Chicken Liver Pâté, My Way

Tags

Chicken, liver, pate, recipes

There aren’t many foods I won’t eat. Tripe is one, despite my best efforts. Another is liver. In my early days of cooking, I was assured that what turns most people off about liver is its flavor and texture when overcooked. Cook a nice, high-quality piece of liver to a nice pink medium, I was told, and it would be a revelation. I tried. I really tried. But every time I couldn’t get it down. It always ended up in the trash.

Then, about 11 years ago, during a very brief stage at Osteria Pane e Salute, I was given crostini with chicken liver pâté, prepared in the classic Tuscan manner. They were wonderful, flavorful but mild and smooth in texture. This was liver I could eat gladly.

Somehow, once I got home from Pane, my efforts couldn’t quite recreate the flavor of Caleb’s. The liver flavor was too strong. Something wasn’t right. I put it aside for years.

But this year I was tired of my wasteful practice of discarding the gorgeous livers from the whole chickens I buy from Forks Farm. I was tired of my lazy habit of freezing them — always planning to use them some day, which never came — and I resolved to master the art of chicken liver pâté.

Most recipes call for capers and/or anchovies, aiming for what Samin Nosrat would call a “layering of salt.” Usually I have both capers and anchovies on hand, but that day I had neither. And so, once again I learned the wonderful principle that mistakes or shortcuts often lead to better results. Since I didn’t have capers or anchovies, I just increased the proportion of onions — the sweet onions I grow on the farm — and crossed my fingers.

The results were great, exactly the taste memory I possessed. I still can’t eat a piece of liver straight, but this pâté is one of my very favorite foods. We serve it whenever possible as an amuse-bouche at the restaurant, a gentle and mild introduction to liver for the skeptical. I love the simplicity of this recipe, untraditional but good, and I hope it encourages you too to give chicken liver pâté a try!

_________________________________________________

Crostini with Chicken Liver Pâté

Factory-farmed meat is always immoral and very unappetizing, but for organ meats it seems especially sad. The livers of a conventionally raised bird just look unhealthy. Pastured birds by contrast have nice looking livers, fresh and plump. This is a dish I would rather not make than make with factory-raised meat.

Begin by heating a large pan to high heat with a generous bit of olive oil, and when the oil just begins to send up faint wisps of smoke, add about 12 ounces of chicken livers (rinsed and dried) along with 4 to 6 ounces of coarsely chopped or sliced sweet onion. Add 1/2 to 1 teaspoon salt, some fresh sage if you have it around, and saute for just a few minutes until everything has lost much of its raw color.

Deglaze the pan with broth, water, or wine (or a mix), adding enough to come up at least a half-inch or so up the side of the pan.

Simmer in the oven at 325 degrees F° for about 20 minutes, then return to high heat and cook over all but a little bit of liquid. Add a pat or two of butter if possible.

Process in a food processor, adding generous grinds of hot pepper, along with broth and/or olive oil to create a smooth pâté. It should be smooth, but still have some texture. It might look very runny, but it will firm up after resting in the fridge.

Add a little freshly grated parmigiano and freshly minced parsley. Taste for salt, keeping in mind that a bland or mild pâté is an abomination. It needs to be aggressively seasoned. Allow to rest in the fridge for at least an hour or two until firmed up.

To make the crostini, lightly toast little cubes of high-quality bread. I do this in a pan with a little olive oil. Top each piece of toast with a little dollop of pâté and bake in an oven for about 5 minutes at 350 or 400 degrees F°.

Just before serving, garnish with additional parmigiano, pepper, and fresh parsley.

Justin Naylor (chef & proprietor, Old Tioga Farm)

Strawberry Sorbet

Tags

recipes, sorbet, sorbetto, strawberry

Nicole Karr Photography

Strawberry season has just ended in our area, and we spent the month of June serving this lovely sorbet at the restaurant. Although it will have much better color if you use vine-ripened local berries, even store-bought strawberries will produce an acceptable result.

We make more sorbet than gelato because sorbet is more forgiving with the slow-churn home ice cream makers available, as I’ve written about here and here.

We keep our sorbet-making simple: no sugar syrups, egg whites, or other unnecessary steps; just fruit, sugar, water, lemon, salt, and a blender.

One of the most important aspects of sorbet-making is to include a little lemon juice — not so much as to taste strongly of lemon, but enough to accentuate the natural flavor of the primary fruit. Lemon juice functions in sorbet as salt does in savory foods, allowing the natural flavor to blossom.

Another important aspect of sorbet-making is to monitor the temperature of your freezer. Depending on the setting, ours ranges from -10 degrees to positive 10 degrees, a huge different which will affect the texture of your sorbet or gelato. We make sure the freezer is as cold as possible when freezing the ice cream machine insert, but once the sorbet is churned and moved to the freezer for aging, we try to keep the temperature between 10 and 20 degrees, which is the temperature of gelato freezers in Italy. This will keep the sorbet or gelato from becoming rock hard quickly and will give you a nice half-day window to serve the sorbet. Unless the freezer is warmer than 10 degrees, we keep the sorbet covered.

Strawberry Sorbet (makes 1 quart, about 8 modest servings)

In a blender, process 450 grams strawberries (about a quart) with 300 grams water, 150 grams sugar, 2 to 4 tablespoons lemon juice, and 1/8 teaspoon salt.

Chill at least 8 hours or preferably overnight, and freeze in an ice cream machine. We like to make ours at 5 pm to serve at 8 pm, but if you keep your freezer between 10 and 20 degrees, you can keep your sorbet at the right temperature for at least half a day.

Couldn’t be easier!

