Easy

When a prominent bourbon company called and asked if we would develop a meatball for them, we were all over it—we had wanted to run a BBQ meatball on the menu since the Shop opened. All that was needed was a Lower East Side (L.E.S.) barbecue sauce, which, when mixed with some sautéed onions and freshly ground pork, became the official recipe for the Shop’s BBQ balls. So the next time you want some quick ’cue, instead of slaving over the grill, you can prepare these balls ahead and spend some QT with your guests.

Don’t be surprised by the texture of these preserved lemons—the inside is very soft and the outside has a bit of firmness. Use the lemons in vinaigrettes, with white beans, as a rub for steak or roast chicken, or in a marinade or sauce for chicken or seafood. They’ll keep for a week in the refrigerator.

When we think of sun-drenched Greece, we think of olives, feta cheese, preserved lemons, and oregano. These salty, tangy, and fragrant ingredients instantly transport us to the Mediterranean islands. These meatballs capture the essence of Greek flavors and roll it all up into a meatball. You can buy preserved lemons, but our quickie recipe below is a no-brainer. Serve with a big ladleful of Classic Tomato Sauce (page 56).

These balls will definitely get any party started. Buffalo’s finest bar food minus the bones makes it the perfect food to serve up for the big game, a surprising appetizer, or even passed as a fancy hors d’oeuvre. It’s the best part of hot and spicy wings with none of the mess. If you like your balls extra spicy, you can always add an extra tablespoon or two of hot sauce to the recipe. Make one batch and you’ll know why these are a staff fave and top seller at the Shop. Serve with Blue Cheese Dressing (page 70).

Here they are—the top sellers at the Shop and sure to be a big hit at home. Most traditional meatball recipes call for Parmesan or pecorino cheese. While we’re big fans of these stronger cheeses, we prefer ricotta. It’s our secret weapon. The mild and creamy consistency of this fresh cheese gives the meatballs a unique, light texture. Beef has a subtle flavor, and the ricotta is a great way to add fat and moisture to the recipe without the overpowering flavor of a sharper cheese. These are quick to prep, and baking rather than frying makes this a fast comfort food even during the busiest of weeks.

Both classic and inventive, these balls were one of the first meatball “specials” we served at the Shop, and they remain incredibly popular. While traditional Bologna-style meatballs call for braising in tomatoes and heavy cream, our version uses ground beef, with the tomatoes and cream added to the actual meatball. This makes for one mean spaghetti and meatballs.

Subtle, calming, and healthful, this clear soup is a home remedy for alleviating stress. The ginger subdues nausea, aids digestion, and stimulates circulation; the fish balls provide protein to relieve hunger; and the mushrooms and spinach enliven the broth to make the remedy more than palatable, indeed desirable. How simple. How soothing. The spinach roots add an elusive textural dimension to the broth. Not exactly crunchable, they are nonetheless more chewable than spinach leaves. They are available at the bottom of ordinary bunch spinach sold with roots attached. Cut them off to use in the soup and save the leaves for another dish.

Portugal lies on the Iberian Peninsula between the Atlantic Ocean and Spain, and many of its culinary inspirations pull from both those places. In the province of Alentejo in southern Portugal, a combination of pork and clams expresses the inherent poetry of this duality. Ruddy with paprika, fragrant with garlic, and redolent of salt air, it is an exotic, compelling dish in which land meets sea in a bowl. The Portuguese are so fond of it that it is exported with them anywhere they settle, including New Bedford, Massachusetts, where it is served with corn on the cob. The dish is traditionally made with pork meat, cubed, spiced, and marinated overnight. I have simplified the recipe by using chorizo for the pork. It provides the same spiciness and color while eliminating a lengthy step.

The highland sheep of Scotland and Ireland graze in rugged terrain with sparse vegetation. Fittingly, the seasoning for a lamb sausage one might find in those northern isles is somewhat understated. A few well-chosen aromatics, along with salt and pepper, suffice to make a tasty sausage that evokes that landscape and its restrained fare.

