Eating

  ALSO BY JASON EPSTEIN

  Book Business: Publishing Past, Present, and Future

  Gratitude to the Unknown Instructors

  What they undertook to do

  They brought to pass;

  All things hang like a drop of dew

  Upon a blade of grass.

  —W. B. YEATS

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  ONE · COOKING AS STORYTELLING

  TWO · THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY

  THREE · SUMMER SCHOOL

  FOUR · LUNCH IN A WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN

  FIVE · A BACKWARD GLANCE

  SIX · THE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT GO TO SEA IN A BEAUTIFUL FRENCH LINE BOAT

  SEVEN · AVE HOMARUS AMERICANUS

  EIGHT · WHY THEY ARE CALLED CHOPSTICKS

  NINE · PUBLISHING BOOKS WITH KNIFE AND FORK

  PINOCCHIO AT “21”

  JACKIE O AT LUTÈCE

  ADVENTURES WITH ALICE AND OTHER GREAT COOKS

  TWO COUNTRY INNS

  TEN · LAST RESORTS

  ELEVEN · WHY WE EAT

  PREFACE

  I greatly admire Michael Pollan for his brave campaign to detoxify the American diet, but I lack the puritan fiber to be a true disciple. Of course I worry about the personal and environmental hazards that he and others have identified, and I mean to avoid them. Often I do, but not always, for though my will is strong my temptations are stronger, as they were on a lovely late-summer day recently on eastern Long Island at the height of the blueberry season.

  With Michael Pollan in mind, I promised myself that this year I would not make a blueberry pie with its simple sugars, animal fats, and refined flour, as I had been doing for years at blueberry time, which coincides with my birthday. This year, as always, my children and grandchildren were coming from far away to celebrate the occasion, and that morning I stopped at the Pike Farm Stand to pick up some vegetables for dinner: tomatoes, sweet corn, cauliflower, and so on. I included two and a half quarts of blueberries, just the amount for a pie, but vowed not to pour them into a bowl, as I had done on so many previous birthdays, and mix in a cup or a little more of sugar, some lemon juice, or, better yet, the zest, and enough powdered cinnamon so that its faint aroma rises as the pie bakes, and then shower the mixture with arrowroot to hold the juice without making the berries gummy, as cornstarch does. On previous birthdays I would roll out on a marble slab two very thin sheets of the simplest pastry, the one for the bottom slightly smaller than the one for the top. To make the pastry, I cut a quarter-pound of unsalted butter in the food processor into two and a half cups of all-purpose flour with a little sugar and less salt, until the butter was incorporated but still a little lumpy. Then very carefully I added a half-cup of cold water a little at a time until the dough began to form. Though most cookbooks suggest letting the dough rest awhile to relax the gluten, I have never found this step necessary. I fitted one sheet of pastry into a black ten-inch pie tin with holes in the bottom, poured the filling onto it, and topped the berries with the other sheet, into which I poked a few slits, then sealed the edge and brushed the top with egg wash. After forty-five minutes or so in a 375-degree oven, the egg-glazed pie with its rivulets of blueberry syrup would be ready. But this year I vowed to serve the blueberries plain, or perhaps with a little crème Chantilly and a plate of cookies.

  Instead I made a pie. I served it still warm beneath vanilla ice cream hand-cranked by my friend Billy Leonard in his old White Mountain freezer. This followed a dinner of ripe local tomatoes and fried chicken from Sal Iacono’s farm, with a bowl of steamed cauliflower picked that morning. I let the glorious cauliflower speak for itself, with neither salt nor butter.

  On the other hand, I would not dream of making the French toast that my daughter, Helen, recalled when I asked recently about her childhood culinary memories. This monstrous concoction I learned to make when I worked many years ago in the kitchen of a boys’ camp in Maine, from a cook named George who worked winters in a logging camp. He showed me how to dip a thick slice of homemade pain de mie in pancake batter with a little extra baking powder, fry it in deep fat till it puffs, browns nicely, and forms a lacy fringe of fried batter, dip it in a mixture of sugar and cinnamon, and cover it with maple syrup. I mention this deadly pleasure here as temptation’s outer boundary. No one who reads this book should think of going near it.

