Classic French cooking doesn’t get much more classic than chicken in tarragon cream sauce. This bistro menu stalwart has all the unctious elements you instinctively associate with Gallic gastronomy: butter, cream, wine and mild herbs. Likely originating in that blessed triangle just north of Lyon where the famous blue-footed chickens of Bresse neighbor the Cotes de Beaune wine region and abut the renowned mustard-producing region of Dijon, this dish can also be given a Norman twist simply by substituting the white wine for a dry cider.

Loosely based on a recipe I read here, but one that I’ve made countless times, we enjoyed this one with our friends Matt and Joanna this past weekend. There’s something about French classics that almost guarantees happiness among your dinner party guests. It’s as if the way we live today and nervousness about cream and butter rules out eating this kind of food in the home, but that when they do appear together some kind of Pavlovian, slightly hysterical, response is provoked that results in over-indulgence and an ability to somehow accommodate a four-course meal, including cheese, multiple bottles of wine, and after dinner drinks.

Happily, this dish is so easy to prepare and faultlessly scalable to the number you’re catering for that it’s as perfect for a dinner party as it is for a casual weeknight meal when you’re feeling in need of a little self-soothing. You can make it ahead and warm it for service or make it while your guests swarm around you in the kitchen soaking up the hum of the garlic. Serve with roasted, mashed or boiled potatoes, or just with a crusty baguette to wipe your plates of all the creamy, buttery goodness.

Greeks, Romans, Moors, Normans, Spaniards, Garibaldi and his thousand, and finally hordes of tourists have visited Sicily over the milennia. Some stayed for centuries, some only for generations, but even those whose sojourn was comparatively brief played a role in the island’s blending of cultures and traditions.

If this human concoction can be distilled into a single dish, it might be pasta con le sarde. A strikingly simple plate of spaghetti, fennel, onions, and sardines garnished with golden raisins (sultanas) and pine nuts, but its layers of flavor and texture speak of Sicily’s multifarious heritage. Grapes, introduced by the Greeks in the 7th century BC, combining with the tradition of using dried fruit in savory dishes adopted from the Moors, the abundant use of saffron borrowed from the Spanish Bourbon monarchy, and the native reliance on cheap and readily-available ingredients of the highest quality in the onions, foraged wild fennel, pine nuts and the island’s golden olive oil.

And, just like the variegated Sicilian identity, the disagreements over what constitutes a real pasta con le sarde are multihued. Some prefer a thicker long pasta like perciatelli or bucatini over spaghetti, some add breadcrumbs, some refuse to add anchovies, others only saute half the sardines with the sauce, breaking the other half into mix after the pasta has been added to the pan, and yet others would crumble almonds over the assembled dish and bake it in a moderate oven for 20 minutes. The biggest philosophical difference though, lies in the presence of tomato paste. Palermitano’s typically leave it out altogether, whereas cooks further west and south in Trappani, Marsala and, particularly Agrigento, would claim it as an essential ingredient.

Ever the diplomats, we (probably to the aggravation of native Sicilians) chose the middle ground, and elected to use anchovies and bucatini, leave out the tomato paste, cook all the sardines in the sauce, and add both breadcrumbs and broken almonds, but we chose not to bake it. It was wonderful: crunchy, salty and sweet, and with a profound maritime flavor overlaid perfectly by the fennel.

Those of you with an aversion to small oily fish should probably avoid this dish completely for substitutions of whiter, milder species cannot be recommended, unless even greater Sicilian wrath is desired. And, if encouragement to try something different is needed, look no further than the twin factors of wholesomeness and economy. Sardines and pasta are still very affordable, and, for us, halfway through a month-long meatless regimen ahead of a warm weather vacation, it checked all the taste and healthful boxes.

It also checked the seasonal box, for, strictly-speaking, this dish should only be eaten between March and September when wild fennel can be found extending its spidery fronds all over the island’s uplands. For those of us without wild ingredients to hand, or such a favorable climate, cultivated fennel plus a scant 1/4 teaspoon of ground fennel seeds (or a smaller quantity of fennel pollen), provide a similar perfume.

Please note that one should always use the freshest possible sardines, and not just for this recipe. The oilier the fish, the shorter the shelf life – hence why anchovies are so often salted and in oil – and the general rule of thumb is 8-12 hours out of water is about as long as it takes for sardines to go from glorious to gory mess. You can certainly freeze them too, but like most fish, especially small ones, the defrosting process has to be slow and delicate to prevent them from getting mushy.

*Credit should be given to Ferdinando’s Focacceria for inspiring us to cook this dish.