Justin Naylor, chef & farmer at Old Tioga Farm

 

Cannellini bean soup with garlic & parsley

Tags

Italy, Marcella Hazan, recipes

When Marcella Hazan passed away almost four years ago, tributes came pouring in from every major newspaper, and from chefs and home cooks from across the country. Invariably, the eulogist would mention Marcella’s most simple and exquisite pasta sauce with tomatoes, onions, and butter. It’s a sauce I’ve never had in Italy (perhaps Marcella made it up herself), but it became a symbol to many people of her forceful dedication to simplicity and flavor.

Another dish that comes to mind in this way is Marcella’s cannellini bean soup with garlic and parsley. It exemplifies the same extreme minimalism as the pasta sauce and demonstrates the principle that Marcella was always preaching: what you leave out of a dish is as important as what you include. Her understanding of her native country’s cooking was not only at odds with the caricature of Italian food in America at the time, but it was also at odds with the great majority of cooking from restaurant chefs, with their fixation on presentation and technical execution over freshness and taste.

We’ve been serving the bean soup this month at Old Tioga Farm, and though I’ve been making the soup for myself and family for almost twenty years now, I hadn’t served it at the restaurant in a while. Making it for the past few weeks has given me the opportunity to reflect anew on the recipe and on Marcella’s understanding of good cooking.

Marcella knew that it was not presentation, but flavor, which matters most in cooking. The bean soup is not going to win any prize for beauty, nor is it likely to appeal to the food porn crowd. But that’s not the point. When you taste the soup, if it is well made, you’re struck by a few very simple but powerful flavors: the beans themselves, soft and rich, substantial but yet dissolving; an underpinning of garlic, not so much as to overwhelm but just enough to serve as a sort of bass line, aromatic but not browned or harsh; parsley, the most common herb in Italian cooking, which provides freshness like no other herb; a light meat broth, refined and delicate, never intense and concentrated; and last but not least, olive oil of the very highest quality, an ingredient whose quality will make or break this soup. The oil infuses the beans with and enfolds them in its glow. A great oil will elevate the beans. A poor one will flatten them.

This, to me, is what good cooking is all about; at least, good Italian cooking. A few ingredients of highest quality, assembled in a way which just develops their full potential without confusing everything with excess complication. This is food meant not to impress so much as nourish. This is the philosophy of cooking which I learned from Marcella, which changed the course of my life, and inspires me every day in my home and restaurant kitchens.

Cannellini Bean Soup with Garlic and Parsley

I make this soup almost identically to Marcella. Of course, Marcella knew that not even the same cook prepares the same dish identically every time. My version is definitely a little more liberal with the garlic, and I also like the soup less thick but more pureed than Marcella. According to Marcella’s husband Victor, Marcella learned the soup from her father. She taught it to countless cooks through her classes and books, and now I share it with you.

Begin the night before by soaking one pound of dried cannellini beans. Certainly, if you must, use canned beans. I certainly have on occasion. The best canned beans I know of are the ones from Goya. Be aware that other brands might be over- or under-seasoned with salt. But do try to use dried beans for the full experience. If you forget to soak them overnight, you can skip that step, but it will take a little longer to cook them. Not a big deal. Cook in a big pot with water to cover and 2 or 3 teaspoons salt until tender, about an hour or two. Or you can go all out and mail order the Tuscan heirloom bean Sorana, which Marcella considered perhaps the best bean in Italy and which is marketed in this country as the Marcella Bean.

The soup also requires good homemade broth, which is one of the very simplest things you can do to improve the quality of your soups. The simplest vegetable broth just contains an onion and a few carrots and celery stalks, simmered for an hour in about 2 quarts of water. A more complex broth adds a whole chicken, or just a carcass, or just some chicken parts thrown in with the vegetables and simmered for closer to 3 hours. Another layer of flavor would involve adding some beef scraps or bones. There would be no harm in adding some tomatoes, or sweet peppers, or potatoes, or zucchini. But all of that is icing on the cake. A simple vegetable or chicken broth will do just fine.

When the beans are tender and the broth is made, you can begin to make the soup by sautéing one tablespoon garlic (Marcella used only 1 teaspoon) in 1/2 cup highest quality olive oil. You might find this an excessive amount of olive oil. It most certainly is not. It is an essential flavor component of this soup. As the winemaker Paolo di Marchi once told me: “In Tuscany, we think of olive oil as just another vegetable.” And so it is.

When the garlic is sizzling and taking on just a hint of color, add the beans, which should have been drained from their cooking liquid and tasted for proper seasoning. Let the beans absorb the flavor of the olive oil over moderate heat for about five minutes, and then add 2 cups or so of broth.

Pass about one third to one half of the beans through a food mill, or (if you must) put them in a blender, and then return them to the pot. This will thicken the soup a little.

Add more broth as needed to create the consistency you want. Some like it very thick. I like it more like a traditional soup. After the flavors have married for 10 minutes or so and the seasoning is just right, add a generous bit of freshly chopped parsley and several grindings of black pepper.

Garnish with a little drizzle of olive oil, what Italians would call “a benediction.”

Cooking Duck Breasts

Duck is one of those dishes, like fish, that people order in restaurants far more often than they cook them at home. It’s a shame because duck is delicious, and it is hardly more difficult to cook well than chicken. One obstacle, however, is that it is hard to find. Few markets carry it regularly. Sometimes it can be found during the holidays, sometimes frozen at the supermarket. Fortunately, it can also be mail-ordered here and here.

Cooking a whole duck can be challenging, but cooking the legs and breasts separately is relatively easy. We’ve been cooking duck breasts all month at the restaurant, and I’ll describe the process here.

