RECIPE: Saute' di Cozze (Sauteed Mussels)

In the heat of July, when stepping outside during sunlight hours seems like asking too much, we tend to eat more than our fair share of salads and cold foods. But sometimes, we want something more, something actually cooked -- albeit quickly, so as not to warm up our kitchens too much. Preparing a quick, easy seafood dish seems about right. 

This mussel dish, Saute' di Cozze, is just perfect: it's a taste of the sea that's light and flavorful and only takes a few minutes to prepare. It's great as an appetizer on its own, or as a main course (maybe with some homemade fries?), and can even be tossed with some pasta for a filling primo piatto. Add some chopped tomatoes for color and sweetness, a pinch of saffron for a southern French twist. Substitute the parsley with cilantro for the Portuguese version of this dish, or grind a lot of black pepper into the mussel pot as they're cooking for an Italian variation called pepato di cozze. There's lots to play with here. Enjoy it and make it your own -- but make it, pronto. The perfect summer seafood saute' is in your future!

Saute’ di Cozze 
Serves 4 people

4-5 TBS. extra-virgin olive oil

1-2 cloves of garlic, peeled and left whole

5  lbs. fresh mussels

½ cup white wine

Bunch of parsley (Italian flat-leaf), chopped finely

Pinch of red pepper flakes

Salt + pepper to taste

- In a large bowl/pot of water, add the mussels and a healthy bit of salt or cornmeal. Let sit for 10 minutes. Then, using your hands, pick up a handful of mussels in each hand, lift them out of the water a bit, and scrub together using the mussels themselves to clean the outer shells. Repeat several times, changing the water to clean.

- Drain mussels, and using your fingers, quickly peel away the “beard” (the hairy-looking thing hanging from the lip of the mussel shell). It will require a quick yank, so hold the mussel closed with one hand, and quickly rip off the beard with the other. Do this on all the mussels that have beards.

- Heat a large skillet over medium heat, and add the olive oil and garlic to cook for one minute.

- Add the mussels and stir a bit. Add the white wine, the parsley, and cover, cooking over medium-low heat for 3 minutes. Add the chili flakes and salt and pepper to taste, and continue cooking until the shells of the mussels have fully opened. Mix to make sure all are opened, adding olive oil and/or salt & pepper to taste, and turn to coat thoroughly. Serve at once with nice, crusty bread.

QUICK BITES: Sgroppino

Il Bel Paese in the summertime: there's no place quite like it on earth. When the temperatures rise in Italy, we tend to spend entire leisurely days in the sun, and close to water. Around Rome, the quickest escape is to the beaches of Ostia and Torvaianica, only about 15 miles from the heart of the city.

One of my favorite memories of life in Italy is the feeling I'd have, returning from a day at the beach: suntanned skin, salt in my hair, I'd clean off under a quick shower and then dress and head out to dinner with friends. This meal needed to be light and fresh, so as not to weigh me down in the intense Italian heat and humidity. Inevitably, this meant seafood. And nothing is more refreshing after a meal of fish tartare and carpaccio, pasta alle vongole or branzino baked in a salt crust, than a sgroppino served in a frosted champagne flute.

For the record, I'm not big on Italian desserts. There are only a handful in the repertoire anyway. And I've always believed in the idea of cocktail-as-dessert: it makes sense, aids in the digestion process, and keeps the drinks flowing even after the meal is technically over. The sgroppino is this wonderful combination of refreshing dessert with liquor that acts as a digestivo: perfect! Of course, like any Italian invention there is the original (said to hail from the area around Venice, also where tiramisu' originates -- quite the elegant epicures, those Venetians!)...and then there are the other versions. A true sgroppino should not be a drink with a ball of sorbetto plopped into it. Nor should it be a 'slushie' with a champagne floater. It is the perfect equilibrium of lemon sorbetto (that means it's made without dairy) + vodka + prosecco. Punto. 

Now, there are those who add a bit of limoncello to the recipe, and actually it's an addition that I don't protest, since I am of the school of "everything is better with limoncello." It's kind of a southern Italian tweak to the northern original, and I can't argue with that. The lemons from the Amalfi coast are big and beautiful and lend their particular variety of concentrated citrus flavor to the liquor, and therefore any drink containing it. But on the whole, the basic recipe, on which it's hard to improve, is comprised of just three ingredients. And like Italian cuisine, with Italian drinks, the high quality of the handful of ingredients is of the utmost importance.

