Perhaps more than any other cooking fat, rendered chicken or other poultry fat is associated with a specific cuisine: Ashkenazi Jewish. It was a historical necessity. Butter couldn’t be used in a meat meal, due to the prohibition against combining meat and dairy. Certain types of beef fat aren’t kosher, which makes tallow a tricky proposition. As a pork product, lard was definitely out. Since olive trees can’t grow in Central and Eastern Europe, poultry fat was the only option before seed oils like canola and sunflower. Few other societies faced the same religious restrictions in the same kind of environment, so use of rendered poultry fat, or schmaltz, became stereotypically Ashkenazi. Jewish immigration brought it to America, especially New York.
For generations, New Yorkers have used schmaltz in frying, knishes, and even as a spread on matzo crackers. Since the recipe on pages 464 – 465 of 1000 Foods to Eat Before You Die doesn’t make a huge quantity and I only had enough chicken skin for half, I decided to follow Mimi Sheraton’s suggestion to try it on piece of matzo with just a little salt. It wasn’t bad, tasting sort of like fried chicken cooked in slightly overused oil, and was even tasty after getting used to the flavor coming from a soft spread. The little chicken cracklings, called gribenes, were even better, tasting like pieces of fried chicken skin, which they what they are.
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That said, schmaltz is a lot of work for a small reward. Not to mention, half of the cracklings stuck to the bottom of my pan, requiring multiple soakings and scrapings to remove. With the widespread availability of vegetable oils, shortening, and margarine, rendered chicken or other poultry fat is no longer necessary for kosher frying. And for anyone craving the fatty chicken flavor, many grocery stores sell ready-made fried chicken.
Schmaltz certainly has historical interest, and is currently enjoying a culinary revival, but I struggle to see the appeal. Having grown up eating non-kosher casseroles with ham and cheddar cheese, cheeseburgers, and pulled pork, the traditional “New York deli” specialties don’t have any nostalgia value. Would I scrape the solidified fat from a chilled pot of chicken or turkey soup to make gravy? Certainly – it would give the poultry flavor a nice boost. But I’m unlikely to make my own schmaltz again. It was worth trying once. In this case, once was enough.
Of all the world’s foods, haggis has one of the worst reputations. In the modern age, minced sheep’s organs, fat, and oatmeal, cooked together in the stomach, are a hard sell. It’s a dish born out of harder times. Traditionally, Scottish farmers often found it more productive to raise cattle and sheep than to grow grain, and oats tolerate the cool, damp climate better than wheat. Almost from the arrival of agriculture, residents of Scotland had everything they needed to make haggis.
Today, it’s Scotland’s national dish. Traditionally, it’s heavily peppered and served with neeps and tatties. Neeps are mashed “turnips,” which are actually rutabagas. Tatties are potatoes. Aside from the potatoes, this would all be recognizable to ancient peoples.
In Edinburgh, you can even get it battered, fried, and enhanced with Indian-style spices at fish and chips shops. One such shop was within easy walking distance from the hostel where our group was staying, so was the perfect stop for a quick lunch between morning and afternoon activities. In addition to fish and chips, which were delicious, they served chicken, vegetable, and haggis pakoras, which are a sort of Indian fritter. In this case, a traditional Scottish staple was cooked Indian-style, and served by Kurdish proprietors. Talk about international cuisine.
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I was a little unsure about the haggis, but it was actually delicious. Since everything was ground up, it tasted like a peppery, crumbly sausage, enhanced by a spicy coating. There were no “weird” flavors at all.
That evening, we went to a restaurant and tried a more refined version, served with neeps, tatties, and gravy. It was sort of like sticky meatloaf, probably from the ground oats in the mix, and rather pleasant. Overall, I still preferred the pakoras, but both were good. The trick with “variety meats” must be to grind them up, add a lot of spices, and possibly fry them. Almost anything tastes good that way.
LunchDinnerand Dessert
Apparently, Scottish cuisine has a reputation for deep-frying anything, including candy bars. Mars bars are sort of like American Milky Way bars, with a nougat and caramel center. When battered and fried, they become sticky, melty, and crispy, a delightful mix of textures. It’s clear why both haggis and deep-fried Mars bars are foods to eat at some point in your life. (For more information, reference 1,000 Foods to Eat Before You Die, by Mimi Sheraton, pages 38, 40 – 41.)
