Cherry Pear Pie
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Serves 6
INGREDIENTS FOR THE PIE FILLING
½ fresh lemon, micro-zested and juiced
3 large, firm Bartlett pears
¼ cup sugar
¼ teaspoon salt (⅛ teaspoon for the pears and ⅛ teaspoon for the cherries)
⅛ cup whiskey
1 pint (about 1 pound) fresh black cherries, pitted with a cherry stoner and halved (cherry-pitting gadgets such as those made by OXO and Bialetti can be found at Fantes.com)
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon (½ teaspoon for the pears and ½ teaspoon for the cherries)
6 small cardamom pods ground in a spice mill and chaff removed
½ cup walnuts, coarsely crushed in a plastic bag with a rolling pin
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon butter
INGREDIENTS FOR THE PIE CRUST
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus some to flour the pastry cloth
⅛ teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons cold butter
4 tablespoons cold shortening
¼ to ½ cup water as needed to moisten dough (have a glass of ice water handy)
1 egg, beaten for an egg wash
TOPPINGS
2 ounces yellow or white mild cheddar cheese, thinly sliced with a cheese plane
1 pint vanilla ice cream
Fresh mint leaves
METHOD FOR THE PIE FILLING
Pour half the lemon juice into a large bowl. Slice the pears lengthwise into quarters (leaving the skin on because it is pretty and provides roughage) and remove the fibrous cores, seeds, and stems. Then further slice the pears into ¼-inch-thick wedges and cut the wedges crosswise into 1-inch lengths into the bowl of lemon juice, coating the pears as you go to prevent oxidation. Add ⅓ cup of the sugar, ⅛ teaspoon of the salt, and 1 tablespoon of the whiskey, mixing gently, but well.
In a separate bowl, combine the cherries with the remaining ⅓ cup sugar, ⅛ teaspoon of the salt, a tablespoon of the whiskey, ½ teaspoon of the cinnamon, and the cardamom.
METHOD FOR THE PIE CRUST
Place the flour and salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a dough blade. Add the butter and shortening and use the pulse button on the food processor to combine just until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Then, through the feed tube, add ice water a little at a time, pulsing until the dough just comes together in a cohesive mass and using only the amount of water needed to make that happen. It is important to avoid overworking the dough so that it will remain as flaky and delicate as possible. If you use too much water you also run the risk of the dough becoming too sticky. Transfer the dough to a bowl and gently form into a ball. Slice the dough ball in half. Keep the bowl covered with a damp kitchen towel while you roll out the dough.
Flour a scrupulously clean pastry cloth or a large non-terry cloth kitchen towel (that has been laundered in chlorine bleach and allowed to air dry) and allow any excess flour to fall away. (For a two-crust pie such as this, it would be handy to have two cloths, one each for the top and bottom crusts.) Fold the towel crosswise in half and place half of the dough ball within the folded towel, pressing it into a mostly flattened disk. Use a rolling pin to roll the dough into a circle of about 11 inches in diameter, rolling from the center outward and turning the pastry cloth as you go to ensure an even shape.
Invert a 9-inch CorningWare or Pyrex pie plate on the rolled-out dough to use as a template, centering the dough to the plate and using a pizza cutter or butter knife to cut a clean-edged circle about one-inch larger all around than the pie plate. Set aside briefly to be used as the top crust.
Flour another pastry cloth, letting any excess flour fall away. Place the second half of the dough ball into the folded cloth as before, flatten into a disk, and roll into an 11-inch circle using the same technique. Trim the edges of the dough circle for neatness. Ever so gingerly slip your hand under the pastry cloth (so as not to tear the dough) and flip the dough circle into the pie plate, gently easing the dough into it.
METHOD FOR FILLING AND BAKING THE PIE
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Mix the walnuts with the brown sugar and spread over the base of the bottom crust. Spoon the pear filling into the pie crust, sprinkle with the remaing cinnamon, and spoon the cherry filling over it. Distribute the lemon zest over the top of the cherries. Divide the tablespoon of butter into quarters and dot the top of the filling with it. In a smooth motion, flip the second dough circle onto the top of the pie, fold the edges of the top circle of dough under the edges of the bottom circle of dough, and crimp the edges between your fingers by pinching every inch or so. Brush the crust with beaten egg and use a knife to slice six vents in a starburst pattern in the top crust. Place in the oven over a sheet of foil to catch drips. Bake until the fruit is soft and the crust is golden, about 45 to 55 minutes.
Let cool to room temperature before serving.
PRESENTATION
Cut the pie into approximately six wedges. Place each wedge on a dessert plate and garnish with 1 scoop of vanilla ice cream or with 1 or 2 small slices of cheddar, which has been melted by placing the cheese-topped wedge of pie briefly into a 250°F oven. Add small sprigs of mint.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Nothing Beats a Box of Steaks
THE NEXT FEW weeks kept Angelina as busy as she could remember having been in quite a while, and she was surprised at how completely her newfound responsibilities filled her days. She now had five men coming to her six days a week for their dinners, and most of them for their breakfasts as well. Basil was as reliable as her old stove—eight on the dot for breakfast, seven on the button for dinner. He had taken it as his informal charge to squire Johnny to and from since they were only five doors apart, and Johnny fell right in to adopting Basil’s punctual habits. Jerry claimed that he was mostly a “coffee and Colgate” kind of guy when it came to breakfast, but he would always discreetly inquire and show up if something special was on. It was funny how he managed to conveniently be in the neighborhood on Belgian Waffle Day. Don Eddie and Big Phil started coming for breakfast, too, and soon never missed a meal.
