spritz liberally with bourbon.  Pour a generous amount of melted butter over top and mix again.  The stuffing should be just slightly moistened by the combination of bourbon and butter.   

Place in a buttered baking dish and bake for 30 minutes covered in foil, and 15 minutes uncovered.

Anyway, we thoroughly enjoyed our meal, everyone ate heartily, and we had so much left over that we sent our guests home with doggy bags--and still we had copious leftovers.  The ultimate prize, however, was that massive turkey carcass.  It still had a fair bit of meat left on it, and it had been roasted to perfection--in other words, it had all the makings of a beautiful batch of turkey broth.  So I cut it up into portions, put them in bags, and froze them.

And the next week, when all the other leftovers had disappeared days ago, and my taste for turkey was coming back to me, I got to work on my new (since last year) favourite post-Thanksgiving ritual:  making turkey gumbo.

Thing is, because making turkey gumbo is "my new... favourite post-Thanksgiving ritual," I was already thinking about the gumbo before we'd even roasted our bird.  And because I knew I wanted to make my turkey gumbo with real Cajun andouille (a spicy, smoked Louisiana classic), and I was pretty sure locating real Cajun andouille would be a little difficult 'round these parts, I made my own.  Then, because I was smoking anyways, I decided to smoke some additional turkey legs, just for the hell of it (and in case my turkey gumbo needed to be bumped up a little).  So on Thanksgiving Sunday, while Michelle had the turkey in the oven, I had the smoker smokin' away--which is how we ended up serving freshly smoked andouille as an appetizer.

How, exactly, do you make Cajun-style andouille?  Well, I based my batch on a recipe from Bruce "America's Premier Sausage Maker" Aidells:

Cajun-style Andouille 

3 tbsp sweet Hungarian paprika
2 tbsp minced garlic
2 tbsp kosher salt
2 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp freshly ground black pepper
2 tsp ground cayenne pepper
1 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
1/2 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp ground mace
1 tsp curing salts (optional--for cold-smoking only)
5 lbs pork butt, fat and lean separated, and cut into 2" chunks
1/2 cup water
wide hog casings 

Mix all the spices and herbs in a small bowl.  Separate the meat and the fat into two bowls, and rub each thoroughly with the spice mixture.  Cover and refrigerate overnight. 

Grind the lean meat in a meat grinder using a 3/8 inch plate.  Grind the fat using a 1/4-inch plate.  Mix the meat and fat together in a large bowl, add the cold water, and knead and squeeze until the water is absorbed and the spices are thoroughly blended. 

Stuff the mixture into wide hog casings, and shape into medium-sized links. 

If you are hot smoking, dry for at least two hours in a cool place, then hot smoke at about 225º F, turning every 30 minutes, until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the end of a sausage shows 155º to 160º F.  This should take about 1 1/2-2 hours.

If you are cold smoking, you'll have to add the curing salts during the first step, and carefully follow instructions on how to cold smoke.  Aidells recommends an extra-long cold-smoking period for Cajun andouille:  "at least 12 hours" (!). 

Hot-smoked andouille sausages are ready to eat as soon as they've been smoked.  Cold-smoked sausages are not--they must be fully cooked first.

[recipe from Bruce Aidell's Complete Sausage Book]

 figs. d & e:  andouille:  before & after

While you're at it, might as well smoke a few turkey legs, right?  Just brine them for at least a few hours, and preferably overnight, then hot smoke them alongside your sausages, making sure to mist them with apple juice every 30 minutes or so.  Smoke until the juices run clear when you slice down to the bone, about 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

The results?  The skin turned out a little rubbery, but the meat was dreamy:  incredibly juicy and wonderfully smoky.  I just peeled the skin off and sliced the meat as thinly as possible before serving.  And I made sure to keep some for my gumbo.

 fig. f:  smoked turkey

AEB Turkey & Sausage Gumbo 

for the broth: 

1 turkey carcass (recuperate as much quality meat from this carcass as possible, and put aside for the gumbo)
onions
carrots
potatoes
celery
garlic
2 bay leaves
12 peppercorns
salt to taste 

Make yourself a rich turkey broth by adding all the ingredients above to a large stock pot, covering with water, bringing the pot to a boil, and simmering for at least a few hours.  Make sure to skim the fat thoroughly.  Turkey broth might be my absolute favourite, and this method ought to produce much more than the 4-5 cups of stock you need for the gumbo.  Freeze it and save it for another worthy occasion. 

for the gumbo: 

recuperated turkey meat from the carcass 

recuperated meat from home-smoked turkey pieces (optional, but highly recommended)    

bones from home-smoke turkey pieces (again, optional, but highly recommended)  

4 smoked Cajun andouille sausages (highly recommended), or some other quality smoked sausage (like a kielbasa, for instance), cut into 1/4" "coins"

1 batch Cajun roux (made with 1/2 cup vegetable oil and 1/2 cup AP flour [you can find complete instructions on making a true Cajun roux here])
1 large onion, diced
3-4 stalks of celery, diced
2-3 sweet red peppers
1 green pepper (preferably something flavourful, like an Italian fryer or a cubanelle)
4-5 cups rich turkey broth
2 bunches scallions, white & green parts, washed & chopped
1 small bunch fresh parsley, chopped
4-6 fresh sage leaves, julienned
kosher salt & freshly ground black pepper
1 tbsp gumbo filé 

As John Thorne would say, "First, you make your roux."  When your true Cajun roux is as deep and dark as you like it, add your chopped onions, turn the heat back up to medium or medium-low, and sauté until soft.  Add the celery and peppers and sauté for a few minutes more.   

Slowly add the broth and stir or whisk it in carefully, so that your roux doesn't separate. 

Add the bones from the smoked turkey pieces (if using), the scallions, parsley, and sage and bring to a boil, then turn down the heat and simmer your gumbo gently for about 1 1/2 hours, or until it shimmers.  Afterwards, if it needs to be skimmed of excess fat, do so.   

Add your turkey meat and your andouille.  Stir in the gumbo filé and simmer gently for another 30 minutes.  Adjust the seasoning, if need be. 

Serve over or alongside steamed white rice, with some cold beers, and have a bottle or two of hot sauce on hand for anyone who wants to bump up the spice quotient a bit higher.

Note:  Of course,  you don't absolutely need a leftover turkey carcass to make this gumbo, nor do you need to make your own smoked andouille.  You could easily make something that's nearly as tasty with fresh turkey or chicken pieces, some store-bought smoked sausage, and some chicken or poultry stock.  But making full use of your leftover Thanksgiving turkey and its carcass is pretty satisfying, and few dishes make it shine like a turkey & sausage gumbo.

[recipe inspired by one that appeared in the November 2011 issue of Garden & Gun, and that came from Justin Devillier of New Orleans' La Petite Grocery]

And when I'd eaten turkey & sausage gumbo for two days (and loved every minute of it), I made leftovers with my leftovers:  Cajun-style hot turkey sandwiches.  Mmm-hmm.  Laissez bon temps rouler!

AEB Cajun-style Hot Turkey Sandwiches 

leftover Turkey & Sausage gumbo, with lots of sauce
1 or more slices of white bread (preferably a homemade sourdough) 

Heat up your leftover gumbo.  Place a slice of white bread on a plate.  When the gumbo has been heated through, pour it over the slice of bread, making sure the entire slice is covered in sauce.  Serve immediately, preferably with boiled and buttered peas and mashed potatoes.

