by Pat Conroy
Mike would mutter darkly about Bo, “You cannot trust Bo-Pig. He is Siciliano.”
“He’s what?” I’d ask.
“A Sicilian. They are the scum of Italy.”
“Wake up, boy. You’re an American now.”
“Some things never change,” Mike said. “Blood is blood.”
“Where are your people from?”
“Northern Italy. I came from aristocrats,” said Mike.
Later Bo-Pig would take me aside and say, “You can’t trust Mike, paisan.”
“Why not?”
“His family is from northern Italy.”
When I returned to America, Mike and I went out to Gene and Gabe’s Restaurant in Atlanta. We talked about my long-ago weekend in Greensburg and the pleasure of getting to know Phyllis Parise and her family.
“The reason you liked the Parise family so much is because they are from northern Italy like my family,” Mike said.
“Where in northern Italy are they from?” I asked.
“Naples,” said Mike with pride and could not understand why I roared with laughter. Naples, of course, is the very heart and soul of southern Italy. • SERVES 6
24 Black Mission figs
ZABAGLIONE SAUCE
6 egg yolks
½ cup sugar
Pinch of salt
1 cup Frascati wine
1 cup heavy cream
2 teaspoons freshly ground white pepper
1. Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2. Place the figs on a jelly roll pan or in a shallow cooking dish to maximize browning (do not crowd the figs because they will steam instead of roast).
3. Roast the figs until soft, 5 to 8 minutes. Remove the pan to a rack and cool to room temperature.
4. To make the sauce: Fill a heatproof bowl (large enough to hold the bowl with the zabaglione) with ice and reserve.
5. Simmer water in the bottom of a double boiler.
6. Place the egg yolks in a stainless steel mixing bowl and whisk in the sugar, salt, and Frascati. Suspend the egg mixture bowl over the simmering water (the bowl should not touch the water) and whisk rapidly (to incorporate as much air as possible) until the egg mixture is thick and pale yellow, 8 to 10 minutes. (The mixture should not boil.)
7. Nestle the zabaglione bowl into the bowl filled with ice and continue whisking until the zabaglione is cold.
8. Whip the cream and fold it into the zabaglione. This can now be refrigerated until ready to serve.
9. When the figs are room temperature, transfer them to large balloon-shaped wineglasses, 4 per glass. Fold the white pepper into the zabaglione and spoon the sauce over the figs to serve.
SQUASH BLOSSOMS THREE WAYS When I was living in Rome, the Jewish ghetto was very near our house on Via dei Foraggi. The restaurants of the ghetto, like all of the other restaurants in the city, were wonderful, but their specialties of stuffed fried zucchini blossoms and fried artichokes were both ambrosial. In the first summer Suzanne Pollak and I were planning this cookbook (that was ten years ago—Suzanne’s a quick study, but she soon found that her partner moved like a glacier through the high mountain passes), Suzanne discovered a farmer who brought her twenty zucchini blossoms he had picked from his garden that morning. Since I am a devotee of the great Italian cookbook writer Marcella Hazan, I knew that the male blossoms were the only ones good enough to eat. The male blossoms grow on stems, while the female blossoms are attached to the zucchini and are too mealy for Marcella’s refined palate.
All afternoon, Suzanne and I thought up new stuffings for zucchini blossoms, then fried them in peanut oil. The three recipes that follow were the best we came up with. Incidentally, in her masterful book Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, Marcella dips the blossoms in a pastella, a flour and water batter, then fries them without stuffing. In the ghetto of Rome, they stuff them with magnificent and tasty ingredients. Like all glorious fried things, they should be eaten while hot to the touch.
Fried Squash Blossoms • SERVES 6 AS AN APPETIZER
12 open squash or zucchini blossoms
⅔ cup all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon sweet smoked paprika
Peanut oil
Sea salt
1. Line a baking sheet with brown paper bags and set aside.
2. Rinse the blossoms, gently checking to make sure there are no bugs inside.
4. Pour 1 cup cold water in a pie pan or shallow bowl. Sift the flour and paprika into the pan, whisking constantly to prevent any lumps.
