You might think he's doing something else. But in reality, he's learning how to sit/stay, and not doing a very good job of it (he eventually learned how to do so beautifully ... sort of ).

martedì 23 febbraio 2010

McItaly

Tillie loved cheeseburgers. She liked them made in-house, she liked them out. She loved going to McDonald’s, which she did frequently at drive-throughs in the States. She surely would have loved the burgers in McDonald’s new “McItaly” campaign.

Signs behind the kids at the cash registers, where Happy Meals are usually advertised, tell us that McItaly is about Italy: the beef is 100% Italian; the cheese (Asiago) is not only Italian, it’s D.O.P. The artichokes used to make the sauce have an impeccable Italian pedigree. This is McDonald’s Italy doing two kinds of burgers (and a salad) their way. The ads tout “il gusto McDonald’s parla italiano” (The McDonald’s flavor now speaks Italian.)

Other all-Italian McItaly ingredients include: Parmigiano-Reggiano D.O.P., Speck dell’Alto Adige I.G.P, pancetta from the Val Venosta. Three items comprise the menu – the aforementioned burgers, and a salad with Bresaola.

(D.O.P. means “Denominazione di Origine Protetta,” I.G.P. means “Indicazione Geografica Tipica.” This means that any product with either of these labels has gone through codified forms of production; in the case of the former, it’s a European Union thing; the latter, Italian. In short, it’s a mark of quality. Ireland and Great Britain refer to D.O.P. as “Protected Designation of Origin” – perhaps that makes the picture clearer, if not less interesting sounding.)

McItaly was launched in January 2010, a joint initiative between the Italian government and McDonald’s. Festivities kicked off at the McDonald’s in Piazza di Spagna in Rome. Minister of Agriculture Luca Zaita was present, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and served hamburgers while thanking McDonald’s: “We have asked McDonald’s to make us an international trademark that would reach consumers in Paris as in Shanghai.” He referred to it as “[una] grande operazione culturale” (a big cultural operation). The web site (http://www.mcdonalds.it/) shows an American flag with the colors of the Italian (so think green where there’s usually blue). It’s kind of nice thinking that fast-food burgers are a big cultural operation.

The Italian Scallion and I were passing through the train station at Santa Maria Novella in Florence on our way home and were compelled to try this burger. The young girl at the cash register did not seem to understand my request for a “McItaly.” Had to repeat myself three times, practically shrieking by the third. It took a long time for it to arrive, making me think that either there wasn’t much demand for it or that they were taking extra special care, it being 100% Italian. I had high hopes that the cheese would be properly melted.

The white burger box trimmed with flushes of red and green arrived (think flag) with written assurances that “The unmistakable McDonald’s flavor meets the tradition of typical Italian flavors. Let yourself be overwhelmed by this marriage of flavors: it will be a feast for your palate.” The box lists – didn’t we read it once, behind the kids at the cash registers? -- the ingredients: flour from Italian buckwheat, 100% Italian beef (with a meat grinder graphic), 100% Italian lettuce, and smoked bacon from the Val Venosta. It’s got a seal stating “Under the auspices of the Italian Ministry for Agriculture, Nutrition and Forestry.” (What a strange combination for a ministry, yet they got the requested trademark!) (Equally strange is that the burger we ordered was not the one listed on the box; the one listed on the box sounded kind of tasty, too.)

We devoured the burger on the train, thus becoming the kind of commuter I hate (McDonald’s food does have a distinctive aroma which takes on greater significance in a confined, dingy train car with not-so-great ventilation). The beef was dry. The cheese was unmelted. The lettuce, I assume, was 100% Italian as promised. The artichoke sauce was good. In fact, the combination of ingredients could have worked, and if the cheese had been melted properly, it might have obscured the dryness of the burger. Just make sure that the Asiago is properly melted, the lettuce 100% something, and be generous with the artichoke sauce if/when trying this at home.

Tillie would have devoured it, too.

Cheeseburger with artichoke sauce and lettuce

½ lb. ground beef
2 sesame seed rolls (McItaly uses a different type of roll, slightly more lugubrious)
¼ lb. Asiago (or other Italian melt-able cheese such as fontina or mozzarella), thinly sliced
Jar of artichokes, preferably marinated
2 T. extravirgin olive oil, or more to make the sauce saucier
Handful of Romaine lettuce, chopped
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Make the artichoke sauce by whizzing the artichokes (don't drain their liquid) with the olive oil in a food processor. Heat the broiler (or a non-stick frying pan). Lightly salt and pepper the ground beef, and form into two equal sized patties.

Cook it the way you like them – rare, medium, well-done. Two minutes before taking them off the broiler (or flipping them on the frying pan), put the cheese, neatly divided, on top of each burger. Cover with a lid and watch the clock (do make sure it’s properly melted).

