Pizza lessons

In our near-weekly pizza sessions, we tend to adhere to that maxim that the best pizzas are the simplest ones. A bit of sauce or sliced tomato, mozzarella or ricotta, some herbs from the garden, is usually all that’s used. Occasionally, we’ll shave on a light vegetable topping: asparagus in the springtime (as per Smitten Kitchen’s excellent suggestion), slim yellow courgettes more recently, or smear on a blob of pesto. But the general tendency has been to strip down to the absolute essence, in other words, dough.

On visits to Rome during my early 20s, I, like so many others, frequented Forno Campio de Fiori, a sliver of a shop tucked into a corner of a popular market square. The speciality there is pizza bianca, a rectangular slab of wood-fired dough dressed only with olive oil, coarse salt and perhaps a rosemary sprig. Back in Manhattan, I found a version on a still-undeveloped byway of Soho that was good enough to warrant taking the dreaded N/R train downtown. (Pizza bianca hasn’t figured much in more recent years, though I freely admit that the version served at the UK’s Strada’s pizza chain--called garlic schiacciatella, it's really piazza bianca--is unabashedly moreish.)

Once our dough recipe was honed—Shipton Mill flour, a bit of yeast, salt, olive oil and sugar, allowed to rise slowly in the fridge and cooked on top of the stove in a hefty, well-used pan—it quickly became natural to start off a pizza meal with a bianca. Perfect with a glass of wine and perhaps a few slices of meat or a handful of olives, the bianca sates our hunger pangs and allows an easy slide into the rhythm of cook-assemble-eat.

I’m not quite sure when we started putting the rosemary directly into the dough. And since the idea was G’s, not mine, I can unabashedly say it’s brilliant. Finely-chopped sprigs—anywhere from a teaspoon to a tablespoon, depending on taste—are gradually sprinkled on the dough as it’s shaped and rolled out, ensuring that the herb is embedded, rather than all exposed to the pan’s heat. It’s then cooked as normal. The only other occasional fillip is to rub the top with a cut garlic clove before topping with oil and salt and slicing.

As well as looking pretty, the result tastes pretty spectacular. I can only reason that the chopped rosemary integrates with the dough and warms up through the cooking process, allowing its flavour and fragrance to come through more fully.

Inadvertently, we also seem to have found an adaptable template for herb-infused crusts. Just last night, instead of topping the mozzarella and courgette pizza with thyme, we kneaded the flowers and leaves directly into the risen dough. If our oregano plant revives, its leaves will likely feature in a pizza topped with tomatoes from our garden. And come autumn, I’m envisioning a few of the leaves from the enormous sage bush by our front gate being plucked for the base of a mushroom and taleggio pie.

Did I say that the simplest pizzas are usually the best? Depends, I suppose, on what you call simple.

Légumes braisés pour l'été (Braised summer vegetables)

After many years without a reliable oven, I have come to regard myself as quite competent at braising. But even though the summer temperatures in northern Europe can sometimes be more conducive to stews than to cold food, my casserole pots don’t tend to get much use until autumn has unquestionably arrived.

It turns out I’ve been missing a trick. For while the youngest and most tender summer vegetables require practically no cooking, many of the most flavourful and memorable dishes I’ve had have been the result of a long, slow simmer. A quick glance around the Mediterranean—where fantastic vegetables are in abundance—shows up scores of summer dishes which are variants on braises: imam bayildi from Turkey, Italian peperonata and caponata and French ratatouille are perhaps the best known.

These are clever dishes in more ways than one. Not only can they be prepared in advance, taking advantage of whenever it is coolest, many taste better after sitting. They also can turn even older, starchier—or just later-season—vegetables into something succulent and sweet. This summer, I’ve been braising lots of beans. Runner beans are too coarse to eat raw, and the kind of quick boil which suits thin French or string beans doesn’t yield much of interest. The same is true of all but the smallest and earliest broad beans. But within thirty minutes, little of it active time, they are slippery soft and richly-flavoured. The colours may not be beautiful, but no apologies are necessary when vegetables taste as good as these.

Haricots plats aux ail, tomates et origan (Runner beans with garlic, tomato and oregano)

This will also work with fat, starchy green beans or what are known in the US as romano beans. I like to serve these alongside roast chicken or as part of a main-meal assortment including things like bruschetta, olives, roasted peppers and cheese.