  I began cooking as a child as other children of my generation toyed with chemistry sets or electric trains. I remember reading Irma Rombauer when I was ten or so with the same curiosity that I read Kipling and Jules Verne. My mother had little interest in cooking, and my father none at all, so I was free to amuse myself in the kitchen without getting in their way. Later, I worked a bit in restaurants, where I picked up fragments of technique and jargon and began to think of myself as a cook long before anyone else might have agreed. As readers of this book will see, I prefer plain cooking. I don’t bother with foams, complex emulsions, or exotic ingredients, but let each ingredient speak for itself, often with the help of herbs, spices, and wine. I am a serviceable cook. Friends like what I serve them and come back for more. This gives me pleasure.

  Recipes are approximations, starting points. I learn usually by failing the first time, then discovering where I went wrong, then trying again, and so on, until the basic preparation becomes second nature. Then I vary it, as I plan to do tonight with swordfish in a spicy marinara, an easy dish to make for ten or twelve people. I make the marinara early in the day, and sear the fish quickly at dinnertime in olive oil, and top it with the sauce just before it goes to the table. For the marinara tonight—actually a kind of puttanesca—I’m thinking of mashing in some fresh sardines if I can find them, a Sicilian touch, along with the pine nuts and raisins that are already in the sauce. I won’t risk the whole pot of marinara, but try a cupful with only a bit of sardine. It may not work—the sardine may be too strong, may squelch the lively marinara—but it’s worth a try. When I made this the first time, I let the sautéed swordfish sit for a while in the marinara, with the result that the sauce, which had been fairly tight, became watery and the swordfish dry.

  The value of writers like Michael Pollan, whom every cook should read, is that they suggest limits which we may respect or ignore as we choose—but at the extreme they define the reality by whose rules we succeed or fail, live or die. I look forward to next year’s blueberry season, and now that apple season is here I may bake a tarte tatin now and then; otherwise, except for special occasions, I’ll skip dessert.

  In this book, when I recommend olive oil I mean extra-virgin unless otherwise indicated. There are many types of extra-virgin oil, and many shops let you taste before you buy. Take advantage of this opportunity. Fine-quality oils come in many flavors and textures, from subtle to aromatic, from gentle to powerful. As with wine, let your taste be your guide.

  My thanks to:

  An incomplete list of my instructors, in no particular order, includes Michael Field, Elizabeth David, Julia Child, Alice Waters, Daniel Boulud, Irma Rombauer, Maida Heatter, Frankie Pellegrino, Patrick O’Connell, Fernand Point, Rick Moonen, Julia Reed, Mario Batali, Wolfgang Puck (whose original Spago, with its bare pine walls and Milton Berle always in the corner, is dear to my memory), Joël Robuchon, Mike Anthony, Buwei Chao, Lou, Marie, and Sal “Di Palo,” Mark Russ Federman, Alice Toklas, Richard Olney, Paula Wolfert, Diana Kennedy, Martin and Adela Garcia, Sheila Lukins, Pierre Franey, Charlie Palmer, Eddie Schoenfeld, and that centuries-long procession of unknown cooks and bakers from whom my teachers and their teachers learned their craft.

  I thank Billy Norwich for suggesting that I write a recipe column for the Style section of The New York Times, from which much of this book derives. I thank, too, my dear and second-oldest friend on earth, the incompara
ble Judith Jones, for urging me to use these recipes as the basis for a book. Thanks to Terry Zaroff-Evans for her superb copyediting, and to Carol Carson for the splendid jacket. Also my agent, Andrew Wylie, for reminding me that this book was long overdue; my wife, Judy Miller, for reading and commenting on the manuscript; and Jacob Epstein, Susie Norris, Helen Epstein, Barbara Goldsmith, Mary Bahr, Hilton Als, Doron Weber, and Olaf Olafsson, who also found the time in their very busy lives to read and comment.