For many people, the days leading up to Christmas are cookie-baking season, and they finish eating them around New Year’s. Crunchy butter cookies are especially great. Not only are the delicious, but they can be kept longer than most cookies without getting stale. This enables a cook with sufficient willpower to make a variety over the course of a few weeks to a month. When I worked at a bakery for a year right after graduating college, we made and assembled the boxes of assorted butter cookies before Thanksgiving, and they held up fine. This year, I decided to make my own selection to give as gifts.
Marzipan is another popular Christmas treat, especially in Europe. At its simplest, it’s just a mixture of blanched almonds, sugar, and enough water to form a paste. Many homemade versions add egg white as a binder. Historically, a few bitter almonds were used to add the distinctive aromatic almond flavor, since the more common sweet almonds have a pleasant but very mild taste, but it was hard to get the ratio right. Bitter almonds contain a small amount of cyanide, dangerous in the hands of an inept or unscrupulous cook, so almond extract is typically used today. Rosewater is a traditional flavoring, though perhaps not as common today.
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Almonds, sugar, and rosewater were elite, prestigious ingredients in the Middle Ages, especially in Northern Europe where there were more middlemen between the source and final destination. Exactly when and where marzipan came from is unclear, though the Middle East is a likely candidate. Sweet dishes with nuts and rosewater can be found from Morocco to India. Through a combination of trade and warfare, Europeans discovered and adapted these specialties.
In Sicily, shops sell stunningly realistic-looking marzipan fruit. English Christmas cake and Swedish princess torte are covered with a layer of rolled marzipan. All over Europe, marzipan is covered in chocolate, stuffed into festive breads and cakes, and made into figurines, including the pigs that are supposedly good luck for the New Year. Germans seem to be particularly fond of it, and specialize in two main kinds, both originating in trading ports on the Baltic Sea. Lubeck-style is soft and typically lower in sugar, while Konigsberg-style is browned under a broiler for a caramelized flavor. (For more information, see 1,000 Foods to Eat Before You Die, pg. 304)
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Homemade marzipan is easier to make than you might expect, and has a much better flavor than most store-bought varieties. The only somewhat tricky part is blanching the almonds, but it’s more time-consuming than difficult. Just put the almonds in a bowl, cover with boiling water and stir, let stand a minute, pour off most of the boiling water, and add cool water until you reach a comfortable working temperature. The skins slip right off when squeezed, especially if the almonds are kept in the warm water until ready. Individually squeezing each almond takes a while, but it’s a satisfying process, especially with something to listen to. If you can rope in your spouse, child, guest, or any combination, it will go even faster.
Lubeck-Style, molded around an almond, covered in chocolate
There’s one thing to note before beginning. Rosewater is a common flavoring in marzipan and goes very well with almond, but be careful with it. Depending on the brand and how fresh it is, rosewater varies in strength. Generally, brands with an alcohol base are stronger and keep their flavor better after being opened than those distilled with just water, but this is far from an absolute rule. Add it slowly, a teaspoon at a time, tasting as you go, until desired flavor is reached. You want a light floral taste, not edible perfume.
Konigsberg-Style cutouts, with assorted cookies
Ingredients:
1 pound almonds, blanched
1 cup powdered sugar
1 – 2 teaspoons almond extract (use more if not also using rosewater)
1 teaspoon or more rosewater
2 – 4 tablespoons water
Sugar for rolling out dough
Parchment paper (essential for getting baked marzipan off cookie sheet)
Directions:
Coarsely grind almonds in a food processor, add sugar and flavorings, and grind again to reach a sandy texture.
Add 2 tablespoons water, process again, and taste for rosewater. Add more if you think it needs it.
Pinch some of the mix together to see if it comes together as a sticky dough. If not, add more water, a tablespoon at a time, until it does. The texture won’t be as fine as store-bought marzipan.
For Lubeck-style marzipan, the mixture is ready to form into shapes, coat in chocolate, mold around whole almonds, and so on.
