Warm Arugula and Treviso Tartine with Midnight Moon Goat's Cheese

So simple... yet oh. So good.

There is nothing more appetizing to me than a dish full of color. Though summer produce is celebrated for its varied palette, the richness of winter colors appeals to me in a way that is far more alluring and sensual.

I came back from a yoga class today, not feeling too hungry, with a fierce appetite to cook. I tried a few fingerfulls of fresh baby arugula, then found a leftover half of an English muffin from eggs a few nights ago. The crisp, bitter taste of the greens jogged my sensory memory back to the day before, when I took a lunch break with my friend from work to eat at Quartino Bottega Organica, a quaint yet stylish little Italian restaurant-cum-wine bar on Bleecker Street near the Bowery that serves all organic food for discerning New Yorkers and European tourists alike. Our panini -- served like a pizza -- came with mozzerella tucked inside a round, whole-wheat crust, and was topped wildly with fresh arugula and slices of heirloom tomato. We agreed that it was a good idea, but lacked a principal ingredient: salt.

My tastebuds inspired me beyond the simplicity of Quartino's panini: I nix'd the mozzarella and substituted Cypress Grove Midnight Moon Goat Gouda with a bit of aged parmesan, roasted half of a tomato, and sautéd the arugula with onions and purple treviso. Treviso, or radicchio rosso, is a lettuce from the Veneto region in Northern Italy that looks like the love child of radicchio and endive. I prefer treviso over radicchio for some recipes because I find that treviso leaves are milder and softer than the tightly-bound, round radicchio bulb.

The colors of the dish were deliciously vibrant and the flavors were astonishingly complementary for a 10-minute meal.

And of course, there was just enough salt.


WARM ARUGULA AND TREVISO TARTINE WITH MIDNIGHT MOON GOAT'S CHEESE

Serves 2, as a light lunch or a snack

1 English muffin, or two slices of fresh, whole wheat bread
1 handful of fresh baby Arugula
2 large Treviso leaves
1/4 small yellow onion
1/8 c shaved Midnight Moon Goat's Cheese
1 Tbsp shaved Aged parmesan
1 large Vine-ripened Tomato
Herbes de Provence
Olive oil
Salt & Pepper


Preheat broiler to high, 450 degrees.

On a small plate, combine about 1 Tbsp olive oil with a generous pinch of Herbs de Provence, and a pinch of salt and pepper. Cut tomato in half along its girth. Rub the cut side of both tomatoes down into the herbed olive oil mixture. Place tomatoes, oily side up, in a broiler pan and place directly under broiler, about 10mins, or until soft and beginning to brown.

Chop treviso leaves into bite-sized pieces. Slice onion into thin, half-moon slices. Heat a sauté pan on the stove, and sauté the onions on medium heat. Once onions have become transparent and are beginning to brown, turn off heat on pan and add arugula and treviso. Sauté leaves with heat off, pushing around with a wooden spoon, until greens wilt. Set aside.

Warm bread in oven at 375-degrees so it just begins to toast.* Remove, and sprinkle cheeses directly on bread. Add greens mixture on top, then another sprinkle of cheese. Position tartines on a baking sheet in oven on the middle rack. Bake until cheese melts and bread becomes crisp.

*Alternatively, keep an eye on bread and tartines so they do not burn, and bake in the same oven in which the tomatoes are broiling at 450-degrees.

Remove tartines and tomatoes from oven. Arrange a small handful of fresh arugula greens on plate, positioning one tomato on top. Place on tartine to the side.

Enjoy as a light meal or a snack, accompanied by a smooth and light Nebbiolo wine.

Buon appetito!

Swordfish Steaks with Moroccan Spice Rub and Couscous

I have always wanted to travel to Morocco. There is something about the culture, the landscape, and of course, the food, that has always intrigued and allured me. Moroccan cuisine is exotic because of the delicate mix of intricate spices like cumin, cinnamon, coriander and ginger. But it is also a cuisine that is quite simple and readily accessible here in the United States. Couscous -- a Moroccan staple -- can be found on almost all supermarket shelves, and traditional dishes like tagine are slow-cooked stews that require little active cooking.

Argan oil is a lesser-known ingredient to Americans. Argan is a tree species indigenous to the deserts of Morocco. The oil that is extracted from the fruits of the tree is golden-hued and has a distinctively nutty flavor. It can be purchased at specialty stores and fine groceries. I first discovered it at the Marché Biologique at the Rennes Metro stop in Paris, and I've seen it at on occasion at the Columbus Circle Whole Foods in New York.

In some ways, French colonial influence has influenced Moroccan cooking -- though perhaps the influence is reversed. Many French restaurants have adopted Moroccan spicing to their dishes, all the while retaining traditional western preparations. The French love couscous, spices, and Moroccan patisserie and street food; some of the most popular carry-out places in Paris are the falafel joints, and almost every street has its resident North African kebab window. Moroccan restaurants are rife in Paris, especially in the Marais district, in the 3e and 4e arrondissements on the Left Bank. My favorite is 404 Restaurant Familial, where the sexy, dark décor, sumptuous food, and full-bodied Moroccan wines make for a delicious and authentic dining experience.