  SAG HARBOR, NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 13, 2008

  ONE

  COOKING AS STORYTELLING

  I seldom cook by numbers, any more than when I walk my dog, Hamlet, along the familiar streets of lower Manhattan I use a compass or plot my course on a map. When my wife, Judy, or friends ask how much of this or that I use in a stew or salad, I say “a little” or “a lot,” but usually I say “not too much”—not meaning to be rude, but because I agree with the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus that you cannot enter the same river twice, that each act is unique and irretrievable, like the water rushing downriver to the sea, or the seconds of our lives ticking away on our wrists, or the way we hear a tune or read a book. From a Heraclitean perspective, it is impossible to make the same dish twice—nor should one want to, since it can be made better the next time, when you will be a little wiser and the ingredients, a little more forthcoming. Recipes should be more like stories than like maps or formulae. So in this book I tell practical stories about some favorite dishes and how they fit into my life and hope readers will try them in the same spirit. In cooking, “not too much” is usually a good rule, since you seldom want a particular flavor to dominate. You want harmony, though syncopation helps.

  I am a book publisher, not a professional cook, though in my youth I worked in restaurant kitchens, and later published many fine books by famous chefs who became friends—Alice Waters, Wolfgang Puck, Daniel Boulud, Maida Heatter, and Patrick O’Connell, among others—and learned from them, too. From time to time I’ve written about food for various publications, and many of the dishes I describe in this book appeared first in those magazines, usually with a list of ingredients and step-by-step instructions for combining them. But in this book I shall describe some favorite dishes as if I were talking to friends who have liked something I’ve cooked and want to try it themselves. To friends I would not dream of reciting a list of measured ingredients and numbered instructions. Except when it comes to baking, where precision is important, I prefer to suggest parameters and leave it to others to work out for themselves such specifics as time, quantity, and temperatures, so that the dish becomes theirs, too. Cooking is like poetry, where one’s unique voice is everything: words and their placement are essential ingredients, too, but the poet’s own voice makes them sing, which is why when you paraphrase a poem you end up with nothing but words.

  For example, take a simple penne in tomato sauce with basil and mozzarella, which I often make for friends at lunch.

  PENNE IN TOMATO SAUCE

  For three or four people you will need a twenty-eight-ounce can of San Marzano tomatoes. These are grown in volcanic soil on the slopes of Vesuvius and sold in high-quality supermarkets and Italian fine-food shops. I buy mine at Di Palo’s magnificent cheese shop on Grand Street in lower Manhattan, a few blocks from where I live. From a culinary point of view, Di Palo’s is as close to a visit to Italy as you will get without leaving home. San Marzanos are more plump than other varieties, with more tomato flavor and just enough acidity. But if you can’t find San Marzanos, any good brand will do, preferably Italian. Muir Glen is a good American brand.

  For the sauce, heat just enough extra-virgin olive oil to cover the bottom of a heavy pot large enough to hold a pound of cooked penne. As the oil warms but before it begins to shimmer, add two or three cloves of slivered garlic, and a minute later a medium-size jalapeño, minced, its seeds removed. Then reduce the flame to its lowest point. The idea is to infuse the oil with the various flavors over a very low flame until the fragrance fills the kitchen but before the jalapeño begins to brown. If it does brown a little, don’t worry. But keep an opened can of tomatoes nearby, to add as soon as the garlic mixture softens and the aroma rises from the pan. If you turn your back for a minute and the jalapeño blackens or the garlic becomes acrid, toss it out and start over. After you’ve chopped the jalapeño, wash your hands lest you inadvertently rub your eye.

  HERBS It is much less expensive and more convenient to buy dried herbs such as oregano, basil, sage, and so on, by the pound, rather than in little bottles—or, depending on how much you are likely to use, a half year’s supply. Most dried herbs remain fragrant for several months, either in the sealed containers in which they are sold or in your own airtight canisters. Throw stale herbs out at once. They will ruin your sauce. I order from kalustyan.com, whose wonderful shop is on Lexington Avenue in New York, or sausagemaker.com in Buffalo, New York.

  If your tomatoes are watery and shapeless, throw them out and try another brand. To the tomatoes, add one or two tablespoons of dried oregano and reduce over a medium flame. Fresh oregano, if you have some in your garden, will give the dish a perfumed lift, but it is much less intense than the dried. You will have to strip from its stems more than twice as much as the dry for the fragrance to take hold: a chore perhaps not worth the effort. The sauce will thicken as the water evaporates in ten or fifteen minutes. It should be somewhat tight. If it thickens too much, add a little water. If it is too watery, reduce it further or it will not grip the pasta. Then add coarse sea salt and pepper to taste, adding the salt carefully, a few grains at a time, until the sauce comes smartly and suddenly to life. Some cooks add a little sugar or soften carrot and onion with the garlic and pepper. I usually don’t. The San Marzano tomatoes are sweet enough.

