Good food is as subjective as aesthetic beauty, but in both realms I believe elegance is defined by a degree of effort and a degree of ease.

There are few things that I love more than a dinner party. If I’m hosting one—even if it takes rather a lot of prep—an imminent dinner party lends the day ahead a sense of expectation and excitement. Like Mrs. Dalloway buying the flowers for her party, mundane preparatory activities are imbued with a special significance: they will contribute to an episode of convivial conversation and the pleasures of friendship and food.

I learned long ago from my mother—who appears to easily churn out four course meals for eight or ten from her miniscule kitchen—that it’s essential to be organized in order to enjoy the fruit of your labors while the dinner is actually occurring. Hence, I’m all for making a stew the day before that can thicken and intensify in flavor overnight, so that all you need to do night of is simmer it, cook up some wild rice to sop it up and chop up some herbs to garnish it. However, if you’ve elected to make something more laborious—for which this one, two, or even three days ahead method is not viable—then for heaven’s sake have your mise en place ready before your guests arrive.

Once there, guests will be happily loitering around your workspace, peering into pots, looking for a corkscrew, leaning on your counter, gossiping in your ear, ashing in your sink, and this is not the moment to begin chopping your vegetables. This is the moment to gently (but firmly) refer them to the “bar”—or whatever beverage-focused area you have had the clever foresight to set up. Use the momentary ebb in your guests’ attention while they find themselves a drink to easily toss your pre-sliced shallots into a pan of warming olive oil, to be joined by the tomatoes that you already blanched and peeled and the chicken that’s already been trimmed and seasoned, or whatever you need for that night’s meal. Your mise en place will not fail to impress your guests, who will think you a serious chef when they see your pretty little line up of bowls containing the pretty little line up of ingredients you’ll need for the meal. This preparation is the effort that allows you to cook with ease despite the distraction of your adoring hungry cronies, and it is eighty percent of what will make your dinner party elegant.

My friend D. entertains at home with this exquisite balance of attention to detail and nonchalance. His home is chic and his art collection impressive (Helmut Newton photographs abound; a Rodin sculpture on an end table, and even a Cocteau print in the kitchen!), but the rooms are inviting and the sofas comfortable. Every space that he inhabits takes on this luxurious yet comfortable feel. D.’s deft effortlessness extends to his abilities in the kitchen, and nothing exemplifies this relaxed precision like his poached pears. D. plans ahead and poaches the pears (“always in Bordeaux”) earlier in the day—or even the day before—so that when entrée plates are being cleared from the table, D. needs only drizzle some heavy cream over each fruit or guide a few berries onto each plate. Though they are incredibly easy to prepare, the pears are alluring in their shocking fuchsia shade and an exceedingly elegant addition to any dessert or cheese course.

Here D. shares his go-to recipe for poached pears, but concedes they could just as easily be poached in Champagne with a bit of orange blossom essence, or for that matter Riesling with a hint of Earl Grey. Needless to say with their beauty and subtle flavors they beg to be enjoyed and though simple never fail to impress.

Ingredients  (Serves 6)
6 ripe but firm Bosc or Anjou pears
¾ bottle of Bordeaux
2 tablespoons mulling spice mixture (or 1 cinnamon stick plus a large curl of orange peel punctured with cloves)
1 cup white granulated sugar
juice of one half lemon
2 bay leaves

With a peeler or paring knife remove the skin from the pears in long even strips. The idea is to preserve the beauty of the shape and surface of the pear. If the pears won’t stand on end, cut a flat slice from the bottom so that they easily stand upright.

If you have cheesecloth, use it to create a sachet for the spices, which will eliminate the need to strain the liquid later.

In a large heavy pot, combine Bordeaux, lemon juice, sugar and spices and bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Reduce to a simmer. Lay the pears on their sides in the liquid and turn up the heat again to a gentle boil or strong simmer. Loosely cover the pot. Let cook for about 20 minutes, turning the pears every few minutes so that they cook and color evenly.