This recipe for Swordfish Steaks and Couscous is a very simple dish, made more interesting by a simple Moroccan spice rub. With its western preparation, it could very easily be found on a menu at a French restaurant. This meal is very healthy, low in fat, and an excellent source of protein and whole grain, if you use whole-wheat couscous. The toasted almonds and wine-soaked raisins make this light couscous side dish absolutely scrumptious and rich-tasting, especially with a touch of Argan oil. I recommend pairing this dish with a white wine like Joseph Druhin Macon-Village (2005). The white fruit flavors of apple, the crisp mineral tonality, and the hint of anise are perfect complements for the spices in this dish.


SWORDFISH STEAKS WITH MOROCCAN SPICE RUB AND COUSCOUS

Serves 4

4 Swordfish steaks
Olive Oil

For the spice rub
1 Tbsp Coriander
1 Tbsp Cumin
1 Tbsp Chile
1 Tbsp Brown Sugar
1 tsp Salt
1/2 tsp Cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground Fennel Seed
1/2 tsp ground Black Pepper

For the couscous
2 c Whole Wheat Couscous
1/4 cup Golden Raisins
1/2 cup sweet Marsala wine
1/2 cup slivered Almonds
2 c Chicken stock
2 c water
Olive oil
Salt and pepper, to taste


Mix all spice rub ingredients together in a large bowl. Brush swordfish steaks with olive oil, then coat fish in the spices, rubbing the mix over all sides. Set aside, and allow to marinate for at least 1hr.

Turn oven broiler to high. Place a cast iron pan in oven to heat up for about 15 minutes before cooking fish.

In a small baking dish, toast almond slivers under broiler until browned and fragrant. Set aside.

In a small sauté pan, bring Marsala wine to a boil, add golden raisins, and reduce to a thick syrup, until wine evaporates as much as possible. Set aside.

In a medium-sized pot, bring water and chicken stock to a boil. Stir in couscous, cover, and remove from heat. Let stand 5 minutes until all water is absorbed, then fluff with a fork, adding almonds and raisins, salt and pepper to taste.

Being extremely careful of the hot cast iron pan, take it out of the oven, and quickly arrange swordfish steaks before returning pan, with fish, directly under the broiler. The heat of the pan will help cook the steaks more thoroughly, and it will sear and caramelize the rub. Broil swordfish steak for 7 mins under broiler on one side, turn to other side for 4-5 mins if necessary. Swordfish will be done when it is white and opaque, and moist on the inside.

Serve swordfish atop a mound of couscous with a drizzle of argan oil. This meal goes well with vegetables such as zucchini, yellow squash, and asparagus, roasted in the oven in olive oil and salt and pepper. Serve meal with Macon-Villages, and finish with a plate of Moroccan pastries such as Gazelle Horns, a simple ambrosia of oranges, mint, and honey, and a soothing cup of Moroccan mint tea.

Bon appétit!

Eggplant Stacks with Wild Boar Ragú

My father was one of five children -- two girls, three hungry boys. Like every good Italian family, meals were served at table from large plates that were passed from person to person. I assume there must have been some sort of passing hierarchy, because my father always tells stories of anxiously waiting for the plate to reach him -- the second-to-last child -- at which point the good parts of the dish had been taken. Because the men in the family had such great appetites, there was always a sense of immediacy to the meal: eat quickly, or be left hungry.

I am sure that the threat of not having enough dinner was part of what made my father love food so much. It wasn't that food was scarce for his family, but rather that my father's voracious, teenage appetite couldn't easily be sated around a table of a family of seven, plus guests. Fortunately, he and my mother bore two girls, which means that my father always gets the lion's share of the meal.

For my father's birthday last month, my mother and I gave him the gift of a culinary weekend: three magnificent dinners and a delicious brunch. The following recipe, Eggplant Stacks with Wild Boar Ragú, is one of the dishes my mother and I prepared for him. My mother has a knack for finding all sorts of wild game meat to put into her dishes. She buys the D'Artagnan brand boar products. My father, ever the wine connoisseur, recommends this dish with a sturdy Barolo.


EGGPLANT STACKS WITH WILD BOAR RAGU

Serves 4

1 large Vidalia onion, chopped
5 cloves garlic, crushed
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 pound boneless wild boar meat, cut into medium-sized cubes
1 pound chopped tomatoes
3 bay leaves
Fresh or dried oregano
Fresh basil
1 cup red wine
1 large eggplant, cut into1/4-inch slices
Fontina cheese (or another similar cheese that melts well, like Istara)
Fettucine pasta, or another spaghetti-like variety
Salt and pepper, to taste


In a large cast-iron pot, sauté the onion in olive oil until translucent. Add garlic. Add the boar meat and cook until seared and brown.

De-glaze the pan with a splash of wine, letting the boar absorb some of the wine, about thirty seconds. Add the tomatoes and the bay leaves and oregano. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Let ragù simmer on low on the stovetop. leaving the lid of the pot slightly ajar. Keep stirring occasionally for at least two hours. The longer the ragù is left to simmer, the more tender the meat will become.

