Dairy

Once you start using the lighter, larger, crisper Japanese panko crumbs, the usual bread crumbs will feel like sand. A box of panko in the pantry crunches up all kinds of oven-fried seafood and chicken and substitutes for bread crumbs in any recipe. Their airy texture is akin to the difference between flaky kosher salt and dense iodized salt. Figure on about three large scallops per person.

Back when our friend Claire Mullally owned Bobbie’s Dairy Dip, a ’50s-style ice cream and burger drive-in, she organized Sunday night parking lot jam sessions to drum up a little business in the cooler fall months. Where else but Nashville can you see Country Music Award and Grammy Award winners and nominees play for tips with no cover charge and a side of sweet potato fries? The jam band was complete when a cab arrived straight from the airport carrying Claire’s husband, songwriter/musician Greg Trooper, just landing from a tour with John Prine. The standing room only parking lot was rocking with loyal Dip families filling up on live music, behemoth burgers, and soft-serve sundaes. The only thing missing was a beer truck. Claire juggled the kitchen, the counter, and managed to sing back-up on a cranking cover of “Love the One You’re With.” Our version of the Dip’s guac burger is a beauty featuring a juicy beef patty adorned with cheese, a smear of guacamole, salsa, sour cream, tomato and onion, and jalapeño slices instead of pickles.

One hot Tennessee evening Min’s neighbor, Raj Kumar, handed R. B. a green coconut and a cleaver and said, “Chop the top off that thing. Let’s have a drink.” We love Raj. Dinner at his kitchen table is part spiritual recharge, part therapy, part comedy hour. Even better, Raj knows how to cook. After one question too many from us, he took us to Apna Bazaar, Nashville’s Costco of Indian provisions. Soon every dish we made required two kinds of cardamom pods, a chunk of cinnamon bark, cumin and coriander seeds, mango pickles, and a chutney or two on the side. Raj kindly indulged us in our enthusiasm and, in time, our spicing acquired some much-needed subtlety. As Raj advised, one should wonder about flavor, not be hit over the head with it. Tandoori BBQ Chicken Thighs use bone-in, skinless dark meat typical of Indian cuisine and our balanced dry rub approach, accented with either a simple curry powder or garam masala, both readily available spices. Add cayenne pepper for more bite. When time allows, we adhere to the tandoori tradition of soaking the chicken in plain yogurt before seasoning the meat. In 900°F tandoori ovens, the yogurt ensures moist chicken, and it’s just as worthwhile at home. We often substitute buttermilk for the yogurt because it’s cheaper and coats the meat instantly.

Min fell for tortilla-wrapped dogs outside of Austin, Texas, years ago after a meal of wrapped barbecued sausages. The Texas hill country is a barbecue melting pot, thanks to the influences of German settlers and our Mexican neighbors. Since then, Min has pretty much sworn off hot dog buns. With a chronically overcrowded kitchen and a jammed freezer, a pack of tortillas stays out of the way, doesn’t get mashed up, and offers a lot more options. The kids don’t miss the buns one bit either.

Just as one special cocktail sets the party mood, one special condiment streamlines the party food. Try Min’s Main Dog Slaw as a simple solution to the cluttered condiment bar or mustard tasting. The switch from hot dog to hamburger bun puts a signature twist on a dog.

Hummus may come and go, but warm spinach cheese dip, with its highly satiating qualities and homey familiarity, is still and always will be an excellent choice for casual parties involving cocktails. Broiler-charred jalapeños are our spin to bump this old classic into flavor advanced placement. As with any creamy cheese spread, R. B. will find any leftovers, no matter how buried in Min’s fridge, to plop on open-faced burgers.

Recipes, like everything else fashionable, rise and fall with popular perception. They’re in, they’re out, they’re hot, they’re hopelessly last season. Liver has never caught the wave of coolness, unless it’s taken from a force-fed goose. Even liver as haute couture as foie gras is on the OUT list, branded as inhumane and even outlawed in some places. Slumming with ready-to-wear liverwurst, on the other hand, is looking pretty fresh. Why shouldn’t it? Liverwurst has plenty in common with foie gras, especially its color and buttery smoothness when it’s blended with cream cheese. Instead of slapping it on rye bread with mustard, serve it with the sweet flavors that commonly adorn foie gras, and your perception will instantly change. This is absolutely one of R. B.’s favorite cheater recipes.

