Polenta

In the last few years, it seems like there have been two requirements to opening a successful restaurant in Los Angeles. You have to offer a selection of decent wines by the glass, and you have to offer braised short ribs. You see short ribs served on the bone and off the bone; cooked with Indian spices, Asian spices, and Latin American spices; and served over mashed potatoes, polenta, and who knows what else. I don’t roll my eyes when I see them on a menu because I know how good they can be. Once they’re cooked, they’re good for a few days, so they’re convenient for the home cook. Braise them today; reheat them tomorrow. In the Italian spirit of not wasting any bit of food, shred the leftover meat to make Francobolli di Brasato al Pomodoro (page 177).

We served the polenta with Braised Lamb Shanks with Tomato and Fennel (page 260), but it is equally delicious with chicken, veal, or pork, or as part of a vegetarian meal with a salad.

You can make the polenta through step 1 ahead of time; let cool, then cover and refrigerate.

Water or stock can be substituted for any or all of the milk, but milk makes a creamier polenta.

Look for precooked polenta logs in the refrigerated section of your grocery store. If using fresh plum tomatoes, peel them by scoring an X in the bottom with a paring knife and plunging them into boiling water for several seconds; transfer to an ice-water bath, and let cool. Slip off and discard the peels and seeds.

Creamy, cheesy polenta tops a chunky mixture of vegetables in this hearty casserole.

Many dense cakes such as pound cake can be grilled with great success. The grilling lightly toasts the cake and adds depth to the flavor. Here, Joanne Weir shares her favorite Mediterranean version, grilled polenta cake topped with seasonal berries tossed in a fruit sauce. Note: Make the cake a day in advance, and the berry compote several hours in advance so the flavors have time to blend.

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.

Sitting a few kilometers from the snarls of the city’s traffic, Mondello is Palermo’s beachfront. Less chic than it is drowsy, the tiny port’s center is paved with little trattorie that offer still-writhing sea fish from which one can choose a fine lunch. And at noon, just as bathers and strollers longing for some icy little aperitivo start off for the bars and caffès, a husky, microphoned voice seeming to come from the fat, dark leaves of the old plane trees intrudes on the operetta. With the precision of a corps de ballet, the cast of characters pivots in the direction of a small white truck, chugging slowly, then edging to a stop in their midst. Lo sfincionaro has arrived. In another place, he might be called the pizza man, though his is hardly some prosaic pie. His voice invites: “Just come to see them. They are warm and fragrant. I don’t ask that you buy one. I only invite you to admire them.” We watched as there came a fast gathering of his devoted. Mothers and babies, men in rumply Palm Beach suits, Australian fishermen on holiday, an Englishwoman with a great yellow hat and a silver-headed cane. Children clutching five-lire notes collected, each of them waiting for lo sfincionaro to enfold a great, warm heft of his beautiful onion-scented bread into a sheet of soft gray paper. A traditional confection of Palermo, it is called lo sfincione. It is a crunchy, rich, bread-crusted tart—and close kin to southern France’s pissaladière—that cradles sautéed onions, dried black olives, sun-dried tomatoes, anchovies, pancetta, and pecorino. Fashioning smaller sfincioni and piling them up, newly born, in an old basket and passing them about with jugs of cold white wine can make for a lovely summer supper.

Historically the Napoletani have been able and brilliant friggitori—fryers of food. Until only a few years past and sometimes, still, in the quarters of the poor, the very air was thick with the scents of food being crisped to a light gold in boiling oil. The humble kiosks of the friggitori, traditionally wagons fitted with cauldrons, were wheeled about the dank alleyways, the friggitori wailing out the worth of their salty wares, promising them to be “nuvole ricoperte d’un manto dorato”—“clouds mantled in gold.” Sometimes, the offering was a nugget of simple bread dough stretched out and fried, then dusted in sea salt and anointed with oil, other times there might be little croquettes of rice and cheese or fritters of broccoli or artichokes. Often, though, the friggitori brought forth lusciously crunchy half-moons of dough plumped with mozzarella and known as panzarotti. Our favorite kiosk sits, still, in front of the Pizzeria Bellini, just down the street from the Accademia delle Belli Arti in Via Costantinopoli, a tiny quiver of space where one can stand, at nine in the morning, even, to bite at hot, too hot, savories while listening to two violins, a viola, a violoncello, and a Baroque guitar working through Boccherini. Here follows a version of panzarotti made from course dough rolled thin, laid with mozzarella, pecorino, and bits of salty meat or tomato or anchovy, folded over and cast into whorls of bubbling oil.