For Konigsberg-style marzipan, lightly sugar a flat surface, pat the marzipan into a disk, sugar the top, roll out about a quarter-inch thick, and cut out shapes with cookie cutters. Since the dough has no flour, it can be rerolled without toughening.
Bake on parchment paper-lined baking sheets at 350 for 12 – 15 minutes, just until set.
To brown the marzipan, place each cookie sheet under the broiler for two minutes, with the oven door cracked (which keeps the broiler from overheating). Then, watching constantly, broil for another minute or two, until the tops are golden brown.
As an added bonus, eggless marzipan such as this is gluten-free, dairy-free, vegan, pareve, and Passover-friendly. Assuming the parchment paper is clean, that is, and not previously used for several batches of butter-and-flour-based cookies.
Add seasonal flowers for a lovely modern still life
Crazy as it sounds, ring bologna is actually a decent substitute for mortadella in a pinch. After all, mortadella originated in bologna. American “baloney” was an attempt to imitate it. The ring variety is better than the slices, and in either case, crisping it up in a pan gives the bologna a boost in flavor and texture. On this pizza, the oven takes care of that step for you.
If you make the dough the night before and leave it in the fridge, and if you still have garlic oil on hand (the recipe makes enough for several pizzas), this is the easiest pizza in the book. No vegetables need to be precooked; no herbs need to be minced. Just shred the fontina, rinse and chop up the canned artichokes, chop up the mortadella (or bologna) and you’re good to go.
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The flavors and textures in this pizza are very well-balanced, between briny, slightly meaty artichokes, peppery bologna, creamy cheese, crispy crust, and garlic. On page 226, author Joe Famularo says the best way to get a good garlic flavor on a pizza without it scorching or being overwhelming is to use garlic-infused oil. And he’s absolutely right. The flavor is definitely there, but it doesn’t overpower the other flavors. Everything is in harmony.
A few months ago, I came across some ricotta salata while browsing at Woodman’s. Remembering that lack of it led me to improvise on sweet pepper pizza a few years ago, I decided to remake the recipe and give it a try. Plus, I had some unbleached flour and quick-rising yeast I wanted to use up before they went bad. At the time, I’d been trying to clear out the pantry, find a use for the ingredients pushed to the back, and therefore avoid food waste.
Recently I started watching Hoarders, which is enough to make anyone want to clean, even if they don’t have a problem. Many of the jam-packed kitchens came about because their owners liked to stock up when preferred items went on sale. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you don’t buy more than you can use before it goes bad. Having some extra cereal, pasta, crackers, and canned goods in the basement is handy. Just don’t overdo it.
Some items, like the cornmeal that I bought at the start of Covid, expired two or three years ago and weren’t salvageable. The yeast and unbleached flour were still good, but expiring soon, so it was as good a time as any to make pizza. I made the garlic oil that all the recipes use, stuck it in a jar in the fridge, and decided to start with a white pizza using the leftover provolone and some of the pecorino from the eggplant timbale (and leftover parmesan from some gnocchi, and some mozzarella already in the fridge).
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When I went to put the dough in the intended pan, a large round sheet pan with a short “lip,” it wasn’t there. Turns out, it had started flaking and reached the end of its natural life. Looking at my other options, I settled on a roasting pan with slightly higher sides. If I spread the dough all the way to the edge, the surface area would be similar, just in rectangular form. Nothing wrong with that.
This turned out to be the best culinary misadventure in a while. Because this dough recipe produces a thick crust, I had never spread it to the edge of the pan before, in case the garlic oil in the topping dripped off onto the bottom of the oven. Being able to do so made a huge difference. The crust rose evenly instead of bulging in the middle, and the edges got extra golden and crispy. Everything was delicious, but the edges were phenomenal. And the pizza fit perfectly on the new, giant wooden cutting board.
After this success, I decided to make any future pizzas in this pan. The sweet pepper and ricotta salata pizza was up next, for the simple reason that peppers were on sale at the store. This was good, but a little dry, even with the garlic oil. For pizza, meltier cheeses with a bit more fat seem to be the way to go.