Toast the rolls if you feel like it. Place chopped Romaine on the base of the bun, then the burger, and liberal applications of the artichoke sauce.

Eat at once. If the cheese has melted properly, there really isn't anything left for the dogs.

Serves two.

venerdì 19 febbraio 2010

Un tramezzino, due tramezzini ...

It’s a tasty little delicacy, the tramezzino (a sort of sandwich; think English tea sandwich but far tastier). You can find it all over Italy, and is especially popular in Venice, Rome, and Turin. Why they’re hard to find in Tuscany is unclear. Because they probably aren’t Tuscan originally? Florentines opt for their savories in schiacciata (basically, terrific pizza dough, cooked with olive oil and salt in a highly hot oven) or other less-interesting breadstuffs. Fortunately, tramezzini aficionados can find them, but it’s work (like, say, taking the train to Livorno, which has a thriving Tramezzino Culture).

Debate rages over the tramezzino’s origins. Those from the Veneto (the area in and around Venice) insist that it’s Venetian, created in the late 1950s and first found in Mestre (the nearest non-lagooned land before Venice). Those from Turin contend that it was first served at a bar called Mulassano in 1925. In fact, the local rag, La Stampa, ran an article in August 2008 claiming this as fact. (That the Venetians and the Turinese bicker over this should come as no surprise, as both cities like to take credit for inventing tiramisù) Urban myths abound as well: some people who worry about these things believe that a Venetian (or, perhaps, someone from Turin?) went to England around 1800, ordered a “spuntino” (a reputable Italian dictionary (Zingarelli) says “a small refection consumed either between meals or substituting for one” a.k.a., a snack) and instead was served a sandwich, thanks to the precedent established by the Earl of the same. This Venetian man liked it so much he imported the idea to Venice. Or to Turin.

Seeking enlightenment, went to http://www.accademiabarilla.it/ (an equally reputable source; Barilla make good pasta and have a serious cooking school). According to their web site, the idea of stuffing sandwiches dates back as far as the 1st century B.C. An enterprising (well, I call him enterprising; they didn’t) rabbi named Hillel stuffed a sandwich with walnuts, apples, and spices. This is documented. The Barilla page then reveals that Italians probably thrilled to the idea of stuffed sandwiches (can’t we simply call them “sandwiches?” What constitutes an empty sandwich?) probably at the beginning of the 20th century. The Futurists (a bunch of mostly guy provocateurs who painted and sculpted, among other things) and writer Gabriele D’Annunzio suggested calling it “traidue” which means, literally, “between the two.” Somehow this all got modified to tramezzino.

Regardless of where they were invented, these things are good. Tillie loved them and ate them whenever the opportunity presented itself, which was often when she was in Rome. Rome’s Tramezzino Culture is lively and vibrant (just like Livorno’s, only more so).

What’s important is the bread. It has to be white, crust-less, and a little on the soft side. Judicious application of mayonnaise is critical: not enough makes it too dry; too much makes it a soggy, oozing mess. Stuffings vary. Rome likes to pair tuna with artichokes (Tillie once had an exceptional one comprised of cold poached shrimp, tomatoes, artichokes, lettuce, and the piece-dè-resistance, gherkins) and salame and egg; Livorno likes to pair boiled ham and artichokes, among other things. The Venetians simply love to stuff (see below).

Construction technique varies as well. In Rome, they are served between two pieces of bread. In Livorno, between three. In Venice they cram them to the gills – or, as Anne Elk once said, more or less, about brontosauruses in a Monty Python sketch: they are thin at one end, very, very thick in the middle, and thin again at the other end.

Other classic combinations: boiled ham/cheese, boiled ham/canned mushrooms (you read that right), boiled ham/tomato, tomato/hard boiled egg/anchovy, salame/egg, tuna/egg, tuna/tomato, tomato/mozzarella – to name but a few. Unclassic combinations: the one Tillie ate in Rome, boiled ham/black truffle paste.

Important: If you’re in Italy and want to have one in a bar or pasticceria, remember that they are best eaten in the morning when they are made, some get soggier as they sit around, others drier until the bread buckles.

(Classic) Tramezzino with Ham and Artichokes

Two slices of white bread, crust removed, preferably Pepperidge Farm or something similar
3-4 pieces of thinly-sliced, high-quality boiled ham
3 artichokes, preferably water-packed, thinly sliced
2 T. good-quality mayonnaise

Lather one T. mayonnaise on each slice of bread. Place the boiled ham on top, then the artichokes. Top with the other piece of mayonnaise’d bread. Using a serrated knife, gently cut the sandwich on the diagonal. Eat immediately. If dogs are present – and they usually are -- share the other half with them.