It might be generational, or, perhaps, philosophical, but there are, on the one hand, those who enjoy and appreciate handmade things, and the art and craft they require to make, and, on the other, those who prefer their things machine-made, reliable, and standard. The ‘things’ here could be quite literally anything. My father, who, to me, is the quintessential scientist and pragmatist, believes that most, if not all, advances for the betterment of mankind have come as a result of the increased use and application of machines, technology and science. In fact, he would argue, I’m sure, that this blog is evidence of the fact that even something as Luddite as cooking can be improved through the application of technology, though regular readers – with good reason – may not agree.

My mother was cut from very different cloth however, and, though a nurse who believed sincerely in the power of modern medicine, sanitation and inoculation, she was a true amateuse of a hand-turned chair-leg, a cut-glass goblet, and, much to the detriment of my appearance during my tender years, a hand-knitted sweater.  She was also a great lover of gardening, baking bread and, despite the fact that it rarely worked, yogurt-making. I think it’s from her that I get most of my culinary instincts, as the very notion of spending three or four hours in the kitchen doing anything would horrify my dad.

Pasta-rollers, like all machines, were invented for three main reasons: (1) to produce more quickly what used to take a long time (2) as a uniform-quality product, and (3) so that the resulting free time could be spent either more enjoyably or industriously. The assumption behind it seems to be that it makes it easier to make something that is typically quite tricky, and that the making of it by hand was a laborious pain in the ass. Those who have used a pasta roller, whether the hand-crank variety or the KitchenAid attachment, know, as we do, that it is a fabulous invention and enables even the busiest gastronome to home-make great fresh pasta in a relatively short time. They might also have found that it is actually fun to use because it combines the joy of mixing a dough by hand with the ease and convenience of not having to roll it out and cut it yourself.

Taking this notion of fun to its logical extreme this past weekend, I decided to devote my entire Sunday to doing the whole thing – the mixing, the rolling and the cutting – by hand. In spite of the recipe book’s warning that it was a painstaking exercise, I had little idea of what I was getting into. I now have a profound appreciation both for labor-saving machines, and the unique taste, texture and satisfaction derived from hand-rolled pasta.

But it is more than that. I learned something about myself on Sunday. In some ways, it was a revelation. I had always thought that I appreciated handmade things, particularly food and wine, with the all patience, care and skills that their creation implies, but I had never actually tested myself to see if I could enjoy hand-making something that required real patience and physical effort.  And, while there certainly were moments in which I did not enjoy being patient or the physical effort, on the whole, I really did find the process to be incredibly rewarding – relaxing almost. Not only did I (eventually, and with several abortive attempts) make some absolutely first-class pasta, but I learned a new technique and was, in the end, able to enjoy the fruits of my labor in a way I never have before.

Pici Keen

Famous for the lavish displays of wealth and the beautiful arts of the Renaissance found in Florence, Siena, Lucca and Pisa, Tuscans are, by contrast, rather austere in their culinary inclinations with their love of simple grilled meats, stewed beans and saltless bread. Such austerity requires the freshest and best ingredients in order to be delicious, and, fortuitously, Tuscany offers these up in great bounty. Similarly, it often requires great effort and technique.

So it is with Pici (also known as pinci — hand-rolled, eggless Tuscan thick spaghetti — perhaps the best example of this cucina povera (poor man’s cuisine) — utilizing only 00 flour, water, green Tuscan olive oil and a lot of time and effort. Indeed, it is my belief that what the poor, historically, lacked in wealth they more than make up for in patience, and disposable time. Originating from the Val d’Orcia region (the area between Montalcino and Montepulciano), pici are usually eaten with a rich meat sauce, often containing porcini mushrooms, but any hearty meat or game ragu would be a good choice.

The duck ragu recipe below is typical of the region of Arezzo which is the area where we got married in June 2007, and making it engendered all those kinds of warm feelings one gets from a house filled with delicious smells and the wonderful memories of the time of our lives.

Learning a new skill, and in this case, a new recipe, is a matter of managing to overcome self-doubt. Before you attempt making pici, I would highly recommend you try making a regular long pasta with an egg dough, so that you understand how it should feel and look. It will also allow you to develop a sense about the right elasticity of a good dough which will be useful even though Pici dough is a very different creature altogether.

If you follow the exact instructions below, you’ll probably find that your dough feels too dry and too heavy. Do not be afraid to add more water and more oil as you see fit because eggless doughs can easily become brittle when allowed to be too dry. However, do not abandon hope. I urge you to stick with the basis of the recipe (allowing for various seasonal, regional, altitudinal and indoor-outdoor climactic conditions) and overcome your fears of impending culinary disaster, as they will not materialize. If it feels too dry, add more water. Too wet, add flour until it feels right. One word of caution, though: be sparing in any additions of liquid or lipids because at the hand-rolling stage you will be adding extra olive oil to reduce friction and facilitate the rolling process, and you don’t want to find at that stage that you have to start all over again.