1. Sorbetto al limone: You should use either homemade sorbet or a brand you trust to use all-natural ingredients, without chemicals or loads of stabilizers. Ciao Bella and Il Laboratorio del Gelato are great Italian-style options available stateside. You'll want to make sure this is thawed a little bit so it can be mixed with the other ingredients. Let it sit out at room temperature for 15 minutes before using it.

2.) Vodka: Of course this should be high-quality too, even though it's going to be mixed with other ingredients. Think well-produced, clean vodkas like Belvedere, Ketel One, or a locally-produced option. Although I'm a fan of Grey Goose, I left it off of the list because it's French...out of respect for the Italians, who would prefer not to have the French mixed up in their Italian cocktails, grazie.

3.) Prosecco: This is not sparkling wine, not spumante, even -- it's prosecco. That's the name of the grape and the name of the drink made from that grape, and that's what should be used in this cocktail/digestivo. It's drier, crisper than other sparkling white wines and since it's made in the Veneto, it goes into this Veneto-created mix. I adore most prosecchi, but Nino Franco happens to put out an excellent product. He's also a cool guy -- I visited his estate and tasted his product over the course of 30-plus years, and it's incredibly well-made. Bottoms up.

Once you have all of these ingredients at the right temperatures (sorbetto softened, vodka and prosecco well-chilled), you mix them together, either with a whisk in a chilled bowl, or quickly in a blender. E basta. It should be the consistency of a slushie or a loose granita: liquid enough to drink from the glass, but thick enough to be able to use a spoon as well. Serve in frosted champagne flutes or tall shot glasses -- even an icy martini glass would work, though it's not classic. The important thing is that the consistency is right, you can taste the alcohol...and that it's consumed subito, right away.

Buon estate a tutti! Happy summer, everyone!

LOCAL INGREDIENT: Gambero Rosso

Il Gambero Rosso. The Red Prawn. It's the name of Italy's most important dining and wine guide (and now culinary center and TV cooking channel). It's the name of the legendary osteria in the story of Pinocchio, to which the Fox and the Cat lead Pinocchio, where they eat a huge meal. And most importantly, it's the variety of red shrimp in the Mediterranean, especially common off the coast of Sicily and southern Italy, that's one of the most delicate and delicious flavors that exists in these waters. The gambero rosso del Mediterraneo (Aristaeomorpha foliacea) is a fiery crimson color before it's cooked, and remains this bright red after it's been exposed to heat, unlike most other shrimp that turn from gray to orangey-pink.  

For me, the first time I tried gamberi rossi in Italy, it was love at first sight. Its flavor is much more delicate than that of any other shrimp, its color beautiful on the plate. This was my entrata into understanding the importance and beauty of eating simply-prepared, high-quality local seafood that one might not be able to find in other parts of the world. I've never seen the gambero rosso in America, though perhaps some upscale seafood eateries are importing it somewhere stateside. But it's a go-to whenever I'm in any coastal area in southern Italy. I seek it out. I always order it when I find it on a menu. I prefer it uncooked. And since the Mediterranean red prawn lives at a depth of between 200 - 1000 meters beneath the sea -- deeper waters tend to be cleaner waters -- its wonderfully delicate flesh is amazing when eaten raw.

The flavor is briny and lacks the iodine punch that some shrimp deliver, and the texture is melt-in-your-mouth. When I was in Puglia recently, in the southernmost part of the heel of the "boot" of Italy, my friend and I headed to Gallipoli, an adorable whitewashed-and-pastel town surrounded by sandy beaches with Caribbean-colored water. We headed into town after a day at the beach, to get a gelato and nose around the shops. And as we walked up to the gelateria, along the water, I saw below us a small piazza where fisherman were coming in with their catches, and tables were being set up for a makeshift evening fish market. 

My friend Monica, who moved down to Puglia from Rome with her husband Marcello, and has lived in the area for a few years, had told me earlier that Gallipoli was renowned for its gamberi rossi -- possibly the best on the Italian peninsula (I'm excluding the island-region of Sicily, as they'd claim to have the best on the planet!) Naturally my priority was to head to the fish market directly after finishing our gelati. There, among the varieties of fish and various sizes of calamari, were the beautiful ruby-colored shellfish I'd been hoping to find. I asked how much they cost, knowing that their price tag in Rome can run as high as 40 euros per kilo. "Dodici" said the fishmonger, and I tried to hide my smile. 12 euros, less than 8 U.S. dollars a pound! I bought a kilo and we headed back to our friends' house for aperitivi. When my friend Jessica had asked earlier in the day what a gambero rosso tastes like, I told her it was delicate and rich, basically "the burrata of the shrimp world" -- and having feasted on burrata a-plenty of late (the cheese originated in Puglia), she knew exactly what that meant. 