In spite of his Irish tendencies to worry and brood, R. B. pretends to think of himself as an upbeat guy who genuinely wants to like things. Even so, he’s given up on grilled shrimp-stuffed jalapeño peppers. It’s hard to cook a raw shrimp tucked inside a pepper unless the pepper is roasted to bitter death. Cheesy alligator snouts—broiled and blistered jalapeños with melted cheese—never disappoint. Broil or toaster-oven these treats and all they need as garnish is plenty of cold beer. Serve the broiled snouts as a conversation-starting appetizer, whole and hot from the oven, or sliced and set in little tortilla scoops. Serve them as a side to a Mexican feast paired with Cheater Carne Adovada Alinstante (page 56). Jalapeños are usually tolerably hot, although it’s impossible to know until you take a bite. Satisfy all your guests with a combination of hot green jalapeños and the mild mini red and yellow sweet bell peppers.

Any appetizer spread, even this one of conventional cheese ball ingredients smashed into a spread, becomes much more glamorous when paired with all things pale green—celery sticks, thin green apple wedges, or Belgian endive. Don’t underestimate the allure of a generous pile of green grapes, either.

Before he discovered cheater BBQ, the only indoor kitchen appliance R. B. had a serious relationship with was the toaster oven. He fancies himself the master of all things topped with melted cheese. Predictably, leftovers of this smoky cheese spread went right into the toaster oven on slices of thick rustic bread. Smoky Pimiento Cheese Bruschetta! Min took it to the next level with sliced fresh tomato, a few green onion bits, and a basil leaf for a “New South” Italian appetizer. Of course, the pimiento cheese is fantastic on a big juicy Cheater Kitchen Burger (page 119). We also serve our pimiento cheese along with Cheater Foie Gras (page 21), each spread on tart Granny Smith apple slices.

Sculpted into the shanks of the Sopramonte in the barbagia is Oliena. And drifting toward it from the Nuorese road at sunset, the golden lamplight of the village bedazzles the mountain, splendoring its old, cold grayness as would the gleams of ten thousand torches. Later, inside the village as we sat with our aperitivi, we told a local man how the approach had pleased us. He said that it was ritual for the Olienesi to walk down from the village at crepuscolo (twilight) turning back to face the mountain as the sun softened, sobered down to sleep, before they strolled back up the hill to suppers. And it is from these romantic Olienesi that was begun the tradition of two celebrated Sard dolci—sebadas and sospirus. Sebadas are typically made with a fresh ewe’s milk cheese cushioned inside leaves of pastry, tumbled into bubbling oil, then given a dose of bitter honey. This version asks for ricotta and mascarpone-plumped pastries to be baked, then given a wisp of a honeyed sheen. Present them after some simple supper, such as mazzamurru (page 233), with a tiny glass of icy Malvasia di Cagliari.

A tiny place where once lived the paladins of Sardegna is Orgosolo. Only a decade or so ago did they think it prudent, finally, to wander about the steep, tortured alleyways of their mountain village unadorned with a rifle. Orgosolo is the historic lair of Sard banditismo—banditry. Perhaps the businesses of thieving and buccaneering seem more gainful in Calabria, for now, the only rapscallions left in Orgosolo are the political artists whose bullying, bitter-sermoned murals irritate walls, housefronts, mountain faces. Too, icons are chafed, gastronomically, in Orgosolo, as they are here in this dish, which asks for bottarga as well as pecorino, upsetting the proscription, for a moment, against the mingling of fish and cheese.

In the Sard dialect, the town of Villagrande is called Biddamanna. There, a vast parcel of Sard earth is su cumonale—owned by everyone of the community. Shepherds can pasture their sheep, townsfolk can collect wood for their fires, a family can cultivate a small orchard, a garden of vegetables. The Biddamannesi can walk kilometer after kilometer through forests, into the mountains, onto the moors, hunting, foraging, gathering, as they have done forever in this town with no walls, no fences. And, too, they cook for each other over great fires laid in the piazza near the village hall on feast days. Cauldrons of thick soups, mutton poached with wild grasses, and beautiful handmade pastas are offered with baskets of pane carasau and barrels of rough, purply cannonau. Though all Sards seem passionate about making packets of their food, these Biddamannesi seem more devoted, even, to the pursuit. They urge rough doughs into pouches and pillows plumped with all manner of savories and sweets, the bundles tumbled into gurgling oil or baked over wood embers or gently poached. Culingionis are raviolo-like pasta typically stuffed with bitter greens and an acidy, fresh ewe’s milk cheese or a paste of potatoes, nutmeg, cloves, wild mint, and pecorino. Though these are luscious, it is a half day’s ceremony to make them. Hence, I sometimes wrap the good potato paste in a crisp quilting of cheese pastry, a quickly done deed that gives up all the savor of the culingionis plus the prize of a gorgeous scent as the crostata bakes to crispness.

