A Southern, Italian Menu
One of my favorite bloggers is Amy Glaze whose blog is named Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour. She's a classically trained chef who's worked in some of the best restaurants in Paris and New York. And I love reading her eyes-inside posts about the cheffing game. They're as much fun as Kitchen Confidential to read and much more immediate as befits a blog. Over the last three or four years I've developed a great affection for her. And that she's cute as button doesn't hurt. That she calls me "chef" doesn't either.
Anyway, she's moving to San Francisco to take charge as supreme chef of a restaurant named Le Club. She's driving there in a rental truck with another chef named Eric and all her possessions from NYC. Having wisely (given the time of year) chosen the Southern route, she asked if any of her readers who were on the way wanted to put her up. I immediately raised one hand while quickly scribbling menu ideas with the other.
The closest I've ever gotten to working a line is my first job as a pizza cook at Shakey's Pizza Parlor.
Let's back up a tad. I'm not in any sense a chef — nor do I claim to be except when it makes my clients happy. I simply cook for a living. I've been cooking since I was six years old (50 years, now) and for the past six years I've made my living from cooking. But although I've studied cooking in books and magazines, the closest I've ever gotten to working a line is my first job as a pizza cook at Shakey's Pizza Parlor. I have less formal training than Michael Ruhlman, a writer, and less actual experience on a line than your average cook at Waffle House.There is a large degree of brashness in someone like me cooking for Ms Glaze. Much more so than a home cook offering what they serve their families every night. After all, I make pretensions about my abilities and when called "chef" I seldom demure the honorific. I offer advice on things like best meat cuts or mise en place. But a genuine chef? No. Nevertheless I've been reading her blog for a few years and I think I know her tastes so as soon as she said she was coming I knew the main dish I wanted to make her, and then everything else fell into place.
I didn't want to spend time in the kitchen while they were here and I didn't know when they'd arrive so it had to cooked in advance or be ready in minutes. I wanted to reflect both my primary culinary roots (the South) and primary culinary influences (the Mediterranean). I ended up with Red-neck Italian.
I planned to begin with a bowl of Cece Fritos — fried beans — as something to munch on during a brief unwinding with a glass of wine. After all, beans? Fried? Italian recipe? Oh yeah.
Then for a main course Arrosto di Maiale al Latte. This is a purely Italian recipe for pork roast braised in milk. A truly marvelous dish that can hold in an oven for a couple of hours and just get better. But we're talking slow-cooked pork in what becomes a cream gravy. If more Southerners knew about it would be more popular than biscuits and gravy. Except they'd keep the biscuits.
But instead of biscuits I decided to serve it on fried medallions of grits. Grits are the Southern progenitor of polenta and I could make them the day before and fry them up at the last minute. Some provolone and a pinch of nutmeg gives the grits Italian savor and the medallions add a lovely crispy/creamy texture and a bit of height to the presentation.
So what else? Greens. Turnip, specifically. They're in-season, highly Southern, nicely but not overly bitter (so a good foil to the pork), and I have a wonderful Italian recipe for sautéed broccoli raab (olive oil, garlic, anchovies, pine nuts) that would suit the turnips just fine.
But what for dessert? This one I had to think about. Dessert isn't one of my strengths. But I settled on an apple crisp touched with chipotle and topped with sherried mascarpone.
A good menu. Red-neck. Italian. It could be made in advance and served at a moment's notice. Perfect. But Amy didn't make it.
She and her driving companion made a wrong turn in southern Virginia. I know exactly where it happened and how because I've made that same wrong turn. I saw my mistake within 30 minutes, but I knew where I was going. Amy ended up in Charlotte before realizing the error. So she and Eric didn't make it.
I had my neighbor over for dinner the next night to help me eat it. I was happy with the results. The particular menu was designed, as I said, to give Amy a taste of my cooking, but the truth is there was nothing special in it. No big deal. Nevertheless I wish it had been Amy and Eric I fed instead of Richard, my neighbor. It was food for friends and family and Richard told me several times to thank Amy for getting lost.
(For Amy's tale, go here.)
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