Also, do give yourself plenty of time. An otherwise lazy Sunday afternoon is perfect for this, as not only does the pasta make a perfect Sunday night dinner, but, more importantly, it gives you time to rest as you go along. Making enough pici for four people can be a tiring business, even if there are two of you on the job. One final proviso, do not treat pici like regular fresh pasta — i.e. sprinkle it liberally with flour and allow to set-up and dry for a while prior to cooking. I refer to my earlier comments when I say that pici can dry out and become brittle very quickly, so when you make them, plan to eat them within, at most, a couple of hours. This might appear like a disadvantage but it’s not because once cooked they are probably more robust than regular pastas and even reheat remarkably well.

So, please try making this dish. The sauce is easy and indescribably good (I know everyone says that about their food, but, really, this is very special), and the pasta is a great reward for some hard graft both corporeally and in that it offers a real sense of achievement. By the time you’re done, you’ll have sore shoulders but will have mastered the rolling technique perfectly. As a result, pasta-making will have transcended the bland uniformity of the machine-age and become what all good food should be: absolutely unique and deeply personal.

Turning rustic country fare into a slick restaurant best-seller has become so hackneyed these days that finding a post-modern reconstructed pot-au-feu for $45 in a hot new city dining spot can’t be far away. However, (and while we may be wrong) it might be a while before this garlic and wine soup hits high-end eateries — and not because it’s not restaurant-grade food, but rather because it’s the kind of dish that seems like it can neither be adapted nor re-imagined in a single way that wouldn’t detract from the original.

Do not to be discouraged by the glut of garlic called for, even if you’re cooking for those suspicious of its myriad charms. For, while it is unavoidably redolent of the “perfumed rose”, the flavor is mellow rather than aggressive, far cleaner than you might reasonably expect, and altogether heartier than a simple garlic and broth concoction would suggest.

This recipe is taken wholesale from Madeleine Kamman’s When French Women Cook, and if you don’t already own a copy of this classic tome, then you should endure no more of your life without it. It is evocative of the no-nonsense, waste-not philosophy of female-run home kitchens in pre-war rural France, where chickens pecked outside and extra dietary protein arrived under cover of darkness from the local poacher. Emblematic of the authentic, hearty and stunningly delicious food within its pages, Kamman’s garlic soup recipe comes from the rugged Auvergne — a mysterious and wild region of south central France rumored to still harbor wolves, even bears — via the hands of a distant grandmaternal, Occitan-speaking cousin named Victoire.

There are no pictures of food in When French Women Cook. This lack of illustration, far from confounding the reader and potential cook, actually encourages use of the imagination to mentally conjure what the text describes. Arriving at the completed dish, confidence in your ability to interpret a recipe is bolstered as you behold a meal that truly transcends what the bleak gulleys of your cerebrum had conceived. A rewarding experience corporally and spiritually, just steer clear of close-packed public places for the ensuing 24 hours — you will positively hum with garlic. Hum.

After that kick-a$$ cheesecake we devoured I figured that free pasta would pale in comparison.  Boy was I wrong.  As most of you know, we prefer savory food over sweets and I’d take a big, steaming bowl of perfectly al dente pasta over a cheesecake any day.  I’m serious here.  Garofalo’s pappardelle from their “signature line” did the trick. We paired this fabulously tasty pasta with a hearty Sausage Ragu and it held up while adding that perfect chew to the dish.

I know I go on and on (and on) about how important perfectly al dente pasta is to me, but I can’t imagine wasting a fabulous sauce on a crappy, soggy bit of pasta.  Too often if you follow the instructions on the back of a box of pasta you’ll be left with it way overcooked.  My rule of thumb is to always subtract two minutes from the given instructions and usually I get the perfect chew.  This time I decided to test Garofalo’s (hey, it was free) to see if their instructions were bang-on. 8 minutes is what it said and 8 minutes was all it needed.  Maybe they got it right because this pasta is actually made in Italy, “near the ruins of Pompeii”.  It actually tastes like it is made in Italy.  The other thing I love about Garofalo pasta is that they offer “different” pasta shapes besides the obvious penne, spaghetti and linguine.  Some of these specialty cuts include schiaffoni (large oval-shaped noodle) and calamarata (like thick-cut calamari rings).  These are the types of shapes I want to eat when I’m bored of the norm.

No lie – I highly recommend this pasta, especially along with our deliciously hearty sausage ragu.  In fact, I’m writing the rep from the company to ask where I can get some in Brooklyn.  I have a feeling I’ll have to harass the manager at my local grocery store to order some, but it will be worth it.