Talk about a harvest!  This year's Canadian Thanksgiving just keeps giving and giving...  Can't wait for American Thanksgiving!

aj

* Of course, I'm pretty sure she does that pretty much every time we make stuffing of any kind.  We're both huge fans of the genre.

Cape Cod Capers

 fig. a:  geography

Ah, Cape Cod!  Your sandy features and abundant coastline hold so many opportunities, so many pleasures!  And your lobsters are so disproportionately large (and tasty)!

 fig. b:  nostalgia

We're already so nostalgic for you.  It's only been a little over a week since we returned, but it feels like decades.

fig. c:  dunes


We miss your sand dunes and your foliage,

 fig. d:  ark

your quaint little towns and villages with their whimsical sense of style,

 fig. e:  shells

and your abundant beachcombing opportunities.

 fig. f:  lobstah & chowdah

But most of all we miss your seafood stores and markets.  Places like Hatch's, Mac's, the Chatham Fish Pier Market, and George's (motto:  "George's plaice has sole."), with their lobster rolls, their beautiful fresh and smoked fish, their briny, inexpensive Wellfleet oysters, and their luscious littlenecks

 fig. g:  steamahs

and succulent (and sometimes even sandless!) steamers.  Because of you, we ate plentiful seafood each and every day, and in every possible way:  raw, steamed, grilled, pan-fried, etc.

We knew we'd miss your seafood, so we brought some home with us

 fig. h:  sea food

in those lovely lined bags of yours.  We brought back delicious flounder and smoked bluefish, but we were especially excited to be bringing back clams:

 fig. i:  littlenecks

both littlenecks

 fig. j:  steamahs

and steamers.  You see, we had it in mind to make some real clam chowder, so we made sure to pick up the other essentials that are so critical to good, old-fashioned chowder-making:

 fig. k:  bacon

smoky bacon (from New Hampshire),

 fig. l:  potatoes

seasonal potatoes (from Quebec), and milk and cream (from Vermont).

You can find clam chowder all up and down the Cape, of course, but it's a little difficult to find one to our liking.  The regional preference is for starchy, even stodgy, clam chowder that's heavy with thickeners, but we prefer ours thinner and lighter, with any and all starchiness coming strictly from the potatoes and any crackers or pilot biscuits you might choose to top it off with.  The trick is to chop up your potatoes "thick/thin":  in irregular shapes that are narrower at one end and that cook irregularly.  If you chop 'em and cook 'em just right, the potatoes themselves will thicken your chowder just so.

Clam Chowder 

36 littleneck clams*
125 ml high-quality clam juice [like Bar Harbor] (optional)
4 strips smoky bacon
1 sweet onion, finely chopped
water or high-quality clam juice
9-10 small-medium potatoes, cut thick-thin
1 1/2 cups whole milk
1/2 cup cooking cream
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
common crackers (optional, but highly recommended) 

If you want a particularly rich clam broth, pour 250 ml of clam juice in a large pot, add the clams, cover the pot, and bring to a boil.  When the liquid comes to a boil, lower the heat, and steam the clams until they've all opened (about 6-10 minutes). 

If you don't have access to a high-quality clam juice, just use the same amount of water instead, and follow the directions above. 

When the clams have opened, use tongs to place them in a bowl.  And when the clams have cooled enough to handle, remove the clam meat from its shell and chop finely. 

Strain the liquid in the pot along with any broth in the bowl through a fine strainer lined with a paper coffee filter, or just pour it off carefully, leaving the grit behind. 

Fry the bacon in a pan until crispy.  Pour the bacon fat into a pot and sauté the onion until translucent.  Meanwhile, dice the bacon.   

Measure the amount of broth and top off with water or clam juice to make a generous 2 cups.  Add this to the pot with the onion, as well as the diced bacon.  Add the potatoes, bring to a simmer, and cook until they are still firm but done.  Stir the milk and cream into the broth and add salt and pepper as necessary.  If your clams are fresh and briny and if you've used clam juice, you shouldn't need much, if any, salt. 

Bring the broth back to a gentle simmer and add the clam meat.  Do not let the chowder boil.  Cook the chowder at the barest simmer for another 2-3 minutes. 

The chowder will be at its best if you age it briefly, keeping it warm, but not hot, for an hour or so.  Afterwards, just bring the chowder bring it back to temperature, adjust the seasoning, and serve, preferably with common crackers (especially common crackers that have been split and toasted in the oven.) 

Serves 4-6 as an opening course. 

[recipe based closely on a recipe from John Thorne's Serious Pig] 

* You can also make a nice clam chowder with steamers, but we saved our steamers for, well..., steaming.

The other revelation of our Cape Cod excursion had to do not with fruits de mer, but with fruits du bord de la mer.

Michelle had read about Cape Cod's legendary beach plums years ago.  When we we got an invitation to vacation there, she tried to find out some more about them and discovered that we'd be there at the height of their season--mid- to late-August.  The thing is, how do you go about finding a fruit that's totally wild and that you can only procure from foragers?  Especially when the foragers in question are known to keep their sources secret--like mushroom hunters and their troves of prized chanterelles and morels.

We had no idea how we'd find beach plums, but we were determined to keep our eyes peeled for them.  And, in the end, it took us less than 24 hours to score both beach plums and another wild coastal fruit we had no idea even existed:  wild apricots.  But we found in them in a most unlikely spot:  at a flea market (!).

We'd been told that the weekend flea market at the Wellfleet Drive-In was a must--and it was!--but we had no idea that there'd be a grizzled old hippie selling foraged fruit along with his carved wood C.R.A.P.**  God bless him!  He had an amazing array of carved driftwood whales and other folk art treasures, and his beach plums and wild apricots were beautiful (much, much smaller than we would have imagined, but beautiful nonetheless).












fig. m:  wild beach plums & apricots

When we got them back to our beach house,











fig. n:  sorting



Michelle set about sorting through them.  And the next morning she made an exceedingly precious

 fig. o:  preserves

small batch of wild apricot and beach plum preserves.  Fresh, both fruit were a little too tart to be pleasant--but sweetened and cooked, they turned into the deepest, most delicious preserves.  The beach plums almost had a wine flavour to them, while the apricots were redolent of almond.

We brought back numerous souvenirs from our trip to Cape Cod,

 fig. p:  souvenirs

 fig. q:  ole no. 69

but there's no question the most highly prized were those two jars of beach house-made preserves.

Of course, there are other, more conventional ways of scoring traditional Cape Cod preserves, like beach plum.  And some of them are quite excellent, indeed.  Take the Chatham Jam and Jelly Shop,

 fig. r:  jams & jellies

in (you guessed it!) Chatham, where you can find dozens upon dozens of house-made jam & jellies, including a whole assortment of wild fruit preserves.

We kept the small batch we made at the beach house for ourselves, but we brought back extras to stock our pantry and give to our friends and family.

Ah, Cape Cod!  We miss you so.

aj

** The acronym stands for Cape Recycled Art Project, if memory serves me right.

p.s. TY to R & MA for making this happen--such a great time!

Corn Bread Nation

 fig. a:  What?  Chestnuts?

I've thought a lot about this map since the first time we posted it way back when.

I've thought about its telling aspects, like the Great Plains and (the absence of) bison.  But I've also thought about some of its more mysterious elements--like the fact that "Corn Bread & BBQ" somehow excludes the entire state of North Carolina, and that most of Tar Heel State is said to be defined by "Chestnut" instead.

