Pancetta

Here is a simple presentation of the components of Rome’s saltimbocca embroidered with spring peas and tomatoes.

Not so many springtimes ago, I knew it was a Roman birthday for which I yearned, convinced that the salve of the place would soften the edges of a long sadness. Arriving crumpled and unslept on that morning, I slid my two dusty bags under the purple flounce of the bed in my genteelly shabby room at the Adriano and bolted off to the Campo de’ Fiori. I needed lilacs. I explained to the flower merchant in the market my desire to bring più allegria—more cheerfulness—to my little hotel room, that I was preparing for a sort of birthday party. He amplified the girth of the sweet-smelling sheaves I’d chosen and dispatched his helper to carry the towering bouquets through the twisting streets back to the Adriano. His field of vision completely contained inside thickets of blossoms, the porter left me to play front guard, to scream commands and admonitions back at him, staging a droll farce that could happen only in Rome. Safe inside the hotel with the lilacs, I purloined a large metal wastebasket from the reception hall, tied up its middle in a length of green silk, and installed the great, weeping blooms at the foot of my bed. I raced back to the market to fill two baskets with tiny, blushed velvet peaches still on their branches and hung them from wall sconces and draped them over mirrors and bedposts and on the roof of the dour, mustard-colored armoire. I collected breads from the forno (bakery) in Via della Scrofa, not so much to eat but for the comfort of their forms and their scents. I unwrapped the Georgian candlesticks I always carry with me from their cradle in my old taffeta skirt, threw open the shutters to beams of a rosy moon, and the birthday room was ready. I’d collected a beautiful supper at Volpetti: a brace of quail, each reposing on a cushion of roasted bread—depository for their rosemary juices—olives crushed into a paste with capers and Cognac, a stew of baby artichokes, new peas, and fava beans scented with wild mint and called, mysteriously, la vignarola—the winemaker’s wife—and a small, white, quivering cylinder of sweet robiola (fresh handmade cow’s milk cheese). I laid the feast on the dressing table, serving myself only bits of it at first. But little explosions of goodness insinuated themselves, and the quiet supper urged me into the goodness of the moment. Hungers found, strategies resewn. Happy birthday. During the time I lived at the Adriano, I went each morning to the market in Campo de’ Fiori, stopping to chat with my flower man, he introducing me to the lady with the slenderest, most delicate asparagus, which I devoured raw, like some earth-scented bonbon, and the one with the baby blood-red strawberries collected in the forests of Lake Nemi up in the Alban Hills. A ration of these beauties I vanquished each afternoon between sips of icy Frascati from my changing caffè posts along the campo. With those weeks as initiation, I might have stayed the rest of my life in the lap of that neighborhood, that village within Rome so contained and complete unto itself, and surely would never have known a single lonely day. More than she is a city, Rome is a string of small provinces, fastened one to the other by old fates.

For nearly a century, the mattatoio, the slaughterhouse, of Rome was fixed, south of the city’s center and flanked by Porta San Paolo and the Piramide di Caio Cestio, in the quarter of Testaccio—a hillock formed by the dross of terra-cotta amphorae that held olive oil and other comestibles imported into the city. Of an eloquent, uncompromised Roman character, the quarter grew up simple little houses in whose kitchens were cooked the humble remains of the butchers’ art, transforming the offal into i piatti fortissimi—the strongest plates—to serve to the workingmen for lunch. Il mattatoio has long since been relocated, but the Testaccio still practices the most orthodox Roman gastronomic traditions, building dishes such as nervetti in insalata, a salad of poached calves’ feet, coda alla vaccinara, (see page 4), pajata, the grilled or braised intestines of a calf or an ox, and trippa. As prosaic as are the formulas for these dishes, the manner in which they are presented is also prescripted. First, if the proprietor in any one of the neighborhood’s tabernae—Romans swing easily in and out of Latin, as in this usage for taverns—doesn’t approve one’s general look or demeanor, he will point, steely, to a little sign marked COMPLETO, reserved, that is fastened, permanently, handily for such occasions, to a rope of salame suspended from the rafters. If he does deem to seat one, neither he nor his colleagues will be charmed if one speaks Italian. It is only the dialect of Rome that is shouted in the Testaccio. It seems best to communicate, through eye-rolling and hand-flailing, that one wishes all decisions to be made by the house, that one is armed with magnificent appetite, and that one shall remain serene and unrepining at whatever part of whatever animal may be set before one. Our place of choice to be fed like a Roman is called Da Felice, an unsigned post in Via Mastro Giorgio. We go always of a Saturday so we can always eat tripe. Soaked in water and vinegar, urging the nastiness from its pores, the tripe is poached before it is sautéed in a battuto (the fundamental vegetable, herb, and fat flavoring for a sauce) of pancetta, olive oil, and garlic, then braised overnight on the quietest flame in tomato, white wine, and wild mint. A Saturday ritual in the Testaccio, as well as in every genuine osteria and trattoria in Rome, la trippa is served in deep bowls, under a dusting of pecorino, with chunks of rough bread and a jug of Frascati. Food of the poor is this tripe, flotsam conjured into a flavorful, cockle-warming stew, one that a sage Roman wouldn’t trade for a big, bloody beefsteak, not even one flounced in truffles.