PAPPARDELLE WITH SAUSAGE AND PEA RAGU (serves 4)

Ingredients:

• 1 lb. pappardelle (dried or homemade)
• 1 lb. ground sausage meat (or sausage links taken out of the casings)
• 1 onion, finely diced
• 3 cloves garlic, finely minced
• 1 teaspoon fennel seed, crushed
• 1 28-oz. can of crushed tomatoes (preferably San Marzano)
• 1 cup of red wine
• 1 cup of peas (I used frozen)
• basil
• salt and pepper

What to do:

1. Saute your onions and garlic in some olive oil for a few minutes to get some color on them.  Add the sausage meat and break up with a wooden spoon.  Allow to brown for 2 to 3 minutes and then add the fennel seed and stir.
2. Add in the red wine and stir into the meat.  Allow to cook down for a minute.  Add the whole can of tomatoes.  Let this cook on medium-low and stir.  It will cook for about 20-30 minutes until all the flavors come together.
3. While the ragu comes together, boil some salted water.  About ten minutes before you’re ready to eat, boil your pasta till al dente and add directly into the ragu along with a 1/4 ladel-full of pasta water. Add peas.  Cook for 30 seconds, toss in some basil and plate.  Serve with parmigiano reggiano. Enjoy!

Even though mulled wine should remind me of being in the church choir as a cherub-faced youngster and singing Christmas carols with frosty breath overlooking a seasonally-decorated nave and a sea of pink-cheeked parishoners, it doesn’t. In spite of this being the way I was introduced to this most famous Yuletide beverage, my abiding memories of it from childhood (before I ever got to drink any, I should mention) are of a warm cinnamon-scented aroma spiked sharply with the acrid tang of disinfectant and the musty odor of old people. And this, perhaps unsurprisingly, had put me off it until comparatively recently.

You see, as part of the church’s annual carol-singing calendar, we choristers had to visit all the hospitals, hospices and senior citizens homes in town, and my sensitive smell-o-memory was scarred for many years by this revolting combination of smells. That was, until I visited a friend in the French city of Lyon around Christmastime a few years back.

As an icy mistral wind blew down the Rhône valley, vin chaud or hot wine was being served out of a deep cauldron to chilled shoppers perusing the seasonal wares of Lyon’s famed Christmas market in Place Carnot. And I found the atmosphere of seasonal bonhomie, red noses, black tobacco, and warm, spicy alcohol irresistible. I’m not sure whether it was the cold, the booze, or the giant cans of duck confit and cassoulet on sale that so moved me, but from that moment on, I have been hooked on mulled wine.

A Brief History of Mulling

In days gone by, wine went bad pretty quickly due to poor bottling techniques, so during the Renaissance period, spices began to be added – as they were to virtually everything else in that time – to both delay spoilage and make spoiled products taste less nasty. And since young wines were commonly bottled during the early fall, mulling (which originally only meant to ruminate or ponder lengthily) was necessary by Yuletide as some were beginning to turn to the dark side, and hence how the consumption of “mulled wine” became a holiday tradition.

The exact combination of spices varies from country to country and person to person, but, on the whole, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and bay are mixed into claret or another Bordeaux to form the basis of flavors. Variations (and there are many) include the addition of mace, juniper, black pepper, dry citrus peel or vanilla, and substitutions include honey or molasses for the sugar, cardamom for the cloves, and brandy, sherry, acquavit, brenivin, fruit wine or vodka for the red wine.

Mulled wine, aka vin chaud, gluhwein, glögg, vin fiert, vin brulé, quentão, is drunk in most European countries in some form or another around Christmas, but it is particularly associated with German and Nordic traditions where so-called “glogg” parties are a holiday season staple. At these shin-digs, the spiced wine is typically drunk with other Yule specialties including gingerbread, blue cheese and, perhaps rather curiously, rice-pudding.

In my house growing up, however, we only ever had mulled wine when we were expecting company because my father, who has something of an intolerant nose for anything strongly perfumed, can’t abide the stuff, and, it being during the early 1980s, it was accompanied by cheese and pineapple cubes on toothpicks, cocktail weenies (chipolatas), factory-made mince pies, and potted shrimp. All of which is perhaps another reason why I didn’t really catch on to the subtle flavors and myriad charms of mulled wine until I’d left home.

But, of course, now that I have, I’m almost obsessed with making it every year, and so impassioned am I about it, that I’ll frequently pour myself a large glass and then go and stand outside in the cold to drink it to try to recreate the Lyonnaise atmosphere of years ago. Of course, it doesn’t work that well, but it beats the shit out of taking my glass and hymn book to a seniors center and evoking older memories…

Happy Boozy Holidays to you all!