Of course both corn bread and barbecue are hotly divisive issues across much of America, but regardless how you feel about North Carolina corn bread and/or North Carolina barbecue, North Carolina's certainly got a pretty strong claim on both.  After all, this is a state that people regularly claim has the strongest connection to the American barbecue tradition.*  This is a state that when people talk about "the family tree of barbecue," and how it has spread all over the country--and, believe me, plenty of people do--many of them claim that "its deepest tap root" is right there, in North Carolina.**

This is also a state that's serious about its cornmeal and its corn bread.  In fact, the North Carolina tradition is to serve barbecue with two principal accompaniments:  cole slaw and some variation on corn bread, be it actual corn bread, cornpone, cornsticks, or, most commonly, hush puppies.

These people eat a lot of pork, much of it in the form of barbecue.  They also consume great quantities of cornmeal, often with barbecue.  If North Carolina isn't a part of Corn Bread & BBQ Nation, something's truly gone amiss.

Anyway, the point is that when I started to plan a short BBQ Odyssey a couple of weeks ago (more on this later), I got so excited I did two things.  I fired up the smoker and made my first batch of 2013 season barbecue.  And I broke out the cornmeal and made some real skillet corn bread.

I spent a good chunk of my life south of the Mason-Dixon line, but only just south of it, and our family was essentially a family of Northern Virginia carpetbaggers.  I didn't grow up in a true Southern household.  I don't have particularly deep ancestral ties to corn bread.  (I've got maple syrup in my veins, not cornmeal.)  But I do have deep personal ties to corn bread.  Corn bread was just about the first thing that I started cooking when I was a kid.  It was certainly the thing I was most excited to make for years.

The kind of corn bread I made for a long time was typical carpetbagger fare.  It was the kind of corn bread that came all gussied up with too many eggs and too much sugar.  The kind of corn bread I make these days is much more minimal.  It's not sweet at all, and it's really all about the cornmeal.  Which can be a difficult thing to find here in Maple Syrup Nation.  I mean, it's not particularly difficult to find cornmeal, but it's exceedingly difficult to find the kind of cornmeal you need to make a true Southern-style corn bread.  You need to keep your eyes open for real old-school, stone-ground cornmeal, especially when you're in the States, like the Old Wye Mill "Golden Run Yellow Cornmeal" you see below, or some brand of white "Old Virginia Style" cornmeal, depending on which side of the fence you're on.

 fig. b:  true cornmeal

It pays to be picky, because, again, with a true Southern corn bread, it's the cornmeal that's the star attraction, and a mediocre cornmeal results in an insipid corn bread.

I also used to bake my corn bread in a 9" x 9" baking dish, but I've long since preferred to bake it in a cast-iron skillet.  There's something about the ritual of it.  But for that you need a nicely seasoned skillet.

Otherwise, making a true Southern-style corn bread couldn't be easier.  And once you've assembled necessary ingredients, the process is very fast, and very satisfying.

 fig. c:  true skillet corn bread

Skillet Corn Bread 

4 oz. stone-ground cornmeal (this works out to about 1 cup, but I highly recommend weighing your cornmeal)
1/2 tsp cream of tartar
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp kosher salt
1 large egg
3/4 cup buttermilk (preferably whole buttermilk)
1 tbsp peanut oil, bacon fat, or lard 

special equipment:  an 8-inch well-seasoned skillet 

Preheat your oven to 425º.  Measure the dry ingredients into a bowl and whisk them thoroughly to break up any lumps.  Break the egg into a separate bowl and whisk it lightly.  Add the buttermilk to the egg and whisk to blend. 

Five minutes before you are read to bake your corn bread, add the fat to skillet and place it in the hot oven. 

When four minutes have elapsed, add the egg and buttermilk blend to the dry ingredients, whisking just to blend (in other words, do not blend too much!).  One minute later--at the 5-minute mark--take the skillet from the oven (remember, it will be HOT) and carefully swirl the fat around the bottom of the skillet and along the sides so that the skillet is evenly coated.  Immediately pour the batter into the skillet, using a circular motion for even distribution.  You'll notice that the batter sizzles and climbs up the sides of the skillet slightly.  That's a good sign.  

Return the skillet to the oven and bake the corn bread for about 20-25 minutes, until it is nicely set and golden brown on top.  Remove from the oven and quickly, but confidently flip it out onto a cutting board.  Cut into wedges and serve. 

Makes one 8-inch corn bread. 

[recipe from John "I know a thing or two about Corn Bread Nation" Thorne's Serious Pig [I've tried a lot of different recipes, but this is the one I go back to the most)]

Highly acceptable variation:  w/ real smoked bacon bits (preferably from the strip/s you used to produce the necessary bacon fat).

Now, this is an ideal corn bread to serve with all kinds of Southern fare, including barbecue, and I also like to serve it Southwestern fare, such as chili, but one of my favourite treats involves taking this thoroughly unsweet skillet corn bread straight out of the oven and piping hot and giving it a friendly shove in the sweet direction:

Cut a wedge.  Slice the wedge in half to form a wedge-shaped sandwich.  Pour some sorghum molasses inside.  Close the sandwich.  Pour a bit more sorghum molasses on top.  Devour.***

It's kind of like a Southern-style treacle tart.

 fig. d:  skillet corn bread snack

It would be great with vanilla ice cream, too.

Hmm, might be time to bake another batch of corn bread...

aj

* Jane and Michael Stern, for instance.

** Jim Auchmutey, of The Ultimate Barbecue Sauce Cookbook fame, has claimed this very thing.

*** If you don't have any sorghum molasses on hand, or don't care for the stuff, a quality honey makes for another delicious option.

Hash Fiend 1, or Frying the Flannel

fig. a: red flannel

Lately, I’ve been cooking up a fair bit of hash. No need to worry, though. This hasn’t led to me rereading Steppenwolf, or resurrecting my old Jim “An American Poet” Morrison poster, or illuminating my room with black lights and lava lamps, and it’s not part of some kind of mid-life crisis. At least, I don’t think it is.

The hash I’m talking about is good old-fashioned hash-house hash, the kind of hash that consists of the combination of diced meat or fish, onion, and some root vegetables--usually potatoes, plus carrots, beets, or turnips. The kind of hash that was a North American staple for generations. The kind of hash that was much more than just a breakfast dish and that was largely displaced by fast food (especially the hamburger) and changing tastes in the early- to mid-twentieth century.

Now, as you'll see in subsequent posts, I've been making a whole host of hashes over the last couple months, but today I want to begin this discussion by looking at a colorful little gem called Red Flannel Hash.

I know, I know: sounds like the name of a grunge band circa 1992. Can't you just picture the poster?

fig. b: Live! At the Hi-Hat!

fig. c: Live! At the Hi-Hat! (detail)

[As it turns out, there is a band that goes by the name of Red Flannel Hash, but my gut feeling tells me they've never shared a bill with either Mudhoney or Tad, let alone fIREHOSE. Check 'em out.]

Anyway, as I was saying, this concoction has more to do with the Northeast than with the Northwest. All indications point to the fact that the dish originated in New England--"authentic" versions of the dish are often described as Yankee Red Flannel Hash, and most of the tall tales that surround the dish's origins are set in lumber camps in Maine, or New Hampshire, or Vermont.

