In appreciative awe of the Curried Mussels from the Breslin Bar and Dining Room

I can’t give you this recipe without telling you a little bit of background. From March of 2011 to January of 2012 I was a waitress at the Breslin. It was an experience that far exceeded my expectations of what a waitressing job might provide. I worked as a waitress four years ago in Los Angeles while I was living there as an actress, and I can unequivocally say that stint was the most unpleasant employment experience of my life thus far. I won’t get into the details of that Art Deco-inspired torture chamber now, because I am saving them for a salacious memoir or an article on the atrocities of Hollywood, but let’s just say it made me question humanity as well as my own sanity.

Back to the more recent experience, I started working at The Breslin while I was taking a four-month class at the French Culinary Institute. I wanted to learn a lot about food (independent of what I had absorbed through osmosis from my mother). I needed to get a job while I took the class and tried to figure out the minor issue of what I wanted to do with my life. I decided that the Breslin was my optimal target for the following reasons:

1) April Bloomfield’s food is delicious and serious without being pretentious or hoity-toity
2) I could wear whatever I wanted
3) I only had to take one subway from home in Brooklyn to get there
4) I had a friend who knew the owner, which boded well for me getting hired

What began as a means to make some cash while I went to school, evolved into far more complex and rewarding experience. Simply being in the presence of such carefully-made food made me a better cook. It was a completely different experience working in a Michelin-starred restaurant in New York as a budding food blogger than it was waitressing at a cheesy restaurant in Los Angeles as a struggling actress. In both instances I took the food very seriously. Even five years ago in L.A., I noticed if the kitchen forgot to garnish the gratin with parsley or drizzle the beets with hazelnut oil. The difference is that at the restaurant in L.A., other than the chef, pretty much no one else noticed or cared. At the Breslin everyone takes the food seriously. To the kitchen every detail is an obsession (occasionally one worth hollering over). The front of house staff does everything in their power to honor the kitchen and guide their tables short of being obsequious. Everyone there is committed to the cause of an excellent experience, and if they’re not, then they’re not there for very long.

I made friends that I didn’t expect to make. When I started working there, I looked on as another server, Robinson, gave hello bear-hugs to our coworkers and thought, “Gosh, I hope I’m not supposed to greet everyone with a hug.” A month later, I looked forward to Robinson’s embrace as one does their daily first cup of coffee, which is to say, I couldn’t do without it. One evening during a pre-shift meeting, sous chef Katharine Marsh waxed poetic on her efforts for sourcing organic produce, and went on to say that the Arctic Char on the menu was “spear-caught by Inuits in Arctic waters.” I knew I’d found a kindred spirit.

I learned a thing or two about camaraderie and a helluva lot more about humility, when I did an internship in the kitchen. One of my favorite memories is of the frantic day before “Fergustock” (when English chef Fergus Henderson and his team take over the kitchen at the Breslin and serve food from St. John, their London temple to nose-to-tail dining). The prep kitchen was full to the gills with cooks and the air vibrated with meticulous nervous energy. I stood on one side of the island shelling beans and trying to be inconspicuous.

Across from me, Chef April stood shoulder to shoulder chopping onions with members of her crew. I surreptitiously watched her and marveled at her calm. I couldn’t help but think of soldiers carefully cleaning their weapons as they prepared to go over the top; and here was their leader standing side by side with her soldiers, keeping the calm, leading by doing what needed to be done. With dexterity and quiet grace she performed the most basic exercise a cook can do—the first thing they teach you in cooking school—she chopped onion after onion. In that moment, my fear and awe of April—darling of the New York food scene, talent behind three exceedingly adored and successful restaurants—crystallized into the deepest respect.

I can’t tell you how many times I asked what was in the Breslin’s Curried Mussels, but it was enough to make myself a nuisance. After a good deal of pleading, Katharine Marsh (who is currently head chef at The Spotted Pig but who worked at the Breslin when it opened and came up with this gem) shared the lengthy list of ingredients for the curry base. The dish—the Breslin’s nod, perhaps, to the English curry habit—is shockingly delicious with its surprising nuances, and remains one of my favorite menu items. Piquant and fragrant, it’s artfully balanced by the soothing, thickening dollop of Greek yogurt which melts and slides, curdles and combines with the curry base. The cilantro cools the chili’s heat. The chickpeas punctuate the smooth broth-y base. At the Breslin the mussels are Prince Edward Island, the plumpest and most perfectly formed I’ve ever seen…there is nary an unopened one served or left behind!