4. Add enough oil to a heavy frying pan to come about ¾ inch up the sides of the pan. Heat the oil over medium-high heat until almost smoking. Working with one at a time, use tongs to dip each blossom in the batter, letting the excess drip back into the pan. Slip 2 or 3 batter-covered blossoms (as many as will comfortably fit in the frying pan) in the hot oil and cook until golden brown, turning only once, about 2 minutes total.
5. Transfer the fried blossoms to the prepared baking sheet to drain. Sprinkle with salt and serve piping hot.
Stuffed Squash Blossoms 1 • SERVES 6 AS AN APPETIZER
12 open squash or zucchini blossoms
⅔ cup all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon sweet smoked paprika
12 small pieces (about ⅛ pound) Manchego cheese, about ¼ inch thick and 1 inch long
2 thin slices Serrano ham, cut into 12 pieces
Peanut oil
Sea salt
1. Line a baking sheet with brown paper bags and set aside.
2. Rinse the blossoms, gently checking to make sure there are no bugs inside.
3. Pour 1 cup cold water in a pie pan or shallow bowl. Sift the flour and paprika into the pan, whisking constantly to prevent any lumps. Set aside.
4. Insert a piece of cheese and a piece of ham into each open blossom. Carefully twist the ends of the blossoms to close them.
5. Add enough oil to a heavy frying pan to come about ¾ inch up the side of the pan. Heat the oil over medium-high heat until almost smoking. Working with one at a time, use tongs to dip each blossom in the batter, letting the excess drip back into the pan. Slip 2 or 3 blossoms (as many as will comfortably fit in the frying pan) in the hot oil and fry, turning once, until the blossoms are golden brown and the cheese is melted, 2 to 3 minutes.
6. Transfer the fried blossoms to the paper bags to drain. Sprinkle with sea salt and serve.
Stuffed Squash Blossoms 2 • SERVES 6 AS AN APPETIZER
12 open squash or zucchini blossoms
⅔ cup all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon sweet smoked paprika
12 small pieces (about ⅛ pound) fresh mozzarella, about ¼ inch thick and 1 inch long
12 Sicilian (green) olives, pitted and quartered
Peanut oil
Sea salt
1. Line a baking sheet with clean brown paper bags and set aside.
2. Rinse the blossoms, gently checking to make sure there are no bugs inside.
3. Pour 1 cup cold water in a pie pan or shallow bowl. Sift the flour and paprika into the pan, whisking constantly to prevent any lumps. Set aside.
4. Insert a piece of cheese and 4 olive quarters into each open blossom. Carefully twist the ends of the blossoms to close them.
5. Add enough oil to a heavy frying pan to come about ¾ inch up the sides of the pan. Heat the oil over medium-high heat until almost smoking. Working with one at a time, use tongs to dip each blossom in the batter, letting the excess drip back into the pan. Slip 2 or 3 blossoms (as many as will comfortably fit in the frying pan) in the hot oil and fry, turning once, until blossoms are golden brown and cheese is melted, 2 to 3 minutes.
6. Transfer the fried blossoms to the paper bags to drain. Sprinkle with sea salt and serve.
SALTIMBOCCA ALLA ROMANA If you are a beginning cook, Saltimbocca alla Romana is a dish you should incorporate into your repertoire immediately. It is simple, easy to prepare, and magnificent. In Italian, saltimbocca means “to jump in the mouth,” a fond acknowledgment of it
s wonderful taste. • SERVES 4
Eight 3- to 4-ounce veal scallops
8 thin slices prosciutto, skin rind removed
8 fresh sage leaves
About ⅓ cup all-purpose flour
4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter
1 cup dry white wine
Coarse or kosher salt and freshly ground white pepper
1. Lightly pound the veal scallops until they are of an even thickness. Place a piece of prosciutto over each scallop and top with a sage leaf. Use a wooden toothpick (threaded in and out like a needle) to secure the layers. Lightly dredge in flour.