Jonny’s Holiday Mulled Wine (serves 6-8)

Ingredients:

• 2 bottles of red wine
• 1 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
• 1 teaspoon of cloves
• 2 bay leaves
• 4 star anise
• 4 sticks of cinnamon
• 12 tablespoons brown sugar
• 1/3 cup of orange juice
• peel of 1 orange
• peel of 1 lemon
• 1 orange sliced in 1/4 inch rounds

What to do:

1. Optional: Tie all spices in a piece of cheesecloth using kitchen twine. You can skip this if you’d prefer to laugh at guests with cloves stuck in their teeth.
2. Heat wine in pot gently with spices/sachet and peel until aromas fill the room (at least 15 minutes). Do not boil, only simmer very, very gently.
3. Stir in sugar and orange juice. Taste for sweetness and adjust if necessary.
4. Place orange rounds in mugs and ladle in wine.
5. Stir and serve with a cinnamon stick and enjoy!

‘Tis the season, so in that spirit, we’re joyously giving away two prizes to the winners of this month’s top five – your favorite holiday foods/drinks.

This month’s entries were fascinating, perhaps more fascinating than usual because the unique choices allowed us a small but intimate window into your lives, especially those that came with explanations of the traditions. Of course, there were also the inexplicable traditions, like Rachel (S[d]OC) and the case of the holiday cheese grits, jensenly’s Christmas fondue, and Heather’s English summer trifle.

But, without further ado, the winners of this month’s top five challenge (who will soon – holiday post service permitting – be the proud recipients of Jonny’s homemade mulled wine spice mix) are: (cue drumroll)

Joe @ Italyville (we love the 7 fish dinner and, even more so, the rabbit on Christmas Day)

Heather @ Gild the Voodoolilly (what’s better than a nut-encrusted cheese ball surrounded by cocktail weenies…?)

But, thanks to all who entered and shared with us their holiday traditions, likes and dislikes. Happy holidays to you all and best wishes for a healthy and delicious New Year! 

It’s widely known that humble ingredients prepared with simple techniques often produce the best dishes, and it’s becoming more widely known that this philosophy lies at the very heart of Spanish cooking – a cuisine that has, in the last five or so years, become one of the most celebrated “new finds” of foodies everywhere. As a result of this, there has been a great deal of interest in tapas and the cuisine and culture surrounding these small plates/finger foods. All of which, in my view, can only be a good thing, even if many of these new “tapas restaurants” (itself, again in my view, an oxymoron) serve few, if any, authentic Spanish dishes.

Indeed, and here lies the rub, in their rush to capitalize on the latest food trend, it seems everyone is trying to outdo everyone else on the cleverness factor. Expanding their menus to include all sorts of dishes resembling “tapas” only in the fact that they are served in small quantities. It’s almost as if the tasting menus of high-falutin’ restaurants have become conflated with “tapas” so that you get tiny dishes and are charged through the nose for them.

Now, we here at WeAreNeverFull.com, perhaps contrary to popular opinion, are not against experimentation or new dishes in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact, we are always ready to try new things. However, and again, this may just be our view, so feel free to comment disagreeing, we feel that developing all these new and complicated dishes and calling them tapas is fundamentally against the spirit of tapas as a style of eating, outlined above.

The term tapas, as I’m sure many of you know, is derived from the Spanish word tapa, meaning a lid, and originally connoted a slice of bread or cheese that certain tavern owners used to serve across the top of the drinking vessel, perhaps as a way of keeping out unwanted bugs. Over the centuries this has developed into a wondrous variety of small dishes, now commonly on plates and cocktail sticks, as well as on rounds of bread, that are served to accompany su caña – whatever you are drinking at the bar. Indeed, it has become so refined a practice that many bars, while they might serve a lot of different tapas, are famous for one in particular, a signature tapa, that those in the know only eat at that one bar. So, as you can see, tapas has come a long way from its beginnings as a humble drink lid. That said, the original ethos of simple but tasty accompaniments remains.

We’ve traveled extensively in Spain and eaten, it must be said, an obscene amount of tapas over the past several years, and the consistent theme has been that the ingredients and the simple, time-honored preparations and take center stage, not the ego of the preparer. And this has never been more true than in the case of patatas a la Riojana. So, so simple, unbelieveably good. Really. Potatoes, chorizo, onions, garlic, sweet paprika and water, combine to create a dish that is without a doubt my favorite tapa. And, if I may name-drop shamelessly, I am not in bad company when I say that. Legendary chef and father of nouvelle cuisine Paul Bocuse, no less, while at a culinary convention in Spain in the late 1970s, described patatas a la Riojana as among the “greatest dishes created by man.”

And here is the interesting thing. If Bocuse, a man whose entire reputation was built on small, artfully-plated dishes, found this humble and rustic dish such a revelation, why is it that so many lesser chefs of today are trying so hard, and in many cases failing, to improve upon these time-honored preparations?