Spaghetti carbonara was one of the simpler dishes in my dad’s weekend repertoire, and it was by far my all-time favorite thing to make with him. After chopping the bacon, snipping the parsley, and grating the cheese, my sister and I would stand back and watch the grand master perform the final act. As he whisked the eggs and tossed in the piping-hot noodles, we marveled at the transformation of our seemingly simple and innocent ingredients into a magnificent bowl of indulgence. It all happened in a matter of seconds; unlike his laborious stews, which took hours to make, this meal was all about instant gratification. In the spring, I stray from tradition and add lots of sweet peas and pea shoots to Dad’s original formula. The shape of orecchiette pasta suits this dish well; the “little ears” capture the sauce inside, ensuring plenty of flavor in every bite. If you can’t find orecchiette, use spaghetti or penne.

It’s funny when some of your biggest enemies turn out years later to be your best friends. As a child, I dreaded nothing more than those mushy, boiled-todeath, off-color Brussels sprouts. But once I discovered fresh Brussels sprouts and learned how to cook them, I became a full-fledged devotée! Here, in my favorite preparation, they’re sautéed with pancetta, shallots, and garlic and then braised in the pan with balsamic vinegar and veal stock until they’re shiny and glazed.

Rainbow trout is a delicious option for fish-loving home cooks. It’s available year-round and won’t break the bank even when you want to feed a crowd. Have your fishmonger bone and butterfly the trout for you, leaving the tail intact and keeping the two fillets attached on the fin side. This preparation is a study in contrasts, a three-way complement to the flaky flesh of the trout. The blushing sweet-tart sauce is made with both crushed grapes and verjus, the juice of unripe wine grapes. (The French used verjus in medieval and Renaissance times in much the same way we use vinegar or lemon juice today.) Less acidic and more complex than most vinegar, the verjus’s refreshing fruitiness plays counterpoint to the salty cured Italian bacon wrapped around the trout. And finally, hidden within this lively package: rich, herbaceous sorrel cream, bringing us back to earth.

I hope this quail recipe tempts you to venture away from the usual poultry mainstays. These smaller birds don’t have as much meat as others, but they make up for their size in flavor. On this platter, you’ll find all of my favorite Sicilian ingredients. Ricotta is the favored soft cheese of the south, and here I’ve blended it into a hearty, savory pudding. Pancetta, the essential flavoring of so many things Italian, gives the wilted spinach its salty punch. Olive oil–toasted breadcrumbs are the crunchy finish, a tasty result of the Sicilians’ thrifty mentality. And last but not least, currants and pine nuts are a classic Sicilian combination, bringing sweetness and earthiness to the dish. Grilling the quail gives them a smokiness you can’t achieve in the oven. Build a large fire, and spread the coals to heat the entire surface of the grill. If your barbecue is too small to accommodate all twelve birds at once, grill them in batches and reheat in a very hot oven just before serving. Watch the birds carefully as they grill, so they don’t overcook and dry out.