Look Red Flannel Hash up and you'll also find that it's one of those dishes that provokes controversy. We're not talking barbecue-size controversy, or pizza-size controversy, but controversy nonetheless. Everyone agrees that beets should be front and center, the main question is whether or not corned beef should also be a part of the ensemble. And what you find is that some of the most vocal experts on the matter, people who take the culinary foodways of the Northeast very seriously indeed, insist that red flannel should be corned beef-free. Not meat-free, mind you, but corned beef-free. According to this school, the combination of beets, potatoes, onions, and corned beef adds up to something altogether different: a Calico Hash. In a true Red Flannel Hash, the beets are the stars, and they have no fear of being upstaged. This doesn't mean that Red Flannel Hash is meatless. As with most other hashes, tradition says that bacon fat plays an important supporting role, and it's not uncommon to find some actual bacon in the cast, as well.* [Have an opinion on these matters? By all means, chime in.]

Our own version is one we’ve extrapolated from a few different sources. If you’re already a Red Flannel Hash fiend, you might take exception to this or that element, but this AEB version has all the essential elements--the onions, the beets, and the potatoes--and it makes for one fine hash. It's become one of our very favorite breakfasts here at AEB HQ, especially at this time of year, when beets of all types (red, golden, chioggia) are plentiful.

fig. c: beets, candy-striped and otherwise

I’ve read recipes for Red Flannel Hash that don’t involve boiling your vegetables--some insist on steaming the vegetables instead--but boiled vegetables are an important part of most true hashes, and we’ve been pretty happy (ecstatic, actually) with the results here.

If you’re a vegetarian, you could easily omit the bacon and replace the bacon fat with a tablespoon of oil, and you’d wind up with a perfectly satisfying Red Flannel Hash, but there is something to be said about the marriage of those beets and that smoky bacon flavor, and it pays to hunt down top quality beets and bacon to match. If you’re a vegan, you could omit both the bacon and the whipping cream, and you’d still be left with a perfectly acceptable (and delicious!) hash--the cream is optional, but (highly) recommended. If you’re a raw foodist, though, I’m sorry, this isn’t the dish for you. It’s just not a Red Flannel Hash if the flannel hasn’t been fried.

AEB Red Flannel Hash

2-3 strips of smoky bacon
5 small beets (mixed varieties, if available), peeled and diced
2 medium potatoes, peeled and diced
1 small carrot, washed and diced
1 small parsnip, washed and diced
salt and black pepper to taste
1 small onion, peeled and diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1-2 tbsp parsley, minced
1/4 cup whipping cream (optional, but recommended)
sour cream (optional)

Add the diced beets, potatoes, carrots, and parsnip to a small pot, and add just enough water to cover the vegetables. Salt the water to taste and bring the water to a boil. Turn down the heat and simmer the vegetables for about 10-12 minutes, or until just tender. Drain the vegetables, making sure to reserve the liquid. [This broth is essentially a clear borscht. Adjust the seasoning, and you have yourself a great light meal.]

Meanwhile, fry the bacon in a frying pan or a cast-iron skillet until crispy. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon or slotted spatula, reserving the bacon fat. Mince the bacon and set aside.

Fry the onion in the bacon fat over medium heat until the onions have softened and have turned translucent, about 5-10 minutes. Add the vegetables and sauté for a few minutes. Add the garlic, the parsley, and the reserved bacon and sauté for another minute. Add the cream, adjust the seasoning, and turn up the heat. Many hash fiends will tell you that you should turn the heat up to high and fry the hell out of it, so that the hash forms a blackened crust. This hash fiend will tell you that I’ve tried making my hash a number of ways, and that I prefer my Red Flannel Hash with the golden brown crust that one gets when one cooks the hash over medium to medium-high heat for a few minutes per side.

Serve a generous heap of the red flannel hash on each plate, with a poached egg or two perched on top, and maybe even a dollop of real sour cream.

Serves 2-4, depending on appetite/enthusiasm.

[major inspiration provided by John Thorne's Serious Pig]

aj

*Okay, enough with the extended metaphor.

eat your greens 1

fig. a: AEB Portuguese kale

It's never been all that difficult to get us to eat our greens, but ever since about March, we've been completely ga-ga for the green stuff. Part of it had to do with the long, snowy winter we had. Our poor bodies were crying out for additional nutrients and the Swiss chard and Belgian endives at our local supermarché started looking better and better (even if they were getting trucked in from California). But mostly it was because that's when we started making gombo zhèbes, that mysterious dish known in some circles as "the queen of gumbos."

Why "mysterious"? Well, gombo zhèbes (a.k.a. gombo aux herbes, gombo z'hairbes, and green gombo) may be "the queen of gumbos," but she's not your typical gumbo. In fact, she breaks with the two most hallowed tenets of gumbo- or gombo-making: she contains no okra and/or okra-like consistency (courtesy of gumbo filé) and she contains no roux.

If you had to boil it down (and some recipes require you to), Gombo zhèbes is a Creole version of that Southern staple "greens and pot likker," the principal difference being the addition of significant amount of herbs to the already heaping quantities of fresh greens, and a degree of complexity. In the Creole kitchen, gombo zhèbes was a dish associated with early spring--it was essentially a restorative dish, one that took advantage of the arrival of the newest greens, and it also was easily adapted to the Lenten diet (although sometimes it sure was hard to tell, because many traditional recipes included such extravagances as veal brisket in addition to the traditional ham).

Anyway, from the time we tasted gombo zhèbes' combination of greens, herbs, ham, garlic, green onions, and hot red pepper we were hooked and we immediately started planning our garden with gombo zhèbes in mind. That was the only problem with our earliest versions--we were living in Quebec and not Louisiana, we were still under a blanket of snow. But we knew that would soon change, and when it did we wanted to be ready. So we made plans and mapped things out, and in early May we broke with tradition (mostly tomatoes and peppers) and planted mostly herbs and leafy greens--savory, basil, thyme, and parsley on the one hand, oak leaf lettuce, mustard greens, cavolo nero, and Portuguese kale on the other. And now, we're happy to report, we're swimming in greens, and though this isn't the only way we've been enjoying our bounty, we've been eating a lot (a lot) of gombo zhèbes and gombo zhèbes-like creations.

fig. b: AEB cavolo nero

gombo zhèbes

Greens: choose a sizable bunch per person from the following list: mustard greens, cavolo nero, Portuguese kale, spinach, endives, watercress, arugula, chicory, kale, collard greens, rapini, etc. The more elaborate the mix, the better. Just remember to make (at least) the equivalent to one bunch per person.

Herbs: a bay leaf, a healthy handful of parsley, and then whatever you like from the following list: basil, savory, thyme, oregano, marjoram, sage, tarragon, etc. Again, the more the merrier.

Aromatics: 2-3 cloves garlic, 1 medium sweet bell pepper (preferably red, yellow, or orange), 4-6 green onions (and/or chives, shallots, onions), 1 small hot red pepper (fresh or dried), Tabasco sauce, etc.

fig. c: "le vrai bacon"

Finishing touches: 2 tablespoons olive oil, 1-2 teaspoons wine vinegar, 1/4-lb smoked ham (or bacon), and 1 cup uncooked white rice.

Equipment: one large skillet, one large pot.

Method: Cook the rice. When it's done, keep it in a warm spot on the stove. Clean, stem, and mince the herbs, leaving the bay leaf whole. Mince the garlic. Dice the sweet pepper (having already seeded and cored it, of course). Trim and finely chop the scallions. If using ham, cut it into slivers. If using bacon, cook the bacon in a large skillet until it has rendered its fat and become crispy. Remove the bacon and set it aside, and proceed using the bacon fat instead of olive oil. If not using bacon, heat the olive oil in a large skillet. When hot, add the ham, scallions, and sweet pepper. Cook these for a few minutes and then add the minced herbs, the bay leaf, and the crumbled hot pepper. Stirring regularly, cook over medium-low heat for another few minutes, until the herbs have all wilted. Now mix in the garlic and remove from the heat.