When we got back, our 4 friends were already sipping vino rosato poolside in the cortile. So I quickly showered and dressed for dinner, then headed directly to the kitchen to prepare the red shrimp for us. This is a simple preparation that highlights the shrimp's rich flavor and texture, leaving it uncomplicated and allowing you to taste the true gambero rosso flavor. 

To prepare: I cleaned the shrimp, removing the shells (don't discard! Keep the heads and shells to make a wonderfully flavorful shellfish stock!)...and cleaning out the intestinal line with a knife. Then I split the shrimp in half lengthwise. I rinsed the shrimp very briefly under water and dried them before spreading them out on two plates to make a layer of what is essentially shrimp carpaccio. Then, I very simply squeezed a bit of fresh lemon over top (and if I'd had a microplane, I would've added some zest, too), topped with some herbed salt (you can mix sea salt or kosher salt in a food processor with your favorite herbs to make your own), and sprinkled some of the wonderfully buttery and green Pugliese olive oil on top. And that's it. We enjoyed it with some local rose wine, and it was the perfect treat to accompany our lively conversation as the warm southern Italian sun sank behind the walls of the courtyard. 

A Toast To Dads, And To You, Patrick!

I met Patrick just weeks before his 27th birthday. Looking back on that now, it amazes me: we were both so young and optimistic and the city of Rome held so much potential for us. We'd make it our oyster. And for years, it felt like we had done just that.
 
Being back in Italy this year for another June, another one of Patrick's birthdays, without him -- it feels strange, surreal. It's been two years since we organized his memorial party here in Rome, and though time does help soften the pain of missing him to some extent, these vie and vicoli, piazze and passaggi are imbued with the history of all of us. Patrick was such a big part of my life in Rome that it always seemed half-empty to me whenever he wasn't here. 

Today, I'm in Florence as I write this. Firenze: the beautiful, small gem of a city where I first lived as a student. It's the place that made me fall in love with Italy, and Italian food and culture and art and the people. And it's where Patrick's older sister still lives with her family, and where his mother Barb lived for many years while we were all in Rome. We'd spend Christmas Eve in chilly Florence with Barb and Erica and the family, enjoying some home cooking and exchanging gifts, drinking eggnog (my first taste of the dangerous elixir!), and laughing into the wee hours. Of course these streets, too, hold countless memories for me. It's strange to think how just being in Florence or Rome makes me about as happy -- both content and elated -- as I can possibly be, and at the same time, as forlorn as I can imagine feeling. 

Patrick and his boys

Still, when I think of June in Italy, Patrick embodies this time and place. His birthday, and now Father's Day, are bittersweet holidays, as I'm reminded of what a wonderful father he was to his two boys, how he saved them and did everything he could to give them a wonderful childhood in the time that he had. And I'm reminded of the birthday celebrations we shared on many June tenths in the warm heat, and on the numerous terraces of Roman friends, and in the back streets of Trastevere (indeed, it felt like "our" neighborhood, as if we owned it).

The gang at Patrick's farewell Roma dinner

I fondly remember the farewell dinner I prepared for Patrick when he decided to leave Rome and move back to the States. It was a series of Patrick's favorite dishes -- simple, hearty fare like steak and potatoes and salad. Lots of cocktails, of course. And for dessert? I used a little creativity to come up with something that said Patrick, in a nutshell: Jack Daniels ice cream, with a coke-and-chocolate sauce. Jack and coke was his drink of choice. 

Patrick, guitar, bottle of Jack

I kept a bottle of Jack at my apartment on permanent "rotation" for our many happy hours we'd have each week. So I thought it was only right, in the heat of the approaching summer, that everyone share Patrick's drink of choice for dessert. With a cherry on top.

Try it. It's actually delicious, and a perfect way to toast to Patrick -- to wonderful Junes remembered, and to beloved fathers the world over, who deserve to have their cocktail and eat it too, in one delicious cup.