For the last few minutes, add the bay leaves to the cooking liquid. Being careful not to mar the fruit, use tongs or a slotted spoon to remove the pears from the cooking liquid and arrange them on individual plates or platter. If you haven’t used a sachet, strain the cooking liquid and discard solids. Return liquid to the pot and bring it to a boil. When the liquid is reduced to near a syrup remove it from the heat and spoon it over the pears. Refrigerate if necessary, but serve at room temperature with red berries, cream, vanilla ice cream or a chocolate truffle. Or serve them as is, but garnish with bay leaves.

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Tags: Dinner Party, Entertaining, New York, Pears, Wine

Baby Octopuses with Garlic and White Wine

On Saturday morning as I skimmed bleary-eyed through my phone, the words “popets amb cansalada” popped out at me from my twitter feed. This is a signifier of a couple of things: 1) my Catalan needs work (cansalada has nothing to do with salad…in fact it means bacon) and 2) I was experiencing one of those fantastic moments when one has a sense of alignment. I’m reading Colman Andrews’ seminal book on Catalan cooking, which—published way back in 1988—was an early harbinger of the fanatic appreciation of Spanish cuisine that was going to play out over the next two decades. (Symmetrically, Andrews is also the biographer of the reigning king of Spanish cooking, Catalan chef Ferran Adría.)

I experienced a little jolt of excitement seeing Andrews’ tweets in Catalan and realizing he and I were in the same city. I swallowed the urge to go and stalk him and decided to make popets (octopus in Catalan) for supper instead. It bears noting, however, that I don’t LOVE to eat octopus. If it’s prepared phenomenally then I enjoy it, but I’ll skip it as sushi and certainly it is out of my comfort zone to prepare it at home. Baby octopus—pulpitos in Castillian—are another story. I have yet to find them prepared in a manner I don’t like. Any chef will tell you that in order for it to be tender, you must either cook octopus for a looooong time or cook it quick. With these tiny treasures, it seems not to matter as they are always tender. I pushed off to the Boqueria to buy my eight-legged babies.

It’s not advisable to play with one’s food (let alone talk to it), but it was hard to resist with these precious little pulpitos. They were so exquisitely beautiful with their layers of translucent iridescent derma freckled between their wide set eyes. Though babies they wore ancient expressions. I was besotted. Alas, once hauled from the Mediterranean, the greatest show of respect I could bestow upon them was to cook them well and savor each and every one.

Ingredients (Serves 2)
1 lb. baby octopus
1/2 cup white wine
bay leaf and herbs (optional)
2 cloves of garlic, roughly chopped
juice from half a lemon, reserving some zest
handful of flat-leaf parsely
olive oil, salt and pepper

Cleaning the Octopus: Lay the pulpito on a cutting board face down and carefully separate the mantle from the body (on the back there are layers of tissue near where the hooded top meets the trunk of the body). Using a small sharp knife, carefully slice into the tissue without severing the octopus in half. Grasp and firmly pull out the viscera—including the organs, ink sac, gills and glands—from the “hood.” Remove the eyes. In these little ones there appeared to be no beak to remove. Rinse thoroughly under cold water removing any ink that may have leaked.

Marinade:  Pour ¼ cup white wine over the cleaned octopi; add a bay leaf, some lemon zest and ¼ teaspoon sea salt. I had some rosemary and added this too. Cover and marinate for up the 3 hours in the refrigerator.

Cooking: In a large cast iron pan heat 2 tablespoons olive oil over medium to high flame. When the oil shimmers place the octopi on the pan with their tentacles splayed. Once you put them down, don’t move them for about three minutes. The octopi will give off some liquid; If there seems to be too much, pour the liquid out and reserve, then start again with fresh olive oil. After three minutes, turn over the octopi and cook them on their sides, at this point it’s okay to toss them around in the pan so that they cook evenly. When the octopi have turned a rather shocking bright reddish purple they are done. Using a slotted spoon, move them into a serving dish and cover to keep them warm.

Add chopped garlic to the pan and sauté for about 20 seconds. Deglaze with the juice of half a lemon and ¼ cup of remaining white wine. Let this mixture simmer for a couple of minutes, then add chopped parsley for the last 30 seconds. Pour the sauce over the octopi. Serve and eat immediately.