Nearly everyone knows that La Rioja is Spain’s most famous wine appellation, but it is also known, mostly inside Spain, as being the origin of many good things to eat. Piquillo peppers are the regions’ second best known export, and together with wild mushrooms, chorizo, river crabs, bream and trout they combine to make many dishes synonymous in the Spanish stomach with La Rioja. In fact, it is the inclusion of a typical Riojan dry chorizo that makes this preparation “a la Riojana” or Rioja-style.

Personally, I would eat this dish three times a week, but if my recommendation that you try making it isn’t good enough for you, then I’m sure you’ll pay attention to the wise words of Monsieur Bocuse.

Ingredients: (serves 4)

• 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
• 2 cloves garlic, chopped roughly
• 1 small onion (or half a large one) finely sliced
• 7 ounces (or 2-3 links) chorizo, sliced into rounds
• 1/2 pound floury potatoes (idaho or similar), peeled and cubed
• 1 tsp pimenton dulce (sweet paprika)
• 1 tsp kosher salt, or more, to taste
• 1/2 – 1pint (1/2 liter) cold tap water

Recipe: (adapted slightly from Jose Andres’ Tapas: A Taste of Spain in America

• Warm olive oil over medium heat and add garlic.
• Cook for about a minute until golden before adding onions, and sauteing them gently for 20 minutes or so, until light brown.
• Add chorizo and cook until this also is browned, about 2 minutes.
• Place the potatoes in the pan and stir to coat with oil. Cook for 10 minutes.
• Now sprinkle over the pimenton and pour in enough water to almost cover potatoes and chorizo. Put lid on pan and bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer for about 20 minutes or until liquid is reduced by half.
• Serve immediately with lots of crusty bread and a hearty red Rioja. Unbelieveably delicious. Trust me.
• Unsurprisingly, this is quite a filling dish, but fear not, as left-overs, eaten either cold or reheated the next day are even better as the flavors continue to meld together.

So on a very, very humid 90-degree day (and subsequently, humid 85 degree night) which happened to be our 1st anniversary, we decided to bring old Bugs Bunny out of hiding. As Jonny and I whined and moaned about the fact that “one year ago today we were in Tuscany about to start our two week trek around Northern Italy” we also thought back to some of the simple and fabulous meals we ate around the small towns of Bucine and Ambra in Arrezo near to where our wedding was held. One of those meals was at a small little hole-in-the-wall place on the side of the road called Osteria dei Conti Guidi. This was one of those places that in America would fail because it’s not trendy enough, not flash, not hip. They had plastic tables and chairs outside with colorful, non-matching plastic tablecloths on top. The tables weren’t very steady because they were sat on the grass which sloped slightly. You walk into the nearly empty restaurant because there is no hot-looking hostess waiting at the front to greet you and take you to your table. Instead, you kind of look around for anyone who can even tell you that the place is open – inside it’s brightly lit with a small TV in the corner blasting the news or a sporting match and a few older men finishing up their digestivo and smoking a cigarette. And then, she appears…. the “mama”. The owner, hostess, waitress, part-time cook and busboy. That “all-in-one” kind of restaurateur who you end up falling in love with because of their speed and passion. I am forgetting her name but that night she was like our best friend. She handed us the menus and we laughed at the loose Italian to English translations on the menu – I have pictures somewhere which I’ll attempt to locate and upload them here. As you eat, the owners many cats would come over and rub past your legs hoping you would accidentally drop some of your prociutto on the grass.

That night Jonny ordered the Hare Ragu with Juniper Berries over homemade pappardelle. I just remember him making many happy noises and eating it up in record speed. It was a dish that should normally be eaten in the colder months, but he was enjoying the complex flavors immensely as we sat outside on the plastic chairs. If you can locate juniper berries at your closest gourmet shop, you will be blown away by the taste – it’s as if you are putting a drop of gin on your tongue. Juniper berries are the seed cone produced by the female juniper plant and it’s actually not a berry, it’s just shaped like one. When they are young they are green in color but turn into a purple-red color once they are over 18 months mature. They are a natural diuretic and, back in the day, were used to treat arthritis and were thought to stimulate the appetite (think they tried to smoke it?). Obviously, the most famous things juniper berries are used for is flavoring gin. You have just got to try them, they are absolutely delicious and are used in many dishes, especially those using game. It is understandable why this spice is such a wonderful paring with our “Open” Raviolo with Hare and Juniper Berry Ragu.