Brush the eggplant rounds with olive oil, sprinkling with salt and pepper. Grill both sides of the eggplant until cooked. Remove from grill, and set aside on a dish for assembly.

Boil a large pot of water for pasta. Add salt once water has begun to boil. Add pasta, cook until al dente, and strain water thoroughly.

The ragù iwill be ready to eat when the meat falls apart from the cubes and has absorbed most of the liquid.

To assemble eggplant stacks, begin first layer on plate with eggplant. Add a layer of fontina cheese, a spoonful of ragù, followed by a full basil leaf. Repeat until desired height is reached, about three layers. Top with a generous spoonful of ragù, cheese, and chiffonade pieces of basil. In another corner of the dish, twist pasta into a nest, spooning ragù into the center. Sprinkle with cheese, and enjoy with a glass of Barolo.

Buon apetito!

Arthur Avenue: Little Italy in the Bronx

My father recently told me the following story. When my sister and I were young, my parents used to dress us up in fancy clothes and take us out to dinner, oftentimes to fine Italian restaurants around Connecticut. Our favorite was a lovely place in New Haven called Tre Scalini, an upscale favorite of Wooster Street residents in Little Italy. One Sunday night, I brought my little sister to the bathroom, and upon returning, showed my father two twenty dollar bills.

"Where'd you get that?" He asked.
"From the man at the bar over there," I replied, pointing to a man, well-dressed, well-jeweled, and in a finely-pressed suit.
"You can't take money from strangers," my father said, and called over our waiter to figure out how to return the gift. The waiter came by the table and my father inquired about the gentleman.
"Oh, you can't give that money back," the waiter said gravely. "You don't return gifts like that when the come from a guy like him." A wink and a nod.

Needless to say, my father was nervous so that we skipped our tiramisu dessert and left the restaurant without a fuss, but with a polite "thank you" to the signore, who replied with a nod of the head.

Now, thirteen years later, I recently found myself graciously accepting a liter of unfiltered Sicilian olive oil from the shop owner of Teitel Brothers Wholesale and Retail Grocery Company on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. When I asked how much I owed him, the shopkeeper gave me an eye.

"Whaddya mean?" He asked me. A wink and a nod.


Arthur Avenue is Little Italy in the Bronx. Located near Fordam University between Fordam Road and East 183rd Street, this stretch of neighborhood is as close to an authentic Italian neighborhood as one can get in New York. Forget Little Italy in China Town -- uptown in the Bronx is the real . It is an Italian foodie's paradise; both sides of the street are packed with grocery shops, butchers, delis, bakeries, pastry shops, between which people are constantly running with their wares to meet the demands of a very hungry clientele.

Recently, my dear consigliere urged me to get to Arthur Avenue to do a story for Goûter; he had been there on numerous, storied occasions when he lived here in New York, and he knew that I'd love it. A few weeks later, my parents announced that they'd be coming into the city to go to the New York Botanical Gardens and then having lunch on Arthur Avenue nearby. I invited myself along with them and their friends, hopped the MetroNorth to the Bronx, and navigated my way on foot to Arthur Avenue, a place that somehow felt like home. Everyone was out on the street, enjoying the lazy breeze of the autumn afternoon. And yet, the whole street was in a wonderful commotion of people eating, playing cards, chatting at the salon, eating, toting around groceries, eating, yelling from windows, having discussions on the sly, eating, running through traffic, smoking, and eating. Italian was spoken everywhere by everyone, and hands were flying about expressively from hip to mouth to chin.

My father was hungry, so the first thing to do was find Enzo's, the restaurant where we had been told to eat by one of his colleagues who grew up on Arthur Avenue. Even with the plethora of great eats to chose from (Roberto's, Dominick's, Pasquale's, etc.), we were told that Enzo's was the place to go. It was a delight, indeed. Enzo's is a homey little trattoria where neighborhood regulars dine in big family groups. The restaurant has brick walls with large, medieval tapestries, an impressive rack of wine on display, and beautiful, hammered copper ceiling overhead. The food is traditional Italian -- simple, but delicious. Our hostess felt like an old friend (she knew someone with our same last name on Long Island, a baker...), and she doted on us with friendly curiosity. We ordered a bottle of Tuscan Sangiovese, Castello Banfi Rosso di Montalcino (2005) -- dry, oak-ey, and ruby red. We began the meal with a round of appetizers: salty Clams Oreganata, buttery Polenta with white beans and savory sausage, and fresh Mozzarella di Bufala with big slices of red tomato, crisp basil, and roasted red peppers. By the end of that feast, we were feeling full, but when the pastas came to the table, our appetites expanded, and we loosened our belts. Rigatoni alla Siciliana with hunks of lucious eggplant and mozzarella in a sweet tomato sauce; Cavatelli di Broccoli Rabe with sausage in fresh olive oil with garlic, and Orchiette with peppery sausage, chicken, and portobello mushroom in a spicy, chunky tomato sauce. We passed around plates, picking and tasting, wiping up the sauces with fresh Italian bread with huge pieces of black olive baked inside. All around us, everyone was enjoying the same tradition, clinking glasses of wine in the mid-afternoon and easing digestion with a bit of Sambuca.

