Oven Bake

One of our top five cheater recipes was inspired by a summer cookout at the Nashville hideout of songwriter/producer Desmond Child, the genius behind scores of hit songs, including “Dude Looks Like a Lady,” “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and “Livin’ La Vida Loca.” Margarita, a member of Desmond’s Miami posse, is an excellent cook and veteran cheater. The chart-topping single of the incredible Cuban feast was Bar-B-Cuban Chicken. After marinating chicken legs and thighs overnight, she cheated big-time by cooking them in the oven before the party. In a matter of minutes, the precooked chicken was effortlessly seared on the grill in a showy haze before a live audience. Garlic and tangy lemon not only filled the air, they had penetrated deep into the meat (and our clothes). Margarita admitted, “I don’t measure and I always use too much garlic. I say, it’s good? No. More.” “How much garlic do you use, Margarita?” “Too much,” she said. This is our cover of Margarita’s smash hit.

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.

A superhot oven is what separates the professionals from the rest of us. While we dream of 900°F, we’re making the most of our enamel-coated cast-iron Dutch oven in 500°F. Chicken cooked in a hot covered pot cheats your way to moist meat and crisp dry-rubbed salty skin just like the pros. Whole chickens are easy to cut in half with poultry shears, a sharp knife, or a cleaver, or have your meat guy do it. First, get the pot raging hot. Start the chicken halves skin side down to sear in the juices. Flip halfway through cooking and leave the cover off to crisp the skin. Good pot holders and tongs are a must. Skip the sauce because the skin is killer good.

Frying chicken is like outdoor barbecue: Sometimes we just don’t have the energy to do the work. In a pinch, chicksticks make a nice pile of crispy chicken strips with a high crust-to-bite ratio. Our trick is to roll the chicken breast strips in a mix of oil and bottled smoke before breading. Serve them hot or cold and take them anywhere. Kids love them with ketchup and honey mustard; sports fans drag them through buffalo sauce or chipotle ketchup (see Note). Cut them up to top a Caesar salad. Load them in a hoagie roll with pickles, mayo, and lettuce. For fancier meals, serve them with fresh lemon.

Super Pollo is a hybrid Mexican-American barbecue chicken restaurant in Nashville that combines Tennessee hickory smoke with chili-rubbed chicken, corn tortillas, and fresh salsas. Unlike the more traditional barbecue shack approach where chicken doused in sweet sauce plays second fiddle to pulled pork, ribs, and brisket, here the cumin-and-chili-rubbed chicken is the star. Handmade corn tortillas replace the usual corn cakes, and rich soupy pintos replace the standard sweet barbecue baked beans. We smoky-brine our Super Pollo first and spice it up with Cheater Chili Dry Rub. Serve with tortillas, pintos, rice, and plenty of salsa and pickled jalapeños.

Chinese ribs were oven ribs long before oven ribs were cool, as of course we all agree they now are. They’ve never had to suffer the embarrassment of being dragged off the patio and into the kitchen. Their only taste of the outdoors is with the delivery guy. Cooked right in the sauce, uncovered on a baking sheet instead of wrapped in foil, the rib meat has a nice chewy bite. Chinese chili sauce brings home the flavor. You can find some in the international section of a well-stocked supermarket. The bright red-orange sauce is thick and sweet like ketchup, and hot like pepper sauce (but not as vinegary). Substitute ketchup if you like less heat. Double or triple the recipe whenever possible.

Like fried chicken and good corn bread, oven drums are all about the crust. The key to Hot-Oven Drums is to get the skin working for you. Hot-Oven Drums are inspired by Nashville’s cultish hot pan-fried chicken that’s dusted-to-dredged in cayenne pepper. Proceed with caution! Here the skillet meets the oven. The bread crumbs, dry rub, and oil keep the Hot-Oven Drums crisp and the cayenne pepper, added right before cooking, lets you control the heat. Serve the drums just like chicken wings with ranch or blue cheese dressing and celery and carrot sticks. Eat them on your feet with a beer in the other hand and no worries about the red mess all over your face and hands.

In addition to seasoning the Roasted Eggplant White Bean Spread (page 25), roasted garlic with a little smoke adds great flavor to hummus, mashed potatoes, and butter or olive oil spread on bread or over a steak. Blend roasted garlic with some mayonnaise for burgers and sandwiches.

Like popcorn, nuts taste best sprinkled with extra-fine-grained salt that sticks to the snack. That’s why the cheater thing to use here is Lawry’s seasoned salt, a ready-to-go finely ground blend of salt, seasoning, and sugar that becomes one with the nut. If you use coarse kosher salt, you’ll find the flakes sitting in the bottom of the bowl. You can smoke all kinds of nuts—peanuts, pecans, whatever you like—but the nuts must be raw. Stay close to the oven during the final ten minutes of roasting. The toasty fragrance will let you know when they are ready.

The poorest, perhaps, of all Sard dishes, some version of mazzamurru is often a shepherd’s supper or humble sustenance for a bountyless hunter’s family. Made of whatever stuffs might be at hand, the commonalities of mazzamurru are rich ewe’s milk, some rough bread, and shards of sharp, salty cheese. The ornaments are often a handful of wild grasses or a few sun-dried tomatoes, some olives, a crush of dried herbs. Present the mazzamurru with a bowlful of some simple tomato sauce or, better, no sauce at all, its nakedness tasting of such goodness.