Pick over the greens, discarding the stems and any damaged portions. Tear the larger leaves into pieces. Wash carefully, using several changes of water if necessary. Put a cup of unsalted water in a large pot and bring to a boil. Add the greens, cover, and, when the water begins to simmer again, lower the heat to low. Cook until wilted and tender, about six to ten minutes, forking them over from time to time. Do not let the pot boil dry, of course, but at low heat there should be no risk of that.

Using a slotted spoon, transfer the greens into the skillet, spooning some of the pot likker overtop as desired. (The resultant mixture should be "wet" but not "swimming.") Cook everything together briefly until everything is hot and well blended. Taste for seasoning, adding the wine vinegar or lemon juice, along with salt and freshly ground pepper. Discard the bay leaf. Serve in bowls over the rice.

[recipe adapted from John Thorne and Matt Lewis Thorne's Serious Pig, with a little help from The Picayune's Creole Cook Book]

This makes a fine, healthy, and light meal on its own, but it's also a great accompaniment for a whole range of dishes, especially seafood (New Orleans "BBQ" Shrimp comes to mind). Obviously, this recipe can also be easily adapted into a 100% vegetarian version--the method is a keeper. We've found that as our greens have gotten better and fresher we've been adding fewer and fewer extras, so if you're making gombo zhèbes for the first time, and you're using top-notch greens straight from the farmers' market or, better yet, straight out of your garden, you might want to tone down the amount of vinegar/lemon juice and ham/bacon so that you can get the full greens experience. Then again, if you're making gombo zhèbes for the first time, you might very well want to stay close to the script--it's hard to argue with that combination of flavors.

aj

So you want to feed a rock 'n' roll band?

fig. a: what, no keyboardist?

I wanna destroy you
I wanna destroy you
I wanna destroy you
I wanna destroy you
--"I Wanna Destroy You," The Soft Boys

Skeedle Lee Doo
That's all I do
--"Skeedle Lee Doo," Blind Blake

Then listen now to what I say:

Our friend C. once threw the travelin'-band meal to end all travelin'-band meals. A certain band she was fond of was coming to town. She wrote to them and invited them to stop by pre-gig and enjoy a meal at her place. They accepted. She cooked for an entire week. The prep filled two refrigerators. I know because one of them was mine. Then something happened and things didn't quite work out. Some of us still managed to enjoy the meal. A year or two later the band returned. C. had moved into this very apartment by that time. She got back in contact with said band and reinvited them. They reaccepted. She cooked for another entire week. This time things came off without a hitch. You shoulda seen the looks on the faces of said band. Awestruck. I'd tell you more, but it's a great story and I'm hoping that C. posts it herself on her blog. I'm picturing the menus. Both of them.

Anyway, inspired by our friend C. we devised a simplified three-point plan for entertaining a visiting rock 'n' roll band.

1. Drinks

Beer, wine, water, and peppermint tea. The first three are self-explanatory. You won't find any mention of that last substance in the pages of Hammer of the Gods (at least, I don't think you will--it's been a while), but it pays to have some on-hand (along with some honey) in case the lead singer shows up having lost his or her voice. Throat lozenges are a good idea too. Thayer's Slippery Elm, for instance. Although apparently Jonathan Richman uses Zand HerbaLozenges and, after 40 years in show business, he ought to know.

2. Home-cooked meal

Two words: comfort food. Two more words: spicy goodness. I've been all about the roux recently. I just can't wait to mix flour and fat and whip up some Cajun magic. So when I tried to imagine what kind of meal I might want to find if I was on the road, Chicken and Sausage Gumbo came to mind. It seemed like some pretty comforting comfort food for a hard-workin' band to arrive to.

Chicken and Sausage Gumbo

1 3-lb chicken, cut into pieces
salt, black pepper, cayenne pepper
1/4-lb smoky bacon
cooking oil
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
4 medium onions, chopped
1 cubanelle or Italian frying pepper, seeded and chopped
2 stalks celery (including the leaf), minced
1 pound Cajun andouille, kielbasa, or chorizo sausage, sliced thin (we used chorizo because that's the neighborhood specialty and Cajun cuisine is nothing if not pragmatic)
1 bunch scallions, minced
2 or 3 cloves garlic, minced
several sprigs fresh parsley
1/2 tbsp smoky chili powder
1 tbsp filé powder

steamed rice

Season the chicken pieces with salt and pepper. In a large, heavy-duty cast-iron skillet, cook the bacon over medium to medium-high heat until the fat has been rendered and the bacon is crispy. Remove the bacon, set aside, mince when cool enough to handle, and reserve. Brown the chicken pieces in the fat for a few minutes on each side, until you've crisped the skin and given it a nice color. Remove the chicken and set it on paper towels to cool. Eyeball the amount of fat in the skillet, and the combined bacon fat and chicken fat doesn't appear to be about 1/2 cup's worth, add cooking oil to bring the amount of fat in the skillet to 1/2 cup and bring to temperature. Add the flour and make a true Cajun roux, taking the time so that it becomes mahogany (or darker) and taking the care to make sure it doesn't get scorched. When the roux is to your liking, add the chopped onion, cubanelle pepper, and celery, and simmer until the onion is translucent, stirring occasionally. After this stage, transfer the roux mixture to a large pot, bring to temperature, add the sausage and cook for a minute or two before adding the chicken pieces and the minced bacon. Cover and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Meanwhile bring 4 cups of water to simmer in a pot or kettle.

When the chicken and sausage combo has simmered for 15 minutes, pour the simmering water into the pot and stir in the scallions, garlic, parsley, and chili powder. Turn up the heat and bring the mixture to a boil, then turn the heat down low and simmer the gumbo gently for about 1 1/2 hours, or until the chicken slips easily from the bone. Remove the chicken pieces, debone them, discard the skin, and shred coarsely, then return the meat to the pot. Just before serving sprinkle the filé powder in and stir in gently. Remove from the heat and let rest for 5 minutes. Serve in deep bowls with steamed rice.

Serves an entire band and then some generously.

[recipe inspired by John Thorne's Chicken-Andouille Gumbo from Serious Pig]

You're going to need rice to go along with the gumbo anyway, so it makes sense to cook up a rice-friendly vegetarian option that has a similar warmth to it, just in case. Take Mexican Lentil Soup, for instance, a keeper of a recipe that we first featured in 2005.

Throw in a batch of cole slaw, and you've got yourself a complete meal.

3. Cookies

Go behind the scenes in the high-end restaurant world and you'll find that there's this whole annihilation fantasy that's a big part of the biz. Basically, some VIP party shows up, the kitchen finds out, and, led by the chef, they set out to "destroy" them. When the VIP party includes other restaurant biz people the stakes go higher. Way higher. It's kind of a combination punch. You're trying to slay these VIPs with the quality of your gastronomy. You're also trying to slay them with sheer quantity. Again, if the VIPs are restaurant people, especially fellow chefs, we're talking an all-out potlatch of destruction. Or so Michelle tells me.

Michelle designed these cookies with this annihilation fantasy in mind. She wanted the cookies to "give [a rock band] energy," but, let's face it, she also wanted them to be killer.

fig. b: peanut-butter destroyers just waiting to do what they do best

Peanut Butter Destroyers

3 sticks butter
2 cups rolled oats
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
3/4 cup crunchy peanut butter
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
100 g dark chocolate, coarsely chopped

Preheat the oven to 350º F.