Menu: Bergamo-Style Ravioli, Rabbit Roasted in Red Wine, Bergamo-Style Polenta, Cheese with Mixed Salad, Sambuca-Flavored Cocoa Roll (orange flavor instead)
Recommended Wine: Spumante
Bergamo is in the northern Italian province of Lombardy, north of Milan. As in the rest of northern Italy, there is a lot of fresh pasta and polenta, butter often replaces olive oil, and there are plentiful cow’s milk cheeses like fontina, gorgonzola, parmesan, and mascarpone. While generally overshadowed by its larger neighbor, Bergamo has its own specialties. One of these is a unique ravioli, filled with a mix of chicken, pork, salami, vegetables, and a little cheese. They are dressed in melted butter and sage, parmesan cheese, and toasted bread crumbs.
This was my first attempt at making my own pasta, and it went surprisingly well. Since I don’t have a pasta roller, I rolled little pieces of dough into circles with a rolling pin and folded them around the filling in a half-moon shape. It was a slow process, but making the ravioli bigger sped things along. The meat-and-vegetable filling was deliciously different from the usual cheese-heavy varieties, though there’s nothing wrong with those.
The only thing I would change is to cook the larger ravioli for an extra minute or two. Having thicker pasta kept the ravioli from bursting open, but not factoring it into the cooking time left it a little tough. It was still delicious, and the extras are in the freezer for whenever a quick homemade dinner is desired.
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Another first for this menu was the rabbit. The idea was a little tough at first, until I reminded myself that this rabbit (which according to the package was a product of Spain) was bred and raised exclusively for food. It was never someone’s pet, or a former resident of the nearby farm/petting zoo. Besides, people have been eating rabbits for a lot longer than they’ve been keeping them as pets. They were a common protein into the 20th Century, and one 1930s menu even had rabbit pot pie as an economical alternative to chicken.
Rabbit does, in fact, taste sort of like dark meat chicken, but a little different and very lean. The fact that chicken is easier to farm on an industrial scale probably explains why rabbit isn’t as popular as it used to be. Or maybe it’s just that people didn’t grow up with the Easter Chicken. Or the fact that chickens won’t stand on their hind legs like a prairie dog when offered a banana chip.
Not the second course…and I wasn’t rabbit sitting when I made this menu either.
Regardless, most rabbit recipes seem to involve slow-cooking it in liquid and/or adding some extra fat. In this case, the fat came from a bit of Italian sausage, and the liquid was red wine. It did taste very good, though in the future I would probably just use chicken thighs, which are cheaper and easier to find. At least for this recipe.
Upon reading the recipe, I was surprised at how quickly the polenta cooked. Once the salted water was boiling, the corn grits/polenta only had to cook for about five minutes. It required frequent but not constant stirring, and didn’t get lumpy, which is a common problem. Was the addition of a little buckwheat flour the key to a good consistency? Perhaps, and either way, the addition of butter, sage, and fontina cheese gave the final mix a pleasant rich but mild flavor that contrasted well with the stronger flavors in the rest of the meal.
The salad was similar to many others in the book; a mix of greens dressed with a flavorful homemade dressing. The store didn’t have the endive called for in the recipe, so I just used the arugula and radicchio. Unlike other lemon juice and oil “vinaigrettes,” a little bit of orange zest and some minced shallots seemed to sweeten the mix, keeping it from becoming too sour and letting it balance the bitter radicchio. Don’t worry if the oil solidifies in the refrigerator. Fifteen to thirty minutes at room temperature will take care of that.
For the cheese, I used fresh mozzarella instead of taleggio because that’s what was available at the store. Even though it’s a southern Italian cheese not native to the Bergamo area, it went very well with the salad, especially when served on the dressed greens instead of next to them. The bitter arugula and radicchio, sour and slightly sweet dressing, and mild mozzarella all contrasted beautifully without clashing.
Dessert was one of the best things I’ve made in a while. The “cake” is a mix of egg yolks whipped with sugar, melted chocolate, a bit of flavoring, and separately whipped egg whites folded in at the end. The original recipe calls for three tablespoons of sambuca to be mixed in with the chocolate. Since I didn’t want to buy a whole bottle that I would be unlikely to drink or use in other recipes, I considered replacing it with a teaspoon of anise extract mixed into some cream, until I remembered that replacing wine with milk caused a previous attempt at zabaglione to fail. To keep the chemistry similar, I initially settled on a teaspoon of anise extract mixed into three tablespoons brandy.