In the late summer and early autumn, in the interior of the island, the great harvests of pumpkin and squash are preserved by the farmwives in varied fashion. Often the flesh is cooked down to a marmalade and sparked with candied oranges, or poached chunks of it are set to rest in a sweet vinegared brine. Too, thick slices of poached flesh are often rolled around in a sugary syrup and left to dry. Of a most luscious flavor, this candied pumpkin is sometimes used with dark rum and a handful of broken, bittersweet chocolate, to make a tart like the one we were served in the village of Milo. I was dazzled by it. But when I heard of the perplexing process by which the tart’s author had candied the pumpkin (she began by saying that I should gather fifty to sixty pumpkins), I was slightly shaken. I found, though, that simply roasting the flesh of a pumpkin or squash and then bathing it in caramelized sugar gives a flavor similar and perhaps even richer and requires far less drama.

Foggia is the city studding the largest wheat fields of Italy’s south—the tavoliere—it being the ancient, present, and endless granary of the peninsula. Too, are potatoes cultivated there, soothing the Pugliese penchant for them in breads, tarts, stews. Our maîtresse d’hôtel in Foggia baked a reprise of this luscious tart evening after evening, sometimes filling it with minced lamb or thin slices of poached sausage or crumbles of smoked ricotta, and presented it barely warm as our first course.

Agnello Piccino, Piccino, Picciò (Delicate, more Delicate, The most Delicate Lamb of all). Just outside the village of Campo di Giove—Field of Jove—southeast of Sulmona, there lives and works a butcher who is also a chef of sorts, roasting and braising, as he does, some of his wares in a great, old stone bread oven that sits behind his pristinely stuccoed shop. His clients come sometimes to buy their lunch or their supper still warm and fragrant, readied for the table. Though it was achingly cold on that February morning when first we came upon the butcher at work in his outdoor kitchen, we joined the long, decorously kept line that wound its way from his ovens down the country road. We offered our good-days to the mostly women in whose midst we now stood, women typically Abruzzese, with serene, high-boned faces. They carried their pots and casseroles in sacks or against a hip and, when they felt our interest, they talked to us a bit about the dishes for which the old butcher was celebrated. Mutton braised overnight with tomatoes and onions and red wine; pork braised with bay leaf and garlic and peperoncino in Trebbiano d’Abruzzo; tripe and pancetta with tomatoes and yet more peperoncino; kid roasted with centerbe (an artisanly distilled liqueur made with mountain herbs). Long and reverent was their litany, but when one of them spoke of his agnello da latte—of suckling lamb that he braised only with butter in a sealed copper pot—there came a swift agreement that it was his piatto prelibato—his dish of greatest refinement and delicacy. As the gods would have it that day, the butcher had not prepared agnello da latte but intinglio di agnello allo zafferano (page 47), which, when it came our turn, he packaged for us in a little plastic tub and on which we later lunched in the car with the motor running. It was luscious. We returned in the afternoon, forsaking the day’s program, to beg its formula and to know when the mythical angello da latte might be forthcoming. Il macellaio, the butcher, shook his head on both counts. The suckling lamb in the sealed casserole he prepared only when he found lambs of just the right plumpness and age whose mothers fed only on certain grasses. He turned to the next question. “Una ricetta è una questione di cuore, signora mia; è molto personale,” he said. “A recipe is a thing of the heart, my lady; it is most personal.” I simply looked at him, neither beseechingly nor with delusion, and proceeded to tell him how I thought it had been accomplished. I spoke for a long time, I suppose, he never interrupting even as clients accumulated around his cold white cases. I sealed my discourse by asking why he’d used imported saffron rather than the milder one harvested locally up near Navelli. By now, he was laughing, mostly at my accent, I thought, which is distinctly Northern and often unpleasant to southern ears. At a point much later, after we knew each other longer, he confessed it was only my determinazione—determination—that had made him laugh. The butcher, at least with words, never told me if my understanding of his beautiful lamb stew was correct, but each time I make the dish, I know that the pungent, melting result is a fine tribute to him. And so, when Campo di Giove sits even remotely on our route, we visit, happy to see our friend and hoping to find agnello da latte. We are always a day too late, a week too early. Someday our timing will be divine. Curiously enough, though, the butcher, without my asking for it, one day told me its formula.

This potato and bacon gratin was created by Rob Chalmers, a chef de cuisine at Lucques who had a great love of food and a big Boston attitude to go along with it. When he first told me about this gratin, I thought he was joking. That much fat in one pan might put even me over the edge. But lo and behold, bacon, potatoes, and cream really do taste good together!

Every time I make this flageolet gratin, I think about my first days at Chez Panisse. Everything went smoothly the first week. It seemed my studying—I had read La Varenne Pratique cover to cover and was working my way through Larousse Gastronomique—had paid off, until one of the cooks asked me to go and get a bag of “flageolets” from the storeroom. All of the blood rushed to my face. Too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know what he was talking about, I scurried away, hoping for divine intervention. In my panic, I spotted a French cookbook and quickly read that flageolets were dried kidney-shaped French beans. I found the beans in the pantry, wiped the sweat from my brow, and rushed back to my station. Saved— until the next time!