Pan-seared duck breast with rosemary & garlic, accompanied by braised chard (serves 2)

Begin by scoring the skin of an 8-ounce duck breast with a very sharp knife in a cross-hatch pattern, and generously season both sides of the duck. Duck has a great deal of fat which needs to be properly rendered, and the scoring of the skins facilitates this.

Let the duck rest for an hour or two at room temperature, or even a few hours longer in the refrigerator.

The first step in cooking the duck breast is to render the fat. Because duck breast is traditionally served medium (a little pink), we need to do this with care so that most of the fat renders without the breast becoming overcooked.

Place a pan over high heat and add just a little olive oil. As soon as it begins to smoke, pat the duck breast dry with paper towels and place in the pan, skin side down. Immediately lower the heat to low or medium low and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, until the fat is rendered but before the skin burns or becomes too dark.

Remove the duck from the pan and place on a plate, skin side up. Unlike chicken fat (aka schmaltz) which doesn’t taste very fresh and is unappealing to most people, duck fat is a treasured substance, perfect for cooking all types of dishes, from eggs to sautéing vegetables. Even one breast will render a shocking amount. Simply store the fat in the fridge, where it will keep a very long time.

While the duck is browning (or while it is resting), slice or chop a little onion and sauté over lively heat in a small pan with a little olive oil or duck fat for a few minutes until softened and beginning to take on some color. Add a large handful of chopped chard or spinach leaves and a pinch of salt. Stir to combine and add a bit of water to steam the greens. Lower the heat and turn off once wilted.

To finish the duck, return the pan (the one you used before and poured the fat from) to high heat. Add a little duck fat or fresh olive oil. When the pan is very hot, add the duck breast skin side up. After 30 seconds or so, add a little chopped garlic, rosemary, and hot pepper. About 30 seconds later, remove the pan from heat and deglaze with some white wine, broth, or water. There will be a lot of steam, so I just hold it right up to the exhaust fan.

Place the pan under the broiler for about 2 minutes. Every broiler is different, but mine is strong and so I place it in the middle or lower third of the oven to crisp the skin without burning. You may need to do it differently.

Return the pan to high heat for just another minute or so and remove from heat.

Place the duck on a cutting board and slice into thin strips with a very sharp knife.

Place the chard on two plates and top with the duck. Pour over the pan juices and serve at once.

Justin Naylor, chef and proprietor of Old Tioga Farm

Peach Sorbet

Tags

peach, recipes, sorbet, sorbetto

I often wonder why produce, and fruit in particular, often tastes better in Italy. The soils in Italy aren’t especially great. Perhaps it’s the more temperate climate, or perhaps the varieties are different, more carefully bred for flavor rather than other qualities such as uniform ripening or the ability to be shipped.

In any case, it’s been a disappointing year in our area for peaches. Both flavor and texture have been somewhat imperfect, and this can make it a challenge to do the sort of transparent cooking that we like. We had hoped this month to roast peaches in the oven with amaretti cookies, but the peaches we had access to just weren’t perfect enough for this preparation. So we decided on a perfect use for imperfect fruit: sorbet.

This is hardly a sacrifice. We probably serve various types of sorbets more often than any other dessert at the restaurant because sorbet is one of the most delicious ways one can end a meal, and no dessert is more light and refreshing. Of course, the best fruit makes wonderful sorbet, but it is one case where an imperfect ingredient can be transformed into a dish of great satisfaction.

Unlike gelato, sorbet can be made wonderfully at home in an inexpensive ice cream freezer. Because home models require about 20 or 25 minutes to freeze the gelato or sorbet (compared to less than 10 for commercial machines), ice crystal formation is nearly inevitable, which is a deal breaker for gelato – which is always milk/cream based – but not for sorbet, which is always water based.

We have two machines, a two-quart Cuisinart model and a one-quart Cuisinart model. I’m not sure there’s much difference from brand to brand, but for home use we recommend a one-quart model. After a number of hours in the fridge the sorbet will become rock hard and useless. It’s always best to eat sorbet the same day it’s made, just the way you would in Italy.

If you’re looking for further sorbet/gelato inspiration, make a trip to Capogiro in Philadelphia, the East Coast’s premier gelateria.

Peach Sorbet (Makes 1 quart)

1. Peel and cube 1 pound of peaches. (That’s 1 pound after removing skin and pit.)
2. Place the peaches in a blender along with 2 cups water, 1 cup sugar, juice from 1 lemon, and the tiniest pinch of salt. Process for 30 seconds or so until completely smooth.
3. Chill for at least 8 hours or preferably overnight, then freeze in an ice cream machine according to the machine’s instructions.
4. When the sorbet comes out of the machine, it will probably be too soft. Freeze for a few hours until it firms up just a a bit, but keep an eye on it because after too many hours it will become hard as a rock and not easy to use.