Serves 2

Active time: 5 minutes; Total time: 25-30 minutes

200-250 grams beans

2 medium-sized tomatoes

2 cloves garlic

olive oil

several sprigs fresh oregano

Top and tail beans and cut into bite-size pieces. Chop tomatoes roughly. Peel and slice garlic.

Heat a thin film of oil in a heavy, lidded pan placed over moderate heat. Add beans, tomatoes and garlic and stir to combine. Add 1-2 splashes of water (depending on the juiciness of the tomatoes), and season with salt and pepper. Lower the heat, cover and cook for 5 minutes.

Strip the oregano from its branches. If leaves are large, chop or tear coarsely. Add to the beans and stir to distribute.

Cook the beans for another 15 minutes, or until the beans are completely soft and olive-gray in colour and the tomatoes have formed a thick sauce. (You may need to add a bit more water.)

Adjust seasoning, allow to cool slightly and serve.

Feves braisés a l'aneth (Broad beans braised with dill)

These are delicious warm or at room temperature, either with simply cooked fish (perhaps mackerel) or as part of a mezze assortment. If preparing in advance, add the 2nd half of the dill just before serving.

Serves 2

Active time: 15 minutes; Total time 25-30 minutes

500 grams broad beans (unpodded)

2 tbsp olive oil, plus more to serve

handful dill

lemon juice

Strip beans from pods, discarding any which are split or discoloured. While podding, bring a pan of water to the boil.

Boil the podded beans for 3 minutes, then drain and cool. When they can be handled, remove outer layer of skin and discard.

Place the double-podded beans back in the pan. Add 2 tbsp of oil and an equal quantity of water. Tear ½ the dill and place on top. Finish with salt and pepper and a squeeze of lemon, cover and return to a low heat.

Cook for 10-15 minutes, or until liquid has absorbed and beans are quite soft. Adjust seasoning, tear over remainder of dill and serve.

Polenta aux Choux Fleur et Oignons (Polenta with Cauliflower and Onions)

I was introduced to Italian food—or at least its red-sauce, Italian-American cousin—well before I was sentient. The eastern Pennsylvania town in which I spent my childhood wasn’t a particular ethnic stronghold. It was more the case that Pizza D’Oro and Steve’s Pizzeria were the only places where my family could find vegetarian, kosher-friendly food. Pizza D’Oro was probably the first restaurant I visited, initially in a bassinette, later in a high chair. I even had a dedicated outfit, the clothing in question having become indelibly covered in tomato sauce on my first outing.

Pizza D’Oro’s innovation was a daily all-you-can-eat special. It drew lots of the nearby college’s football and basketball players, who unless they drank as much as they ate, surely generated a net loss. As a spectator sport, however, it was riveting. Steve’s most memorable dish was the exotic-at-the-time white pizza, loaded with a blend of cheeses and lots of garlic.

A good fifteen years before I discovered curry, tacos or sushi, I had learned the difference between penne and ziti and could consume an improbable number of pizza slices. A move during adolescence introduced a far-wider range of eating options, but we remained loyal to Italian-style food, branching out from the old-school eateries to take in the 1990s Californian influences of individual pizzas and pesto.

I traveled a bit in Italy during my early 20s, eating well from Sicily to Bologna. The food I encountered, whether pumpkin-stuffed ravioli in Ferrara or a plate of grilled sardines in Taormina, was instinctively appealing and immensely enjoyable. It’s ridiculous to say that it tasted like home; I’m sure that neither dish has ever been served at my parents’ table. But it was unchallenging in the best sort of way, meaning that it tasted exactly as it should and exactly like what I wanted to eat.

I suspect that Italian food, defined broadly and conventionally, is an unthinking, easy fallback for a great many Americans, who, like me, lack any meaningful connection to Italy. And I also would guess that the comfort, and, most likely, complacency surrounding weeknight pasta dinners or Sunday visits to the local pizzeria means that it’s food we don’t seek to learn about it any serious way. Despite my professed love of Italian food, my repertoire doesn’t extend much beyond a few tomato-based pasta sauces, chicken cacciatore and the odd risotto. And I drink Italian red wine with great pleasure, but with little attention to what can make it distinctive and delicious.