Bestriding the shoulders of the island’s western verges is the perfect borgo medievale (medieval village) of Erice, called so after he who was the mythical son of Venus, sired by the king of the ancient tribe of the Elimi. There is a fascination about the village, its apocryphal tales and its truths—gifts, one thinks, of the cults that once worshiped the gods of beauty and love there and carved into the village walls scripts still undecipherable. Limpid, sweet is its air, and from its sweeping lofts one sees Mt. Etna, her fury diffused in far-off mists. And there on a small piazza sits the pasticceria of Maria Grammatico, who fashions the most gorgeous, most delicious evidences of rustic Sicilian pastry. Many of Signora Grammatico’s formulas are borrowed from the epoch of the Ericina convent pastry-making—it, too, having once practiced a temperate rather than a Baroque style. This is a version of the celebrated Ericina ricotta pie.

It is fitting that on a most divine jot of the Tyrrhenian coast, on a promontory between the limpid gulfs of Sant’ Eufemia and Goia Tauro, there would glint the small, golden precinct of Tropea. Fitting, too, that there in its rich, black fields would be raised up Italy’s sweetest onions, and that they be long and oval like great lavender pearls. One peels them and sets to, with knife and fork, a dish of sea salt, a pepper grinder, and a tiny jug of beautiful oil, a perfect lunch with bread and wine. Too, we saw the folk of Tropea simply fold back their papery skins and eat them raw, out of hand, layer by layer, like a magical violet fruit. Sometimes, one finds them all softened, smoothed into a delectable potion made of garlic and bay leaves and white wine. Evident in its resemblances to French cousins, the soup of Tropea, though, is a minestra strepitosa—a magnificent soup—say the Calabrian cooks, belittling the goodness of the French soup. Here follows a version that softens the garlic, caramelizing it into sweetness with the slow cooking of the onions, before the illumination of the soup with red wine and grappa and the finishing of it with pecorino and a heavy dusting of fresh pepper.

So unlike the exquisitely wrought sweetmeats of other southern pasticcerie, pastry in Basilicata is often in the form of some rustic fried fritter, its batter honey-sweetened and studded with raisins or nuts. The most luscious version, though, is the one that asks for ricotta and dark rum. We found them being made in a small shop with an even smaller selling counter on a little street off the Via Pretoria, just before one reaches Piazza Mario Pagano in Potenza. On more than one iced winter’s morning have we stood outside its doors and waited for the sugar-dusted, crisp-crusted warmth of them.

Unlike the ricotta forte of Puglia, prepared laboriously, asking that the fresh cheese be left to drain off its opaline waters and to acidify, the dry cheese to then be kneaded, worked each third or fourth day for at least two months until it takes on a burnt ivory sort of color and its perfumes come up stinging, pungent, this version is prepared in moments. Yielding a condiment less punishing in its aromas, the Calabrian ricotta forte is still of an assertive and keen savor, which when smoothed over warm, crusty bread, glorifies the richness of spiced sausages and salame presented as antipasto. A few dollops of it, thinned with drops of pasta cooking water and tossed with bucatini or spaghetti, make a fine dish. Tucked away in a crock in the refrigerator for a week or so, the vigor of ricotta forte ripens and intensifies.

Riso nero—black rice—is the dramatic name for a nursery dish offered to children as a light supper or as a sweet after a bit of broth or soup. It is most often just made with rice poached in milk that has been scented with cinnamon and mixed with a few shards of chocolate, the latter giving the dish its name as it melts and turns the rice a deep, dark color. Surely there are lovely similarities between it and pasta in nero della consolazione (page 118). Here I offer its comfort in a more adult version. The same prescriptions apply, though, as this is best presented after a light, reviving soup or, better, after no soup at all, so one can justify slipping one’s fork into the spiced, chocolate depths of a second or third piece of the sweet little pie.

An inordinately rustic dish, it asks so little of the larder and the cook and gives up good, potent flavor. The Lucani are wont to add another crushed chile to the pasta at table or under a tree, as the case may be.