JACK-AND-COKE SUNDAE

For the ice cream:
3 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup sugar
6 egg yolks
1/3 cup Jack Daniels whiskey
pinch of salt

-In a sauce pot, heat the milk, cream, and 1/4 cup sugar over low heat until bubbles form around the edges.
-In the meantime, whisk the egg yolks with the remaining 1/4 cup sugar.
-When the milk mixture starts to simmer, pour half of it into the yolk mixture, and whisk quickly to incorporate (you're trying to avoid scrambled eggs here). 
-Pour that mixture back into the sauce pot, whisk to incorporate, and heat on low, stirring with a wooden spoon, until the mixture thickens enough to coat the back of the wooden spoon.
-Take off of the heat, add the Jack Daniels and the salt, and stir.
-Set the sauce pot in an ice bath to cool. Once cooled significantly, cover the surface of the cream mixture with plastic wrap to prevent a skin from forming. Place in fridge overnight.
-The following day, spin cold mixture in an ice cream maker and freeze.

For the coke-and-chocolate sauce:
half liter of Coca Cola (not diet!)
6 ounces of dark or semi-sweet chocolate, in chips or chopped

-In a small pot, heat the coke and reduce to 1/3 of its volume.
-Add the chocolate, cover for a minute, then whisk to smooth.

Serve the Jack Daniels ice cream with the warm coke-and-chocolate sauce and top with a maraschino cherry. Cin-cin!

Portuguese Pasteis de Nata + Recipe

How good could it possibly be? I mean, it's a dessert that contains no chocolate. So went my thinking, after all I'd read and heard about the Portuguese cooked custard and filo-thin pastry-crusted tarts, pasteis de nata. 

I'll admit, I was smitten with the food in Lisbon, at first bite. In my experience, the food in Portugal -- the basic, raw ingredients -- have more flavor than one would ever expect, a phenomenon with which I was quite familiar from all of my time spent eating up and down the Italian peninsula. Call it culinary terroir. I ate a simple boiled potato in a simple casual lunch spot, served alongside a piece of carrot, broccoli florets, cabbage, and a few octopus tendrils...and it was one of the most flavorful potatoes I've consumed, all earthy, spuddy goodness. Ditto its veggie and aquatic sidekicks. 

I dined on some salted and grilled sliced Iberian pata negra pig for dinner, and it was the single best piece of pork I've ever eaten (and I've even butchered my own locally raised hog in Italy). Even the plump, smoky grilled sardines we bought from street sellers during a patron saint festival were packed with briny flavor like nothing else. But somehow, the idea of these little pastries didn't thrill me.

So one Saturday afternoon in June, my friends and I hopped onto Lisbon's canary-yellow streetcar to head out to Belém, the western Lisbon neighborhood that boasted many tourist sites and a gorgeous view of the Teja River, the other side of the city, and west to the Atlantic. We shared a delicious seafood lunch outdoors in the shade, walked along the water, visited Cathedrals and towers and the tomb of Vasco de Gama.

At the end of the afternnoon, we stopped in to the Antiga Confeitaria de Belém,founded in 1837. I'd been told by various sources that this was a must-try. And the thing to get, of course, was the pastel de nata, here called pasteis de belem, as they were supposedly invented in a monastery a few doors down from this pastry kitchen. So, we waited on the ever-present line. We pointed to the pastries and held up 4 fingers, and the mandarin-sized pastries were put on cardboard, wrapped in the signature blue-and-white paper, and placed in a bag with some packets and napkins. We got back on the tram and once I sat down with the bag on my lap, I realized the pastries were still warm from the oven. This started to entice me.

We returned to our apartment to relax, shower, and freshen up before cocktail hour, World Cup viewing, and dinner. We unwrapped the pastries, and I admired their eggy yellow custard fillings and golden, blistered tops. I realized the colorful packets they included in our bag were powdered sugar and cinnamon. We sprinkled their contents on top of the pastries and as I picked up the pastry, some of its crispy shell flaked off and fell to the plate. And then I had a bite....and another. A few more bites and the pastry was gone. I looked up at my friend who had just devoured her pastry as well. And then my friend Matt, who wasn't interested in trying them. Wow. They were ethereal, light, full of flavor and the crackling outer pastry shell was an amazing textural contrast to the sweet, creamy custard contained within. Matt simply said "It looks like I may be hopping on the trolley tomorrow morning to get these for breakfast, ay ladies?" At the very least! I replied: "I'm thinking of sending you back right now." What a treat.

Though nothing beats these pastries fresh out of the oven of Antiga Confeitaria de Belem, the recipe below has been adapted from NYC's Alfama restaurant, and approximates the pastry. You know, a placeholder while you plan your trip to Lisbon...