From Enzo's we took to the street to explore the local vendors. My mother and I ran across the street to Biancardi's Meat, which was like an entire meat locker unto itself, crowded with people and pungent with the smell of freshly killed meats. Biancardi's is the home of the delicious sausage from Enzo's, which comes in two varieties: spicy, and mouth-blowingly spicy. At the back of the store, the ceiling is covered in various, long salumi hanging from meat racks, to the right of which is a brooding portrait of the Madonna.

Next we stopped into Addeo Bakers, whose enormous loaves of bread came in various shapes and sizes. Large circular loaves, long loaves, hundreds of breadsticks of different varieties, and so much more.

On the previous block was the celebrated grocer, Teitel Brothers. Established in 1915, the grocery is a tiny little store that is packed floor-to-ceiling with delicious, gourmet Italian foodstuffs. Out in front are paint buckets filled with a variety of dried beans, canned beans and tomatoes piled into high towers, jugs of various olive oils marking the entrance, and a strange display of salted eels splayed out, as if to guard the door from hungry intruders. Inside, the store consists of only one aisle into which everyone -- customers, runners, shopkeepers -- are packed. Everyone screams and shouts their orders because everyone goes to Teitel's with a precise list of what to buy. Perhaps that is why the shopkeeper came running toward me and I was looking over shoulders in an attempt to browse around the store. It was from him that I got the olive oil, and another confirmation that someone of my same last name is a baker in Long Island.

I lost track of my father and his friend, only to lose him further inside of the Arthur Avenue Retail Market, an indoor market of various sellers with a variety of delicious and bizarre wares. In the front of the store is an area inside of which a handful of men are busy at work rolling fresh cigars and chain-smoking the dregs all day long. My father got stuck with a man selling a hodge-podge of kitchen goods in an attempt to buy my mother an electric tomato sauce machine to replace the hand-grinder that he so lovingly attends to during tomato sauce season at home (when she discovered what he was up to, his efforts went for naught). I wandered into the back with Glen and Robin, my parents friends, only to discover more butchers (pig's feet, cow's tongue, lamb's head, kidneys, hearts, livers), a green grocer, and a giant salumi hanging from the rafters. People were eating everywhere, snacking on delicious savories and sweets. Our appetites whet once again, we headed back to the street in search of Stratciatella Gelato (fluffy, creamy vanilla with thin, wispy shards of dark chocolate).

On the street, we saw Alex, our waiter from Enzo's. He told us where to go -- a pastry shop "around the corner, four shops in." Following his instructions, we found ourselves at DeLillo Bakery, the family store once owned by the parents of author Don DeLillo. The smell inside the shop was warm and sweet, and enveloped us like the crunchy crust of a cannoli. We were tempted to stay, but there was no Stratciatella flavor that day.

Back on the street, I found my father focusing the camera on a dapper-looking gentleman in a stylish, pressed gray suit, pink shirt with jeweled cuffs, who was talking to a lesser-looking fellow in drab clothes. I watched as the smaller man caught sight of my father, and the two looked over with faces blank. My father clumsily pointed the camera up toward a street sign, snapped what turned out to be a fantastic picture (but not of them), and then he hurried around the corner, and pulled me out of sight.

Fortunately, we stumbled into Egidio's bakery, where we found our gelato. Yet again there was no straciatella, but the feast inside was exactly what we had been looking for. In fact, it was in Egidio's into which I first stumbled on my lost way to find the New York Botanical Gardens to find my parents, and when I saw the shop owner again, she immediately recognized me as though I were an old friend. Carmela Lucciola oversees Egidio Pastry Shop off Arthur Avenue on 187th street all on her own, and even owns a beautiful restaurant, Dolce Amaro, around the corner back on the Avenue. We chatted for a while over the counter (again with the relative who is a baker on Long Island), and then she sent me with one of her employees to scout out the restaurant -- the only one in town with an outdoor patio.

When I returned to Egidio's, I found my parents and their friends enjoying heaping bowls of glistening gelato, smiling and content. Carmela whisked me around the shop, chatting about business, the neighborhood, speaking in English, then Italian, then English again. Somehow, I was able to understand and keep up with her. Toward the back of the shop's cases stuffed with buttery cookies, I found a tray of chunky biscotti, Quaresimali, or Lenten Almond Biscuits. These hard and crunchy cookies were created especially for the lenten season when good Roman Catholic Italians abstain from tempting sweets. Quaresimali, however, don't count, and pair perfectly with a teensy cup of hot espresso.