Instead of making normal ravioli’s, we used big sheets of pasta to ‘cover’ spoonfulls of the ragu. The only differences between a normal ravioli and our ‘open’ raviolo’s are the size (ravioli is usually much smaller than raviolo) and the fact that they are not pressed together so that the stuffing is enclosed within the pasta sheets. It’s an interesting way to use pasta and you also get that same feeling of ‘cutting into’ the pasta like you would normally do with ravioli’s. Give this a try. Do not be intimidated by the use of game or the juniper berry spice – yes, it is one of those meals to make with a nice bottle of wine (and, in our case, a very strong air conditioner!) because it is not a quick meal to make. Once you buy the juniper berries you can use them in a variety of meals! ***Note: The Bottle of wine up to the right is from the small vineyard where we were married in Tuscany (Tenuta di Lupinari). The picture of the castle is where I changed into my dress (and drank copious amounts of Prosecco) and where were were married (in the gardens in front of the castle). Ahhhh, memories.

‘OPEN’ RAVIOLO WITH HARE AND JUNIPER BERRY RAGU (serves 4 as main and 6 as an appetizer)

Ingredients:

• 1/2 pound to 1 pound of Lidia’s Poor Man’s Pasta Recipe (for Raviolo’s)
• 1/2 rabbit, cut up into chunks using a cleaver/heavy knife
• 1/2 cup flour
• 4 cloves of garlic, smashed with back of knife
• 1 onion, finely diced
• 1 teaspoon dried juniper berries
• 1/4 cup or 4 tablespoons white wine
• 2 sprigs (each) of rosemary and thyme, bruised with the back of a knife
• 1 cup passata or crushed tomatoes
• 1 cup of chicken or rabbit stock
• 3 tablespoons good extra virgin olive oil
• salt and freshly ground black pepper

What to do:

1. Dredge rabbit pieces in flour and saute in olive oil in a deep saute pan or dutch oven until all sides are well browned.
2. With a slotted spoon, remove rabbit to a plate and add the onions to the oil and, on medium-low, allow them to sweat for at least 5-8 minutes until translucent. Add the garlic and cook for another 3 to 4 minutes.
3. Add the reserved rabbit pieces back to the pan and then deglaze with white wine. Scrape up any bits that accumulated on the bottom of the pan. When the wine is reduced by half, add juniper berries and the herbs.
4. When the pot is almost completely dry (all liquid has been absorbed), add the passata/tomatoes and the chicken stock. Stir well and bring to a simmer. When it comes to a simmer, put lid on and cook for 45 minutes to 1 hour.
5. While rabbit is simmering, make your pasta. Allow the strips of pasta to dry on a well-floured surface until the rabbit is ready.
6. After 45 minutes , remove the lid off your ragu and simmer uncovered for another 30 minutes or until the sauce has become thick.
7. Turn off the stove and remove the rabbit pieces with a slotted spoon and allow to cool in a bowl. While that is cooling, bring salted water to a boil in order to cook your pasta.
8. Once the rabbit is cool, you will use your fingers (instead of the 1st way we tried with two forks which is not easy) to remove any pieces of bones that are on the rabbit meat. Because it has been cooked for so long, it should come off very, very easily. Make sure you get ALL the bones! You don’t want your guests choking or their mouths being cut up, unless, of course, you do.
9. Stir your meat back into the ragu. Remove the rosemary twigs. Add some salt to taste and freshly ground black pepper.
10. Slice your pasta sheets into 6-inch squares and cook in the boiling water until they come to the surface (about 2 minutes). Drain.
11. Time to plate – add a pasta square on the bottom, top with a big spoonful of the rabbit ragu and a drizzle of olive oil. Top with another pasta square and a smaller spoonfull of the the ragu. Again, drizzle a bit of olive oil on top along with some ground pepper and anything green (chives, parsley, basil, thyme, etc.). Serve with a delicious vino and settle into a satisfying meal. ***NOTE: Feel free to use another thick and hearty pasta with this dish like pappardelle or tagliatelle.

Check out some other posts you may enjoy:

• Vermut (Vermouth): Rediscovering an Old Classic
• Remaking a Tuscan Restaurant Meal (From Florence)
• Striking Over Pasta?
• BEET AND RICOTTA FILLED RAVIOLI WITH BROWN BUTTER AND POPPY SEEDS
• SPANISH (AUSTURIAN) OXTAIL WITH FRIED POTATOES
• GROUND LAMB KABOBS (Lamb Kubideh)

Tradition
Now, it’s very common — almost traditional, some would say — for the British, when visiting another European country, to buy a bottle or more of the local tipple as a souvenir. This tends to the eaux-de-vie / grappa-type firewater, often distilled with herbs from the surrounding hills, that the locals swear has health-restoring powers, but in fact is the cause of the blindness and insanity in endemic communities. And, just as commonly, once back in the UK, said bottle is placed in a dark recess of ones’ liquor cabinet and only ever reached for if, say England win something, anything, at football (soccer), and everything else in the house has already been drunk in the course of celebrating. Such was my thinking when we bought this curiously slim bottle of vin santo.