Melt one stick of butter in a saucepan, add the oats, and toast them until golden and fragrant. Set aside to cool. Cream the remaining butter with the sugar and the brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add the vanilla and peanut butter and mix well. Add the flour, baking soda, and salt and mix. Finally, add the chocolate and the oats and mix until the dough comes together.

Drop the dough by tablespoons onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake 12-14 minutes until the bottoms are lightly golden. Cool on a rack.

Makes approximately four dozen cookies.

As it happens, some rock 'n' roll band friends of ours rocked and rolled through town just recently, so we tried out the menu on them.

Later, with bellies full, we headed down to a local rock 'n' roll club just in time to catch the last few songs by opening band #2, and not long before the headliners took the stage.

Having arrived late, we didn't exactly have the best view in the house,

fig. c: mirror-ball madness

but the meal seemed to have worked because the band sure sounded great. And every once in a while, with the help of a high-powered lens, we caught a glimpse of the theatrics on stage.

fig. d: rip this joint!

aj

The Raw and the Baked

fig. a: before

I'd always assumed that the origins Oysters Rockefeller had some kind of direct association with ole John D. himself--something to the effect of Mr. Rockefeller having requested a special oyster dish from a favorite chef, or some chef having created a special oyster dish in Rockefeller's honor for some high society dinner. Apparently I was wrong. As James Beard and others have pointed out, there are numerous, if not countless, variations on Oysters Rockefeller, but most trace the dish's origins back to New Orleans at the turn of the 20th century and Mr. Jules Alciatore. Mr. Alciatore was the owner of the legendary Antoine's restaurant and the son of its founder, and around 1899 he began to serve his patrons a baked oyster dish with a tantalizingly buttery herb topping. The dish was a sensation and it was quickly added to Antoine's Pantheon, alongside such classics as Tomato Frappée Julius Caesar, Terrapin St. Anthony, and Toast Rothschild. It too needed a dignified name, something that would fully capture its majesty--who better to name one's rich new oyster hors d'oeuvre after than America's reigning oil magnate? Duly named, Alciatore's dish was reintroduced to Antoine's menu: "Huîtres en Coquille Rockefellow." [I guess it could have been worse--he could have named it "Huîtres en Coquille Roc-A-Fella."]

Its name corrected, Oysters Rockefeller soon traveled far beyond New Orleans, becoming a nationwide hit, but with the original recipe a closely guarded "sacred family secret," it didn't take long for the dish to morph into countless variations. For the most part Alciatore kept mum about the impostors, wisely believing that keeping silent on the matter would actually amplify his dish's already considerable aura. Occasionally, however, Alciatore found himself so appalled by what his competitor's were passing off as Oysters Rockefeller that he'd sound off, and it was the inclusion of spinach that seems to have infuriated him the most.

Now, those of you with a sharp eye might have noticed that the photograph above has some spinach leaves--horror of horrors!--lurking in the background. That's because when we were hunting down a recipe for Oysters Rockefeller, we settled on one from The Picayune's Creole Cook Book: Sesquicentennial Edition, one of our favorite cookbooks of the year and an immensely lively and informative reference for all things pertaining to Louisiana Creole cuisine. The recipe comes accompanied with a note that reads, "Not in the first edition [1901], this recipe was added to later editions because of its widespread appeal," and spinach figures prominently. It was only after having chosen The Picayune's recipe and made it a couple of times that I rediscovered John Thorne's "A Note on Oysters Rockefeller" in his chapter "Oysters & Herbs: A Creole Medley" from Serious Pig, the source for much of the lore you see above. Purely coincidentally, Thorne too mentions The Picayune's Creole Cook Book, but he must be referring to the first edition because he does so only to make a point about Oysters Rockefeller's progeny:

Did Jules Alciatore actually create [Oysters Rockefeller]? Some claim that his stroke of genius was in transferring a garnish from snails that no one wanted to the oysters that everyone did. Theories such as this spring from writers who are not familiar with Creole cooking. It takes only a look at The Picayune's Creole Cook Book to see that Oysters Rockefeller is an elaborated (i.e., restaurant) version of "Oysters Broiled in Their Shells." There's no need to drag beurre à la bourgignonne into it.

God knows what Thorne would have to say about the Sesquicentennial Edition, which no longer features "Oysters Broiled in Their Shells" but does feature "Oysters Rockefeller"--complete with spinach. Thorne's own version of Oysters Rockefeller is a "fleshed out" version of a recipe that one Louis P. De Gouy claimed to have gotten from Jules Alciatore himself--it contains no spinach, no bacon, no garlic, and no Parmesan, but it does contain Herbsaint. This ain't it. Our recipe makes no claims with regards to an Antoine's pedigree--hell, it might even have poor Mr. Alciatore rolling in his grave--but it's got some legitimate Creole flair and it's a true showstopper. If you're not comfortable with "Oysters Rockefeller," just call it "Oysters Broiled in Their Shells."

fig. b: after

Oysters Rockefeller

2 dozen plump, briny oysters, shucked (bottom half-shells cleaned and reserved)
6 slices of bacon
1 cup homemade breadcrumbs
1/2 lb unsalted butter
4 green onion tops, minced
6 sprigs parsley, minced
1/2 bunch spinach, chopped
1/4 bunch chervil, minced
4 green celery leaves, minced
salt, pepper, and cayenne to taste
1-2 tbsp lemon juice
1 oz Pernod
rock salt

Fill a large baking sheet with rock salt and place it in a 375º oven for 10 minutes. Fry the bacon in pan over medium-high heat until crispy. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and chop it finely. Add the butter to the bacon drippings and melt over medium heat. When the butter has melted add the green onion tops, the parsley, the chervil, the celery leaves, and the spinach. When the greens have wilted add the Pernod and cook for another minute. Remove from heat, add the lemon juice, stir and adjust the seasonings, keeping in mind that if your oysters are particularly briny you might want to take it easy on the salt. Then again, you might not. Transfer the greens to a bowl and then quickly toast the breadcrumbs in the same pan over medium heat, making use of the fat that remains--this should only take about one minute. Remove the baking sheet from the oven and arrange the half shells on the salt. Place one oyster in each half-shell. Top each oyster with one generous dollop of the greens mixture and then sprinkle some breadcrumbs on top. Bake in the oven for 10 minutes. Remove from the oven, allow to cool for 2-5 minutes, and then serve.

[If you have any of the greens mixture left over after you've topped all your oysters, fear not--it won't go to waste. It doubles as a deluxe accompaniment to tomorrow's poached egg breakfast.]

I don't care how much of a raw oyster purist you are--these are absolutely irresistible. How irresistible? Take a look:

fig. b: afterer

Perfect for any and all New Year's celebrations.