Here is my approximation of the Breslin’s exquisite curried mussels:

Ingredients  (Serves 4)
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
5 large shallots, thinly sliced, 4 for curry base, 1 for garnish
4 fresh garlic cloves, chopped
2 tablespoons fresh ginger, grated
1/2 teaspoon each of the following ground spices: fennel, coriander, cumin, turmeric, fenugreek, cinnamon, clove, allspice, chile, black pepper
1/2 lemon, for juice
1/2 lime, for juice
2 tablespoon pineapple juice
1 (15-ounce) can tomatoes in juice, chopped
1 fennel bulb, trimmed and very thinly sliced
1 cup of small chickpeas, rinsed
1 cup fish stock
3 pounds cultivated mussels, scrubbed and de-bearded
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup fresh cilantro, leaves picked off stem and stems reserved
3/4  cup plain Greek yogurt
sea salt and fresh pepper to taste

Let de-bearded, scrubbed mussels soak in a basin of water with a few ice cubes. Poor 1/4 cup of plain flour into the water, stir and let sit while you prepare your curry base. (The mussels will ingest the flour and will expel any sand or grit that is in their digestive system, which makes them a good deal more pleasant and plump.)

Curry Base: Sauté garlic and shallots in 2 tablespoons olive oil. When golden, add fresh grated ginger and 1/2 teaspoon each of ground fennel, coriander, cumin, tumeric, fenugreek, cinnamon, clove, allspice, chili and black pepper. Cook over high heat. Add chopped tomatoes, and chopped cilantro stems and let simmer. Add lemon, lime and pineapple juice, continuing to simmer. Purée until smooth.

To Serve: Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in an 8-quart heavy pot over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add thinly sliced fennel and sauté until just tender. Add curry base, chick peas and fish stock. Check for seasoning (add a few drops of lemon juice or pinch of salt and fresh pepper to taste). Add mussels and cook, covered until they are just open.

Spoon mussels with the tomato, fennel, chickpea-laden broth into bowls. Garnish with several spoonfuls of Greek yogurt, a tangle of cilantro leaves and thinly sliced shallots, and a drizzle of olive oil. Serve with slices of grilled ciabatta or flatbread toast doused in olive oil.

To purchase April’s book, A Girl and Her Pig, click here.

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Tags: Mussels, New York, Seafood, The Breslin

There’s so much talk of aphrodisiacs these days, but I can’t think of a more sensual food than uni. Fresh urchin is firm yet supple; delicate and sweet, yet carries a dose of the sea’s brine. Occasionally I encounter notes of coconut or vanilla in the creamy meat, the consistency of which plays on the tongue like caviar or shad roe, but with beads so smooth and fine they are barely discernible if at all. In fact the tendrils’ shape is tongue-like and luscious, akin to the buttery richness of foie gras. Of course it’s said that the salty wetness that gives way in your mouth is reminiscent to the sensation of an oyster sliding down your throat, though it’s ever so much more voluptuous and creamy as it gushes. The urchin’s musk is undeniably feminine.

At chef Zoë Feigenbaum’s eponymous Lower East Side restaurant, I gorge myself on her perfectly cooked bucatini with cracked black pepper and uni, which is fantastically garlic-laden and makes me literally high. Uni is the piéce de la resistance at my favorite Japanese restaurant, Hasaki, either as sashimi or as a crown atop a bowl of hot rice laced with torn shiso leaves. The one and only time I’ve eaten at Eataly, Mario Batali’s rather daunting Italian cave of wonders, I had the most exquisite dish: three urchin shells void of their spicules (their spiky endoskeleton) lay on a bed of ice. Each contained five perfectly intact tendrils of the meat that had been harvested from fresh urchins, rinsed and placed in the clean shells and dressed very simply.

My plan was to buy mussels, but today as I walked through my local market and surveyed the fish purveyors with their gently writhing gambas and percebes creepily wriggling like goblin’s fingers, I couldn’t resist my precious urchins, or erizo de mar, and I cast aside my other lunch plans and other blog post ideas, and came home to write an ode to the golden gonads (in fact, it is a misconception that the delicacy that foodies like me find orgasmic is not the urchin’s roe, but their gonads).