There’s nothing innately wrong with any of this, nor am I likely to challenge the status quo in any more than a dilettantish fashion. For as long as I continue to live in Paris, a hands-on study of Italian cuisine doesn’t present itself as the most obvious of projects. And I also wonder whether there isn’t something I can do in the kitchen which fits more naturally with my background, experiences and day-to-day influences. And yet, in a world where instinctive pleasures are hard to come by, it seems almost perverse not to investigate whether the childlike joy I get when eating a slice of really good pizza or even a simple bowl of gnocchi can somehow be replicated, magnified and, eventually, shared.

All this out-of-character philosophizing was prompted by an improbably delicious bowl of braised vegetables served over soft polenta.

Polenta with Cauliflower and Onions
adapted from Jack Bishop’s Complete Italian Vegetarian Cookbook
serves 2 to 3 generously
Total time 40 minutes; Active time 25 minutes

This cookbook is one of the first I bought and has remained useful even since re-adopting meat. Bishop understands that Italian cuisine celebrates vegetables, starches, legumes and cheese, and that combining them well can make for a wholly satisfying meal.

1 cup medium-grind cornmeal
Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 -2 cloves garlic
1 small cauliflower
1 can whole tomatoes
Fresh rosemary (optional)
Red pepper flakes/dried chili (optional)
Butter
Fresh Pecorino Romano or Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

Bring four cups of salted water to boil in a lidded pot. Lower heat to medium and pour in polenta in a slow, continuous stream, stirring constantly. Continue stirring for another 1-2 minutes as the polenta comes back to a boil and begins to thicken. Lower the heat to a very gentle simmer and cover. Stir every 5-10 minutes. While the polenta will appear cooked after only 10-15 minutes, optimal taste and texture are only achieved after 30-35 minutes.

Once the polenta is simmering, begin the sauce by heating a thin film of olive oil in a sauté pan. Slice the onion thinly and add, cooking on a medium heat until tender and lightly-coloured, about 10 minutes. Chop the garlic and add during the last minute or two of cooking. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Trim the leaves from the cauliflower. Remove and discard the core and stalk and cut or break the florets into bite-sized pieces. If using rosemary, strip the needles from one branch and chop finely.

Add the tinned tomatoes and their juices to the pan, crushing gently with a wooden spoon. Add rosemary and chili, if using. Add cauliflower and simmer on a low heat until soft enough to break with the wooden spoon, at least 20 minutes. If necessary, add a splash of water to prevent the sauce from sticking. Adjust seasoning.

As soon as the polenta is finished, stir in a pat of butter and spoon into individual bowls. Pour over the cauliflower sauce and top with a good grating of fresh Pecorino or Parmigiano. Serve immediately.

Courgettes et Fleurs de Courgettes (Zucchini + Zucchini Blossoms)

If the courgettes in your corner of the world have grown huge and out of control, this recipe will have to wait until next year. But here in Paris, I’m still coming home from the market with relatively lilliputian ones. With thin skins and a refined flavour, these require nothing more than a quick softening in olive oil before tossing with fresh herbs and cheese, or combining with eggs. Using mandolin-fine slices, the cooking can be skipped altogether.

Tasty, easy and cheap, variations on courgette frittatas and salads are in frequent rotation right now. But good as they can be, none have approached the practically sublime pasta dish I made recently with sautéed courgette, basil and courgette blossoms. The vegetable base got an extra layer of flavour from chicken stock (obvious, perhaps, though I rarely use it in quick dishes), while the julienned basil and blossoms were thrown in just at the end, allowing them to retain a bit of texture and, more importantly, distinct flavours. Tossed with thin pasta and finished with fresh Parmesan, it was rich and fragrant, the kind of dish that warrants total attention while eating.

Served with an acidic, lightly floral Italian white wine (perhaps a Vermentino or Falanghina), it would make an elegant dinner for two. Yet even without someone present whom I could impress or seduce, it more than justified the (relatively modest) cost and time required. One for the files.

Pasta with Courgettes and Blossoms
adapted from a Chez Panisse recipe by David Tanis
Serves 2
Total time: 30 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

Tanis’ original recipe used corn kernels and scallions. As both of those are hard to find in Paris, I substituted onion and upped the quantity of courgettes. In order to avoid overwhelming the delicate flavour of the blossoms, be sure to use courgettes which are small, firm and virtually seedless. Also, as the flowers will wilt quickly, this is a recipe to make on the same day as your market visit.