The town of Scanno is bedded quaintly on a valley floor near the tortuous Gole del Sagittario—a mountain road called the “Throat of Sagittarius,” on the fringes of the Parco Nazionale degli Abruzzi, a national park and nature reserve. Bespeaking eloquently its Late Renaissance and Baroque past, its little streets and alleyways are warmed by artisans working in gold and silver and lacemakers with their small wooden hoops. The women—many of them, rather than only an archaic few—toddle through the enchanted tableau of the old village on Sundays garbed in long black skirts that rustle their arrival, their hair swept up in gorgeous and ornate headdresses of lace and velvet, their arms comforted in black woolen capes. Theirs is no quaint, historic burlesque. They are wearing the clothes that please them, that are faithful to their images of themselves, that honor their heritage. They are at their ease. A poetically costumed nonna (grandmother) admonishes her young grandson—in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair falling in soft brown curls below his shoulders—to be neither late nor in a hurry for Sunday dinner before she disappears through the small, humble portal of her home. Scanno, if one watches her carefully, will give view to a life inviolate. And these are her traditional biscuits, all chewy and full of spiced Renaissance perfumes and savors, lovely with good red wine, especially when it’s warmed and spiced with pepper and cloves, or, in summer, a little goblet of sweet, iced moscato.

…in the manner of Ellisabetta. Abruzzesi women seem congenitally beatific. They endure, they temper, they are faithful to their own notion of life and betray none of the gnashing dramatics of those Italian women who seem to burlesque passion, who remain in pain eternal, fanned if only by the postino’s tardiness. The Abruzzesi are intrinsically more dignified than those. As wives and mothers, the Abruzzesi seem more revered than leaned upon. Not the archetypal massaia, farmwife, a woman of the Abruzzo historically worked the fields, made bricks, and piled them up into rude buildings with the same good sentiments with which she told fables to her children and suckled her baby. There are many stories, in fact, of women of the Abruzzo that I might tell you. I could tell you about Francesca Cipriani. Well into her seventies, slender, of fine bearing, her long, silver hair pinned up under a kerchief, she speaks eloquently of what it is to live in an isolated mountain village at the end of this millennium. She knows very well that hers is the last generation with the will to stay there inside the small rhythms of its solitude. She is of the village of Campotosto, long and still famed for its plump, rough-textured sausages. She is one of the last artigiani—artisans—who build, by hand, the mortadelline di Campotosto. We were hard put, though, to talk her into selling a few of them to us. She said that this last batch had not yet had time to age properly and that she simply would not sell them in their unfinished condition. We told her that we had a woodshed much like hers and that we lived, not so high up as she, but nevertheless, in the mountains and that we would promise to hang the little sausages there in our own crisp, cold, oak-scented air. She consented. As we were driving away, she raced after the car, counting on her fingers and calling to us, “Lasciatele appese fino al giorno di Pasqua e a quel punto saranno perfette”—“Leave them to hang until the day of Easter, at which point they will be perfect.” We did exactly as she said, taking Francesca’s mortadelline from the woodshed on Easter morning, slicing them thickly, and eating them with a soft, buttery pecorino bread for our Easter breakfast. And then I could tell you about Elisabetta. We found her in the countryside between Anversa and Cocullo. We saw a sign fixed to a tree, penned in a child’s hand, we thought, that read, LA VERA CUCINA ABRUZZESE. COME ERA UNA VOLTA. THE TRUE COOKING OF ABRUZZO. AS IT ONCE WAS. It was, after all, nearly noon, and the invitation was, indeed, irresistible. We pointed the car, as the sign’s arrow indicated, down the narrow, scraggly lane. We stopped in front of the only house. There was a puppy sitting among the weeds and wildflowers, a starched, white napkin laid before him like a tablecloth and beset with various little dishes. After wishing him a buon appetito, we turned to the door. Another sign, in the same child’s hand, invited us to ring the bell if we were hungry. We rang the bell. And there came Elisabetta. A rosy wool skier’s cap pulled low over her brow, her thin, tiny body swathed in long skirts—one piled over another for warmth—and scuffed black boots composed her costume, all of it ornament to her caffè-latte-colored skin and the great, gray sparklers she had for eyes. Elisabetta, now seventy, began her career as a restaurateur at sixty-one. She was just coming into her stride, she told us. Since we had arrived much too early for lunch, she sat us down in the kitchen in front of an old whisky bottle filled with cerise-colored wine and two tumblers. She puttered about, chopping and stirring and such, talking about her life, her adventures, how, when her then twenty-year-old son was sent to Sicilia for his military service, she went along. Because she feared the boy would miss her too much and because she feared, too, she migh...