I wanted to taste local uni in their purest form so decided against emulating Zoë’s devilishly delicious pasta. I thought of my lunch at Eataly, and decided to try my hand at something raw and pure. I used a pair of kitchen sissors to cut an opening around the mouths of the urchin and a spoon to carefully remove the meat. Inside the spiny organism there was a salty world of slimy viscera that ranged in color from purple to red. In fact this was the uni’s internal organs as well as semi-digested kelp….yum.

By the second one I’d gotten the hang of removing the crescents of mustard-colored morsels without marring them, and rinsed them in an ice bath of cold bottled water to avoid altering their flavor with water from the tap. After rinsing and draining the uni, I drizzled them with lemon juice, olive oil, sea salt and and fresh pepper, and placed them on similarly dressed lettuce leaves. I garnished each tendril with a cilantro leaf. Anything more, and I feared I would be gilding the lily.

When the moment of truth arrived, my fork and knife proved useless. I picked up each lettuce leaf and used it as a cup to spoon the urchin and cilantro into my mouth, though olive oil escaped down my chin and between my fingers. It’s a primitive urge, uni, so once you’ve gotten past the prickles, why not just give in to it?

While I was admiring my uni, I felt compelled to introduce them to my urchin ring, a treasured gift from one of my oldest and bestest friends, Emilie Jean, who designed it when she was barely old enough to vote. The bracelet, which is an antique Rajasthani bangle, also wanted in on the spiky action. Available through emiliejean.com.

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Tags: Emilie Jean, Hasaki, Salad, Seafood, Spain, Uni, Zoë

I’ve been unforgivably quiet, whilst stuffing myself with pescadito frito, bouillabaisse and spaghetti vongole. We have been on a road trip from Spain, through France to Italy, to pick up furniture for our Barcelona apartment and visit Sebastian’s new goddaughter. Such things are possible when living in Europe! Try not to hate me.

One of the trip’s highlights was lunch in Reggio Emilia at Canossa, a bastion of traditional regional cuisine. “When I don’t feel like cooking, I come here,” Bat’s friend Sonia said of the forty year old restaurant that she’s frequented since childhood. Sitting in the spacious back room, we drank a bottle of local Lambrusco, rich and velvety. This Caprari Cuvée Bollino Rosso was a far cry from the fizzy grape juice that un-sophisticates guzzle in pubs. The Lambrusco grape varietal can be traced back to the Etruscans, who populated the area two thousand years ago.

At Canossa you are not offered a menu. A gentleman just explains which pasta the chef has prepared fresh that day. Our “waiter” was an older man in a black sweater vest, who in fact may be one of the owners of the restaurant. Some snooping online revealed a video of him in the kitchen at Canossa, wearing an apron and hat stirring an enormous vat of broth. The owners apparently work both front and back of house in this Reggio Emilia institution, which only furthers the sensation of being at a family gathering that permeates the rooms and terrace.

On most days (and thankfully on the day of my visit) their legendary Tortelli di Zucca is available. The handmade ravioli-like pasta pillows originated in the 1500s when pumpkin began to be imported from the Americas, and are particular to the areas bordering the river Po, which runs mostly through the Emilia region. Two sixteenth century families—the Rossettis and the Gonzagas—claim to have come up with the recipe, which functions as a far more affordable alternative to the more rarefied meat-stuffed agnolini. These days recipes for tortelli di zucca vary in terms of pillow shape, folding technique, components and hence taste, and since the recipes are handed down by family matriarchs, next door neighbors are likely to have different formulas.* The recipe at Canossa boasted the traditional presence of amaretto biscotti, nutmeg, and lemon zest. I opted to also try some tortelli di spanici (spinach), the slight bitterness of which beautifully balanced the sweetness of the pumpkin.

After the pasta, the man in the sweater vest wheeled over a cart of meats. Roasted veal, pork and faraona (guinea hen), offered in a pool of their cooking juices; boiled ham, cotechino (rustic medallions of pig’s trotter sausage), and other carnivorous delights were doled out from the steaming trays and served with creamy mashed potato. Three bowls of traditional sauces—Italian salsa verde, a spiced pomodoro (tomato) and pickled vegetables—were placed on the table so that we could help ourselves. Most intriguing was the Mostarda di Cremona, a condiment made of mustard seed-infused syrup, candied cherries and yellow plums. It looked saccharine but tasted surprisingly sharp and peppery, and elevated the simple boiled meats with its taste, texture and, of course, its fetching appearance.