1-2 tbsp olive oil
3-4 slim, very small yellow or green courgettes (if your blossoms have tiny courgettes attached, use those in part)*
1 small onion
100-125 ml stock, preferably chicken
300-400 grams dried fettuccine or linguine (I like De Cecco brand)
4-6 courgette blossoms
Small handful fresh basil
Parmesan

Begin heating up the water for pasta. Dice the courgettes (it shouldn’t be necessary to peel them) and onion. Warm the olive oil in a large, heavy sauté pan over medium heat. Add the vegetables, season and sauté, stirring regularly to avoid sticking or excessive browning. When they are soft—up to ten minutes—add a good splash of stock and continue to cook, lowering the heat slightly. Put the pasta on to boil.

Allow the stock to reduce by ½ and the flavours to combine, another 5 minutes. Remove the stems and stamens from the courgette blossoms and julienne. Tear or cut the basil.

Add both to the sauce and toss to wilt. Drain the pasta and add to the sauce mixture, stirring well to combine and coat. Remove from the heat, adjust seasoning and serve immediately with grated Parmesan.

*A wide variety—along with the blossoms—can currently be found at Joel Thiebault’s market stall.

Late Winter Sicilian Salad

There’s something to what is said about Sicily being an otherworldly place. But while geography, politics and poverty have each made tangible contributions to its historic—and in some sense—continuing isolation, the essential strangeness of the place is at once ephemeral and difficult to deny.

In my visit there, I discovered a place where the trains wait for nuns, where one encounters a man selling eels out of the trunk of his car on a rainy Friday evening, where an entire town takes the statue of the local saint out for a parade on her birthday, where the local coffee tastes like it could blow a hole in the top of your head, and the grappa even more so. Palermo is dotted with crumbling, scaffolding-shrouded neo-Byzantine marvels which some EU bureaucrat no doubt intended to have renovated. A Norman-era church stands in the suburbs, while the Vucciera market could, with the exception of the arancini, fried risotto balls, be mistaken for one in the Middle East. And that’s not even mentioning the Roman ruins, which stand unperturbed in the unlikeliest—and occasionally the loveliest—of spots.

I travelled to Sicily too early in my eating career to fully plumb its depths. My itinerary was dominated by relics, not restaurants. But even so, the characteristically strong flavours of the island’s food—the chili heat, the briny salinity of anchovies, the sweet-sour interplay of fruit and vinegar (as in the raisin-studded caponata) and the intense sweetness of most pastries –could not be backdrop alone. In the first few days I made my peace with olives, capers and sardines; by my return to England, I was collecting recipes for what would become a kitchen staple—puttanesca sauce.

With citrus, there were no such qualms to be overcome. It was December, prime season, and everything was ubiquitous and delicious. On our picnics, I learned the technique of removing pith and skin in one neat spiral (though nearly 10 years on, I am yet to master it entirely). I even picked a contraband lemon at an archaeological site. But the easy winner was the blood orange, which, like the gorgeous 5’10 blond who turns out to be a Harvard astrophysicist, could boast more than just looks.

I’m not sure that I ever encountered this salad on my trip, nor that I would have eaten it if I had, as my reconciliation with the liquorice family was still several years off. It’s a remarkable versatile player, pairing well with everything from oily fish to grilled lamb to red-sauced pasta or pizza. And in this strange nether season, it’s a refreshing and strikingly attractive addition to the table. For those who can’t abide raw fennel, endive could be substituted. In fact, I often use both.


Late Winter Sicilian Salad
Serves 2; can easily be doubled or tripled
Preparation time: 20 minutes (for appearance’s sake, wait until the last minute for the oranges, olives and mint; the fennel and endive can be cut up to an hour before eating)

3 medium-sized blood oranges (substitute navels or another flavourful variety if blood oranges are unavailable)
1 large or 2 small heads of fennel
1 small handful unpitted black olives (I prefer unbrined varieties such as Nicoise or Kalamata; oil-cured olives can overwhelm the other flavours)
1 endive (optional)
A few tablespoons of fresh mint or basil
Good quality olive oil
½ or whole lemon
Salt and pepper.