all’amatriciana for one

Bucatini all’amatriciana is one of the holy three pasta sauces in Rome (also alla gricia and alla carbonara) based upon guanciale. Guanciale is cured pig jowl, and though you might not have heard of it or eaten it, trust me that it is the very finest thing one can do with a pig. Yes, better than American bacon or even prosciutto (at least for me). The flavor is wonderfully rich and distinctly porky in a way unique to guanciale. People offer say to substitute pancetta in the states, but please don’t do that for this dish, especially since most pancetta available in the US is absolute junk. Real guanciale from domestic producer La Quercia can be purchased in New York from Eataly or Philadelphia from diBruno brothers. It freezes fine, so go out of your way to buy some and keep it for several months in the freezer, cutting off a little here and there as needed. If you can’t go to the trouble of obtaining guanciale, just don’t make this dish. There are other lovely things to eat. Though I have long made alla gricia and carbonara, amatriciana had always troubled me a bit. After consulting numerous recipes, I just couldn’t get it to taste just right, like the best version in Rome from Arcangelo Dandini, which he uses to dress his heavenly potato gnocchi. But last week I was eating at Armando in Rome, and they were publicizing their new cookbook with a little pamphlet, and in the pamphlet was their recipe for amatriciana! I made it tonight, and though I might tweak it just a bit, it was better than my previous attempts, some of which included onion and too much tomato. Armando’s version keeps tomato to a minimum, uses wine, and uses no onion. Tonight I’m cooking for myself at Casa Sinibaldi in Rome, awaiting my new group of students to arrive tomorrow for a week of culinary and cultural immersion, and so here is Armando’s recipe for amatriciana, scaled down for one! Spaghetti all’amatriciana Most traditional is actually bucatini (thick, hollow spaghetti), but I prefer spaghetti, or better yet, small rigatoni since I have an idiosyncratic dislike for tomato sauces with spaghetti. Bring 4 quarts of water to a boil and properly season with 2 tablespoons salt. Add 50 grams pasta and cook about until al dente. While the pasta is cooking, brown 10 grams of pancetta in a pan with a little olive oil, then remove from heat, remove the guanciale, and add a splash of white wine. Add 2 tablespoons tomatoes (fresh or high quality canned and crushed) and 1/8 teaspoon salt. Cook for about 5 minutes. When the pasta is ready, drain and add it to the sauce along with the reserved guanciale. Add generous grindings of black pepper and about 10 grams grated high-quality imported pecorino romano cheese. Plate and serve at once, with additional pecorino, black pepper, and olive oil. Note: Although Armando doesn’t use it, Marcella Hazan includes a little butter in her recipe, and I have a suspicion that Arcangelo might do the same, though I’m not sure. Although butter is not traditional in most Roman cooking, it’s worth a try.

Crespelle

Crepes filled with lamb and ricotta, from a fall menu

I love crespelle, which is the Italian word for crepes. Although more famous in French cooking, in many parts of the country Italians make them too! Savory crepes are treated as a pasta course in Italy.  But to me, crepes are even better, with their luxurious texture.

Thomas loves them, too.

As with pasta, they can be prepared an almost infinite number of ways. They can be layered flat like lasagne, rolled up like cannelloni, folded in a half-moon, or prepared in a number of other ways. One of the most interesting is to fold them up into a triangular handkerchief, in which case they’re called fazzoletti. This past summer at the restaurant we served fazzoletti filled with green beans, garlic, and mozzarella, which we first learned from one of Marcella Hazan’s excellent books.

Fazzoletti with green beans and mozzarella

During December, we served what is perhaps the simplest but one of the most delicious crepes: simply folded in a half moon and filled with mozzarella and prosciutto. I was inspired to make it by the wonderful panini one encounters in Italy, in which it hardly seems possible that a slice of meat and a slice of cheese can be such a remarkable revelation to eat. Although making the crepes can take a little practice, it’s really not difficult, and once you learn how to do it, copious pleasure will be at your beck and call.

Crespelle with mozzarella and prosciutto (makes 16 crepes)

This recipe calls for grams, rather than cups to measure the flour. If you don’t have an inexpensive (less than $30) kitchen scale, please get one. If you ever use flour in the kitchen, you won’t be sorry you spent the money.

To make the crepes, beat three eggs with 1.5 cups of milk. Gradually add 150 grams flour (all purpose is fine, or pastry) and 1/2 teaspoon of salt. Let sit a few minutes and then pass through a colander to eliminate any lumps. Melt two tablespoons of butter and stir into the batter.

To make crepes you need a good non-stick pan. I far prefer cast iron to teflon, which creeps me out. I want a pan that I can have for decades, and teflon always seems to wear out. I use an 8-inch pan and pour in a little less an 1/4 cup of batter per crepe, but this will vary widely based on pan size and how thick you want your crepe. I like mine thin, but there are various legitimate styles.

Place your crepe pan (or two if you have them) over medium-high heat and very lightly oil it/them. This batter has butter in it, which will help prevent sticking. When the pan is quite hot (the batter should sizzle immediately), add a little less than 1/4 cup of batter and swirl around evenly for about 10 seconds. Cook until the one side is browned and the top is set. It should take around 30 seconds if the pan is the right temp. Flip and do the second side, using a flexible spatula or your fingers if necessary. Cool the crepes on a rack as they finish.

Coarsely chop up about 1/4 pound of imported prosciutto (either San Daniele or di Parma), coarsely grate one pound of fresh mozzarella, and finely grate 1 cup of parmigiano-reggiano. Place a few pieces of prosciutto on each crepe, and add about a tablespoon of mozzarella and a tablespoon of parmigiano. Add a tiny drizzle of olive oil and a tiny pinch of salt (the prosciutto is already very well seasoned). Fold each crepe over and press down with your hand. They can be stacked and sit for several hours before cooking, though I would not refrigerate them.

Melt some butter over medium heat and add as many crepes as will fit comfortably. Cook until lightly crisped on the one side (about a minute or two), and then flip them and do the other. Or, as I do, after flipping them to the second side, place them in a 350 degree oven for 3 to 5 minutes. The heat all around does a better job than the bottom heat of the stove top.

Repeat with the remaining crepes, garnish with parsley and parmigiano, and serve at once!

Crepe with mozzarella and prosciutto.

Recipes are Wrong (or, The Best Fried Chicken)

Tags

fried chicken, recipes

My late, Southern grandfather would be proud.

Although I’ve been bewitched by Italy for some time, my people are from western North Carolina, and so I have a soft spot for fried chicken too!

We purchase whole chickens from Forks Farm and then cut them up and freeze for later use. Wings are finger food and don’t really fit into the cooking we do at the restaurant, and so they often end up on our family table. More often than not, we fry them, Southern style.