This recipe was perfected by Brian Wolff, our lovably obsessive-compulsive chef de cuisine at Lucques. He developed it using our cornmeal of choice from Bob’s Red Mill. If you’re using a different polenta, the cooking time and quantities of water might be a little different. The most important thing to learn from this recipe is the technique. Keep adding a little water at a time throughout the cooking process. There are only a few ingredients, so the cook makes all the difference. Watch carefully, and let the polenta tell you when it needs more water. And most of all, stir, stir, stir!

White asparagus, ramps, and morels are the caviar, foie gras, and truffles of the vegetable world. Simply sautéing them together in brown butter and serving them with creamy polenta is one of my favorite ways to enjoy these edible trophies of spring.

When you live in Southern California it’s hard not to be influenced by the spicy, vibrant flavors of Mexican food. People might imagine chefs spending their few and precious nights out wining and dining on five-course meals, but in reality you’re far more likely to find me at the sushi bar, Korean barbecue house, or my favorite taqueria. This spiced pork stew satisfies my cravings for the spicy, robust flavors of ethnic food. I start with some of the Mexican spices I love so much—cumin, cayenne, coriander, and chile—tossing them with chunks of fatty and flavorful pork shoulder and braising it into this succulent pork stew. Pork shoulder is one of my favorite cuts to cook with. As an added bonus, it’s one of the few meats that are still pretty inexpensive. People go crazy for this tender, slow-cooked pork bathed in its own spicy sauce, but don’t worry—it’s so impressive, they’ll never know you did it on the cheap.

One of my favorite dinners growing up was my mother’s veal piccata. Her recipe came from an old cookbook called The Pleasures of Italian Cooking, by Romeo Salta, a gift to her from my father. My father had been a devoted fan of Romeo Salta when he was the chef at Chianti in Los Angeles in the fifties. Back then, it was a swinging Italian joint with red-checkered tablecloths, opera 78s blasting, and red wine flowing into the late hours. My mother’s (and Romeo’s) veal was pounded thin, sautéed, and drenched in a lemony caper-butter sauce. There’s nothing wrong with that classic rendition, but, to add another layer of flavor, I brown the butter and finish it with salsa verde, a pungent purée of capers, anchovies, garlic, oregano, and tons of parsley. To get the finest, crispy crust on the veal, I dredge it in Wondra, a finely milled flour sold at most supermarkets. This dish is home-style Italian comfort food at its best.

This dish is almost embarrassingly easy, but such a crowd-pleaser that I just had to share it. Use a flavorful prepared marinara—smoked tomato, mushroom, or chunky vegetable.