Portuguese Pasteis de Nata Recipe

The secrets to a crispy, flaky pastry are to make sure the butter is evenly layered, all excess flour is removed, and the dough is rolled very thin and folded neatly. A thermometer will help you to accurately gauge the custard. 
Note: Because home ovens can’t match the heat of those at the Antiga Confeitaria de Belém, where these treats were first made, your pasteis may not get the beautiful golden color like those in the photo. They'll still be delicious, though, and best eaten warm, same day as they're made.

Special Equipment: a mini-muffin tin with 2-by 5/8-inch wells

• 2 H, 30 M
• Makes about 40 pastries

Ingredients

For the dough

• 2 cups minus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 1/4 teaspoon sea salt
• 3/4 cup plus two tablespoons water
• 16 tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature, stirred until smooth

For the custard

• 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 1 1/4 cups milk, divided
• 1 1/3 cups granulated sugar
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 2/3 cup water
• 1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 6 large egg yolks, whisked
• Powdered sugar
• Cinnamon

Directions

Make the dough:

• 1. In a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook, mix the flour, salt, and water until a soft, pillowy dough forms that cleans the side of the bowl, about 30 seconds.
• 2. Generously flour a work surface and pat the dough into a 6-inch square using a pastry scraper as a guide. Flour the dough, cover with plastic wrap, and let it rest for 15 minutes.
• 3. Roll the dough into an 18-inch square. As you work, use the scraper to lift the dough to make sure the underside isn’t sticking.
• 4. Brush excess flour off the top, trim any uneven edges, and using a small offset spatula dot and then spread the left two-thirds of the dough with a little less than one-third of the butter to within 1 inch of the edge.
• 5. Neatly fold over the unbuttered right third of the dough (using the pastry scraper to loosen it if it sticks), brush off any excess flour, then fold over the left third. Starting from the top, pat down the packet with your hand to release air bubbles, then pinch the edges closed. Brush off any excess flour.
• 6. Turn the dough packet 90 degrees to the left so the fold is facing you. Lift the packet and flour the work surface. Once again roll out to an 18-inch square, then dot and spread the left two-thirds of the dough with one-third of the butter, and fold the dough as in steps 4 and 5.
• 7. For the last rolling, turn the packet 90 degrees to the left and roll out the dough to an 18-by-21-inch rectangle, with the shorter side facing you. Spread the remaining butter over the entire surface.
• 8. Using the spatula as an aid, lift the edge closest to you and roll the dough away from you into a tight log, brushing the excess flour from the underside as you go. Trim the ends and cut the log in half. Wrap each piece in plastic wrap and chill for 2 hours or preferably overnight.

Make the custard:

• 9. In a medium bowl, whisk the flour and 1/4 cup of the milk until smooth. Set aside.
• 10. Bring the sugar, cinnamon, and water to a boil in a small saucepan and cook until an instant-read thermometer registers 220°F (100°C). Do not stir.
• 11. Meanwhile, in another small saucepan, scald the remaining 1 cup milk. Whisk the hot milk into the flour mixture.
• 12. Remove the cinnamon stick then pour the sugar syrup in a thin stream into the hot milk-and-flour mixture, whisking briskly. Add the vanilla and stir for a minute until very warm but not hot. Whisk in the yolks, strain the mixture into a bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and set aside.

Assemble and bake the pastries:

• 13. Heat the oven to 550°F (290°C). Remove a pastry log from the refrigerator and roll it back and forth on a lightly floured surface until it’s about an inch in diameter and 16 inches long. Cut it into scant 3/4-inch pieces. Place a piece cut-side down in each well of a nonstick 12-cup mini-muffin pan (2-by-5/8-inch size). Allow the dough pieces to soften several minutes until pliable.
• 14. Have a small cup of water nearby. Dip your thumbs into the water, then straight down into the middle of the dough spiral. Flatten it against the bottom of the cup to a thickness of about 1/8 inch, then smooth the dough up the sides and create a raised lip about 1/8 inch above the pan. The pastry sides should be thinner than the bottom.
• 15. Fill each cup 3/4 full with the slightly warm custard. Bake the pasteis until the edges of the dough are frilled and brown, about 8 to 9 minutes.
• 16. Remove from the oven and allow the pasteis to cool a few minutes in the pan, then transfer to a rack and cool until just warm. Sprinkle the pasteis generously with powdered sugar, then cinnamon and serve. Repeat with the remaining pastry and custard. If you prefer, the components can be refrigerated up to three days. The pastry can be frozen up to three months.

