Paul Mantee
The more I eat out, the more I cherish my own cooking.
Most restaurants today seem no more than declarations of good intentions, especially the newer ones, those that have opened for business after the 1950s. Sounds impossibly snobbish, I know, but if I’m destined to be a snob in any area, I think food is a healthy choice. Newer restaurateurs are hobbled, first, by lack of experience-hard to replace generations of trial and error in the kitchen-along with the I-know-What-Let’s -open-a-restaurant! syndrome. And secondly, by the concept of the “executive chef.” On the one hand, the restaurant business at its tastiest is guesswork and on the other, a chef is not meant to be an executive. Business people are meant to be executives. The best chefs are artists, I think, and have an innate sense of what creates flavor. The legit chef rarely thinks a recipe through. Can you imagine Van Gogh thinking through a brush stroke? By the same token, you wouldn’t dream of calling Mark Twain an executive author, Meryl Streep an executive actor or Karl Jung an executive therapist. My grandmother merely washed her hands and made minestrone. That’s all. She put together a series of flavors and, as if by accident, created a dish so enticing it was difficult to put into words yet impossible not to put into your mouth. It’s been my experience that the executive chef usually tries too hard. One of them looked me right in the eye and not unkindly described the cooking I’m used to as “the old flavors.” He meant well, but that’s like describing Mozart as “the old music.” So where does that put the new music?
Both grandparents on my father’s side and most of my great-aunts and uncles were exceptionally gifted behind the stove. And my parents learned from them. So, from day one, my palate was a prisoner of the most fortunate atmosphere. Tomato aspic and tuna casserole didn’t cross my lips till I was 20. Unfortunately, none of these gifted people wrote anything down, and on the rare occasion that my grandmother did share a recipe, she always left one ingredient out. So the result was good, but never as good: her one and only wicked impulse.
Unfortunately, I’m left with memories only: extraordinary flavor based on a handful of this and a pinch of that. I have no one to ask. So what I’ve done in my small kitchen is attempt to recall the finished flavor from the old days and then work backward. I try to sense exactly what pinch and what handful comprises the end result. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.
I’m going to describe something I threw together that I think you’ll enjoy. This one is too good not to share, and I promise I won’t leave anything out. Bear in mind, you’ll never get this dish from the repertoire of an executive chef. Too simple. Too Mozart. Invariably, the executive will be tempted to add just one more ingredient to appreciably subtract from the result. Pineapple pizza: insanely perfect example.
Last night, Suzy the Significant came home from work exhausted and a little down; retail is rarely enlivening. At first we thought either Guido’s or Thai Dishes. At the last minute, I decided to cook; using only what was available in the fridge. Fortunately, we had a bunch of chicken drumettes in the freezer.
This is exactly what I did to them, and I hit the jackpot. Perfect for three; gluttonous for two.
Chicken Mozart
Ingredients:
20 chicken wing drumettes
1 medium can (14.5 oz) S&W petite-cut diced tomatoes.
3/4 cup dry white wine (in this case, chardonnay ala Ralphs)
Small handful chopped parsley
One basket fresh small white button mushrooms
Four pinches dried mixed Italian seasoning
Two pinches red pepper flakes
One pinch allspice
Olive oil
Six large cloves fresh garlic
Salt and pepper
Drizzle enough olive oil to coat the bottom of your largest frying pan (mine has a 12-inch diameter, so adjust the recipe to accommodate to your cookware). Heat the oil over a medium to high heat and brown the drumettes well on all sides. While browning, add salt and plenty of black pepper.
Drain any excess water from the diced tomatoes. In a separate container combine them with the parsley, wine, Italian seasoning-crushed very fine between the palms of your hands-pepper flakes and allspice. Set aside.
Chop plenty of garlic-about six large cloves, more if you like-into chunks the size of little white navy beans.
When the chicken is well browned, sprinkle garlic into the pan, turn heat to low, jostle the pan so that all the garlic touches the bottom, and simmer. Move it around from time to time.
Here is the only critical juncture: When the garlic becomes golden brown-no more, no less-sprinkle the mushrooms over the top, turn the heat up to intense and dump in the tomato mixture. Ta-da! It should whoosh and sizzle like crazy. All the bits of flavor that were stuck to the bottom of the pan during the browning are resurrected by this procedure. My grandfather called it The Marriage.
Let the honeymoon go mad for about 15 minutes, then turn the heat down and allow the tomato mixture to thoroughly cook and reduce to your best judgment; about another 15. Now and again, stir the works with a wooden spoon.
Serve in bowls with lots of fresh ciabatta bread for sopping. Pour a nice cold glass of wine from the bottle you used in the sauce. Eat largely with fingers.
This is too exquisitely simple for restaurant fare, and you’ve effortlessly re-created a classic flavor out of the past, reminiscent of the small town of Maggiano on the road between Lucca and the Italian Riviera, circa 1936.