  Meanwhile, fill a large pot halfway with water, and add salt until you can just begin to taste it. Then bring the salted water to a rapid boil and add a pound of dried or fresh penne, either ridged (rigate) or smooth, preferably an Italian brand. I keep a small bowl of cool water nearby so that as the penne cooks I can extract a few pieces with a slotted spoon or tongs, drop them in the cool water, and taste them without burning my mouth. Fresh pasta will take only a few minutes to cook, so watch it carefully lest it turn to mush. Dried pasta may take as many as seven or eight minutes, though some imported dried pastas cook almost as quickly as fresh, so, unless you’ve used the brand before, taste and be careful not to overcook it. It should be firm to the bite—al dente—before you add it to the tomato sauce, where it will cook a little more. When the pasta is ready, lift it out with a long-handled strainer—the Chinese version is best. Toss the strained penne into the thickened, warm sauce, and with a wooden spoon mix it about until the pasta is well coated. The idea is to flavor the penne, rather than think of the sauce as the main ingredient and the pasta as its conveyance. Discard the pasta water if you plan to serve the penne at once. If you choose to serve the pasta later, save the water, bring it to a boil, and ladle some slowly into the pasta as you reheat it over a moderate flame until the penne loosens. The pasta will no longer be al dente, but will be edible nonetheless. Serve very hot in large pasta bowls. Top each bowl generously with hand-shredded—not chopped—fresh basil, and cube for each serving a small handful of the freshest possible mozzarella, being careful that the cheese rests upon the basil leaves and not the hot pasta, lest the cheese melt and become stringy. Use only very fresh mozzarella, made the same day. Avoid the plastic-wrapped product sold in supermarket coolers. You may prefer buffalo mozzarella from Italy for a tangier flavor. Unlike mozzarella made from cow’s milk, which toughens as it ages, buffalo mozzarella becomes sharp and softens with age. Dieters should know that it takes four quarts of whole milk to make a pound of mozzarella. In this recipe, a half-pound cubed should be enough for four.

  The secret is the jalapeño, which adds subtle heat from the bottom up and intensifies the other flavors. You will not notice it at once, but it will be awaiting you at the back of your
tongue. If instead of jalapeño you use dried Italian red pepper flakes, the heat will be less subtle, though a quick dusting of a few flakes reduced to a powder by your fingertips before you add the basil and mozzarella complements the jalapeño from the top down. Another secret is the cool mozzarella contrasting with the hot, peppery pasta and spicy basil. I have seldom served this to anyone—even dieters—who didn’t ask for more until there was none left.

  SPAGHETTINI OR LINGUINE WITH CLAMS

  Spaghettini or linguine with clams is another simple dish, too often made to seem complicated. All you need is a pound of pasta; two or three garlic cloves, peeled;a jalapeño, finely chopped;just enough olive oil in which to heat the garlic and pepper; two cups of dry white wine; some Italian parsley; and, for two people, two dozen littleneck (small, hard-shell) clams, rinsed, or, much preferably, two pounds of manilla clams if you can find them (and if you can’t, look for New Zealand cockles, a close relative). Manillas are sweeter than littlenecks and used widely in Italy. Dried red pepper flakes are optional. Fill a stockpot half full of water, add salt, and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, heat a little olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pot just large enough to accommodate a pound of cooked pasta and the clams, and add the whole garlic and chopped jalapeño and cook gently until the garlic and pepper soften. Add the wine, and reduce quickly by half. Then add the clams, cover the pot, and when the clams open, after a few minutes, remove the cover and turn off the flame. Add the pasta to the boiling stockpot, and when it is al dente, lift it with tongs and add it to the clam sauce. Coat the linguine or spaghettini with the sauce, and put in large pasta bowls. Sprinkle with coarsely chopped Italian parsley and serve. A sprinkling of red pepper flakes and a dash of extra-virgin olive oil are optional. If the pasta seems dry, add a ladle or two of hot pasta water. This quantity will serve two, maybe three.