Because fried chicken is dear to many people, there are many recipes out there which take the subject very seriously. Unfortunately, I’ve never really found a recipe that wows me. Different writers hold up various things as essential: some say the chicken must be brined, others say it must be steeped in buttermilk, still others say the chicken must spend some time covered while it is cooking, others skip the brining and buttermilk and just toss dry chicken with flour and fry. Just like with the authors of contradictory gnocchi recipes, the authors of all of these approaches deem theirs the best, and so something funny must be going on.

Recently I found an approach that produces fried chicken which really wows me. The funny thing is, the essential technique contradicts most classic recipes. My epiphany camewhile researching a way to fry mussels. My classic frying batter is the simple one known as “la pastella” which I learned from Marcella Hazan’s excellent cookbooks. But this time I was looking for something a little different, a little more like the extra crispy batter one can order at KFC (though I’ve sworn off fast food and haven’t eaten at KFC in 20 years). So I googled images of fried mussels and hit the jackpot, finding an image which was exactly what I was looking for, courtesy of the website http://panlasangpinoy.com.

Inspiration for my fried chicken batter.

This batter worked great for mussels, and it occurred to me that it was exactly what I wanted for fried chicken too. The secret is to dip the chicken in liquid (mix of flour, water, and egg) but then NOT to let the excess liquid drip back into the bowl as almost every recipe suggests. Instead, the extra liquid clinging to the chicken forms little lumps or scales with the flour, and it is these little lumps or scales which will fry up into the most succulent, crisp, and flaky batter one can make. I’ve simplified the batter a bit, and you can find the recipe below.

This experience is such a great reminder of how recipes can be (and often are) simply wrong. No brine is needed, no buttermilk is needed. Just proper seasoning and the right technique with the batter.

Enjoy!

Fried Chicken

I fry wings exclusively. Not only do I have a lot left over from the chickens I use for the restaurant, but the wings are ideal for frying: their small size ensures quick cooking. It is possible but much harder to fry other pieces, since it is hard to get the inside cooked through without the outside burning. It can certainly be done with moderate heat, but my advice is to just fry the wings!

These wings are gorgeous because they are raised locally. Look how clean and fresh they are!

1) Season the wings generously with salt (one of the most important steps, of course), and let sit for 5 or 10 minutes (or up to a few hours), while the salt is absorbed.

2) Mix 1 egg with 1/2 cup of water and 1/2 cup of flour. The batter should be like a thick heavy cream. This amount is for about 10 wings. Scale up as needed.

3) Add the wings to the batter and take one at a time and add to a bowl or bag with plenty of flour and toss thoroughly. The flour should form lumps on the chicken pieces. If it doesn’t, the batter is probably too thin, and you can thicken the batter with a little more flour.

Note the little lumps of flour. This is what you need.

4) Once all the chicken pieces are coated with flour, fry in a heavy pan (cast iron is ideal), in 1/2 to 1 inch of canola or other frying oil. The ideal temperature is around 325 to 350 degrees. At this temp, the chicken should fry gently without burning. At this temp, cooking for about 3 or 4 minutes per side should cook them wings through.

5) Serve at once, or slightly cooled. The wings will stay crisp for at least 10 minutes or so.

Look at that texture. To me, this is what great fried chicken is all about!

Risotto

Plain risotto with onion

Several weeks ago the restaurant was closed and we taught a series of cooking classes instead. At each of the cooking classes we made risotto with sausage and cranberry beans, which we also served at the restaurant back in October.

In a traditional Italian meal, there are two principal courses (primo piatto, and secondo piatto), often preceded by an appetizer (antipasto) and followed by a dessert (dolce). The primo piatto is invariably a soup, pasta, or risotto. Risotto is the creamy rice dish of certain Northern Italian regions, made with one of several special rice varieties and a unique cooking method in which one adds liquid only gradually while stirring almost constantly.

The most common rice for making risotto is arborio. It is pretty widely available these days in most supermarkets, though just like with pasta, I find imported arborio superior to domestic if you have a choice. Although arborio is the most common risotto rice both here and in Italy, it is not the finest. In the Veneto, Italians prefer vialone nano. Elsewhere, carnaroli is the considered the finest rice for risotto. What all three have in common is a high percentage of amylopectin, the same sticky starch which makes yukon gold the perfect potato for gnocchi. But some arborio can become almost too creamy and begin to dissolve. It also tends to have a narrow window between undercooked and overcooked (like pasta, risotto should be serve al dente). Vialone nano and carnaroli (which is a cross between vialone nano and a Japanese variety) produce creamy risotto with more distinct kernels and a larger window between under and overcooked.

Certainly, making risotto with arborio is better than not making risotto, but the extra trouble to acquire vialone nano or canaroli is well worth it, and does a lot to explain why the risotto we made recently at the restaurant and in classes was so well regarded. The rice we use is a very special carnaroli from Piedmont called acquerello, which we mail order from Amazon. 

Acquerello is actually aged and enriched with the the nutritious germ of the rice kernel. Although it takes longer to cook than other types (25 to 27 minutes), the result is well worth the wait.

Often, recipes indicate that the rice needs to be stirred constantly, but this is not true. As long as you don’t step away for too long and as long as the rice doesn’t dry out and burn, you’ll be fine. I usually stir for a minute or so and step away for a minute or so. This is one reason risotto in restaurants is often so dreadful. Unless the kitchen has someone dedicated to stirring for 25 minutes (which few do), the risotto will be partially pre-made and reheated (yuck!).