MARKETS: Campo de' Fiori, Rome

For the first of my posts focusing on great MARKETS around the world, I feel compelled to start with what feels most like my "home market": Campo de' Fiori in Rome. I know there are those who claim that the Campo is a market for tourists, and increasingly over the years, the market has indeed started to cater to travelers and tourists, selling phallic pastas and aprons emblazoned with "anatomical" images of Michelangelo's David statue. But it's also most definitely a market for locals, and provides produce for some of the top restaurants in the city as well. I should know. I was a local there for many years, and have been shopping the market in Campo de' Fiori since I first moved to the 'hood in 1999. My ex-boyfriend is one of the top toques in Rome, and he bought produce there for his restaurant. As one of the first chefs to teach cooking classes in the city, I took students there to buy ingredients for our menus. I saw elderly Italian nonne picking over produce, and I ran into chef friends ordering cases of specialty baby peppers or fresh porcini mushrooms for their ristoranti. There were tourists, sure. But as with any market in Italy, the mercato di Campo de' Fiori is a central meeting place where people of all varieties come to enjoy the aromas and the scenery, to catch up with friends and gossip, and of course to buy food: home cooks, professionals, and tourists alike.

Campo de' Fiori, in Italian, means field of flowers, which this piazza once was. And it was here in 1600 that Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for heresy, and where, six years later, Caravaggio (the first bad-boy Italian artist) killed a young man in a sword fight that ended in Caravaggio fleeing Rome for the rest of his life (sadly, only another 4 years). Today there's no statue for the murderous master of chiaroscuro, but there is one for Bruno, who overlooks the square from its center. These days, though, the only fights you'll see in the piazza are people haggling over the price of pomodori, or inebriated twenty-somethings fighting over young female tourists' attentions in the piazza's bars.

The market is a riot of color and noise, with the season's offerings on tempting display. As I always explained to my cooking students, Italy as a united country is a century younger than the U.S. Of course, as a place and a culture it's been around for thousands of years. But Italians tend to think of themselves even today as they always have, historically. They think locally. Regions and cities and towns have always had rivalries, teamed up to fight common enemies, killed each other's kings and overthrown each other's governments. And though all of these places, these regions, these kingdoms are technically united under the Italian flag and its government today (troubled as it is), these historic differences run deep. So instead of conjuring a coup, in modern times, these rivalries are translated to two places: the soccer pitches and kitchens -- for the most part, less dangerous than government overthrow. For the most part.

So, what does this all mean for food? Well, it's on display at the Campo market. Italians haven;t experienced the locavore movement like America has, because Italians never really strayed from eating and cooking locally in the first place. What you will see in the market are Roman artichokes, globe-shaped beauties instead of the tulip-shaped variety you'd find in Venice. (Venice! chu-puh!). The greens are local, bitter greens for which Rome is famous. The fiori di zucca are found at the end of the zucchine romanesche, which have vertical striations that make them different -- and better, of course! -- than zucchine from elsewhere in Italy. In fact, most everything you see here is grown within Lazio, Rome's region. The vendors prefer to sell strawberries from nearby Terracina. They want arugula ("rughetta" in Roman dialect) that grows wild along the road heading out of the city. They want to sell you pecorino Romano, not that other sheep's milk cheese from Sardegna or Tuscany. No. Here, you get what this wonderful city gives, and it gives a bounty. 

I have so many great memories associated with this market and its vendors, and the countless wonderful meals I was able to make from purchasing items from here. There's the charming father-son fruit and veggie sellers, always quick with a compliment, who have great puntarelle in cooler months. There's the woman with great tomatoes, in all shapes and sizes, that perfume the whole piazza when the sun warms their tender skins. There was the elderly "donna del bosco" as I dubbed her: she sold everything from the forest (bosco), from berries to earthy mushrooms. She must have passed away a few years ago, as she's no longer at her stand. I miss her. There's Anna and Erasmo, the couple who took me in as one of their own, feeding me delicious cheeses and salumi over the years (they're forever my source of the best ricotta di bufala around), and chatting away with me and my family and clients, offering hugs to everyone. And there are the butchers in the center of the piazza, who have always been warm to me, and always impressed clients with their capacity to cut the most tender, paper-thin slices of veal scaloppine for saltimbocca: no pounding needed.

