Tag: Marcella Hazan

We Drank Canned Wine, Tried Doughnut Sliders, Opened a Chardonnay … and What Fine Pastas

You go from table to table, hoping for memorable tastes and flavors, food prepared well, made with thought and care. There’s something edifying about the act of finding it, sharing it with others, appreciating it. You’ve learned to deal with the moments when the taste and flavors do not deliver, when shrimp is overcooked and enchiladas taste like sawdust and not much more, when this food writer or that restaurant reviewer lauds the cuisine of the latest farm-to-table restaurant or poke mecca and you wait a month to try it and find it lackluster at best. Taste is subjective, after all, isn’t it? One man’s bland bowl of borscht is another’s Proustian interlude, no? Those disappointing meals serve to whet your appetite for the next pleasurable repast, as vexing as they might be.

Recently, the good moments have come with satisfying regularity, the pastas done well, the branzino pleasing, the (yes) spicy tofu all that tofu can and should be. You looked on and listened as your friend (and Brockhaus sous chef) Chris savored the rigatoni bianco Bolognese you knew he would love, his sighs audible. Yes, it’s been a good week or two at the table in Houston, days that included a brunch at Tony Mandola’s Gulf Coast Kitchen that featured doughnut sliders that were just what I needed at the time, though I was unaware of the need before I tasted them. (Click here for a look.) The sweet and savory plate is a grand antidote to a night of celebration.

To that Bolognese, which has been my favorite pasta in Houston for a few months now. It’s at Tony’s, and if you have not tried it, you are missing something you shouldn’t.

I have a feeling that Marcella Hazan would have loved this. It’s rigatoni with a Bolognese bianco sauce.

I was hooked the first time I tried this dish; it’s complex, speaks of hours in the pot, the simmering and melding of the meat and vegetables and breaking down of the parts into a whole that transports. Each ingredient retains its place of pride — look at the carrots, their shape exact and right — but the technique that goes into making this course creates a tour de force of rich and subtle flavors, something full of rustic gusto and refined grace. Appreciate the saltiness of the cheese and the acidity of the olive oil. If all goes well, you’ll have this more than once.

Wine was also fine during these days and nights, and we even enjoyed some in cans. An unoaked Chardonnay and a red blend (Zinfandel, Syrah, and Merlot) from Ron Rubin Winery did us good, and we paired a Chardonnay from Mitsuko’s Vineyard with chèvre and bread.  (Ray Isle recently tasted some canned wines as well, and his review of them is a good read.)

If you can find a bottle of this, open it and drink.

During a dinner at the home of Russ and Judy Labrasca, Angela and I were treated to a 1997 Chimney Rock Cabernet Sauvignon, and a ’96 from Saddleback, the latter a lovely bottle, mellowed into a dream, the former drinking well though expressing charms of a more typical manner. Russ and Judy are a couple — Angela met them when she worked in Dallas, and introduced them to me not long after I arrived in Houston — I consider myself honored to know, friends without parallel. We drank those wines with hamburgers and Judy’s customary spread, and it was good.

With friends like these, one needs nothing more.

Houston Restaurant Weeks is upon us, the annual event that has done so much good for so many people in need of a square meal since it was founded, back in 2003. I sampled a few HRW menus this week, and came across another worthy pasta and a branzino of note, both on the menu at Amalfi Ristorante Italiano & Bar. The pasta, a tortelli, is filled with Asiago, potatoes, and pancetta, and served with beef short ribs. Tender, al dente pasta, top-notch cheese and pancetta, and, OK, the short rib is wonderful. The sea bass, my favorite item on Amalfi’s HRW menu, is accompanied by potato gnocchi, roasted artichoke, and a lemon cream sauce. Sea, lemon, olive oil, gnocchi … try these, and donate $7 to the Houston Food Bank in the process.

Let’s see what comes next …

UPDATE: Make Your Own Pasta (Thank You, Lidia and Marcella)

(Editor’s note: A few readers have chastised me for neglecting to include a recipe in this post. That oversight has now been rectified. Please let me know how you make pasta, and if you have never made fresh pasta at home, I hope this post inspires you to do so.)

“I still think that one of the pleasantest of all emotions is to know that I, with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hunger of the world.”

– M.F.K. Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

It is simple, and the payoff is extremely satisfying.

It is simple, and the payoff is extremely satisfying.

Pasta from a box is fine. I use it, mostly penne and farfalle. But there is nothing better than fresh pasta, and I am always happy when I can show people how easy it is to make their own. I taught my 8-year-old nephew how to make pasta, and I’ve guided Angela through the process – she is now expert at it.

I have a stand mixer and pasta attachments, and love it, but that has not prevented me from making hundreds of batches of linguine and ravioli and other varieties of pasta by hand. And there is a bonus: It is a meditative process. The action of mixing and kneading and rolling and cutting calms one’s mind.

There are plenty of recipes and methods for making pasta. I use two eggs (sometimes three), some olive oil, and, of course, flour and water. Over the years I have discovered my own technique and method. (You will, too.) Here is mine, and I give all thanks to Lidia Bastianich, whose pasta I encountered firsthand at Felidia years ago. I followed her methods and have revised them as time has passed. (Marcella Hazan is another inspiration, for pasta and many other things. Get to know her.)