Some cooks add a little white wine before adding broth. We never do, but it is certainly worth experimenting with. Of course, in addition to the quality of your rice, the character of your risotto will be determined largely by what type of broth you use. If the only way you’ll ever make risotto is to use store-bought broth, by all means do, but your results will be far superior with homemade broth. Homemade broth is really quite easy. Simply add some a few pieces of chicken or a chicken carcass in a large pot with an onion or two and several carrots and stalks of celery. If you have some meaty bones of beef, all the better. Bring to a near boil (about 180 degrees) and keep at that temperature for a few hours before cooling, straining, and refrigerating or freezing. You can let it boil, but the broth will be less clear and more cloudy. We don’t salt our broth, preferring to more aggressively season whatever we’re adding the broth to. With frozen broth on hand, you can make risotto or soup at a moment’s notice. If you’re vegetarian, simply omit the meat and double the quantity of vegetables. Really couldn’t be easier.

Like pasta sauces, there is an infinite number of possible risotto dishes to make. The most basic risotto is simply given a flavor base of gently sauteed onion. We tend to prefer slightly heartier risotti with meat and/or beans, such as the recipe you’ll find below, which we first learned from Marcella Hazan’s beautiful cookbook Marcella Cucina.

If you can make your own sausage, all the better. If not, try to find a minimally seasoned one without fennel or just use heavily seasoned ground pork. Cranberry beans are similar to borlotti beans in Italy. They’re a bit hard to find, but they can be mail ordered, or you can use a canned version which Goya markets as “Roman Beans”. It’s best to buy dried beans and soak/cook them yourself, but the canned beans wouldn’t be too great a sacrifice in this dish.

Risotto with Sausage and Cranberry Beans

1. Bring about 5 or 6 cups of broth to a lazy simmer.
2. Brown about ½ cup sausage in a pot with some olive oil, and then add about ½ cup onion and cook until just softened.
3. Add about a cup of cooked or canned cranberry beans along with a knob or two of butter.
4. Add 250 grams rice (about 1 ½ cups) and about ½ to 1 teaspoon salt (assuming no salt in your broth), and stir for a minute or two to coat the kernels.
5. Begin adding broth a ladleful or two at a time, keeping the heat on medium. After each addition, the pot should look soupy. When most of the liquid is absorbed in a few minutes, add another ladleful or two until the rice is done (20 to 25 minutes depending on the type). If you run short on broth, continue with water.
6. The risotto is done when al dente, tender but firm. When it is just about finished, add another knob of butter and about ½ cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano. If necessary, add a little broth to obtain a nice, creamy consistency. In some places, risotto is more soupy than others, though it should never really look like a soup. On the other hand, if it is too dry and sticky, it can be quite wearying. Garnish with a thin sliver of butter, more parmigiano, and possibly some chopped parsley.

Gnocchi at last

The first indication that all is not right with gnocchi recipes is that they directly contradict each other. Some say that one must only use russet baking potatoes; others say that russet potatoes won’t work. Some say you need an egg. Others say an egg will ruin the dough. Some say to boil the potatoes. Others say they must be baked. Some insist on using imported Italian flour. Others say American flour is just fine. Some insist on giving the gnocchi an impression by pressing them against a fork. Others say to skip this cosmetic step. Some say that making gnocchi is “easy and simple”. Others write that they have mastered it only after decades of experience. What in the world is going on?

My introduction to gnocchi came through Marcella Hazan’s excellent book The Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, which was my daily guide in the early years of learning to cook. She says definitively that the potato must be neither too mealy (like a russet) nor too waxy. It must, moreover, not be a freshly dug “new” potato, but one which has aged a bit and become an “old” potato. She also says definitively that though some cooks even in Italy use an egg, it is looked down upon and creates a rubbery product which some refer to as “Paris style” (tells you what Italians think of Parisian cooking). I don’t really remember my first attempts years ago to make gnocchi, but I know they weren’t encouraging. Concluding that gnocchi just weren’t that impressive, I lost interest in them for years.

But then I found myself in Rome under the tutelage of guide Katie Parla. After complaining about some mediocre gnocchi I’d eaten the night before, and after hearing Katie’s explanation that many places serve low quality gnocchi made from dehydrated potato flakes (yuck!), Katie took me to L’Arcangelo, not too far from the Vatican and Castel Sant’ Angelo. She assured me that Arcangelo’s were the finest gnocchi in town and some of the best in all of Italy. That is high praise, but Arcangelo’s gnocchi didn’t disappoint. After years of hearing that gnocchi should be like airy pillows but never experiencing anything close to that, the first bite at L’Arcangelo were a complete revelation. They were indeed weightless and exquisite. Sweetening the deal further, he had sauced them with the most exquisite expression which I had ever had of the Roman pasta sauce all’ Amatriciana (tomato with guanciale and pecorino). It remains one of the finest dishes I’ve eaten in my life. And on each return visit, the same experience has been consistently repeated. Desperate for some inkling of Arcangelo’s secret, he explained that the key was to boil the potatoes in equal parts salt and water.

Gnocchi all’ Amatriciana at l’ Arcangelo in Rome

Of course, equal parts salt and water is more like a slurry than anything to cook potatoes in. Maybe something was lost in translation. Maybe he was just pulling our leg. But it did lead me to an intriguing discovery: Syracuse salt potatoes. Salt potatoes originated in Syracuse, NY when salt miners would boil potatoes using the local salty water from the marshes near the mines. Using an incredible salt ratio of 1 cup of salt for 6 cups of water, the method raises the boiling point of the water so much that the potatoes cook at a higher temperature and the water more completely cooks the starch, giving the potatoes a remarkably firm but creamy texture. Though one would imagine that so much salt would make the potatoes inedible, the skins protect the potatoes and they hardly absorb any salt at all.