Even when I learned that it was in fact a dessert wine and not a paint-stripper, I remained cautious. After all, during the 1990s and the early years of this century, dessert wines had consistently been given a bad rap. People looked down their noses at sweeter wines as dry, crisp wines like chardonnay were all the rage. My theory (based on no research at all) is that skinny southern Californians are to blame for this. You see, the 90s power lunch diet of a “dinner salad” sans bread, expensive mineral water, and glass of something dry and white seems to have persuaded the rest of us that not only was dry white wine somehow sophisticated, but it was also lower in calories than a sweeter wine, and therefore better for us.

Research, Kinda
However, some recent actual research on the shelves of Gary’s Wines and Liquors (Flatbush Ave. and Sixth Ave., Brooklyn, NY) confirmed that wine stores which had previously been stocked almost exclusively with chardonnay, chenin blanc, and sauvignon blanc, are now burgeoning with viognier, gewurztraminer, albarino, riesling and several others whose names I forget. Clearly, there is some of sort of change in tastes afoot.

Taking this research a step further, I also noticed sweeter dessert wines are appearing on menus in my neighborhood and amongst them, in at least one restaurant, I found vin santo. All of which convinced me to find out more about this unusual beverage and, hell, give it a try!

Some Facts
Literally “holy wine”, vin santo is made from malvasia and trebbiano grapes that are left on the vine late to develop their sugars. The derivation of name vin santo is subject to some controversy since some believe that it had miraculous properties that cured plague in the 14th century. Others attribute it to a certain Greek Bishop who in the 15th century proclaimed upon drinking it “This is the wine of Xanthos!” — a pressed raisin wine from Santorini, which his fellow diners mistook for “santos”, i.e. “this is the wine of the saints”. Dismally though, it’s thought that the most likely derivation is its sometime use in Tuscany as a sacramental wine during mass.

The third most planted grape in the world by area, trebbiano grapes have usually received a bad reputation because they (when unblended) tend to produce very rough and ready wines (mostly white, some red) that have usually only been drunk young as table wines. Some chianti producers use them as a blend with sangiovese grapes, but again due to their inherent instability, they are being phased out in favor of 100% sangiovese these days.

Similarly, malvasia grapes are mostly used to make young and fairly rough white table wines, and are widely planted across the world too — most famously on the Portuguese island of Madeira where they are used to create the eponymous sweet wine. And, it is when trebbiano and malvasia are allowed to age that they become spectacular and display their real talents – both are commonly used as the base for other fortified wines like sherry, brandy and port.

Once picked, vin santo makers allow their grapes to dry and develop even more sweetness as they hang from rafters in well-ventilated rooms until they are pressed. Then the sweet juice is extracted and placed into small, cigar-shaped barrels called caratelli. After an initial open-barrel fermentation, and in a similar method to aging balsamic vinegars, these barrels are sealed and then stored in garrets or attic spaces and left to age, the best for as long as ten years.

It is because of this extended aging and sweetening process, as well as the deliciousness of the final product, that vin santo is so highly prized (and priced). It’s comparatively low yield per kilo of grapes picked and long production time means that not only is it a scarce commodity but it requires a lot of patience and care before it is ready.

So, erm, what does it taste like? 

At the end of this 10 year period, the wine is a beautiful golden amber color with a slightly nutty flavor. It is certainly sweet but not in a honeyed or saccharine way. Rather, it has a perfectly balanced flavor that works wonderfully well at the end of a savory meal without completely coating the palate with sugar.

Vin santo is typically served with almond or hazelnut biscotti-type biscuits/cookies (“cantucci e vin santo”) which are often dipped into the wine to soften them and accentuate their taste as a dessert combo, but it may be drunk as an accompaniment to other desserts or by itself as a digestive. However, and probably because of its sweetness, it is never served with cheese.

Since first trying it and realizing that, like so many of my typically English preconceived notions about all things “foreign”, it’s actually very good and those “foreigners” know much better than the English when it comes to food, we’ve drunk it mostly by itself without biscotti. But you should get yourself some and drink it any which way you choose. Sadly, after squeezing as many small nips from it as we could manage to prolong its life, we have just finished the bottle we bought in Italy. Like many of the best things in life, you have to be sparing and savor it in order to get your money’s worth.

Now, depending on where you live vin santo may be harder to find, but it’s easy to get hold of online, if a little expensive. So I encourage you to give it a try, perhaps at a restaurant first so your initial investment is limited, but I’m sure you’ll find, as I did, that re-evaluating ones prejudices towards sweet wines is a rewarding exercise.