Note: I served my pulpitos with artichokes, alioli and a salad.

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Tags: artichoke, boqueria, Dinner Party, Seafood, Spain, Wine

I’m not sure whether I deserved a holiday, but I was given one. We spent Easter just outside Marrakesh with Bat’s sister and her family, and the plane ticket was my belated birthday gift. Two days of torrential rain gave new meaning to the term “water garden” as the tiled pools overflowed and flooded the flowerbeds. The three little girls—four, six and ten—combated the chill with woolen djellabas and busied themselves with tortoises the size of golf balls purchased at the souk. One morning we sang songs with the girls, pulling lyrics from our memories like postcards with faded words from a long forgotten drawer. We read to them from the only children’s book in the house, a book of brutal Moroccan folk tales that portrayed brothers beheading sisters and old friends proving their loyalty by giving each other the livers of their children. We stopped reading and prayed that the next day would be sunny enough for the girls to explore outside. Then there was sunshine, crisp warm air that bathed the heretofore hidden horizon of snow-peaked mountains in clear light.

For five days we ate like kings. Malika, the lovely young cook, plied us with delicacies: tagines, sardines, cherry tomatoes in a sauce vert, home made frozen yogurt, banoffee pie. On Easter morning the little girls in their djellabas hunted for chocolate eggs in the olive groves. At lunch we gorged ourselves on chicken-almond-dried plum tagine and a salad of beans fresh from our hostess’ garden, blanched for an instant and served simply and deliciously with morsels of feta and a drizzle of olive oil. Despite the very drinkable Moroccan rosé, we adults reached for the children’s pitcher of irresistible fresh lemonade infused with orange blossom and mint. We were served Moroccan mint tea dutifully each afternoon, accompanied by tiny elephant ear pastries and biscotti. We left on Monday, slightly browned and much more round.

One of the most beloved of our meals there was a spinach and feta pie served at lunch which even the children devoured without criticism. It was a cross between spanokopita and quiche, and shared the flavorful and comforting sensibilities of both. Malika was generous with her secrets and after lunch, recited the recipe quickly and par cœur under the shade of the trellis. I think that when I am next reunited with my best girl friends, I will make this easy yet impressive dish and serve it with a salad and a bottle of rosé, after all, spring is finally in the air.

Ingredients (Serves 4)
6 organic or free-range eggs: 5 for the pie filling, 1 additional yoke to seal the pastry sheets
300g (10½ oz) feta, slightly crumbled
50g (1¾ oz) Emmentaler, Gruyere or Cheddar cheese, grated
1 tablespoon dried oregano
zest of 1 lemon
olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
400g (14 oz) washed & roughly chopped spinach
1 pack of 270g pack of pate feuillettée (filo pastry), round or rectangular depending on the shape of the pan you’ll be using

Preheat oven to 400°F (200°C).

Whisk together 5 eggs in a mixing bowl crumbling in feta cheese. Add the grated Emmentaler, Gruyere or Cheddar, fresh pepper, oregano, lemon zest and 1 tablespoon of olive oil.

In a frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon each of olive oil and butter. When melted gradually add the spinach and sauté until it just wilts. Mix the wilted spinach in with the whisked eggs and cheese.

Place a piece of parchment paper in either a round cake pan or a rectangular baking dish (this will help you lift your finished pie out of its pan without it sticking or breaking). Lightly coat the center of the paper with olive oil.  Individually place three pieces of filo pastry in pan, seasoning each with olive oil, cayenne pepper, grated nutmeg, salt and fresh pepper as each is laid. Pour your egg-cheese-spinach mixture into the center of the filo sheets, and one by one fold the sheets around the mixture like a parcel. Seal the folded edges of the sheets with egg yolk and a pastry brush. Sprinkle a little cayenne on top for color.

Bake on the top shelf of the oven until the pie crust is golden and crisp (about 20 minutes).

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Tags: Eggs, Morocco, Sebastian

Originally printed in the Saltwater Farm Vineyard Spring 2012 Newsletter

Scallops are such intriguing mollusks. Like flamenco dancers with their paper fans, scallops swim by coquettishly opening and closing their peach and pink ribbed shells. Their sex adapts according to their circumstances: scallops shift between male and female and may be both sexes at once (which bodes well for their population staying consistent, despite the rigorousness with which they are fished).

