OPEN KITCHEN

I have an open kitchen in our New York apartment. It’s perfect for
me because I like to be at the party while I’m cooking—rather than boxed
away in another room, away from the fun. I’m an actor, after all – an
entertainer; I want to be part of the show, out in the light – not backstage
toiling in the dark.
However. There’s always some bozo – I’m sorry, did I say bozo? I
meant some charming dinner guest – who comes over to shoot the breeze
just when I’m about to perform a delicate, crucial step – like tasting the pasta
for doneness. This is a holy moment, a private moment that demands the
cook’s full attention and focus; because if the pasta goes past its moment –
even just a few seconds past — it becomes a mass of wormy, mushy crap and
you may as well toss it. But inevitably at that moment, as I’m fishing out
that first, crucial strand to taste …
“So, Michael, two Jews go into a bar. You know this one?”
“Not right now.”
“Two Jews go into a bar. And the bartender … “
I make a rude, dismissive gesture with the back of my hand as I bite
into the pasta with my dente. He responds by raising his voice.
“And one of them has a parrot on his shoulder. Did I say about the
parrot?”
And in my mind, I’m wishing I had a closed kitchen. With a lock on
the door. And one of those bars that goes across. And a burglar alarm that
goes directly to the police station. And a gun.
Allora. What to do? I am two people: the convivial bon vivant,
the mingler, the schmoozer; and the stand-offish prick who wants to cook
perfect food for no one other than himself. And I have only one kitchen.
One kitchen and two personalities; what to do?
The answer, I believe, is antipasto. Get them to the table – around
a big plate of irresistible food, get a knife and fork into their hands and a
full glass of wine by their plate and then I will be free to noodle away at
the stove for as long as I want and no one will pay me the least attention.
Antipasto is the key.

earthenware pot

Peperoni in Bagna Cauda
(Roasted peppers in hot anchovy sauce)
This antipasto dish is heaven; this is the mother-lode; I have seen people go into a trance over this – even people who would swear they don’t eat anchovies. It’s a peasant dish from the Piemonte in Northern Italy – the same region that gives us Barbaresco and Barolo … and don’t forget to put out some crusty bread for dipping. Ideally, you make this in an earthenware pot and have a

Fondue Pot

warmer on the table so that the bagna cauda stays warm. If you have an old fondue pot from the Seventies, that’ll work. If not, this is a great reason to get one. Cooks disagree as to the ratio of oil to butter. It seems to depend on what village you come from. I think the butter should be subservient to the oil, but present. It adds a nice nuttiness to the sauce.

BAGNA CAUDA
¾ cup olive oil
3-4 tbsps butter
4 cloves garlic finely chopped
10 anchovies – preferably salt-packed and rinsed – chopped fine
salt (yes, salt – even though you’re already using anchovies)

bagna cauda

Working over low heat, melt the butter into the oil. Add garlic and saute – but don’t let it brown. Add anchovies and stir, letting them dissolve into the butter, oil and garlic. Add a good pinch of salt. Keep warm but avoid more cooking.

ROASTED PEPPERS
I like the stove-top method for roasting peppers (I use a mix of red
and yellow peppers). Just light all your burners to high and put a whole bell
pepper on each. With tongs, keep turning them until they’re black. When
each is done, put it into a paper bag. When they’re cool enough to handle,
peel off the charred skins, lose the seeds and the ribs and cut into nice bite-
size pieces.
To serve: spear a piece of pepper on your fork (or use fingers), swirl
it around in the hot anchovy sauce and put it on a chunk of bread. Then
pop the whole garlicky, nutty, oily, buttery beauty into your mouth. Chew
slowly and savor.
I like this with a prosecco or Champagne.