2. In a heavy skillet over moderate heat, melt 3 tablespoons of butter until foamy. Add the prepared veal scallops and cook until browned, about 2 minutes per side, being careful not to crowd the pan. Cook in batches, if necessary. Remove to a warm platter and cover loosely with aluminum foil.
3. Turn the heat to high and melt the remaining 1 tablespoon butter. Quickly deglaze the skillet with the wine, bringing the liquid to a rapid boil while scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Let the pan sauce reduce until slightly syrupy, about 3 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste.
4. Transfer the veal to serving plates and spoon the sauce over to serve.
On a hillside street curving off the hind flank of the Borghese gardens, an Italian waiter taught me what it is to perfectly dress a salad. When he took our orders he was unmannerly and dyspeptic, rare qualities in that magnificent, white-jacketed tribe. He acted as though we held some timeless grudge against him because we insisted on ordering a meal in his restaurant. But his mood did not deflect from the perfection of the bruschetta or the bucatini all’Amatriciana that came out of the kitchen.
However, the waiter’s distemper could not hide the artistry that was native to his species when he brought out three insalata mistas for me and my companions. The salads were perfectly composed of curly chicory and escarole with a green and welcome addition of field lettuce and a shy appearance of arugula. The waiter took the salads to a dressing table, where his movements slowed and his work turned sacramental. Surprising me, he turned a salt grinder a single time onto a plate, and the salt snowed down in a soft hail. Then he squeezed the freshest lemon onto that plate, which was ivory white. Slowly, he dissolved the salt by whisking a fork through the lemon juice. When satisfied that the salt had disappeared, he poured a parsimonious amount of red wine vinegar and incorporated that with great care. Afterward, he filled the plate with bright green extra virgin olive oil that looked like it had been harvested from a field of emeralds, again working the fork until the dressing appeared right to him. Then, with an acrobatic move that I advise no one else to emulate, he tilted the plate and dressed the first salad, shifted the dressing to the second salad without spilling a drop, and then moved to the third, his instincts guiding him every step of the way. When he finished, he tossed the three salads in their individual plates and brought them to the table. Each salad glistened like a gemstone. I lifted the salad to my mouth and realized I had never tasted—really tasted—a salad before. The greens were so fresh that they must have rested in fields that very morning; the olive oil was rich and fresh and perfectly complemented by the bite of lemon and vinegar. The salt was a breath of itself, a sea breeze hidden in the salad. I was dining on the mother of all salads, and my mouth could not have been happier. Putting my fork down, I applauded the waiter, but he was disdainful of praise, sniffed, and returned to the kitchen. It was the first and last time in Rome that I would see a salad dressing composed on a dinner plate.
In Italy, the usual order of business is salt, a carefully chosen extra virgin olive oil, and a good red wine vinegar. As far as I can tell, the use of balsamic vinegar in salads is an American fad. Maybe it is used in Modena, where the vinegar is born, but I never got to Modena. The Italians are resolute and athletic when it comes to tossing their salads, and they insist that all ingredients merge. In Italy, the oil is king, queen, and everything when the subject is insalata mista.
BRUSCHETTA Bruschetta is Italian comfort food of a high order, but now that I think about it, the entire cuisine of Italy is based on comfort food. The toasted rustic bread sandpapers the garlic into small, fragrant bits when you rub the bread as it comes out of the oven. I’ve made bruschetta with fresh mozzarella and homemade tapenade, also with arugula, and with great passion when Beaufort’s summer tomatoes come into season. • SERVES 4
1 round loaf hearty rustic-style bread, cut into ½-inch slices (each slice cut in half, depending on the diameter of the bread)
4 garlic cloves, halved
Olive oil
6 ripe Roma tomatoes, cut into slices
Coarse or kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Place the bread slices directly on the oven rack and toast until lightly browned on both sides, about 3 minutes.
2. Quickly remove toasted bread and rub the cut side of a garlic clove on one side of each slice. Transfer to serving plates, drizzle lightly with olive oil, and top with sliced tomatoes. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and serve immediately.
