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.
Wow. I could only wish someone would tell me jokes while I go down on a strand of spaghetti to test it’s turgicity with my denti. From now on ya’ll are coming to my place for dinner, or we’ll just go out. Btw, it wasn’t a parrot, it was a beaver and they weren’t Jews, they were vampires and, in ogni caso, the pasta was perfect. What’s more, pasta served right to the chops, senza antipasti, is always relished best. There is nothing like even the edge of hunger, to bite into a full fork spindle of steaming spaghetti.
I’m with you Mike! Nothing and no one comes between me and my pasta. Such a delicate, fragile moment…love your solution as I am sure do your guests. I often replay in my mind the order yelled out by a Neapolitan waiter in Milan in the 70s, “uno shpaggetti al dentissimo!” a presto
I don’t think Antipasto is your best shot as all…Antipasto needs wine…yes? Then along with that, everyone gets a little high on the buffala or the olives or the mortadella…and then you have eight loud, laughing dinner guests screaming out jokes to you…
I think the lock and the bar and the gun are a much better option.
Divine recipes, as always…
xoxoxoxoxo
Send some of that home cooking here. We are hungry on the street in Madison. 60,000 orders of Tuckers Spaghetti to go. Pronto por favor.
I used to be able to find good advice from your
content.
@ Felix – and now you don’t?
Hello
Your life and loves are freakishly familiar.
After twenty plus years in NYC my partner and I took a six month holiday in Paris to live, travel France and decompress after many years of caring for an ailing parents.
We are nearly five years into our initial “six months”. Living here and traveling Europe in this way, three hours from most things without the jet lag has had it’s advantages.
There was a five year block of time in my past that I was a hard core macro vegan. My diet now includes fins and feathers and dairy-there are three types of non pasteurized butter in the house at any given time.
While I stick to a certain type of diet, cooking anything is ok by me. Suzanne is a great audience, and is game to try anything.
Shopping for fresh, seasonal food 5-6 days per week is my mission, my quest. I love the process of keeping it simple and in the sense of community that food provides. After all, we need something to go with all that wine.
I feel like the people that write comments on your blog are people I know. It seems like one big happy family.
Being late to your party(finding your blog)but making it in time suits me just fine.
My own set of friends eats on Arthur Avenue every Saturday. I have been the only honorary “non Joseph” at St. Joseph’s day dinner more times than I can count and for a nice Jewish boy from New Jersey I am quite comfortable with a turkey on rye with Russian and cole slaw(called a turkey joe, created in 1946) as well as pasta chi sardi.
Why am I writing you. Well I’ll be buying your books to give as gifts and I thought you should know.
All I really wanted to say was please don’t stop writing. I along with so many people will miss it. If it were a play we would be giving you a standing ovation. I think I may have written you already. It’s the Corsican chestnut honey that has my brain scrambled this morning. Forgive me if you have received a similar message from me.
It’s such an important thing that you continue if at all possible I will risk asking you twice-
Best,
Jeremy Schuster
@ Jeremy — Welcome. There’s more to come. Our move to Connecticut is happening as we speak, so we’re under water right now.