First, relax. Do not get uptight about the process. It is a simple thing, depending on the shape of pasta you wish to make. Put on some good music, open a bottle of wine. Choose a smooth and large working surface; if you have a work island, use it. (I use a large wooden butcher’s block.) Make sure the surface is clean and dry. Sift two cups all purpose flour onto the surface and form it into a mound. Make an indentation in the middle of the mound. In a small bowl, mix two eggs, 1/4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, and 3 tablespoons of water. (I often add a pinch of salt. You can as well.) Gently pour the liquid mixture into the flour’s crater, and, using a fork, combine the liquid and the solid. Then, with lightly floured hands, mix and knead the dough until it is soft and smooth. (You will get the hang of it after a few attempts. Again, it is not difficult. In all, it should take you about 8 minutes or so to make the dough.) If the dough is too moist, add a little flour. If too dry, add a touch of olive oil. As you make more and more pasta, your hands and eyes will guide you. You will know when it is correct.

Form the dough into a ball and wrap tightly in plastic wrap. If you are going to use it that evening, let it sit at room temperature for 30 minutes before rolling it out. (Wrapped tightly and well, you can freeze the dough; I have frozen it for as long as a month, but I rarely do this.)

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Ian's pasta

He did this: Ian’s pasta.

When you are ready to roll, clean your work surface, get a rolling pin, and divide your ball into three pieces; lightly flour the surface – a dusting – and roll until the dough is as thin as you can make it. (In the photo below is a modified fettuccine, and we should have produced thinner noodles – they always expand in the water. But again, do not fret … on this evening we made basil pesto, and the meal was delicious, thick noodles and all.)

To make this simple ribbon pasta, use a sharp knife and cut the dough in straight lines, lightly arranging the ribbons into three bird’s nest clumps. Bring some salted water to a vigorous boil and, one bird’s nest at a time, cook the noodles until they float to the top of the water. (One important thing: Many home cooks err by not using a sufficient amount of water. Get your largest pot, and do not skimp on the water; the noodles need room in which to move and evenly cook.)

Have a sauté pan ready (with your desired sauce in it: oil and onions, tomatoes, pesto … your imagination is the limit). Lift the pasta from the water and add it to the pan, coating the ribbons thoroughly. (I also like to cook the pasta a bit longer in the pan, a minute or so; it makes everything taste better.)

That’s it. After you do this a few times, you’ll be ready for ravioli and orecchiette.

Flour and eggs and water and oil, plus you.

Flour and eggs and water and oil, plus you.

So Long, Can Fabes

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A new year brings with it an ending, or even endings. We look forward to the days and nights that stretch before us, but we also, if we are so predisposed, think about what we are leaving behind, be they people, places or things.

During this first week of 2014 I am doing my fair share of wondering about what lies ahead, making plans, writing down goals and intentions.

And I’m thinking of people and places that are no more, especially these three: Marcella Hazan, Charlie Trotter, and El Racó de Can Fabes. Each made an impression on my life, and made me a better cook.

I never met Ms. Hazan, but she did comment on several Facebook posts of mine, asking questions and giving her opinions in a straightforward and probing manner. I did meet Trotter, when he cooked at a dinner in Abu Dhabi that I attended. Two monumental individuals, Hazan and Trotter. They influenced more people than they would ever know, and made my life richer. Our world is poorer without them.

El Racó de Can Fabes, a fabled restaurant, closed its doors forever in 2013. One day in September 2012 I was in a rental car, having left Barcelona headed to France. It was nearing lunchtime and I spotted a road sign indicating an exit for Sant Celoni. Sant Celoni … The name meant something to me, but I could not place it. I slowed the car, my brain all the while attempting to make the connection. It did about two minutes later: Sant Celoni is the village that is home (was home) to Can Fabes. I exited the highway, then pulled over and keyed the words into my GPS. About 15 minutes later I was parked near the restaurant; it was around 12:30, and I walked to the entrance, hoping that they would seat me without a reservation. They did, and that afternoon has been with me constantly since. (See photo slideshow above.)

You might be aware that the building that housed Can Fabes belonged to the Santamaria family for more than 200 years. You might also know that it had operated as a restaurant for 32 years and earned its first Michelin star  in 1988, seven years after Santi Santimaria opened it as a casual bistro. It was awarded a third Michelin star in 1994. Then, as it sometimes will, life dealt a cruel hand. Santimaria died of a heart attack while at his restaurant in Singapore; he was 53.

Regina Santimaria, his daughter, took over, and made a valiant effort to keep Can Fabes open. Losing a man as original and vibrant as Santimaria, however, is, in my opinion, a fatal blow. The restaurant lost one of its Michelin stars, the global economy fell apart, and things were grim in Sant Celoni.

Today I leafed through an online catalogue for an auction of Can Fabe possessions that took place in December 2013. It included plates and glasses and cutlery and pots and pans. But what one could not bid on, the item that created the magic that was Can Fabes, was Santi Santimaria’s soul, and it was nowhere in that catalogue. It was, however, in the meal I had in Sant Celoni that day, and it will be in me forever.

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