Sources:
John and Matt Thorne, Serious Pig: An American Cook In Search Of His Roots
The Picayune's Creole Cook Book: Sesquicentennial Edition
James Beard's New Fish Cookery

aj

Real Italian Pizza, pt. 3

fig. a: videoblogging in action

Isabella's Oven

We paused outside of Isabella's to squeeze in a little video food-blogging, but after our disappointing experience at Adrienne's we were eager to get our mojo back, so we marched in the door to find Isabella's empty, its entire staff taking a break. It was mid-afternoon at that point, so although it did make for a stark juxtaposition with Adrienne's, that fact alone wasn't exactly cause for panic. What was cause for panic, however, was that Ed and Adam instantly noticed that "their pieman"--Luigi, the fantastically talented, Naples-trained pizzaiolo who'd made each of the exceptional pies they'd enjoyed at Isabella's since Ed first got tipped off to Isabella's last summer--wasn't in the house. Ed and Adam had heard from other pizza enthusiasts that they'd had less than exemplary pizza experiences at Isabella's, that, in fact, the pizza at Isabella's wasn't "all that," but every time the Serious Eats boys had visited Luigi had been there to greet them with an expert Neapolitan pie. This time, however, they found real cause for concern. Maybe there was some kind of Jekyll and Hyde thing going on at Isabella's, depending on whether Luigi was around. Ed tried to get the skinny on Luigi's whereabouts and was informed that he'd had to return to Italy on personal business and that he'd be back there for an indefinite amount of time. In his absence the daytime pieman had become Isabella's principal pieman. It was clear that this was bad news.

We ordered a Margherita D.O.C. pizza (with D.O.C. bufala mozzarella) and tried to keep things upbeat, but Ed and Adam were clearly worried that they might have to relegate Isabella's to a lower division. And that's exactly what happened. The 16" pie that arrived was perfectly fine, respectable even, but far from transcendent, far from being the pie that had Ed had deemed potential national-top-ten material back in July. I mean, you can tell by just looking at it. See that crust?

fig. b: Margherita D.O.C. from Isabella's Oven

Now compare that with the crusts we got at Di Fara and Franny's. And compare it with the crusts you're going to see below.

Remember that "myth of the pizzaiolo" jazz I went on about in "Real Italian Pizza, pt. 2"? Well, here was an abject lesson in how a single, solitary pizzaiolo can make all the difference in the high-stakes pizza game that is New York City pizza.

So after starting off with a bang, we were on a bit of a losing streak. First, an undercooked grandma pie at Nick Angelis's Adrienne's Pizzabar, and now this? We needed a little help, and that's exactly what we got.

Verdict: pinch-hit single.

fig. c: Una Pizza Napoletana

Una Pizza Napoletana

Minutes later, we'd relocated from the Lower East Side to the East Village, and we were standing in front of a place we'd heard a lot about over the course of the day and a place that Ed devotes a considerable amount of ink to in the pages of Pizza: A Slice of Heaven: Una Pizza Napoletana. Just three years old, the aura that surrounds Una Pizza Napoletana is already enormous.

The story goes something like this: a few years ago, Ed was contacted by a friend of his in New Jersey who proceeded to tell him she'd just recently eaten the single best thing she'd ever eaten in New Jersey (which, considering she was the long-time food critic at the Asbury Park Press, was saying something)--and that thing wasn't some high-falutin' dish from some high-falutin' restaurant, it was pizza from a little strip mall pizzeria in Point Pleasant, on the North Jersey Shore. Ed hustled his way down to Point Pleasant and there he encountered the talent of Anthony Mangieri for the first time. Mangieri had started off as a bread baker and he'd taken that very seriously too--opening his first bakery before he was 21. A few years later he switched over to pizza exclusively. He'd grown up in a family with strong ties to Naples, so he'd visited often, eaten a lot of pizza, taken a lot of mental notes. Pizza became Mangieri's thing, his raison d'être. Ed could see he had that gleam in his eye--the one that distinguishes the merely professional from the certifiably obsessed. Better yet, he could taste it in Mangieri's pies.

Not long after Ed's momentous visit, Mangieri moved the operation to the East Village, barely changing a thing. He's only open four days a week, and on those days he's only open until the dough lasts. He still offers only four pizze--Marinara, Margherita, Bianca, Filetti--and these are essentially the only items on the menu. No salads, no appetizers, and no desserts, with the exception of the Italian chocolates that come with the bill. He uses only the purest of ingredients, including mozzarella di bufala (the only cheese Mangieri uses), Sicilian salt, Italian extra-virgin olive oil, and D.O.P. San Marzano tomatoes, and his dough is a homemade sourdough that takes a minimum of 36 hours to produce. Mangieri started off with a locally made wood-fired brick oven, but this summer he upgraded to a handsome white Neapolitan model, and, it's safe to say, he knows how to use it. Neither Michelle or I had ever seen anyone tend an oven like Mangieri does. It was mesmerizing.

We showed up at Una Pizza Napoletana just before opening time that Saturday. We were a little early and we were just about to take a walk around the block to kill some time and check out the latest restaurant in the Momofuku family when we ran into Mangieri outside. Perfect timing. We got a chance to talk to him about pizza, about Italian food more generally, about Montreal (and about the shortcomings of Montreal pizza), and we got a chance to see that gleam too. A few minutes later he invited us in to grab a seat. The oven was ready, therefore he was ready.

While Mangieri was preparing our pizzas, Ed asked him a hypothetical question. Let's say you go into a reputable pizza place, you order your pizza, and then they bring it out to you. It looks great from the outside--nicely colored, apparently well cooked--but then you bite in and it's all gummy and undercooked. What gives? Is that a dough problem? Is it an oven problem? Mangieri walked us through the possible scenarios, but the probable cause was an overly hot oven. Then he explained the trials and tribulations of a wood-burning pizza oven: its intense heat, its temperamentality, and the fact that your optimum cooking time might only last an hour or so, which means that the rest of the evening you might be dealing with an oven that's just too damn hot, quickly scorching the dough on the outside, while leaving the interior insufficiently cooked. This means that every night the pizzaiolo working a wood-burning oven struggles to make the adjustments necessary to guarantee the best possible pizza given the conditions of the moment, that the best pizzaiolo is the one who's most capable when it comes to making these countless adjustments. This gave a further wrinkle to the "myth of the pizzaiolo."

The first of our pizzas to arrive from Mangieri's oven was our Marinara--"San Marzano tomatoes, extra-virgin olive oil, oregano, fresh garlic, fresh basil, sea salt," according to Una Pizza Napoletana's menu--a pizza that Ed described as being "a minimalist masterpiece" after his first encounter. I wanted to know how Mangieri worked a cheeseless pie, so I'd lobbied for a Marinara, and I was glad I had. I mean, just look at that thing.

fig. d: Una Pizza Napoletana's marinara

Simple perfection incarnate. Mangieri's sourdough crust was enough to make you cry. So much flavor, so masterfully handled.

It's hard to believe, I know, but the next pie, the Filetti, was even better. Topped with cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, fresh garlic, extra-virgin olive oil, fresh basil, and that Sicilian sea salt, this pizza was deluxe. We'd been having buffalo mozzarella all day--at Di Fara, at Franny's, at Isabella's, and now at Una Pizza Napoletana--but this was by far and away the tastiest, most satisfying buffalo mozzarella we'd encountered. And its marriage with the garlic, the cherry tomatoes, the salt, the basil, and that sourdough crust was astounding. Looked great too:

fig. e: Una Pizza Napoletana's filetti

On some level, eating at Una Pizza Napoletana is an austere experience. As mentioned above, there are no salads or other kinds of appetizers. There are only four pizzas on the menu to choose from and subsitutions or any other special requests are not allowed. There are no desserts, aside from those chocolates mentioned above, although they do offer Neapolitan-style espressos--very good ones, in fact. The restaurant is small and simply appointed. The menu reads part history lesson, part manifesto, part throwdown. The overall aesthetic is nothing if not spartan. That said, Mangieri is capable of taking the most basic and ingredients and transforming them into a pizza so extraordinary that one bite makes you feel like you're sitting on top of the world. His pizzas don't come cheap--"We have no quarrel with the man who sells cheaper pizza", the menu exclaims, "he knows how much his is worth!"--but, at the same time, pizza's inherently democratic appeal is still very much intact. "Nothing... purer or [more] honestly wholesome can be bought at any price," Mangieri's menu reads, and he means it.

