Chicken with artichokes
It seemed so unlikely. Three ingredients: spaghetti, pecorino cheese and black pepper. That and a little of the salted water the pasta was cooked in. Toss them together, and you’d have a great dish.
How could it possibly amount to anything? But it did, and it was as good as promised. The dish was spaghetti cacio e pepe, the recipe from Lidia Matticchio Bastianich’s new book, “Lidia’s Italy.”
The concept of Bastianich’s fifth book, a companion to her PBS series of the same name (the show debuted this month), is enormously appealing; the subtitle says it best: “140 Simple and Delicious Recipes From the Ten Places in Italy Lidia Loves Most.”
Bastianich, owner of six restaurants, including Felidia and three others in New York, starts in her native Istria (now part of Croatia), then leads us through the dishes of Trieste, Friuli, Padova/Treviso, Piemonte, Maremma, Rome, Naples, Sicily and Puglia.
The dishes aren’t just the usual suspects, perhaps because of the geographic spread; many recipes are quite unusual and alluring. From Naples, Bastianich offers tiella, a pizza stuffed with octopus or escarole and olives. From Trieste, sardines in onion-wine marinade. From Maremma, sage pudding.
The spaghetti recipe is from the Rome chapter. It calls for an unholy amount of pepper -- two tablespoons of whole black peppercorns for one pound of pasta -- and a cup and a half of freshly grated pecorino Romano. “But because it is such a minimalist creation,” Bastianich writes in the headnote, “every ingredient is of utmost importance.” I used Rustichella d’Abruzzo spaghetti and pecorino from Lazio; I ground Tellicherry peppercorns coarsely using a mortar and pestle.
The technique is very natural; it feels like the way we all should have been taught to cook, and that’s true of just about everything I cooked from the book. You have your crushed pepper and grated cheese ready to go, along with a heated serving bowl, as the spaghetti cooks. When the pasta reaches al dente, you pull it out with tongs, let it drain over the pot for an instant, then plop it into the bowl, still dripping. “Immediately scatter a cup of the grated cheese,” Bastianich instructs, “and most of the ground pepper on the pasta, and toss in quickly. As you mix, sprinkle over spoonfuls of hot water from the cooking pot to moisten and amalgamate the pasta and condiments -- add more pepper or cheese to taste.”
I still had about a quarter of the pepper left, but it tasted just right. It was so good that although it’s supposed to serve six, four of us demolished the entire bowl (as a first course!). Bingo -- into my repertoire it went.
It’s a bit odd that Knopf published “Lidia’s Italy” in the spring; in general the dishes feel more autumnal or wintry than spring-like -- roast goose with mlinzi (homemade pasta baked dry) from Istria, gemelli with smothered cauliflower and saffron from Sicily. And curiously, there are relatively few antipasti.
In any case, what’s so refreshing is that Bastianich talks us through cooking by feel -- something so rare in cookbooks now.
Not all of the recipes are nearly as basic as that spaghetti, but many are very simple, and the six recipes I tested turned out to be terrific. Braised pork chops with savoy cabbage was irresistible -- and made all in one pan. Season and sear loin chops on the bone, remove them and deglaze the pan with white wine, add a little butter and olive oil, then drop in blanched savoy cabbage -- a lot of it -- and caramelize it in those pan juices. Add the chops back in, season and you’re good to go. Fabulous.
Chicken with artichokes, from Rome, is perfect for this season -- a simple, delicious braise with white wine, tomatoes and garlic. From Piedmont, roasted peppers filled with tuna make a wonderful antipasto. The tuna filling, made with Italian tuna packed in olive oil, and spiked with capers, anchovies, cider vinegar, mustard, mayo and Italian parsley, is somewhat addictive, even on its own.
Are all those recipes perfect? Alas, no. Often there’s too much to fit in the pan called for: That was a problem with those pork chops (no, 3 pounds of them plus 4 pounds of cabbage doesn’t fit in a 13-inch skillet). It was also a sticking point with an otherwise wonderful recipe for sausages with fennel and olive -- the recipe calls for 12 Italian sausages, about 2 pounds; I couldn’t fit more than nine in a 13-inch skillet (the recipe calls for a 13- or 14-inch skillet), and even then they were packed so tight I couldn’t “tumble” ingredients together as instructed.
With the tuna-stuffed peppers, the amount of peppers called for wasn’t nearly enough for all the filling. Bastianich called for three to four peppers; we needed eight to 10 for all that filling (we adjusted the recipe accordingly).
Bastianich sometimes forgets basic information such as waiting until the oil is hot to put ingredients in -- experienced cooks will instinctively do so, but beginners might not. And sometimes times are off. Still, Bastianich is a great cook, and there’s much in this book to look forward to. Summer. Fall. Naples. Trieste. Pappardelle with long-cooked duck sugo. Beefsteak Maremma style.
The photos are gorgeous. There are travel tips from Bastianich’s daughter Tanya Bastianich Manuali.
I’ll invest in a bigger skillet, because this cookbook’s a keeper.
To prepare the artichokes, fill a large bowl with a couple of quarts of cold water, and squeeze in the juice of a medium lemon (drop in the cut lemon halves too). Trim the artichokes one at a time, first snapping off the thick outside leaves, until you reach the tender, pale inner leaves. Trim the tip of the stem, but leave most of it attached to the base of the artichoke. With a sharp paring knife or vegetable peeler, shave off the dark skin of the stem, exposing the tender core. Peel around the globe of the artichoke too, removing the dark-green spots where the tough leaves were attached. Cut across the leaf tips with a serrated knife, removing the top third of the artichoke. Slice the entire artichoke in half lengthwise, splitting the bulb and stem and drop the pieces into the acidulated water.
Rinse the chicken, and pat it dry. Cut it into 10 or 12 pieces (including the backbone), and season with one-half teaspoon salt.
In a large saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat, and lay the chicken pieces in it without crowding -- cook them in batches if necessary. Brown the pieces for about 3 minutes on each side, until each is nicely colored on all sides. Remove the pieces to a platter or bowl.
When all the chicken is out of the pan, drop the crushed garlic into the hot fat and cook for a minute or two, until sizzling. Lift the artichokes out of the water, and drop them, still damp, into the saucepan. Stir well, and season them with one-half teaspoon salt and the peperoncino flakes.
Cook the artichokes for 4 or 5 minutes, tossing them often and deglazing the browned bits in the pan bottom. When the artichokes are dry and starting to take color, carefully pour in the wine and cook over high heat, stirring, until it is nearly evaporated, about 3 minutes longer.
Pour in the tomatoes with their juices and 3 cups water; slosh the tomato container with some of the water to rinse the remaining juices into the pan. Cover the pan, and bring the liquid to a boil. Adjust the heat to maintain a steady bubbling, and cook the artichokes and sauce for about 15 minutes.
Return all the chicken pieces (and any accumulated juices on the platter) to the saucepan, submerging them in the sauce. Cover the pan and cook the chicken and artichokes together for about 40 minutes, after which the chicken should be nearly done, the artichokes tender and the sauce somewhat reduced. Set the cover ajar -- or remove it altogether -- and continue cooking 15 to 25 minutes or more, until the sauce has thickened and coats the chicken and artichoke pieces. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
Serve immediately, or, for best flavor, let the chicken cool in the pot and reheat later. If the sauce has thickened, stir in a bit of water. Serve hot from the pan, or from a big bowl. Sprinkle the parsley over it just before serving.
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