But the ones I call "my guys"? The ones who will deliver to my home, and to my restaurant, the most exquisite ingredients (lots of) money can buy? The ones who let me film with a crew any time, 7 am or 2 pm, to get the shots we needed for various food shows over the years? The guys I'd sometimes pass by on my way home from a late night out, when they were setting up at 4:30 a.m., and we'd wave at each other and say "a dopo!" (see you later)? The ones who listened to me when I requested that they stock "strange" ingredients like cranberries at Thanksgiving, and lemongrass and cilantro throughout the year? The ones who offer me tastings of jewel-like fruits and baby cherry tomatoes so sweet they're like popping candies? Da Claudio, of course. Some Romans call this place "Da Bulgari" because it's pricey. But sometimes, you need to pay to get the good stuff. That's Claudio behind me in the photo, hamming it up for my Mom who was taking the picture ("Is this your beautiful sister?!") -- he's a real character, always yelling and selling and making a scene. But he's a good guy, and I've been a client for more time than I care to admit. And still, every time I go back, whether I've been away 6 days or 6 months, I always get a "bentornata!" (welcome back). The Campo will always feel like home to me.

ESCAPES: L.A. Eats Part 1: Hollywood and WeHo

It's no secret that I'm a true east-coaster: I love the fast pace and multiculturalism of New York City, the lights of Broadway, the densely-populated Eastern seaboard, the cool waves of the Atlantic, intellectualism, brunettes, and sarcasm. But I've always maintained that the west coast is a nice place to visit. I've been vacationing there since I can remember, but the food was never the most memorable part of my trips out there. We all know the importance of food and wine in Northern California, and they've got some great restaurants, vineyards, and food purveyors up north, no doubt. But Los Angeles has only recently come into its own as a culinary destination. Now, don't get me wrong: it's no New York, despite the numerous New York dining establishments that have opened L.A. branches. But strategic planning can get you some very good food -- both low-brow grub and haute cuisine -- in the varied and sprawling nabes of the City of Angels. 

I began my L.A. stay at the Hotel Roosevelt, a revamped iconic spot on Hollywood Boulevard, in the thick of the city's most kitschy, touristy neighborhood. But it's hotels like this one that have made the area a destination for locals as well: there's a hot bar scene, some good restaurants, and a pool and pool bar that -- I shit you not -- is cordoned off by a velvet rope and bouncers with a guest list. The food at the poolside Tropicana Bar is perfectly refreshing for a lunch lounging by the pool, or a little happy hour ceviche-and-mojito deal. But if you're not on the guest list, the burgers and fries in the hotel's 24/7 burger spot, 25 Degrees, are pretty damned delicious. 

My next move was to a design loft apartment in wonderful West Hollywood. This is as close as a New Yorker can come to a semi-walkable neighborhood, where I could avoid renting a car and could walk to a great selection of top restaurants, bars, and shopping (think Manhattan's West Village). I highly recommend chef Suzanne Goin's Lucques, where a warm dining room awaits beyond the ivy-covered entrance...and a gorgeous back patio beyond that. Goin is renowned for her comfort food elevated to elegant, and her "Sunday Suppers" are a great prix fixe value. Another great spot is David Myers' Comme Ca, also in WeHo. The classically French-trained chef-surfer has created a spot that is both laid-back California and European luxe, serving everything from burgers to bouillaibaisse to bone marrow. The mood changes dramatically from lunch to dinner, so it's worth stopping in for both.

My college friend Deb, a former pastry chef and fellow food lover, moved to L.A. from New York about 5 years ago. She gets excited when I come to town, since she knows I'm always interested in hitting some great dining spots. At her recommendation, we headed to Hatfield's, owned and operated by a husband-and-wife team with experience in some of the top kitchens in New York (Jean-George, Gramercy Tavern). Quinn is the chef and Karen is the pastry chef, and they work with a team behind the glass of an "open" kitchen, where diners can observe the cooks at work. 

Since I've been on the other side of that glass, I prefer to enjoy the dining room -- here, a soaring space made to feel intimate with lots of booths and banquettes in a neutral room with greens and oversized honeycomb light fixtures.
There is always an a la carte menu, but we chose seasonal tasting menus, which offer lots of flexibility.

Highlights included a raw Hawaiian kampachi with jicama, avocado, roasted peanuts, and black lime creme fraiche. The paprika-dusted shrimp with white beans was light and tasty, and the black cod with asparagus cream, roasted asparagus, and mushrooms truly tasted of spring (and the Pacific Northwest).

Desserts ended the meal on a high note, with a caramel semifreddo with Mexican chocolate sorbet, its warm-spice and chile pepper kick pairing nicely with the rich, decadent flavors of caramel and chocolate. 

Similar flavors were used in a very different way in the cinnamon sugar-dusted bomboloni (little donuts), served with dark chocolate sauce for dipping, and a vanilla date shake, in a nod to Southern California and its many date palms. In all, the meal was very satisfying without stuffing us, and the cocktails and great wine list proved the perfect accompaniment. I was a little jet-lagged and ready for a good night's sleep.