BUCATINI ALL’AMATRICIANA In my travels around the world, I have never seen the word “amatriciana” without its being introduced first by its brother pasta, the thick, tube-shaped bucatini. This is a fast, delicious meal that is both easy to make and sexy. The two small red chiles provide the heat that gathers all the flavors of this dish in its arms. Like pasta carbonara, this recipe is claimed by the Romans, its provenance being the Roman town of Amatrice. • SERVES 4
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
½ cup finely chopped onion
⅓ pound pancetta, cut into ¼-inch slices, then into ¼-inch strips
2½ cups canned whole tomatoes, preferably San Marzano, drained and diced
2 small red chiles, crushed
Coarse or kosher salt
1 pound dried bucatini
Freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
1. In a large skillet over moderate heat, melt the olive oil and butter together until slightly foamy. Add the onion and cook until lightly colored, about 8 minutes. Add the pancetta and cook, stirring frequently, until the fat on the pancetta is slightly translucent, about 2 minutes.
2. Add the tomatoes, chiles, and a pinch of salt. Adjust the heat to bring the mixture to a low simmer and cook, uncovered, until thickened, 20 to 25 minutes.
3. Meanwhile, in a large pot of abundantly salted water, cook the pasta according to package directions until al dente. Drain in a colander, but do not rinse.
4. Add the pasta to the sauce and toss. Immediately transfer to serving plates. Sprinkle with grated cheese and serve, passing extra cheese on the side.
INSALATA MISTA (MIXED LETTUCES AND GREENS)
• SERVES 4 AS A FIRST COURSE
4 handfuls mixed young lettuces and greens
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
Sea salt
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
Freshly ground black pepper
1. Inspect the lettuces. Remove any brown or old leaves.
2. Wash the lettuces in a sink filled with cool water. Dry in a salad spinner. If not completely dry pat with paper towels. Place the lettuces in a salad bowl and set aside.
3. Combine the oil and salt to taste in a small bowl and whisk with a fork to dissolve the salt. Add a small amount of the vinegar. Taste the dressing, then dip a leaf in the dressing and taste again. If the lettuces are young, they may not need all the vinegar.
4. Toss the lettuces with enough dressing to coat well and distribute the salad among serving plates. Offer freshly ground black pepper at the table.
When I moved to Rome, Italy, in 1981, I did not expect to meet the large number of American Southerners who had ventured to Rome in their youth and never gone back to their homeland. They popped up everywhere and in strange contexts. The word “expatriate” took on a dark, smoky luster that it had never had before f
or me. To find the courage to give up everything that had made your childhood either immemorial or unbearable was a vanity of freedom I had never encountered. As an adult, I found myself so haunted by my parents and my geography that I have spent a lifetime trying to write my way out of my addiction to their memory. The American expatriate I had expected to meet in Italy, certainly; the Southerner, never. I thought all unhappy Southerners migrated to New York. Never did it occur to me that for some of them, New York was just a stop-off point where they made their flight connections to distant points on the globe.
During the whole first year in Rome many of those disaffected Southerners I met said, “What a shame you missed Eugene Walter. A magnificent Southerner. More like a Renaissance man than a sad-sack Alabamian. A novelist. A poet. An actor. He was in Fellini’s 8½, you know. A songwriter. A translator. An Air Force cryptographer living in the Aleutians during the war. A famed gardener. And the best cook in Rome.”
That I had missed the best cook in Rome caused me great anguish and keen regret. What was remarkable was that I rarely met a single American who had not known Eugene Walter and could not share a tale about this garrulous and perfectly whimsical enchanter. Rome had soured for him when the Red Brigades began to set off bombs in his neighborhood and to kidnap policemen he knew by name who were guarding the headquarters of the Communist Party and the Christian Democrats, both of which were a block from his garden apartment. As for timing, my family and I passed Eugene almost in midair over the Atlantic. As we began our first day in Rome, he ended his last. Eugene returned to his roots in Mobile, Alabama, where he would live out the rest of his artful and over-achieving life. Because I listened so ardently to the plainsong of his nearly inconsolable friends, I always felt that I had missed one of the great opportunities of my life by not getting to sit at the feet of Eugene Walter.