It was nearing 5 o'clock and my parents and their friends had to leave before evening traffic set in (albeit, they were doing the reverse commute). We all reluctantly left Carmela ("Ce vediamo, tanti baci!"), and as I walked down the darkening street, I felt a small sense of loss. There are days when I believe that New York is the greatest city in the world, and other days when I feel trapped by the concrete and the anonymity of the busy sidewalks. Arthur Avenue is neither concrete nor anonymous; it is a place that feels like Europe in America, and welcomes visitors like family. Leaving Arthur Avenue held, for me, the same feeling of anti-climax after holiday meals at home are over, and my loud, boisterous family all goes away (minus the relief of making it past the inevitable arguments and impetuous jokes). But like a good Italian family, there is always an excuse for another reunion, and I've already promised Carmela that I will return for the holidays to eat at Dolce Amaro.

Until then, I'll be dousing my food in the gifted olive oil, whipping of batches of Quaresimali, and trying to figure out who this baker is on Long Island with whom I share the same, multi-syllabic, ends-with-a-vowel, Italian last name.

Arthur Avenue Photo Album



QUARESIMALI
(from italiancookingandliving.com)

Makes about 1 doz cookies

• Sugar: 1 cup
• Flour: 1 1/2 cups
• Bitter cocoa powder: 1/2 cup
• Hazelnut paste: 1 3/4 oz
• 3 egg whites
• 1 orange
• Powdered vanilla or 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
• Cinnamon
• Baking powder: 1 tablespoon

Beat the egg whites until firm then add the sugar and the nut paste (this can be replaced with 1 3/4 oz of hazelnuts, finely ground in the food mixer).

In a separate bowl, mix the flour with the cocoa, the grated orange rind, a pinch of cinnamon, a little vanilla and the baking powder. Slowly fold this into the egg whites: you should obtain a fairly dense mixture.

On baking paper (or a buttered tray) form , using a syringe or confectioner's bag (space well as these will swell with cooking).

Leave to stand for about one hour, then place in a warm oven (300° F) for about ten minutes.

***


Enzo's
2339 Arthur Ave.
(bet. Crescent Ave. & E. 186th St.)
718.733.4455

Biancardi's Meat
2350 Arthur Avenue
718.733.4058

Addeo Bakers
2372 Hughes Ave
718.367.8316

Arthur Avenue Retail Market
2344 Arthur Avenue
(No phone)

DeLillo Pastry Shop
606 E. 187th St.
(bet. Arthur/Hughes Aves.)
718.367.8198

Egidio Pastry Shop
622 E 187th Street
718.295.6077

Dolce Amaro
2389 Arthur Avenue
347.270.0081

Table for One: In Search of Regulars at New York City's Restaurants

My apologies to everyone who has been patiently been asking for more. I've had this story written and waiting to be edited for a few weeks now, so here it is finally for you to read. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed my experience.

Bello Sguardo, Upper West Side
Amsterdam Avenue, between 79th and 80th Streets

"There's hardly enough light for you to read!" she said, offering me a candle wrapped in crimson paper from her table. "Well, that's not going to help any."

Indeed, there wouldn't be enough light for me to read my book, even so early at 8pm on an August night in New York City. The lack of adequate lighting completely defeated the purpose of my mid-week dinner out by myself. After a day of wandering around Central Park and the Upper West Side, I decided to end my day over a lone dinner to read my new book, enjoy a glass of wine and a caprese salad, and savor the lingering heat of day that evening at summer's end.

There is something about dining alone in New York that makes this very lonely practice rather acceptable. Every restaurant in the city has its regulars, and I'd wager that a large percentage of these regulars dine alone. Perhaps it is the comfort of returning every day to the same restaurant; the staff becomes like family, the customer's preferred table like his own dining table at home. But even amidst kissing couples, lively families, and groups of women on friend dates, a crowded restaurant can be rather comforting to those who dine alone. This is why, on that particular night in August, I decided to forgo scrolling through my cell phone contact list and
request a table for one.

That night at Bello Sguardo, a fine enough Mediterranean restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue, I found a bit of unexpected companionship. I was able to read only about a paragraph of my book (Picture Perfect, by Jodi Picoult) when my fellow diner interrupted to engage me in conversation. I found myself entranced by this woman, who told me an story more compelling than the one I read on paper -- the story of a woman's life, where love, family, creativity, and compromising truth and belief in oneself lead her here, next to me, to share my Table for One.

Stella, as she will be called for the sake of anonymity, is a regular at Bello Sguardo. With her jet black hair cut short in an incredibly elegant and stylish bob, she looked like an Italian Cleopatra on whom the waiters doted with a sort of maternal reverence. After she convinced me to order the Chopped Salad in place of the Caprese ("You'll get one tomato and a slice of cheese with the Caprese. The Chopped Salad is more interesting, or so it seems to me."), I ordered a glass of delightfully smooth and inexpensive Chablis, closed my book, and settled back for a simple meal and unexpected companionship.