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Then I considered that anise (the flavor of black licorice) is not generally my favorite flavoring. Trying a bit over a scoop of ice cream with a sprinkle of coffee granules is one thing. It’s a single serving that takes two minutes to make. Even though that turned out well, I was hesitant to put anise flavoring into an entire cake that was a bit fiddly to make. Other extract options were vanilla, almond, and orange. Since I was already making an almond cheesecake for a different event, I settled on orange for something different. A teaspoon went into the “cake,” and half a teaspoon went into the whipped cream filling.
The cake was spectacular. The texture ended up somewhere between a brownie and a mousse, intensely chocolate lightened with a touch of orange. While the cake did crack slightly as I rolled it up, the inside still formed a recognizable spiral. Not pastry shop window perfect, and it wouldn’t pass muster on the Great British Baking Show, but still a pretty special occasion dessert. And of course, it’s the taste that counts. From time to time it’s well worth the effort.
No-bake desserts are great for special occasions during the summer. I’ve already discussed strawberry trifle, which uses frozen pound cake for beautiful and delicious results. Another showy use for berries and their juices is the British dessert summer pudding. It involves lining the bottom and sides of a bowl with white bread slices, filling the center with a mix of berries and sugar, covering the top with more bread, and pressing everything together with another bowl overnight. Excess juices are thus forced into the bread, coloring it a lovely hue between red, pink, and purple, depending on what fruit you use.
I was a little skeptical at first. It sounded like a recipe for soggy bread, but if summer pudding is popular in the British Isles, there had to be a reason. After finding red currants at the farmer’s market, I decided to give it a try. If the bread part wasn’t good, the berry filling could be scooped out and served on its own with whipped cream.
This turned out to be unnecessary. Odd as it sounded, the bread worked perfectly. Due to its gluten structure, it soaked up the juices like a sponge and held together even when fully saturated. Cake would typically fall apart in a similar situation. Beyond that, the bread balanced out the tart currants and raspberries very well. It was indeed soggy, but in a good way.
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Let’s pause here to talk about currants. The dried currants you can buy in boxes are not true currants at all. They are actually a type of small raisin. Most boxes now specifically refer to their contents as Zante currants to avoid confusion. These Zante currants are worth trying in their own right in scones, oatmeal, and the like. But they’re not what we’re talking about today.
True currants come in three common colors: red, white, and black. All are much more common in Europe than in the US, though the red kind is occasionally found fresh in farmers’ markets and backyard gardens. White currants are a mutant form of the red variety. Black currants are even harder to find, and were in fact banned for several decades because they could carry white pine blister rust, which threatened the US logging industry. Even with new disease-resistant varieties, black currants are still illegal to grow in several states. Which is a pity, because they make great jams and juices.
Red currants, with my hand for scale
This history could explain the rarity of currants in the US. So too could be the fact that red currants, which were never banned, have to compete with native cranberries. Both are tart red fruits that make excellent juices and sauces, but cranberries are a lot cheaper and easier to store. And in the Midwest, where growing conditions are favorable for currant bushes, people prefer sour cherries in jams and desserts. Red and occasionally black currant jam can be found at stores and farmer’s markets, but beyond that, there are few traditional (or modern) American recipes for the fruit.
British cuisine, by contrast, has plenty of uses for currants, especially, it seems, for the black variety, which are in fact dark purple. Blackcurrant jam is one of the favorite varieties. Many candies use the flavor. A sweetened concentrate called Ribena (which is not uncommon in the international food aisles in the US, at least in big stores) makes what tastes like currant-flavored Kool-Aid. It would taste better with a little less sugar, but is enjoyable nonetheless. And of course, there are numerous desserts made with all varieties of currant.
One of the favorites is summer pudding, which Mimi Sheraton suggests is best made with a mix of red currants and raspberries. Taking the expert’s advice, I picked up some frozen raspberries, scaled down the recipe on pages 29 – 30 in 1000 Foods to Eat Before You Die by half, and got started. (Information about currants can be found on pages 12 – 13). Whether or not to cook the fruit or just briskly stir it with the sugar depends on how soft and/or ripe the fruit is. Since currants are firmer and tarter, even when ripe, I decided to cook them with the sugar for a few minutes, then stir in the raspberries, which are more prone to fall apart, after. This worked perfectly.