(Unclassic) Tramezzino with Smoked Salmon, Cucumber, and Arugula

Enough smoked salmon to cover, amply, the bread
Enough sliced cucumber, ditto
Generous handful of arugula
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
Dash of lemon juice
1 T. Dijon mustard
1 T. good-quality mayonnaise

Directions as above, only put the Dijon on one slice, mayonnaise on the other.

martedì 16 febbraio 2010

Shrimp Cocktail

It being Valentine’s Day the other day, we decided to eat in extravagantly. We thought we’d begin festivities with shrimp cocktail, an elegant, dated-but-always-tasty classic.

Which got me to thinking: why is it called Shrimp Cocktail? Headed directly to the late Alan Davidson’s indispensable Oxford History of Food. In an otherwise magisterial volume, “shrimp cocktail” did not appear. Turned next to the first Joy of Cooking (1931). The cocktail sauce recipe is basic and straightforward (ketchup, horseradish, lemon juice, hot sauce) but provides no explanation re: why the name. The Rombauers suggest lavishing this sauce on shellfish and on small cocktail sausages, a to-my-mind somewhat alarming proposition (on the other hand, my mother has a recipe from the 60s which calls for cocktail hot dogs heated in a sauce equal parts chili sauce and grape jelly … sounds lurid, but it’s actually tasty ... but I digress).

Googling led me to this http://www.foodtimeline.org/foodlobster.html#cocktail, wherein the history of the dish is revealed. So obvious, yet so not: called “cocktail” because it was served in cocktail glasses (I always thought cocktails were liquid, or that they were a combination of pills … oh, but there’s the fruit cocktail, isn’t there?).

Most recipes consulted called for chili sauce combined with ketchup. If bottled chili sauce exists in Italy, I would love to know where. But the Indonesian sambal oelek does and stood in for it. Horseradish isn’t easy to find in these parts, but Pegna in Florence (via dello Studio 8/r, telephone 055/282701, www.pegna.it) almost always has it on hand. (Odd thought: are there more expatriate Indonesians living in Florence than expatriate Americans?)

A heads-up about Italianate shrimp: it’s sold head-on. Many natives contend that the best meat in the critter is found in the head (it certainly does taste sweeter, shrimpier even). No such thing as “medium” or “jumbo” shrimp. There’s gamberetti (little shrimp), gamberoni (big shrimp) … and then the “scampi”—a different thing whose definition I’ll save for a later date. We feed the heads to the dogs—the Three Stooges lap up heads, shells, and tail ends.

Apparently it’s hard to find shrimp in this state in the States. So save the tails for your pups. If the sambal oelek makes the sauce too salty, add a little more lemon juice than called for.

Italians make a similar sauce to our very American cocktail sauce and call it “salsa rossa” – red sauce. Gamberetti are used, and you dip things like vegetables into it. Tillie used to enjoy this sauce at aperitivo time. We went practically every night at 7 pm sharp to Rex (a great bar near Santa Croce), and she adored chowing down on this (a celery or carrot stick provided the vehicle for doing so).

Shrimp Cocktail for Two

¾ lb. shrimp, pre-cooked; beheaded, peeled, tail tip left intact
½ c. ketchup
¼ c. mayonnaise (Hellman’s if you can get it; in Italy, you cannot)
¼ c. sambal oelek or chili sauce if you’re lucky enough to find it
Juice of one small lemon
3 generous T. prepared horseradish sauce (or less)
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
Freshly ground black pepper
Handful of arugula
Handful of mesclun
Lemon wedges, optional
Two tumblers or martini glasses

Mix the ketchup, mayonnaise, sambal oelek, lemon juice, horseradish, Worcestershire, and pepper in a bowl.

Divide the arugula and mesclun in the two tumblers. Add the shrimp to each, tamp lightly. Pour the cocktail sauce over both tumblers, and eat immediately. Squirt with lemon wedges if desired.
Feed Stooges the shrimp heads/bodies and tails(upon eating the shrimp). Realize that said action gives new meaning to the expression “dog breath.”

And this just in: http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2010-02-14/dog-names-of-the-future?cid=hp:vertical:r Though neither Waldo nor Lulu nor Harry appear on the top ten list of dog names of the future, Waldo’s name does end in “o” (see number 6). And Lulu appears as number 14 on the list. Harry? Ah, nope.

venerdì 12 febbraio 2010

It’s a miserable, gray day here in “sunny” Tuscany. Has been for too long to remember. At least we don’t have snow, we’re not in Washington D.C. or Philadelphia or Boston or New York, and if we wanted to plant peas and garlic, we could, even if it’s just a wee bit too cold and miserable outside.