Stella, like any good regular, called herself a very picky diner. Her meal, for example, was not on the menu. It was rather an accommodation by the restaurant's staff to suit her taste for that particular evening: mixed green vegetables, two rounds of eggplant parmigiana, and a spoonful of penne pomodoro. There hadn't been enough sauce on the eggplant, and she asked the waiter for more. "But you'll have to go downstairs to get it?" she asked, showing her knowledge of the complete topography of the restaurant. The waiter insisted on getting it for her, and so she agreed to have more sauce. Later she told me that she was hoping for string beans rather than mixed vegetables. She also complained --to me only -- that she should have been given Parmesan cheese. She resolved that just for tonight she wouldn't to be too picky.

I was curious to know why this attractive older woman would be dining alone. She was rather statuesque; her dark hair fell closely to her cheeks, as if to frame the features of her beautiful face. She wore the timeless combination of black and white clothing, and her manicured nails were polished a deep purple, just a few shades darker than her lipstick that painted her pouty lips. The only ring she wore was a simple, black band (made of plastic, she later confessed) on the pinky of her right hand.

When the waiter came to take my order, she encouraged me to ask for more feta cheese with my salad. I didn't, for once ordering straight off the menu without asking for changes. When I turned back to her, she looked both amused and disappointed.
"You didn't ask for more cheese..." she smiled.
"Oh, I didn't want to make a fuss. And those people over there look like they have the same salad with a nice bit of cheese on it."
"My children always say I'm too picky," she said, cutting a bite of eggplant with her fork. "I didn't realize I was picky. But I do think that the more I go to a place, like here, the more picky I become."

We talked for a bit about what made her picky: taste in food, taste in clothes, ("I have a pair of leather coolats with silk lining that I bought from Bergdorf Goodman's for $500. And that was in 1986, and I can still wear them... Ten, twenty, twenty-one years later."), and most importantly -- taste in men. She asked me what my past and present boyfriends had to say about my tendencies for pickiness. I laughed, and told her that it was less a question of my boyfriends' commenting on my pickiness, but rather a question of my friends who constantly comment on my pickiness when it comes to picking boyfriends. She chuckled, and then asked me to try to describe my perfect man.

For Stella, her perfect man had been her husband: "When I met him, I ran home and told my mother, 'I met my husband!' I knew right away." She looked nostalgic, and her eyes began to sparkle with dewy tears. "When I first saw him, he was sitting there with his hand on his chin, biting his thumb. His profile was so beautiful, chiseled like a statue."

Stella's husband was the brother of her good college friend, and Stella, after hearing about this brother all throughout college, finally concocted a plan to meet him. Their first meeting was a success, and after a year, they were married. "He made me feel safe and we just knew it was to be. We worked out the questions, and there were no doubts."

She told me about how her husband was a writer who composed beautiful poems to her, two of which she recited to me. Together, they had two children (two boys and a girl). "All I ever wanted were babies," she told me frankly. For her, a career was secondary to having a family. However, once the children came of age, Stella pursued the career of an actress. As a young girl, she did stage shows, but when she was older, she switched to film. "I did all the New York films," she told me humbly. "Serpico, Taxi Driver... I was in all of them. Back then, it was easy to get a part as an extra -- and I could take my babies to the set."

As her story goes, Stella entered the business rather "connected." She was discovered on stage by a fellow who told her to join the Italian-American division of the Screen Actors' Guild. As a bright young thing, she eagerly brought her new friend home to her father. "My father eyed him up and down, gave him a little upward nod. He did the same. It sealed the deal and I was in," she told me, touching my arm. "But when he left, my father screamed: 'What are you doing with a guy like Angelo?? Do you know who he works for?!?' But it didn't matter. Back then for us Italians, everybody worked for somebody."

We spent the whole evening wrapped in conversation about love, careers, food, and family. We touched on subjects that made her cry, we talked about things that inspired me to keep going for what I wanted and needed. At the end of the meal, she moved on to espresso, and asked her waiter if she could smoke. When he casually told her that she could not, she retorted by saying how she saw a friend of his smoking outside a few nights earlier. The waiter clearly couldn't argue with that, but out of politeness, Stella stood up and lit her smoke just on the border of the terrace. Like a star from an old film, she took long drags between thoughts, resting her elbow on the back of her opposite hand. "I think I'm starting to figure you out," she told me. And then she described me in almost perfect detail, and set me on course with a plan.

Once her espresso was finished, it was time for us both to go. We paid our checks (hers considerably less than mine -- another perk of being a regular) and we stood up to walk a bit together up the Avenue. We paused for a few moments at a sidewalk bench, and she lit up another cigarette "for digestion." As the ten o'clock hour neared, Stella turned to me and thanked me for my company, and excused herself to walk home alone into the summer evening.

Stella left me with some important advice, as well as other stories about her life which I guard for the sake of keeping the confidence with which she trusted me by recounting them. Of the many things I came to understand over that dinner with Stella, the most important lesson she seemed to stress was that we do not always have all of the answers. She encouraged us to live life with a little bit of recklessness in order to follow what the heart compels tells us to do. It seems that this philosophy has worked for Stella throughout her storied life. Even though now she dines alone, Stella has lived an entire life of fulfillment, where all of her hopes and needs were fulfilled. It is this life and the memories from it that have remained her trusted company through many a Table for One.