I had a hunch that something like this might be what Arcangelo was talking about. But when I made them using the method described by Marcella and also her son Giuliano, I still had heavy, gluey gnocchi. Although I revere Marcella Hazan, I began to doubt that her recipe could produce the sort of gnocchi I was looking for.

So I began to look at other recipes. I quickly learned that about 95% of all gnocchi recipes call for russet baking potatoes (the kind Marcella says won’t work) and an egg. The most exacting of these call for baking rather than boiling the potatoes, which makes sense. Since adding too much flour is the downfall of gnocchi and since the drier the potato the less flour will be needed, it seemed logical that baking the potatoes would decrease their moisture and make for lightly gnocchi. So I tried this method, but to no avail. They were edible, but not the ethereal gnocchi I was seeking. I even went to a cooking class taught by a chef I greatly admire. But she too called for baking potatoes and an egg, and her gnocchi were good, but they weren’t the ethereal gnocchi I was seeking. A friend of mine was also seeking to master gnocchi and we would commiserate at the seeming impossibility of the task. If not for my taste memory at L’ Arcangelo, I would have dismissed gnocchi and given up.

But then, pouring over recipes and articles on-line and in books, I noticed that the most authoritative sources still seemed to argue for making gnocchi without an egg. When I learned from Katie that Arcangelo also makes eggless gnocchi, I knew that must be the way. Just as importantly, these sources argued for making gnocchi not with a baking potato, but with another type: yukon gold. Yukon gold is a potato we know well. It is the primary potato we grow in our market garden for our vegetable customers. What is it, I wondered, about the yukon gold potato which makes it superior for gnocchi?

And this question led me to the single most critical piece of information about gnocchi making. Since most of us don’t grow potatoes, we don’t know much about them. In stores, they have meaningless names like “eastern” potatoes, whatever that means (nothing). But then I happened upon this magnificent chart describing the different textures and cooking characteristics of various potato varieties.

Source: Wood Praire Farms (www.woodpraire.com)

This chart shows that potatoes actually have TWO kinds of starch, not one, and that those who say that russet potatoes are more starchy than other types have no idea what they’re talking about. They have more of ONE of the types of starch, Amylose, which makes a floury or mealy potato, and less of the OTHER type of starch, Amylopectin, which causes the potato to hold together when cooked. Moreover, some potatoes are more MOIST than other and some are more DRY than others. When I thought about gnocchi making, where you want a dry potato that holds together when cooked, and then I consulted the chart to see what varieties fit that bill, right there I found the yukon gold potato (along with several other varieties one never sees in a store).

At once it all made sense. If one uses a baking potato, no matter how dry one gets it, it is a mealy, floury potato which will fall apart when cooked, and which therefore REQUIRES an egg to help the dough hold together, even if this leads to a heavier, rubbery result. With a yukon gold, however, it has enough amylopectin that it will hold together ON ITS OWN, without the need for an egg, and since it is a DRY type of potato, it will require minimal flour.

Hugely encouraged by this knowledge, I humbly realized that I had come full circle and that Marcella and Giuliano Hazan had been right all along. I made a batch using yukon gold, the dough came together easily and held together, and my first bite, though not quite at Arcangelo’s level, was the first bite of gnocchi I had ever made which could be described as weightless.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to immediately repeat my success. I had been using Italian flour and I got a bad bag which ruined my next batch. My third attempt was ruined with too much flour. Just as I thought I was getting somewhere, I began to question whether my one success had been a fluke. Everyone says to use as little flour as possible, but when I used as little as possible (about 100 grams for 800 grams potatoes), the gnocchi tasted too raw, too much of straight potato, and they weren’t weightless.

But then I had my final epiphany. Rereading Giuliano Hazan’s recipe for the hundredth time, I gave adequate attention to a phrase I had passed too glibly: incorporate flour until one has a smooth dough. I’ve been cooking seriously for 15 years, but what the heck does a smooth dough mean? How smooth? What should it look like? Feel like? This information is almost always left out. Every gnocchi recipe always stresses to NOT overwork the dough or they’ll be tough, just like the instructions for pie dough. But just like with pie dough, the invocation not to work the dough often leads to the opposite error: underworking the dough, being so scared to handle it, that the ingredients never become fully incorporated. I had figured this out years ago for pie crusts – that you had to work the dough enough to get a homogeneous mass that actually came together – but I hadn’t really applied it to the gnocchi dough. I had been working it so little out of fear of overworking that the dough really wasn’t homogeneous or SMOOTH as Giuliano says. On my next batch, I gently massaged in the flour until the dough was completely smooth and homogeneous. I boiled and tested one gnoccho and it still wasn’t right, so I increased the flour to 150 grams (about 1 and 1/6 of a cup) and the gnocchi suddenly and miraculously became ethereal. I realized that too little flour could be a problem too, even if the gnocchi held together, and that there was a magically sweet spot, which for me was 150 grams of flour, though I imagine this could vary widely depending on what potatoes one uses and how one cooks them (I was still boiling them in a HIGH salt water).

Of course, just when you think you’re home free, one finds disagreement over how long to cook gnocchi. Some say till they float. Marcella says till they float and then 10 seconds more (adding or subtracting a few seconds as needed). Huh? A second of cooking makes a difference? Others says to cook them for a minute after they float. One once again feels like one is in a house of mirrors. To make matter worse, how can you tell if they’re floating if you have water boiling violently and they’re being knocked all around? My breakthrough here came just several days ago, courtesy of Rachel of the blog Rachel Eats. She very sensibly points out that the gnocchi should cook at a gentle simmer (almost a poach), not a tempestuous boil like pasta needs. When I cook them that way, it is immediately obvious as soon as they float. For me, they cook in 1 minute and 45 seconds, a very short cooking time which to me suggests light and airy gnocchi.