Kite-shaped rays, or skate, coast along the ocean floor foraging for mollusks. Eating clams, shrimp, and periwinkles gives skate a sweet, rich flavor. Its oddly ridged and finely textured flesh is unique in the fish world. In France, the classic preparation pairs skate with a nutty brown butter called beurre noir, usually garnished with lemon and capers. Here I dredge the skate in ultra-fine Wondra flour, then quickly sauté it until golden brown. For a play on the classic, I finish the brown butter with sweet balsamic vinegar. The creamy parsnip purée and Brussels sprouts sautéed with pancetta harmonize nicely with the crisp, glistening skate and sweet, nutty butter.

I first discovered bluefish when I was working at Angels, a restaurant in Providence. I was fresh off the boat from California when Jamie, the chef, and Eileen, his sous-chef, began introducing me to all the local food specialties. First they took me to a salumeria on Federal Hill, the Italian district of Providence, where the prosciutto was called “prah-jhute” and ricotta was “rha-got.” Then one day they brought in smoked bluefish. We piled it high on crusty Italian rolls, and topped it with sliced red onions, lemon, and way too much crème fraîche. I was in Rhode Island heaven. In honor of that beguiling and unforgettable fish, here I wrap fresh bluefish in pancetta to give the fish a salty, smoked flavor. Served with a yellow tomato sauce, juicy slices of heirloom tomatoes, and garlicky aïoli, this is my tribute to summer in Rhode Island.

My grandmother used to take whatever extra livers we had—calf, chicken, goose—and cook them with bacon and a splash of Cognac. She chopped the mixture with a mezzaluna, creating a rustic spread. I swap pancetta for the bacon and puree the mixture in a food processor to create a creamy mousse.

Delicate and unusual, shrimp and pancetta combined into a sausage is an example of the delightful ways in which seafood and pork can glamorize each other, here in ravioli made easy to execute using store-bought wonton wrappers for the pasta. Edamame (fresh soybeans) and fava beans (broad beans), both Old World beans, can be used interchangeably in this recipe. Both are almost meaty and bright green, and provide similar vivid leguminous presence in dishes that employ them. However, practically speaking, edamame have the advantage because they are available already shelled in supermarket freezer sections in all seasons. Favas, in contrast, are mainly spring to early summer and fall fare, and they are a chore to prepare, requiring first shelling and then peeling each bean after immersing in boiling water for 1 or 2 minutes to loosen the bitter-tasting skins. (A side note: if you are using fava beans and purchasing them at a farmers’ market, you can probably also pick up some fava leaves. As our vegetable horizons expand more and more, they have become available and are quite tasty as a green for a soup such as this one or tossed into a salad.) Shrimp and pancetta sausage can also be made into small balls and dropped into a chicken or vegetable broth for a substantial appetizer or light first course. Or, you can use it to top small cooked and halved artichokes, then generously sprinkle the sausage with bread crumbs and briefly cook the sausage and brown the crumbs in a hot oven or under a broiler.

This take on coq au vin has it all: tender, moist chicken, flavorful root veggies, and an incredibly rich sauce; to top it off, it’s a one-pot meal. Serve with a simple garlicky green salad and lots of steamed white rice to soak up all the chicken broth goodness. Duck legs are a great substitute for the chicken legs, too. You’ll get the best results if you salt the legs the day before you cook, but it’s not essential. If you are short on time, skip the salting and jump right in—just season the legs well with salt and pepper before you brown them.

With names like Good Mother Stallard, Goat’s Eye, and Yellow Indian Woman, the dried heirloom beans from Rancho Gordo (see page 55) charm diners familiar with only generic dried beans. Rancho Gordo proprietor Steve Sando finds some of these intriguing beans in Mexico and Central America and arranges to buy them direct from the farmers. Others are grown on farms in Northern California. You can use a single bean type for this dish, but Brian prefers to use multiple varieties, simmering them separately to accommodate their different cooking times. Just before serving, he unites them with a tomato sauce and some blanched fresh yellow and green beans. You could make a meal of this summer stew with a green salad and some crusty bread, or serve it as an accompaniment to grilled lamb. Note that the beans must soak overnight.

