My journey here starts with the above-pictured Underberg, a favored digestive aid since 1846, sprung from this same medicinal tradition. It's also part of the larger general family known as Kräuterlikör, a class of after-dinner drinks which, thanks to the work of herbalists like Hildegard of Bingen, allows you to quaff deep drafts of what’s essentially condensed forest juice, locally sourced from some of Europe’s most interesting old-growth woods. You can also settle for blindly downing too many shots of Jagermeister (the most famous, if not greatest, contemporary Kräuterlikör) and giving yourself a massive sugar-induced hangover the next day.
At some point recently (likely while sipping a digestif) I realized that these murky, viscous brews are actually just medicine, or at least sprung from the same fundamental tradition stretching from salutatory medieval herb concoctions to modern cough syrup. Both ends of this historical continuum seek to treat bodily ills through bracing infusions of boozy goo; one is natural, packed with plants and herbs, while the other has departed from the proud historical practice of healing-through-inebriation by embracing chemical compounds aimed exclusively at treating specific ailments. Yet just as these antique brews were/are often used for things other than strict healing, these modern-day equivalents can still be easily tipped over into the realm of pure intoxication.
My journey here starts with the above-pictured Underberg, a favored digestive aid since 1846, sprung from this same medicinal tradition. It's also part of the larger general family known as Kräuterlikör, a class of after-dinner drinks which, thanks to the work of herbalists like Hildegard of Bingen, allows you to quaff deep drafts of what’s essentially condensed forest juice, locally sourced from some of Europe’s most interesting old-growth woods. You can also settle for blindly downing too many shots of Jagermeister (the most famous, if not greatest, contemporary Kräuterlikör) and giving yourself a massive sugar-induced hangover the next day.
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An Easter special - although to be honest I bought and consumed this bit of pastry months ago - cassatelle marks one of those special occasions where cannoli cream is inserted into something other than a cannoli. It shouldn’t be confused with Cassata, another traditional paschal dessert that appears to have a much more illustrious status in the world of Italian dolces, meriting an entire Wikipedia entry of its own. Cassatelle, which along with the other two items has a Sicilian origin, doesn’t seem to merit as much attention, although I imagine that, due to their shared ingredients and similar name (likely both derived from the Arabic qashatah, or bowl) they have a parallel history. What is Snack Semiotics, however, but a place for the underloved, the misbegotten, and the regionally specific to have their moment in the spotlight. Not to mention that this pastry, often referred to as cassateddi in Sicilian, is delicious, providing a pillowy alternative to the cannoli's shatter-crunch carapace. This humble dough horn boasts specific versions local to both Trapani and Agira, and I’m sure that if were to start splitting hairs (or kicking around the Sicilian countryside) a dozen more varieties would turn up.
Traditionally, these are stuffed with ricotta, some kind of cocoa, or a combination of the two. They also resemble, at least to my mind, some forms of empanada. As I prepare to make Sardinian Panada for Easter, I wonder if it’s time to contemplate the many appearances of ostensibly Spanish cuisine items in Italian cooking, and to attempt to figure out exactly what this says about Spanish influence upon the illustrious peninsula. Alas, the baking project that lies before me (itself a topic for a future post, should no disasters occur) assures that it isn’t. While it may not exactly qualify as royalty, I’m more than willing to classify the Roast Beef and Mutz Sandwich at John’s Deli as the Dark Prince of Italian sandwiches. Ordering from a Brooklyn deli pretty much assures you’re about to face down a monstrosity of zeppelin proportions, but in addition to its essential heft, this one comes slicked with a jet-black gravy, the secret ingredient of which may very well be motor oil. It’s also piled with so many fried onions that I had to scrape some off, out of fear that my stomach would erupt in grease-fueled flames. John’s is an institution, founded in 1968, although from it’s name, neighborhood and the classic Boardwalk-style mural outside (more on this below) you’d guess it was far older. The title seems to stem from the existence of a second John’s spin-off down in Bath Beach (there’s also another in Staten Island, apparently), although the fact that the original location is under new ownership may have voided these associations. Circa 2016, the place seems to be in good hands, now run by a self-professed “kid from the neighborhood” who made the rounds with the locals while I dug into my sandwich. He also tried to sell me on the day’s special (Pulled Pork), which I’m sure is great, but had absolutely nothing to do with why I’d ventured out here.
I tend to consider the weekend food festivals which populate the outer boroughs with a bit of wariness, hoping for the best while expecting the worst. In worst-case scenarios, you end up with a fiasco like the recent opening night of the Queens Night Market, which approached Woodstock ‘99 levels of unpreparedness, the food concourse transformed into a hopelessly tangled knot of long lines wound through one another. Meanwhile (in another distinct form of Hell On Earth) the distant Porta-a-Potties had such extreme waiting times that beer-swollen men (and women) took to urinating en masse in the dark perimeter of trees that ringed the park. Yet even fiascoes can have an upside, and while I was nearly trampled on several occasions (and had to stoop to peeing in the trees) I did get to try Chimney Cake (aka Kürtőskalács), which was pleasant, if not quite substantial enough to merit a 50 minute wait. I also got to exercise some judgement, and, fleeing this waking nightmare, ferry my friends past the nearby hotspots (Tortilleria Nixtamal, where I’d stopped earlier in the day for some skate tacos and a pork tamal, was overflowing with desperate dinner seekers) and out into the safer reaches of Queens. The result was a nice, tranquil Indonesian meal of Rendang, Ketoprak, Perkedel and Rissoles at Elmhurst’s Upi Jaya.