Dessert rolled over as well (appropriately, since we would have to be rolled out of there): a decadent array of tarts, poached pears and fluffy irresistible tiramisu. Bat asked for coffee, and the grey haired waiter replied simply, “Dopo,” meaning afterward. Espresso—the only kind of coffee Italians find acceptable to drink post breakfast—comes after the meal to aid with digestion.

Perhaps because the food tasted as though it was cooked by someone’s Italian grandmother, the room had a rather geriatric feel, though pleasantly so. The other patrons, like our host Sonia and her beautiful bambino Luca, were locals who seemed to be lifelong friends, or family members gathering for a lunch out, perhaps giving the matriarch an afternoon off from her culinary duties. As I slowly stood up to go, I pictured an old Italian woman sitting down to rest, looking out the window at the clear sky and an afternoon off before she began to prepare for the family dinner.

Ristorante Canossa
Via Roma, 37
Reggio Emilia
Telephone: (+39) 052 454 196
Chiuso il Mercoledì

*For further information on the history of tortelli di zucca, read the article by Alessandro Cagossi here, and for his authentic recipe from the Seven Fishes website click here. For a much less extraordinary version, try my Butternut, Seed & Sage Pasta recipe here.

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Tags: Italian, Lambrusco, local, Meat, Pasta, Pears, Pumpkin, veal

I’ve been meaning to give you the recipe for the most sinful and addictive artichoke dip. I tasted it years ago at a cocktail party at Eliza Dyson and Joel LeVangia’s old apartment on East 10th Street, and have been dreaming of it ever since. The first time I asked Eliza what was in it, she said, “You don’t want to know.” The second time she recited the recipe by memory.

I was longing for an occasion to make it, and late afternoon on New Year’s Day with intellectual extraordinaire Arturo Bomberino De Fournier seemed like as good a time as any. We paused Black Cat, White Cat—the Kusturica film in Serbian which we were watching with French subtitles—long enough for me to make the dip.

Mayonnaise

First, the mayonnaise. Of course you can use store bought, but I like to make my own because any leftover is so easily turned into aioli—delicious with roast vegetables, or tartar sauce chock full of capers and cornichons and herbs to serve with a piece of fish. It’s simple once you give up the apprehension that your emulsion will separate and are confident that it will bind together gladly. The trick is the temperature. Room temperature egg and mustard, and oil a few degrees warmer will make it even easier. A simple ratio (even for a math dolt with a hangover): one egg yolk, one tablespoon of Dijon mustard, one cup of oil. One and one and one.

Separate the yolk from the white and drop yolk into a deep bowl. Sprinkle a generous pinch of salt onto that yolk, because the salt will start the process before you even approach it with a whisk. Add the tablespoon of mustard (a messy, slightly overflowing tablespoon will do as long as it’s not too cold), and a healthy squeeze of a half lemon. It’s then that I reach for my whisk: I combine those four simple elements—yolk, salt, lemon and mustard—and start to drizzle in some oil. I use vegetable oil for the first half-cup because it is thicker and lends more initial body, and then olive oil as the second half for flavor. Start by pulling just a little oil into the emulsion that you’ve already begun with those four initial elements.

Bring the oil into the ingredients that have already bound (not the other way around).

Keep adding oil until your mayonnaise is thick, and then add more until you have added a full cup of whatever combination of oils you choose. Add the rest of the juice from that half lemon. Taste it. If you don’t remember liking mayonnaise but you like what you are tasting then you are on the right track. Don’t be fooled by its yellow color, this is Mayonnaise. This is the real deal, but if you would like it a little paler, add a fewdrops of water watch it blanch.

Artichoke Dip

Remove the contents of two cans* of artichoke hearts packed in water (or one can of hearts and one can of stems) and chop them coarsely. Chop a white onion. Finely chop five or so cloves of garlic. Combine artichoke, onion, garlic and mayonnaise in a large bowl and add some fresh pepper. Taste for seasoning. Add a half a cup of grated Parmesan cheese, saving a bit, and mix thoroughly.  Transfer the mixture into an oven safe dish, perhaps one that you’d use for a soufflé, and add an immodest dusting of the rest of the Parmesan onto the top. Bake at 350 for 30-35 minutes, until you cannot ignore the smell and there is some bubbling and browning occurring on top. Then serve with a spoon and some Carrs table crackers or toasted baguette slices. Dig in, blow off steam, and eat.

Thank you Eliza!! xxxx

* I halved the Artichoke Dip recipe in the photos at right.

Photographs by Arthur Fournier

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Tags: arthur, artichoke, Cheese, dip, eliza, mayonnaise