The biggest challenge turned out to be finding a bowl that would fit perfectly inside the bowl with the pudding. This is important because pressing down on the surface with adequate weight (provided by a few cans of food) is what forces the excess syrup into the bread. The other issue was unmolding. I’m not sure why the recipe called for buttering the main bowl, since the butter completely solidifies when everything is chilled, unless it’s for flavor. The now-solid butter stuck the bread to the bowl, making for a slightly messy presentation.
Not as pretty as in the picture in the book (okay it looks like an amoeba)……but whipped cream improves the presentation.
Messy or not, the juice-stained bread and red fruits were pretty in their own way, especially with a contrast of whipped cream. Brits often serve summer pudding with either clotted or whipped cream. I’m not sure how the former is, but the latter is perfect, especially if you make it yourself. Homemade whipped cream is super easy to make, and it makes the odd-sounding but delicious summer pudding even better. To be honest, it makes any dessert better.
Fun fact: Big Ben is technically not the name of the tower itself, but the bell inside it.
British cuisine gets a bad rap. Jokes abound about it being bland, heavy, and sometimes bizarre. Even the island’s inhabitants make fun of it, and often don’t eat “traditional” British dishes on a daily basis. Partly due to immigration from the Indian Subcontinent, Brits love curry and other Indian dishes. You can find falafel, Italian, and Chinese food everywhere. Still, some local dishes are worth trying. Read through the Harry Potter series for some good examples.
Last month, I went on a trip to Great Britain and Ireland. The history was fascinating and the scenery was lovely. There were just two surprising things. First, people don’t just drive on the left. They also keep to the left on sidewalks, staircases, and anywhere else people might be passing each other in opposite directions. It felt completely backwards and I couldn’t quite get used to it. Luckily we had a bus for long distances and didn’t have to drive.
The Tower Bridge in London
I was also surprised by how difficult some of the local accents were to understand. Despite having a fraction of the landmass and only about a fifth of the population, the British Isles have a greater number of distinct accents than the US. This makes sense, since people have been speaking some form of English there for around 1600 years instead of 400, giving the language a lot longer to develop various dialects.
American English certainly has its diversity, but for the most part, a speaker of one dialect can understand another. This isn’t the case in Britain and Ireland, particularly in more rural areas. On several occasions, I could only get a rough idea of what someone was saying. If asking them to repeat themselves didn’t work, I would just say ok, nod, and hope for the best.
Swans in the Avon River in Stratford. They were a popular Medieval feast dish, but apparently don’t taste very good.
The food was easier to understand. Most of the ingredients are familiar and easy to find. Fish and chips are just fried fish and French fries. Beef and Guinness stew is straightforward and delicious, even if you don’t usually like Guinness. Pasties are meat and vegetables in a pie crust. Think of them as cousins of empanadas. Cheeses like cheddar are imitated all over the world. There’s bangers and mash (sausages with mashed potatoes), shepherd’s pie, roast beef and what are essentially popovers, cheese sauce with toast, and a variety of jams and marmalades.
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Then there’s the desserts, which is where British cuisines excel. The best introduction can be found by watching the Great British Baking Show. The Victoria sponges, loaf cakes, shortbread, sticky toffee pudding, and cream-filled fruit tartlets look and sound delicious. There have definitely been some odd flavor combinations (like miso caramel and black sesame ice cream), but sometimes they turn out to be inspired. Other times, the classics done well are what impress the judges.
That contrast seems to sum up British cuisine as a whole: willing to try new ingredients and dishes, but not forgetting the classics.
Among the numerous varieties of risotto, there are a few classics, as detailed in 1000 Foods to Eat Before You Die on pages 233 – 234. Risotto bianco is the basic kind, made simply with rice, butter, a little onion or shallot, white wine, broth, parmesan cheese, and maybe some pancetta or bacon. Milanese is colored a bright golden yellow with saffron. Nero is colored black with squid ink. Piedmontese is enhanced with white truffles. Other varieties might include seafood, mushrooms, or vegetables.