Knife Skills 101

Early this morning at 12:43am, I gave a doctor the finger.

It had been two hours since I arrived at the Emergency Room of St. Luke's Hospital. The nurse at triage complained to me about her late-night hunger. A woman two-and-a-half times my size with a breathing problem whined about being cold through her respiratory treatment tube while simultaneously sucking on Peanut M&M's. A few homeless people came in with "injuries" that required them to stay the night.

I waited patiently, slightly amused by my mishap, with my middle finger bleeding through a roll of gauze that trailed behind me because the triage nurse couldn't find her scissors to cut it properly.

I didn't cry when I sliced my finger open. I didn't panic when our cab driver had a hard time driving straight up Amsterdam Avenue. I didn't even get upset when I had to take a urine test to see if I was pregnant (the absurdity of which was made all the more amusing when my roommate told them she was positive that I wasn't pregnant, and the boyfriend of the sprained-ankle-girl questioned whether or not we were lesbians).

Not even the three-hour wait just to see a doctor had dampened my spirits. There was something rather vindicating about having my first trip to the ER be the result of a cooking accident. I was there because I had cut the cheese.

It was Mimolette cheese, one of my most favorite cheeses -- nutty, orange, and hard as wax. We were having a Delivery Lockdown Cocktail Party (awaiting a delivery from Bed Bath and Beyond) enjoying a bottle of Muscadet, Lemon Apples, Etorki Cheese and of course, the culprit Mimolette.

My other roommate couldn't slice through the cheese, and I offered assistance. I picked up the wedge, proudly poised to show off my cheese-cutting skills, and held the rind in my right hand, picked up the Swiss cheese knife in my left. A chorus of "watch your fingers" went up around the table -- which everyone did as soon as the knife skidded across the cheese and sliced through the tip of my right middle finger.

One bloody bamboo cheeseboard, one picture text message to my father, and one Google search for the best NYC ERs later ("Amanda, what are you expecting, a pre-suture spa treatment?"), I was on my way to bandage up my first serious injury that would allow me to become part of the ranks of cooks who sustain -- and relish in -- injuries from all sorts of kitchen mishaps.

Four years ago, I survived unscathed from a grill explosion in my face while grilling a filet of Tilapia. Two summers ago, I lost a bit of the tip of my right thumb while slicing vegetables on a mandolin slicer. When I was in Paris, I burned myself on my oven while pulling out a tray of roasted fall vegetables. I now have an hourglass-shaped scar on my right wrist. Since then, I've been in good shape. But this cheese knife cut was deep, bloody, and fleshy enough to seek real medical treatment. I like to think that my wound is a real chef's cut. Is it a bit perverse that I'm slightly disappointed that I cut it on cocktail cheese rather than while preparing a four-course meal?

In one week, I will get the stitches removed from my finger, and it won't look like a Frankenstein Finger anymore. I wonder if it will scar like the oven burn, or if it will return to normal like my eyebrows did after the gas grill explosion. Either way, I'm now in the Cut Cooks Club, and if anyone challenges my membership, I'll just show them the finger.

Wine-Roasted Peaches with Honey-Mint Yogurt Cream

I have a knack at making great friends at the very last minute before they, or I, have to leave wherever it is that I might be. This was the case with Naomi, who, after two semesters of seeing one another every week for our senior thesis seminar, finally asked me for a celebratory drink when we turned our big, fat, exhausting papers in. We quickly became fast friends, finding that we had much more in common than a love for France and European History.


And now, back to Europe -- Mother England -- Naomi must go. To celebrate her last night in New York, she had a brilliant cocktail party on her building's roof, where we sipped champagne and nibbled on a delightful array of desserts while gazing out onto the summer-hot New York City skyline. Among the deserts were two Georgia's Bakery favorites: the deliciously sinful, silken dark-chocolate cake, and the white-chocolate raspberry cake. Though my dessert contribution may not be able to rival the decadence of Georgia's famous Upper West Side treats, my wine-roasted peaches with honey-mint yogurt cream were a bit hit. I used chocolate Madeleines as a accent cake to complement the wine syrup. As Simon so charmingly said of my concoction: "They were so good, I ate three. So sorry to those of you who didn't get to try."

For those left out, here's the recipe so that you, too, may have a taste.



WINE-ROASTED PEACHES WITH HONEY MINT YOGURT CREAM

6 slightly unripe peaches
1 cup sweet red wine*
1 1/2 cups Greek strained yogurt
Honey
1 Tbsp minced Mint

* I used a red, Sangiovese wine because that's what I had in my fridge. It ended up working rather well, giving the peaches a deep, blood red color, and the syrup it made was deliciously colorful. I would also recommend any sweet wine of your choice, and even champagne may work and give a nice golden hue to the dish.


Set oven to 400-degrees Fahrenheit.

Cut peaches in half, and twist each half from the pit to have two whole halves. Set aside. If you cannot break the halves free, gently cut half from around the pit. If one side has a stubborn pit that cannot come out, roast the peach half with the pit and remove once flesh is soft.