Pizza fanatics talk about the five-minute rule or the third-slice rule: the first slice or two, fresh out of the oven, can be a little misleading. The third slice, when the pizza has had some time to cool down a bit, is the true test of a pizza. The problem with Mangieri's pizzas was that they were so good, they didn't last that long, The four of us had been at it for 6-7 hours already, but we tore into those pies as though they were our first.

Verdict: grand slam.

How do you continue after you've been to the mountain? Not wanting to risk another difficult comedown, we decided to call it a Pizza Tour after Una Pizza Napoletana. That would mean leaving Joe's and Bleecker Street Pizza for another occasion. But there was something almost operatic about it. A 5-act, seven-and-a-half-hour opera, with some true highs and lows, some tears, some triumphs, a couple of Italian heroes, and a few important lessons. We thanked our hosts profusely

fig. f: the Serious Eats boys

and headed back to Brooklyn to try to make sense of it all. Days later, back in Montreal, we were still reeling.

Didn't catch Parts One and Two?  Well, here they are.

411:

Di Fara, 1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn, NY, (718) 258-1367

Franny's, 295 Flatbush Ave., Brooklyn, NY, (718) 230-0221, www.frannysbrooklyn.com

Adrienne's Pizzabar, 54 Stone St., New York, NY, (212) 248-3838, www.adriennespizzabar.com

Isabella's Oven, 365 Grand St., New York, NY, (212) 529-5206, www.isabellasoven.com

Una Pizza Napoletana, 349 E. 12th St., New York, NY, (212) 477-9950, www.unapizza.com

Don't ask us to provide you with directions so that you can replicate this pizza tour exactly. Adam made sure to throw in plenty of dekes and diversions so that this pizza tour would remain absolutely one-of-a-kind. You will find plenty of handy-dandy interactive pizza maps at slice, though. You'll also find Adam's own personal play-by-play account of NY Pizza Tour 2007.

Sources:

Ed Levine, Pizza: A Slice of Heaven

John Thorne, "Existential Pizza," Pot on the Fire: Further Exploits of a Renegade Cook

Alan Davidson, The Penguin Companion to Food

Ed Behr, "Pizza in Naples," The Art of Eating (spring 1992)

aj

ps--apologies to any and all members of our New York posse (you know who you are) that we weren't able to see during our whirlwind visit.

Relatively Quick Breads 2: Boston Brown Bread

A few days later, I was rereading John Thorne's wonderful chapter on baked beans from Serious Pig for the umpteenth time, when I suddenly realized that I'd never done anything other than gloss over his brief section on Boston Brown Bread that appears roughly midway through the chapter. I'd read the beginning of the chapter, of course, and the last several pages of the chapter--"A Note On Maine Bean Types," "First Find Your Bean Pot," and "Bean Hole Beans" (Thorne is nothing if not thorough)--but, inexplicably, I'd always just skipped over the section on Boston Brown Bread. Not this time, though. This time I read the Boston Brown Bread section closely and I could hardly believe what I was reading. The combination is an unlikely one, and Thorne draws attention to this: "At first, theirs seems a strange alliance. Brown bread, a chocolate-colored, raisin-studded soda bread made of whole wheat, rye, and "injun" [corn meal] is just as soft, dense, and carbohydrate-heavy as baked beans themselves--and yet, somehow, the two manage to paly off, even enhance, each other's goodness." But what really caught me by surprise was that Boston Brown Bread is traditionally a steamed bread--and one that's most commonly steamed in a coffee can.

fig. a: clean, empty coffee can

Like everyone and their brother, I knew about Boston Baked Beans. Like a lot of people, I'd heard of Boston Brown Bread. But somehow I never got the message that Boston Brown Bread gets steamed on the stovetop (in a can!) while your pot of Boston Baked Beans bakes in the oven. Talk about "Yankee ingenuity."

I'd already decided that I needed to make Boston Brown Bread that very night--after all, my Down East Baked Beans were baking in the oven and they still had a good 3-4 hours to go--but when Michelle got home I asked her what she knew about Boston Brown Bread. "What do I know about Boston Brown Bread?," she asked. "I've been wanting to make it since I was a kid, that's what." Turns out that at roughly the same age that I was obsessing over Johnny Cake down south of the border, Michelle was north of the border, dreaming of Boston Brown Bread. When I told her I was thinking of making it that very night, she got pretty excited. I had no problem convincing her to run off to the health food store for rye flour while I went to the supermarket in search of molasses, buttermilk, and a 1-pound coffee can.

15 minutes later we reconvened and Michelle started to assemble the dough while I got to work on the coleslaw (the third part of Thorne's baked beans trinity).

Boston Brown Bread

1/2 cup rye flour
1/2 cup cornmeal, preferably white flint
1/2 cup whole-wheat flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
6 tbsp fancy molasses (not blackstrap)
1 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup raisins or dried currants
butter for greasing a 1-pound coffee can

About 2 1/2 hours before your baked beans will be ready, bring a large kettle of water to a boil. In a mixing bowl, stir together the rye flour, cornmeal, whole-wheat flour, baking soda, and salt until well mixed. Pour in the molasses and buttermilk, and work into a smooth batter. Fold in the raisins or dried currants [raisins are traditional, but Thorne prefers currants]. Carefully butter the inside of your empty, clean 1-pound coffee can (a 14-oz can will do). Pour in the batter and cover the can with a doubled piece of aluminum foil. Press this down so that it stretches tightly across the top and reaches partially down the sides, and secure it in place with a sturdy rubber band.

Put a small wire rack (if available) on the bottom of a deep pot. Set the filled coffee can on the rack or simply set it on the bottom of the pot. Pour the boiling water around the can

fig. b: adding the boiling water to the pot

until it reaches a little more than halfway up the sides. Bring the water back up to a murmuring simmer, cover the pot, and gently steam the bread for 2 hours, or until a straw inserted in the middle of the bread comes out clean. Remove, set on a cake rack, and let cool until the beans are ready to serve, then unmould the bread and serve warm. Brown bread is traditionally cut with a string, but dental floss works well too.

fig. c: still life with Boston Brown Bread, a coffee can, and dental floss

Serve buttered, alongside--or, if you prefer, under--the baked beans.

Makes 1 loaf of delicious Boston Brown Bread.

Total time: about 2 1/2 hours.

John Thorne has never let us down. Fresh, hot Boston Brown Bread with butter + baked beans was a revelation. I'd always been partial to sourdough with my baked beans previously, but now it's going to be hard to go back. And Boston Brown Bread is much more than just a sidekick to your baked beans--it makes for an ideal loaf of morning bread too. Again, all you need to do is toast it and add butter, the bread does the rest.

With a cooking time of 2 hours, Boston Brown Bread can hardly be accused of being the quickest quick bread, but it's one of the easiest, most satisfying bread recipes you'll ever find, and it's hard for me to imagine a better recipe to get kids interested in cooking. Think about it: piping-hot homemade bread in only 2 1/2 hours. Plus, when was the last time you steamed a loaf of bread? In a coffee can, no less.

aj