Our charcuterie supplier, Taylor Boetticher of Napa’s Fatted Calf (opposite page), had the fine idea to wrap a pork tenderloin in a cloak of paper-thin pancetta. The pancetta bastes the lean tenderloin as it cooks, so the meat remains moist. A thyme-scented tomato fondue makes a light, summery accompaniment, suggested by 2009 Workshop participant Scott Gottlich. Add some sautéed Blue Lake beans or a slice of Mediterranean Summer Vegetable Gratin (page 158) to complete the plate. You can roast only one tenderloin, if you like, but you may need to reduce the heat as you sear it because of the reduced volume of meat in the skillet. Do prepare the full amount of tomato fondue, however. You won’t have enough volume for the blender otherwise, and you won’t regret having extra. Note that the pork needs to marinate overnight.

The Liberty Ducks we get from Sonoma County Poultry (see page 147) are fed an all-natural diet and allowed to mature for several more weeks than most commercial ducks. As a result, they develop more flavor. The meaty duck legs, braised slowly with aromatic vegetables, make a robust pasta sauce similar in richness and depth to a classic bolognese. Brian shreds the tender duck meat after it’s braised and adds chopped Tuscan kale to the sauce to introduce some fresh garden flavor.

In late spring, when California asparagus are still available and the Cakebread garden is yielding the year’s first onions, Brian makes this delicate pizza bianca (a “white pizza,” or pizza without tomato sauce). The fresh-dug onions haven’t been cured yet, so they don’t have papery skins, and their flavor is mild. Many supermarkets sell “spring onions” that look like thick scallions with a bulbous root end. They would work in this recipe, as would leeks or even cured yellow onions, but uncured onions have the most delicate taste. Choose a fresh ricotta without pectin or other stabilizers. The Bellwether Farms ricotta from neighboring Sonoma County is our favorite.

GOOD TO KNOW For a more satisfying meal, try incorporating just a small amount of a flavorful high-fat ingredient such as bacon or nuts into the low-calorie mix. Here pancetta is crisped in the oven for handsoff, splatter-free cooking, a method that works well for bacon, too.

A beef tenderloin roast is a boon for the host and a treat for family or guests during the holidays. Many big-box stores sell them at a reasonable price, and when trimmed, there's no waste—just solid meat. Cooking the roast doesn't tie up your oven for long, and once it's done, it couldn't be easier to carve. Between the green of the rosemary and the red of the grape tomatoes, the sauce is festive with color and loaded with bright flavor.

I have a big pet peeve with most egg salads: too many are loaded with mayo, which ruins their texture and makes them bland. My version still has a little mayo, but I add mild Gorgonzola and lemon zest, which not only brings a classic Italian flavor and freshness to the sandwich but also keeps the salad moist. Crispy pancetta makes this recipe brunch-worthy, and while you can certainly substitute bacon, it’s a lot less Italian that way.

Adding both bacon and pancetta to these potatoes may seem like overkill, but trust me—they pack a great one-two punch. The bacon gives the potatoes a smoky flavor, and the pancetta lends meaty substance. These go quickly, so make a double recipe or you’ll find yourself with an empty serving dish before you know it.

This is a cross between a traditional gratin and a savory bread pudding, and trust me, cauliflower has never tasted so good. Pancetta, cheese, cream sauce—need I say more?

Cooking a fish whole is the best way to ensure it will stay moist and flavorful, and the process is a lot less intimidating than it looks. Branzino is a small Mediterranean sea bass with a mild flavor and delicate texture, enhanced here with a bright, fresh stuffing of fennel and lemon. Todd says he always feels like he’s on a diet when he eats fish, so I cook it with some pancetta to hearty up the dish a bit. Do watch out for small bones when you serve the branzino.

Chimichurri is the A1 sauce of Argentina, and no self-respecting steak there would be served without a dose of this herby green sauce. But chimichurri also has a lot in common with an Italian salsa verde, which gave me the idea to pair it with the more delicate combo of chicken and shrimp. I add oregano for a deep earthiness, and crunchy bites of pancetta put it over the top; you’ll want to serve this sauce over everything from broiled fish fillets to sliced tomatoes or even crostini.