The origins of marzipan are hazy, involving the amorphous circuitry of medieval Middle Eastern trade routes and Hanseatic League-affiliated ports, but the candy’s history has at least some connection to medieval Italy. It was here that it may have gotten its modern name - derived from the term ‘March Bread’ (Marza Pane) - although this is only one of several competing claims. Whatever the case, marzipan's unique moldability has always allowed it to change with the times, and it reaches new heights of expressions at Brooklyn’s Fortunato Brothers café. Here, two proud Italian traditions merge, with the almond-based confection taking on the shape of a plate of spaghetti, a Margherita pizza, and perhaps most puzzlingly, an unadorned turkey sandwich.
Before there was Billy Joel, there was Sergio Franchi, whose 1968 album Wine and Song celebrates the magical ambiance of the old-fashioned red-sauce joint. The album’s priceless back cover finds Franchi, a Lombardy born crooner who made his bones covering standards in a smooth tenor, cutting it up with a 12 foot hero. I like to believe that, at the moment this photo was taken, he was actually recording, singing his heart out to a sandwich. None of the songs from this album appear to exist online (a shame, considering that Al di Là also provided the name for one of my neighborhood Italian joints), but here's a sampling of Franchi singing his heart out for Ed Sullivan: I have a distinct memory of attending a church youth group event, sometime around 1996, a pot-luck affair to which everyone brought soda or snacks. My father, who possessed (and still does) a seemingly inexhaustible trove of carbonated beverages purchased at steep discount prices, all of them stored in an expansive basement closet overstocked with expired items, saw this as an opportunity. He sent me off with two bottles of Pennsylvania Dutch brand birch beer, scooped up at some previous sale, then deemed unfit for offering to company (the only time soda was served at our house). The stuff sat on the communal snack table, among the more fashionable Mountain Dews and Cherry Cokes, while other kids poked fun at its weird yellow label and the liquid’s sharp violet tinge. I shrunk away, denying my relationship with the Birch by omission (perhaps three times?) and gulped down the vile Mountain Dew instead.
By Kim Macron
Cima alla genovese, also known as la cima ripiena (“stuffed cima”), was, like trofie, created out of scarcity, utilizing parts that would have otherwise been thrown away. It originated as a peasant dish, and can be traced back to the 900s CE. In these times meat was a luxury, and this dish does its best to make use of traditionally discarded parts of the cow. The outer “shell” or layer of cima is a calf's stomach, cut and sewn to form a pocket. It is stuffed with sweetbreads (white, spongy glands sourced from different parts of the calf), brains, testicles, udders and fragments of back, all of the finely chopped. Also added are eggs, garlic, dried mushrooms, butter, pine nuts, parmigiano reggiano, marjoram, green peas, and spices (nutmeg and garlic). Nowadays some people opt to replace the testicles and back with pork. As with many other Ligurian specialties, marjoram is the key ingredient, giving this delicate, difficult-to-prepare dish its signature flavor. The stuffed cima is wrapped in a linen cloth, and then submerged in a pot of vegetable broth, where it is boiled. If it is not sewn properly, and if careful attention is not paid to boiling the sewn-up cima, it may burst, ruining it. It is served cold, usually with pesto for spreading or dipping. By Kim Macron
Although polpettone typically means a meatloaf-like dish in many regions of Italy, in Liguria it refers to this vegetable casserole, formed from breadcrumbs, green beans and potatoes (passed through a ricer), with the addition of parmigiano reggiano, eggs, olive oil, garlic, salt, and herbs. Some versions of polpettone also include dried mushrooms. The key herb providing polpettone’s signature flavor is marjoram. It is an ancient dish, historically a peasant meal; in the Middle Ages it was called scarbassa, which was the name of the wicker baskets brought into the fields to collect vegetables during harvesting. The Genovese also called it “Sčiattamàiu,” which literally means “husband-bursting” (“sciatta marito”). What this refers to unclear, although it may be a joking reference to indigestion caused by the heavy, garlicky dish. The modern polpettone starts with a thin bottom layer of breadcrumbs, which is then topped with a mixture of a mash of potatoes and green beans (both boiled prior to ricing/mashing), sauteed garlic, marjoram and parsley. Once these sauteed spices cool, they are added to eggs and grated cheese and well mixed. These are then added to the potato and green bean mash, layered on top of the breadcrumbs, with the top sprinkled with more breadcrumbs and coated with olive oil. A fork is run across the top to make small, shallow valleys for the oil, and it is baked until the top is crispy. It can be eaten hot, at room temperature, or cold, and is even better the next day, after the flavors have melded. The top and bottom are crunchy, while the inside is soft and starchy, incredibly delicious for such a simple dish. By Kim Macron
The word panissa originally referred to panicum a type of edible switchgrass, which could be ground into a flour and eaten. Over time, this flour was replaced by more palatable alternatives, one of which is produced from the chickpea. Panissa genovese uses almost the same exact ingredients as farinata, although panissa is made without olive oil, from a gruel of chickpea flour, water, and salt. It shares a possibly apocryphal origin with farinata - the result of food barrels, sent overboard during a storm, then salvaged by Genovese sailors. Traditionally, it is baked in a ceramic, bowl-shaped mold. Once baked, these semicircle mounds are then cut into cubes, served at room temperature or warmed up. They can also be cut into strips and deep-fried. |
The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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