One spot I'd been looking forward to trying since I'd read about its opening was Red O. Mexican cuisine is not necessarily at the top of my list of favorites, as it is for many people I know, but then again we don't have the variety and authenticity of places on the east coast like those that exist in California, particularly Southern Cal. And now, perhaps the most revered American expert on Mexican cuisine, Rick Bayless (based in Chicago), has opened a spot in L.A. I'd taken an insider's chef's class from Bayless at an IACP Conference in Dallas years ago, and he always left an impression on me. His food is delicious, his knowledge of regional Mexican food encyclopedic. And I wanted a really good Mexican meal of the variety that's hard to find in New York. The decor of Red O was gorgeous: full-length windows and glass ceilings with gossamer white curtains and white canvas draping that resembles boat sails, wrought-iron details and artful dining room dividers. The lighting was perfect, spot-lit walls surrounding tables with candles and low-hanging mod wicker chandeliers. Potted palms are everywhere. We sidled up to the bar while our table was being prepared, and I started on the first of many delicious cocktails. I'm not much of a tequila drinker, but the La Dama cocktail was quite more-ish, as the English say.

The mix of top-shelf tequila with mango grenadine, serrano chiles, pomegranate liqueur, and pomegranate seeds was perfectly balanced between sour, spicy, and sweet. Once we sat down, it was in extremely comfortable surroundings, on a banquette with lots of pillows and low-lying tables -- and of course as is the norm in WeHo hot spots, we were surrounded by plenty of beautiful people. 

One of my all-time, hands-down, favorite things in life? Ceviche. So starting off with the ceviche trio was a no-brainer. My friend and I spent a good 15 minutes trying to decide which of the three was our favorite: the albacore, ahi, or yellowtail (in the end it was a tie -- we'll need to try several more to pronounce a winner!). 

The menu is vast so we asked our server for some guidance, and in the end we selected courses from each menu category, as it's not really organized in courses as we know them. After the ceviche we went with a classic tamale, made contemporary with goat cheese. We followed that up with some beef short rib sopes, kind of a fried pastry base, formed into a cuplet and filled with pulled short ribs in a rich red tomato-chile sauce and topped with queso anejo. 

We were also tempted enough by the Oaxacan offerings to try an Alaskan halibut cooked in the style of this famous Southern Mexican town. The fish was perfectly seared and served with a chile sauce, oyster mushrooms, and a tomatillo-radish salsa. Light, spicy, and interesting.

Of course, if you want some inexpensive and authentic Mexican street food, you can always head, as we did, to roadside taco stand Pinches Tacos, right across Sunset Boulevard from the Chateau Marmont and retro-fabulous Bar Marmont. It really is a little shack where you order your tacos, get a tray, and wait for your number to be called. The small tacos are all under $3 a pop, and the larger entrees of burritos and enchiladas and sandwiches are all under $10, so it's hard to go wrong here. You can fill your belly and save your cash for tippling across the street.

Where else can I recommend in this part of L.A.? I did meet an old friend for drinks at Fig & Olive on Melrose Place (note: I'm well over Fig & Olive in New York, but its L.A. counterpart is a real scene), and had a girls' night out at Koi, which had some very tasty sushi -- something I'm always excited to get on the west coast. And of course, no stay in West Hollywood would be complete without a smoothie from Urth Caffe', location of many an Entourage scene, and the spot where everyone in this part of L.A. heads for coffee, shakes, and some major star gazing: L.A. Style.

Lucques

8474 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA  900
(323)
www.lucques.com

Comme Ca
8479 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA  90069
(323) 782.1104
www.commecarestaurant.com/los-angeles

Hatfield's
6703 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA  90038
www.hatfieldsrestaurant.com
(323) 935.2977

Red O
8155 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA  90046
(323) 655.5009
www.redorestaurant.com

Pinches Tacos
8200 West Sunset Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA  90046
(323) 650-0614
www.pinchestacos.com

Fig & Olive
8490 Melrose Place
West Hollywood, CA  90069
(310) 360.9100
www.figandolive.com

Koi
730 N. La Cienega Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90069
(310) 659.9449
www.koirestaurant.com/los_angeles/about

Urth Caffe
8565 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA  90069
(310) 659.0628


ROOSEVELT HOLLYWOOD
7000 Hollywood Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA  90028
(323) 466.7000
www.thompsonhotels.com
25 Degrees
Tropicana Pool and Bar