Scallop shells are steeped in symbolism, most famously as a reference to the Way of Saint James or in Spanish, El Camino de Santiago, referring to the Christian pilgrimage toward the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, where St. James the Apostle’s remains are allegedly buried. The most renowned scallop dish, Coquille Saint Jacques, takes its name from the legend that St. James’ divine intervention saved a drowning man’s life, as manifested by the scallop shells that covered him when he emerged unharmed from the sea.

It is a scallop shell that carries the goddess of love to shore in one of the Renaissance’s most indelible images: Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. But for all their myth and mystery, scallops are also a sumptuous but simple meal. Their meat is dense yet tender, their flavor subtle and unmistakable, and certainly their briny lushness is best enjoyed with wine. Scallops were the obvious choice when Merrily and Michael Connery (my aunt and uncle) of Salt Water Farm, asked me to contribute a recipe for their spring newsletter. After all, along with the gem of Salt Water Farm Vineyards, Stonington is home to Bomster Scallops, praised for their quality and freshness up and down the East Coast and much enjoyed by M. and M.

Here is a recipe for Seared Scallops with sautéed endive, radishes and a parsley pesto, which will complement the spring season in terms of taste and tone.

Ingredients  (Serves 2)
Flat leaf parsley
Half a garlic clove
1/3 cup of olive oil plus 2 tablspoons
1 (about 9-12 radishes) bunch of radishes
3 Belgian endives
¼ cup water
2 tablespoons butter
Salt Water Farm Estate Chardonnay (2 TBSP for cooking and the rest for drinking with dinner)
6-8 Sea Scallops with muscle removed

Preheat oven to 200. Soak the radishes in a bowl of cold water, so that the dirt loosens and is easily removed under the tap or with a scrub brush.

Parsley Pesto: Run a half a clove of garlic and a half a cup of flat leaf parsley through a food processor.* Add a ¼ teaspoon of lemon zest. Pour in 1/3 cup of olive oil. Add a pinch of salt and fresh pepper to taste. If you don’t have access to a food processor, this can all be done by cutting and mixing by hand or ground with a mortar and pestle. * I suggest making more as this will be a wonderful addition to a soup or spread on a sandwich tomorrow.

Radishes: If the radishes are the elongated ones with white tips, cut them into ¼ inch slices. If they are round radishes, quarter them. Melt 1 tablespoon of unsalted butter in a pan. When it’s melted but before it starts to brown, add the radishes and a pinch of sea salt. Toss them over medium heat so that they cook evenly and the color bleeds a bit and they are tender and sweet (4-6 minutes depending on whether the radishes as sliced or quartered). Reserve pan without washing and keep radishes warm in oven or covered bowl.

Endive: Remove any discolored outer leaves and trim the root. Slice the endive in half lengthwise. In the same pan that you cooked the radishes, melt 1 tablespoon butter and arrange the endive, cut side up, in a single layer in the pan (crowding is fine). Sprinkle them with lemon juice and salt, and pour ¼ cup of water and two tablespoons of SWF Estate Chardonnay down along the side of the pan. Cover and cook over medium heat until the cooking liquid is almost entirely gone (7 minutes). Remove lid and flip endive so that the cut sides are facing the pan, allowing the endive to caramelize in the reduced cooking liquid. Remove from stove and place in warm oven.

Scallops: Pat scallops dry and slice them ¾ of the way through from the side to create a joint.  Open scallop at side and spoon a messy teaspoon of Parsley pesto into scallops (think of it as though you’re making a parsley pesto sandwich and the scallops are the bread). Let them sit while you warm 1.5 tablespoon olive oil in a pan. When the oil is hot, place the scallops in the pan. They should cook for about 2 minutes on each side, flipping them once.

Arrange the endive on a warm plate with scallops and radishes. Drizzle a little more parsley pesto on top and enjoy with SWF Estate Chardonnay.

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Tags: Radishes, Scallops, Seafood, Wine