How do you know you’ve made them correctly? When cooked they should be solid in appearance, not grainy or dissolving, but the should be ethereal. What do I mean by ethereal? Think of the most weightless pancake you’ve ever eaten, one that seems like a cloud, compared to heavy, dull pancakes. Likewise, think of the most light mashed potatoes, as opposed to heavy, dull ones. You should experience that same thrill when eating gnocchi.

There are still questions I don’t have a definitive answer to (does the salty water really matter?), but I’ve been able to repeat my success enough to feel confident offering my recipe as a likely candidate for successful replication. Ironically, gnocchi are very simple in one sense, but in another, they are one of the most challenging things I’ve ever learned to cook, and one of the dishes most difficult to teach through the written word. If ever there was a time to stand at the side of an experienced cook, this is it.

Potato Gnocchi

1) Bring 1 quart of water and ¾ cup salt to a boil. The Hazans do not call for this heavily salted water and perhaps someday I will eliminate it, but for now it works for me and seems in line with Arcangelo’s advice. The potatoes will not become saturated with salt unless their skins break, which has never happened to me. The extra salt seems to firm up their skins and keep them intact. Paula Wolfert, who has excellent advice about gnocchi and admits that she only recently mastered gnocchi after cooking for 40 years, recommends baking the potatoes instead. I have not had success with that method, but I can’t dismiss it and others might find even better success with the baking method.

2) Add 1 ½ pounds yukon gold potatoes, all of a similar size. If you can’t find yukon gold, you can try another plain boiling potato, but you’re taking a risk. I know it seems silly, but you could always mail order the yukon gold. Or grow them yourself! Cook the potatoes until tender, about 30 minutes, until easily pierced with a toothpick. I keep the heat on medium low and keep the potatoes covered to reduce evaporation of the water.

3) Immediately slice the potatoes in half and peel the skins. They are hot, but use a towel if you need to. They need to be peeled right away and passed through a food mill or ricer. Some swear by the former and others by the latter. I use the ricer. Rice or mill them onto a well-floured wooden board. Total flour needed will be 100 to 150 grams, including the flour on the wooden board. I measure out two bowls, one with 100 grams and one with 50 grams. I know I’ll need at least 100 grams, and then I use as much of the remaining 50 as I need.

4) Some people, including Paula Wolfert, recommend allowing the riced potatoes to cool. I haven’t found that it helps, but you might try it. I actually like to work the dough while it is warm. It feels softer and more pleasurable.

5) Add the remainder of the 100 grams and massage the mass gently into a soft, smooth, and homogeneous dough. It will be tacky but not sticky. It will be a beautiful gold if you use yukon gold. You won’t see flour and the dough will feel soft and lovely.

6) Cut off a piece, form it into a little gnoccho, and throw it in some boiling water. Check it when it floats. If it falls apart or still tastes too raw, add some or all of the additional flour. There is no simple answer here. Only practice and experience will teach you the right amount of flour. I’m still learning myself. According to Anna del Conte, the best gnocchi makers in Northern Italy use only 100 grams of flour for one kilogram (about 2 pounds) potatoes. For me, that’s not enough. For me the sweet spot is consistently 150 grams. I should add that I am using imported “00” Italian flour. I have no experience with American all purpose flour when making gnocchi, but that is what the Hazans recommend. I believe unbleached pastry flour would also be a good choice. Italian flour is more finely milled than most American flour, and the kind of flour you use will affect how much you need. Only experience will teach you.

7) Once you are satisfied that the dough is right, cut off a tennis ball sized piece and roll into a snake, cutting the piece in half as needed to make it manageable. I like larger gnocchi and aim for a ¾ inch thick snake. I cut off 1 inch pieces and I DO NOT use a fork to make an impression on the gnocchi. The traditional argument is that the irregular surfaces of “forked” gnocchi catch sauce better, which I do not find to be true. Arcangelo doesn’t indent, and that is good enough for me.

8) This amount of dough makes about 50 gnocchi, depending on the size, which is 6 moderately sized portions. I only cook about one third of them at a time in 2 quarts of water seasoned with 1 tablespoon salt. Unlike pasta, which needs much more water to move around in, cooking a small amount of gnocchi in a smaller pot works well for me. Keep the heat at a steady, gentle simmer but not a rolling, tempestuous boil. For me, they cook in just under two minutes, which I take as a good sign that I’ve produced light and airy gnocchi. Heavy gnocchi take longer to cook.

9) Once they float I remove them with a slotted spoon and place them in the pan with their sauce, tossing gently, while I cook the remaining gnocchi. Once all are cooked, serve at once. Just as with pasta, gnocchi go down hill quickly and within minutes you’ll have a cooled, heavy mess on your hands. Really, gnocchi are at their best for 1 to 2 minutes after cooking.

10) Many people suggest that smooth or pureed sauces are best for gnocchi. Pesto and butter/sage are two classics. I disagree, however. Arcangelo’s amatriciana is perfect with the gnocchi. I’m not completely happy with my own amatriciana, but I am completely enamored of gnocchi with sausages, tomatoes, and cream.

11) To make this sauce for a full batch of gnocchi, brown about 1 cup plain sausage in a little olive oil, and then add about 1/2 cup diced onion. Cook until soft and lightly colored, and then add about 1 cup chopped tomatoes (high quality canned are fine) and a knob of butter. Add a generous pinch of salt and cook until the tomatoes are reduced and broken down, about 5 minutes. Add a moderate glug of cream and reduce until moderately thick. Remove from heat.

12) As the gnocchi are done, toss gently with the sauce. When all the gnocchi are done, plate at once and garnish with freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano.

My very own gnocchi sauced with sausage, tomatoes & cream