When chorizo crossed the Straits of Gibraltar from Spain to North Africa, the meat of it, pork, was swapped for lamb. The mostly Muslim North Africans don’t eat pork. The feisty essence of chorizo was not lost in the translation, however: the seasonings remained pretty much the same, with regional and personal variations, as always. A touch of cinnamon here, dried whole red chiles instead of milder ground paprika, maybe some cumin, maybe not, and always garlic. On either side of the straits, it’s a vivacious sausage to use in dishes that want definite sausage input. Here is the lamb version called merguez; for the pork version, see page 24.

A constant—an icon—of my Armenian American childhood were grape leaves, cabbage leaves, bell peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes wrapped around or stuffed with lamb and rice sausage. My mother, a native of the American Southwest, married my father, an Armenian who enjoyed the honor of being the first of his direct family line to be born in the United States. So, in our family it was he who carried forward the Armenian tradition of lamb at table. That was not difficult for my mother to accommodate: her father was a rancher who raised sheep from time to time. In other words, lamb was a food that my parents easily shared through their more than half century of marriage. Interestingly, though the sausage stuffing was the same whether it was tucked into grape leaves, cabbage leaves, or vegetables, there was a name distinction: wrapped in leaves, the dish was called sarma, but stuffed into vegetables, it was dolma. Dolmas and sarma made with cabbage leaves were considered family fare, and they were a dinner staple in our household. Stuffed grape leaves, which require more time and earnest effort, were festive fare, so they were saved for family get-togethers or special birthday requests (mine in particular). For how to blanch and separate the leaves for making stuffed cabbage leaves, see page 151.

Hmong farmers, fleeing Laos to escape persecution, began arriving in the United States in the latter half of the 1970s, with the majority arriving in the 1980s. Most of them eventually settled where they could continue their agrarian life: Minnesota, Wisconsin, Ohio, North Carolina, and California, especially in the fertile land around Fresno, California. This occurrence is especially remarkable to me because it is where my Armenian relatives also settled three generations ago to farm in one of most bountiful growing places in the world. And I benefit still from that abundance. Notwithstanding the lengthy trip to the Bay Area, Hmong-grown vegetables from Fresno appear in glorious array at my local Oakland farmers’ market every Saturday, alongside the Armenian stand from the same area with its effusive display of fruits, heirloom tomatoes, eggplants, and Armenian cucumbers. Among the Hmong staples for sale are sturdy Asian brassicas, such as Chinese cabbage, Chinese mustard greens, and choys of several kinds; luffa (ridged gourd) and Chinese bitter melon; okra and small pickling cucumbers for my holiday pickle jars; and long beans for my Asian-to-new-Californian dishes. Together these two vendors supplement each other and pay tribute to the marriage of Asian and Mediterranean culinary ingredients in California’s hot and prolific Central Valley. It’s enough to incite a food frenzy and cook up something healthful and delicious, such as this hearty yet delicate Hmong-style main-dish soup.

The countries of east Europe are a disparate lot, continually at odds over issues of religion and governance. But, as nearby neighbors, they share a cooking culture over and above those differences. This sausage and the following recipe for Hungarian meatballs in a sour cream sauce are my imaginative combining of the foods that this corner of the world can share without rancor or strife. The sausage, formed into balls and sautéed, can also be served with cucumbers in a light vinaigrette and potato salad dressed with dill and sour cream for a meze plate.

I dub my Italianate beef meatballs with a nugget of cheese in the center polpette, which in Italian means “round food”—as in meatball, fish ball, rice ball—because it is a fun word to say and it describes their jolly, amenable nature. They accommodate meatball needs from cocktail-size tidbits for dipping into cherry tomato chutney (page 17) to large balls bouncing in a hearty red pasta sauce (page 73).