So rather than plant anything, I decided to scour the refrigerator and make soup for dinner. What was available – or, more correctly – what was in need of cooking before turning to Get Me to the Compost Pile Subito Pronto (Right Away, and f’ing fast) turns out to be a sort of winter salad soup.

Cranked Led Zeppelin I really, really loud, and proceeded. La Repubblica/Espresso (center-left-wing daily newspaper/weekly magazine) promote Led Zeppelin right now (which means you buy the newspaper, get one disc for close to 10 euro); Italian Scallion faithfully buys each offering every week (we’re up to Led Zeppelin III) and we listen to them. Don’t think I’ve ever really, truly listened to them before, maybe because they were always aural backdrop to firing up the bong?

The Three Stooges (Waldo, Lulu, Harry) showed no interest whatsoever in this recipe until Lulu, seeing too many pieces of raw cavolo nero on the kitchen floor, swept up from her throne next to the stove, and ate them all. Will have to give her a tiny bowl of soup tonight. If you don’t plan to listen through all of Led Zeppelin I while cooking the soup, blanch the cavolo nero in boiling water for 3-4 minutes, drain, and then add to soup. Otherwise, it takes a longish time to cook.

Refrigerator Pot-Pourri I aka Winter Salad Soup

3 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 leek, white part only, cleaned and finely diced
2 dried hot red peppers, minced
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 t. fennel seeds, mortar’d and pestle’d
½ lb. kielbasa or other smoked sausage in large-ish dice
1 lb. cavolo nero (in the States, it’s called Tuscan kale or, oddly, dinosaur kale) or Swiss chard
(if using cavolo nero, strip the leaves from the ribs, and put the ribs in your compost pile – or feed them to Lulu; if using Swiss chard, strip the leaves from the ribs, chop each separately, and throw them in the pot together)
1 head escarole, coarsely chopped
1 can borlotti beans, rinsed and drained
8 c. water
3 cubes vegetable stock
Pecorino-Romano, grated, optional

Heat the olive oil in a large pot. Add the leek and cook for a few minutes (do not let it brown). Add the hot peppers, garlic, and mortar’d and pestle’d fennel seeds. Stir for a minute or so. Add kielbasa, stir for another minute. Add water, cavolo nero (or chard), water, borlotti beans, and vegetable stock. Bring to a boil, cover, lower heat, and forget about it. Listen to “Dazed and Confused” and wonder why Led Zeppelin didn’t give the rights to the song to Richard Linklater in his eponymous, wondrous movie in 1993. Why, Robert Plant, did you say no? Jimmy said yes …

Serve in warmed soup bowls, and grate Pecorino-Romano on top.

No, kielbasa is not Italian at all. It’s Polish. But you can find this sausage at the Mercato Centrale in Florence. They call it “kilometro.”

Remember to give Lulu a bowl of soup.

Italian Scallion had three generous helpings, and there’s still plenty left over for several dogs.
We named her Matilda Spike Eugenius Gonzaga, but the Italian Scallion and I called her Tillie. “Spike” because someone suggested we call her that; “Eugenius” after a Renaissance pope or two (there were at least four) and also because we thought she was – a genius, that is. The “Gonzaga” came from the esteemed Renaissance family in Mantua; originally, we wanted Medici, but the Medici simply weren’t as crazy about dogs as the Gonzaga (dogs appear frequently in art that they commissioned).

Tillie was about 50 pounds of black and white mutt, and always wore a red collar. Markings like a short-haired border collie (if such a creature exists), the gait of a whippet. Quintessential American mutt. We plucked her from a truck marked “Free Puppies” at the Ithaca Farmer’s Market in upstate New York on July 21, 1990.

Her puppyhood and teen years were idyllic; swimming in lakes and chasing squirrels in the Arts Quad at Cornell University became passionate pursuits. Her day job was that of receptionist at the Philosophical Review, where she worked for six years, meeting, greeting, and wagging.

Culinarily speaking, her life was a drag. Standard dog food with the occasional scrap of mortadella thrown her way. This porcine product habit formed the basis of a life-long obsession with Italian pork products.

Tillie emigrated to Florence, Italy, in January 1997, whereupon her life changed dramatically. She was allowed entry practically everywhere, the most important being restaurants and bars for aperitivi. She ate often, and a lot, but still maintained her trim girlish figure.

Tillie died in November 2004 in the middle of our project; she was dictating her memoirs to me, and filling it with favorite recipes.

So this explains the title of this blog, which will be filled with old dog memories, new dog exploits (I’ll introduce you to the Three Stooges soon), recipes, a little bit about Renaissance art (Tillie enjoyed peeing on many a Renaissance palazzo), stuff about Florence, about Tuscany, about eating, a lot about food.

To Tillie.