As you can probably guess, risotto verde is meant to be green. Frequently a spring specialty, it gets its color from parsley and either sweet green peas or asparagus. It’s very fresh-tasting and, when made with frozen peas, surprisingly quick and easy to prepare. To keep everything bright and fresh, I didn’t use any pancetta for my own recipe.
Technically, you’re not “supposed” to reheat risotto, because it thickens upon standing and can become “gluey.” I’ve never had this problem, or maybe the texture upon reheating just doesn’t bother me. Just add a few drops of water before putting it in the microwave. It will still be a great accompaniment to your chicken sandwich for lunch, and it’s way healthier than chips.
Ingredients:
4 tablespoons (or ¼ cup) butter, or 2 tablespoons each butter and olive oil
1 shallot or ¼ onion, minced
1 ½ cups arborio or other short-grain rice
4 tablespoons (or ¼ cup) dry white wine (something light like pinot grigio), or replace with extra broth
4 – 5 cups chicken or vegetable broth (broth made from poaching chicken works great here)
1 10-ounce bag frozen peas
Half bunch parsley, large stems removed, minced
1 cup grated parmesan cheese
Directions:
Combine the broth and peas in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Turn off heat, but leave on the stove.
Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. When bubbling, add shallot or onion and sauté for about 2 minutes, until softened.
Add the rice and cook, stirring constantly, until coated and translucent, about 2 minutes.
Stir in the wine and cook, stirring constantly, until evaporated, another 2 or 3 minutes.
Add the broth and peas, a ladleful at a time, stirring constantly, waiting for each to absorb before adding the next. Stir in the parsley about halfway through, saving a little to sprinkle on top at serving time.
After adding 4 cups of broth, the risotto should be slightly liquid. If it seems too thick, add a little more broth.
Remove from the heat, stir in the parmesan, sprinkle with remaining parsley, and serve immediately.
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I’ll admit, I was a little skeptical when I first read about chicken Marbella. Prunes, olives, capers, vinegar, and brown sugar seemed like an odd combination with chicken. The dish was originally developed by the Silver Palette catering company in New York in the late 1970s/early 1980s. It’s very much in the 80s style, vaguely Italian or Mediterranean, and sophisticated for the time. Since the ingredients are fairly inexpensive, I decided to give it a try. Omit the olives (which aren’t generally my favorite) and it’s essentially sweet-and-sour chicken.
There’s actually a long history of serving meat with sweet, sour, and fruity sauces, that goes beyond turkey with cranberry sauce or duck with orange sauce. Ancient Romans loved complex sauces with any combination of honey, vinegar, wine, fruit, herbs, spices, and the fermented fish sauce garum. Medieval cooks ditched the garum but added sugar, verjuice (pressed from unripe grapes), and citrus juices. If their sauces contained broth or meat juices, they would be combined with these other, strongly-flavored ingredients. Add a few spices and possibly some breadcrumbs to thicken, and the sauce for chicken Marbella sounds positively medieval. And it bears more than a passing resemblance to the agrodolce sauce still popular in Sicily today.
The recipe on pages 542 – 543 of 1000 Foods to Eat Before You Die by Mimi Sheraton, originally from the Silver Palette Cookbook, was delicious and smelled amazing. The only changes I made were to skip the olives and use chicken leg quarters instead of quartered whole chickens, but I would tweak it a little further. Between the amount of marinade and the amount of liquid released by the chicken while cooking, the serving platter was swimming in sauce. The flavor was great, and the sugar gave the chicken a nice crunchy “crust,” but the mix was extremely sweet. That was despite the dramatic reduction in the quantity of prunes, for the simple reason that the bag, which I had bought for and used in another recipe, wasn’t as full as I thought.
For a second attempt, I made a few changes. Because I only used about half the amount of chicken, I cut the other quantities in half, producing a pool of sauce instead of a lake. Reducing the amount of sugar from one half to one third cup created a better balance with the vinegar, capers, garlic, and oregano. And pretty much any dried fruit will work. I used a mix of dried apricots, golden raisins, and Zante currants (because that was what I had on hand), to successful results. Turns out the 80s culinary experimenters had some good ideas. I still don’t understand the pasta salads with bottled dressing, though. Or nouvelle cuisine.
Feasting Through Time 