There’s a certain romance associated with skillet cooking in American cuisine. It conjures campfires or rustic wood-fired ovens, where the cooking vessel must be sturdy enough to withstand the heat. Cast-iron pans fit that bill and more. I routinely use three cast-iron skillets of different sizes to accommodate different types of dishes: a small one for cooking up sausage samples for tasting or for frying up a couple of burgers; a medium size for cooking plate-size pancakes or a fat, juicy steak for two; and a large one for searing meats or fish fillets before finishing them in the oven or for making this skillet tamale pie. Cast-iron skillets offer two more advantages: they are widely available anywhere that carries kitchen equipment, from hardware stores to gourmet cookware shops, and they are modestly priced. The drawback to cast iron is that it is not serviceable for dishes that include tomatoes, wine, spinach, eggplant, or the like, because it turns the ingredient unpleasantly bitter. Romance aside, cooking the tamale pie in a cast-iron skillet offers one more advantage. It saves on pots and dishes: brown the sausage in the skillet on the stove top, spread the corn bread topping over the sausage, pop the skillet in the oven to bake, and then serve directly from the skillet. The quick, few-ingredient sausage is also good for tacos, topping pizza, Mexican-style spaghetti and meatballs, or in place of chorizo for egg preparations. The corn bread batter can be cooked into a tender, light bread without the sausage; use an 8-inch skillet in this case.

In a cross-continental sausage loaf reminiscent of French pâtés, beef, pork, and veal are combined in equal amounts with bread crumbs to make a more pillowy loaf. The California twist is replacing the traditional ketchup “icing” with pavers of sun-dried tomato across the top. You can serve it warm for dinner, American style, with a side of mashed potatoes, or French style, chilled until firm enough to slice thin for an hors d’oeuvre plate. The cooking vessel can be as ordinary as a standard aluminum loaf pan or, if you are serving it warm, a more table-worthy clay pot or round soufflé dish.

Lemongrass, a key ingredient in Vietnamese and Thai cooking, contributes a clean, citrusy taste and fragrance to dishes, such as in this Southeast Asian sausage, where it lightens the bold seasoning. Only the pale, tender inside of the bottom part of the lemongrass stalk is used. To prepare lemongrass cut off and discard the long, thin, gray-green leafy tops and trim away the root end. Peel away the stiff, outer leaves down to the tender core. Slice the core into very thin rounds or chop finely.

Water chestnuts are an underwater corm, and as you might imagine if you consider their natural environment, they are plump with water and crunchy. Their taste, on the other hand, is hard to pinpoint: it’s a cross between jicama and sugarcane with a hint of nuttiness, all diluted with water. In other words, it is somewhat bland. They are often used in Chinese and Southeast Asian dishes, mainly in stir-fries, for their snappy bite. That is also what they contribute to this sausage, which features Asian tastes. I use the sausage for stuffing wontons (page 55), for making small balls to top steamed rice, for mixing into udon noodles, or for wrapping in lettuce leaves as the Thai and Laotians do with minced meats (page 119) and the Vietnamese do with savory meatballs (page 60). Fresh water chestnuts are rarely found in markets, even those geared to an Asian clientele. They are seasonal and as much of a chore to peel as tree chestnuts (not a relative, despite the name). Canned water chestnuts fill that niche. They are available in grocery stores where even only a small amount of space is devoted to Asian ingredients. This sausage recipe calls for much less than what you get in a 6-ounce can, usually the smallest size sold. The remainder can be stored covered with fresh water in the refrigerator and used in homey stir-fries, salads, and slaws.

Somewhere in the land space between Asia and Europe, pork became a rare ingredient in cooking. In most of those lands, it was because pork is proscribed for religious reasons. But then there are noticeable exceptions. In Armenia, Georgia, and Greece, pork appears on menus, though never in the exalted number of dishes that it does in the surrounding cuisines of Europe, Southeast Asia, or China. The disparity remains a mystery to me. There is no religious prohibition in these places, and pigs don’t require vast ranges or grasslands to thrive. Indeed, a small pen in the home yard does nicely. Perhaps it is because of the influence of their neighbors. The Armenians, Georgians, and Greeks are Christians, but they are flanked by Muslims and, if contiguous populations don’t insist on warring with one another, they intermingle, which means, most profoundly, they come together at the table. Thus, if you can’t share a pork dish with your neighbors, you might instead choose lamb or beef for a multicultural, convivial affair. In any case, the Greeks have retained in their repertoire a pork-based sausage that includes a bit of beef and is aromatic with orange zest and coriander and extra zesty with chile flakes. It imports with ease to anywhere such a sausage is wanted.

Herbaceous and zesty, this sausage is an excellent all-purpose choice for whenever you want to add a sausage element that is neither too strident nor too wimpy. I especially like it for the vindaloo on page 49, where it stands up to the other forceful seasonings in the dish.