In a large, shallow baking dish, pour in the wine so that there is enough to cover the bottom with about a centimeter-height of liquid. Add about two tablespoons of honey, for a sweet syrup. Add less honey for a less-sweet syrup. Whisk honey and wine mixture until honey disappears. Arrange peaches, flesh-side down, in wine. Place in oven, and let roast for 20-30mins, or until peaches are supple and soft, but not mushy.

Measure out yogurt in a large bowl. Mince mint, add to yogurt. Whisk yogurt until smooth. Add honey to taste, and whisk mixture until fluffy. You may wish to add more mint for a stronger taste. Cover and set aside in refrigerator.

When peaches are done, take out of the oven and place peaches on a working surface, like a large place, so as not to stain counter top or wooden cutting board. Take out remaining pits. Pour remaining wine syrup into a small pan, and reduce by bringing to a boil and reducing heat until liquid forms a syrup, occasionally stirring slowly.

To arrange peaches on a dish, spoon a circle of syrup in the middle of a single plate. Place peach, flesh side up, off center in the syrup. Spoon a dollop of yogurt-cream in center of peach. Just before serving, drizzle a bit of syrup in a line across peach and yogurt. Be careful -- if you pour this sauce on the yogurt too early, the fruit acids will make yogurt curdle. Serve with a sprig of mint, or a little cake nestled under peach.



Bon appetit!



Georgia's Bakery
2418 Broadway, at 89th Street
http://www.georgiasbakeshop.net/
212.362.2000

Pasta Pomodoro

Apparently, Plato said: "No town can live peacefully whatever its laws when its citizens ... do nothing but feast and drink and tire themselves out in the cares of love."

It seems as though Plato was a few centuries too early to understand what it means to be a real Italian: that peace exists most often in those moments of feasting, drinking, and loving -- and that the chaotic combination of the three is sometimes the most fun of times.

Not that I, an American born half-blood Italian, can claim to understand completely what it means to be part of that warm-blooded, tempestuous, and sensual people (though some would contest that I do), but I can say confidently that I do know Italian cuisine. My heart pumps red sauce, balsamic vinegar, and Barolo wine.

Like any good Italian, I believe that food is about love. I first learned to cook in an effort to romance a boy into liking me. Unfortunately, my Portuguese mother and I didn't take into account that he was a WASP, and food was not an important part of his family upbringing. Needless to say, I didn't win his 12-year-old heart, but I did learn the most invaluable cooking lesson: how to make a perfect, hearty, and irresistible pasta pomodoro.

To welcome home my best friend Josh from his four-month celebration of life in Ghana, and in part to say goodbye to my dear friend Naomi who will soon return home to the UK, I decided to prepare a simple summer pasta pomodoro dinner for them and my roommates, just in time to welcome the beginning of a very, very hot summer in New York.

***

PASTA POMODORO
(serves six)

















4 1-Pint crates of cherry tomatoes, rinsed
1/2 Vidalia onion
1 small head of garlic
1 Tbsp Olive oil
1/4 cup Italian red wine
Salt and pepper, to taste
A few Basil stems
1 packet spaghetti or angel hair pasta
Parmigiano Reggiano cheese

Cut all tomatoes into 8-small pieces by first cutting twice in the north-south direction, and then once east-west (thinking of the cherry tomato as a globe). Set aside. Cut onion in half, east-west, then remove skin of one half of the onion. Make thin, 1/4-inch slices along the semi-circle curve side of the onion. Cut all slices in half to make quarter-circles. Set aside. Remove garlic from skin by smashing cloves with the broad side of a chef's knife.

Heat a large sauce pan over high heat. When hot, add olive oil and toss in onions. Saute until they begin to soften, then add garlic. Continue cooking until onions turn golden brown, but be careful not to overcook or burn the garlic heads.

Add tomatoes and stir to incorporate all of the ingredients. Reduce to medium heat. Let mixture cook, stirring occasionally. When tomatoes become soft and juicy, add wine and stir slowly, folding the wine into the tomatoes. Let cook on medium heat for about ten minutes, or until fragrant, stirring occasionally.

When mixture begins to resemble a chunky sauce, add salt and pepper and a few whole basil leaves. Turn to low heat and let simmer.

Fill a large pot with water, add a few pinches of salt, and boil. When water comes to a fierce boil, add pasta and turn to medium heat so water is just barely bubbling, about 3-5 mins for white pasta, 10-12 minutes for whole wheat pasta. When just al dente, drain. Return pasta to empty pot, add about a teaspoon of olive oil and a pinch of salt -- to avoid pasta from sticking.

Take a few large leaves of basil, roll along the long side like a cigarette, and slice into little curls. This technique, the chiffonade, keeps from bruising the basil.

Using a large fork, twirl a serving size of pasta and add to plate, styling like a bird's nest. Add a heaping spoonful of pomodoro to the center so that it overflows down the sides of the nest. Garnish with grated parmesan cheese, followed by a few basil chiffonades.

Serve with a favorite Italian wine, someone you love, and enjoy.