Cut the fennel and endive into very thin matchstick strips and place on a serving plate. Peel oranges, being careful to remove all pith, and cut into circular slices. (If you cut over the plate, you’ll be able to use some of the juices, but you’ll risk destroying the pristine whiteness of the salad’s bottom layer.) Arrange the orange slices over the fennel and endive. Pit olives and depending on size, cut in half; add these on top of the orange, along with the mint or basil. To dress, sprinkle the salad lightly with oil and even more lightly with lemon. Finish with salt and pepper, being sure to taste one of the olives before salting.

On food shopping

Last year, my time spent scouring the winter sales landed me the following bargains. At Harvey Nicks, London's answer to Barney's, I scored a can of mispriced Ortiz ventresca tuna. Liberty's, the quirky, classy, designer haven, yielded up a bottle of Oliviers & Co. sherry vinegar. My final visit, to the vast expanses of Selfridges, forced an impulse buy. A bespoke bag of my favourite jelly beans (the banana, peanut butter and watermelon flavours, all underrepresented in the standard mixes) was the only thing that kept me from bursting into tears in the middle of women's sportswear.

Simultaneously in search of luxury (thank you, grandma) and bargains (thank you, mom), and with a backside somewhat larger than the rest of my size 0 self, I am not a very successful clothing shopper. So while I await the arrival of J.Crew in London and attempt a new jogging regimen (once prodigious, it has been replaced in recent years by an equally prodigious cheese-eating regimen), my consumer impulses invariably send me in the direction of the nearest food or wine retailer.

Here at least, I am rarely thwarted. With an Aladdin's cave of a European deli just down the road, a job on the city's best Parisian-style food shopping street and the possibility of a weekly sojourn to the justifiably renowned Borough Market, I've ample opportunity to pay homage to both maternal influences. In the last two days alone, our larder has gained the following:

• 2 creamy crottin du chevre, sold by a charming, if incomprehensible, purveyor at Borough
• delicate, slightly scraggly new season rhubarb, which was stewed with a handful of frozen raspberries (we give this the elegant moniker pink goo)
• very dirty, sweet-smelling dwarf parsnips
• a bargain bowlful of blood oranges, which I hope are bloodier than their plain-as-as-navel exteriors suggest
• a bag of the city's best truffles, only slightly irregular
• my first ever dried beans, bought with pocket change and used to make this
• two slices of fantastically succulent bresaola, the ideal complement to a not-so-small glass of amontillado
• a bottle of lush, lemony Vermentino, which paired with anchovy and rosemary-topped hake (did I mention the intimidatingly tattooed local fishmonger?) to make the best high-low meal of the weekend

I happened upon hake, and Sophie Grigson's fantastic recipe for it, this fall. Without question, this is the best fish dish I've ever made.

Hake with Anchovies and Rosemary (adapted from Fish to serve 2)

Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1-2 cleaned hake (heads left on, please), totalling about 1 1/2 pounds; 5 anchovy fillets, rinsed if salt-packed; 3-4 tbsp olive oil; 2 cloves garlic; 3-4 full sprigs fresh rosemary; 1 handful bread crumbs, ideally fresh and coarse; lemon; salt and pepper

Heat the oven to 350. Place the cleaned fish snugly in a lightly-oiled, oven and broiler-proof dish. Stick at least 1 rosemary sprig inside the cavity(ies). While the oven heats, gently heat olive oil, chop the anchovies and fry gently. When they have nearly melted (3-5 minutes), add the garlic, coarsely chopped, frying for another minute before removing from the heat. Pour this mixture over the fish, reserving a bit for the insides. Chop the remaining rosemary, mix with the bread crumbs and place on top, trying to cover the surface area fully. (Concentrate on the area surrounding the backbone, not the cavity.) Sprinkle with salt and pepper and place in oven. The fish will likely take about 30 minutes to cook through and colour; you may choose to baste mid-way through with the excess oil in the pan. If the fish feels done but the crumbs have not yet browned, place the dish briefly (2-3 minutes max) under the broiler.

This is difficult to serve neatly. In my experience, it's preferable to portion it directly from the dish, adding lemon juice and additional salt and pepper to taste.