When fusion is discussed in culinary terms, it’s usually of the broader, cross-cultural sort, either occurring organically (Indo-Chinese, Chinese-Caribbean, Indo-Caribbean) or mandated by the exigencies of the market (any place you can get both Sushi and Pad Thai). But there are also smaller instances of synthesis, ones occurring incessantly within national cultures themselves, sometimes at the behest of foreign influence, sometimes owing to other factors. Take Delimanjoo, which is run out of a small booth in Manhattan’s Koreatown, sharing space with a steamed bun dispensary and doling out a small set roster of seemingly traditional pastries. These have individual appellations, yet here get classed together under the name of the shop, itself a portmanteau (Delicious, or Delice, the company’s name, and Manjoo/doo, for dumpling). Delimanjoo is a global chain that most famously sells these cute little corns stuffed with custard, a treat I’m convinced they did not invent, although I can find no immediate visual evidence of their existence anywhere else. Word of mouth, meanwhile, seems to indicate they’re spotted frequently within the Seoul subway system.
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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. Just past North Truro sits Provincetown, the terminus of the Cape, a seaside burg that doubles as a sleepy fishing village and a thriving gay hotspot, the latter apparently a residual effect of its historic status as final point on summer stock theatre tours. The fishermen who once made up the majority of the town’s population are still here (albeit in diminished numbers) a presence evidenced by the wealth of Portuguese flags hanging on nearby houses and the prevalence of bolos levedos in local supermarkets. Yet all the old specialty restaurants have closed, leaving only a smattering of dishes at select spots, Vinho de Alho pork chops mixing with old-fashioned Yankee fare like Salisbury steak at a place like The Mayflower. The last bastion of this culture is the town’s Portuguese Bakery, which has operated without fail since the earliest days of the 20th century.
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.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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