Breakfast turned out to be more of a challenge than Angelina had expected, mainly because she had decided early on to take it on herself to cater to the individual needs of her “customers.” She always had a big pot of oatmeal going on the stove and was happy to whip up a short stack of pancakes at the drop of a hat, but she pretty much made the rest of the plates to order. After the first week she had a good handle not only on what each man liked for his morning meal, but what he needed. Mr. Cupertino still loved the occasional inspired omelet and once she had made him Eggs Meurette, poached eggs in a red wine sauce, served with a chunk of crusty French bread, which was a big hit. She balanced him out other mornings with hot cereal, and fresh fruit with yogurt or cottage cheese. Johnny mostly went for bowls of cereal washed down with an ocean of cold milk, so Angelina kept a nice variety on hand, though nothing too sugary. The Don would happily eat a soft-boiled egg with buttered toast every day for the rest of his life, but she inevitably got him to eat a little bowl of oatmeal just before or after with his coffee. Big Phil was on the receiving end of her supersize, stick-to-your-ribs special—sometimes scrambled eggs, toast, potatoes, and bacon, other times maybe a pile of French toast and a slice of ham. Angelina decided to start loading up his plate on her own when she realized he was bashful about asking for seconds.
On Sundays, she put on a big spread at ten o’clock, after they had all been to church, which variously included such items as smoked salmon and bagels, sausages, broiled tomatoes with a Parmesan crust, scrapple (the only day she’d serve it), bacon, fresh, hot biscuits and fruit muffins, or a homemade fruit strudel. She made omelets to order for Jerry and Mr. Cupertino. Then they’d all reconvene at five for the Sunday roast with all the trimmings.
She kept up a breakneck pace of creativity at weekday dinners and took pride in having never served t
he same entrée twice, at least so far, though she had been getting requests from Mr. Cupertino for repeat performances of a few of his personal favorites. The money at the end of each week had been a godsend. Johnny and Jerry paid her in cash and she dutifully handed them a receipt at the end of each week. The Don more than paid his way for both himself and Phil, and Angelina kept a tally of everything he paid her, too, but on the sly, just in case he asked.
Angelina was beginning to think that, if she had a couple more regulars, she wouldn’t be in half-bad financial shape at all. She had the extra leaves for the dining room table down in the basement, and she had straight-back chairs up in the spare room she could press into service easily enough, and cooking for two or three more would hardly make a difference, except to her pocketbook.
The days were getting shorter, but she still had a nice supply of thyme, sage, oregano, lavender, and other herbs growing in her kitchen garden in the yard; she’d brought her basil plants inside the week before, and the rosemary would soon follow. The yard had a good southern exposure and most everything she planted thrived there. Her sweet bay laurel plant was not supposed to be hardy in the Philadelphia climate, but it had remained healthy and vibrant through every winter since she planted it and was now as big as a small shrub. For tonight’s meal, Angelina had purchased two nice-size legs of lamb, boned, which she was going to roll and rub with allspice, salt, and pepper, then roast with fresh herbs, lavender foremost among them. To go with, she planned a Ratatouille Frittata, a dish of yellow and green zucchini sautéed with shallots, coriander, and savory, baked with scrambled eggs, like a giant open omelet, and decorated with squash blossoms.
The room was filled with the intoxicating aroma of allspice when she finished grinding the last of it in the big mortar and pestle. She took her shears, buttoned on a cardigan sweater over her apron, and went out to the garden. Angelina ran her hands over the plants. She loved the way they sprang back and gave up their fragrance when she did it. She had clipped healthy sprigs of lavender, winter savory, and the end of some coriander when a loud crash echoed into the yard from out in the street.
“Judas Priest!” a man shouted.
Angelina stuffed the herbs into her apron pocket and rushed out front. On the street was a man with blond hair standing beside a good-size, old-fashioned steamer trunk sprawled open on the sidewalk. Pants, shirts, and sundries were scattered everywhere, and loose sheets of paper were starting to make their bid for freedom down the street in the breeze. It looked as if the trunk had literally exploded.
The poor fellow looked bewildered, as if he didn’t know where to turn or what to try to chase down or pick up first. As she headed across the street to help him, Angelina couldn’t help but notice that he was uncommonly good-looking. The wind gusted and a few more sheets took off. Angelina set off in pursuit, but spotted a slighter man, nattily dressed in tweeds, deftly and efficiently nabbing the sheets of paper as they tumbled down the sidewalk in his direction. He was as quick as a cat. It was quite a performance. Angelina stood spellbound for a moment as she watched him stab the last one with the tip of his umbrella.
The blond-haired man let out a grunt as he tried stuffing clothes back into his broken luggage.
“What happened?” Angelina asked as he looked up at her in dismay.
“It’s a disaster.”
“No kidding. What did you do, throw this thing off the roof?”
The man indicated the door of Dottie’s house. “I’m a day early. I was looking for the hide-a-key and I propped my trunk up for a second. Then it slid down the railing and kind of launched into space. When it hit the hydrant, it just exploded!”
He grinned and spread his hands wide in wonder and disbelief. They stood and looked at each other. For a moment, it felt strangely like two people meeting at the beginning of a blind date. Angelina broke the spell when she stooped to pick up a black sweater and a couple of socks and tossed them into the trunk.
The well-dressed gentleman from down the street now approached them, organizing a rebellious sheaf of papers as he walked. “Sir,” he said with an air of formality, “I believe I have retrieved all of your papers.”
“Thank you,” said the blond man. Taking the stack, he put them in the trunk and weighted them down with a black leather shaving kit. Within minutes, the three of them had gathered everything into a pile in the center of the two halves of his luggage.
“Thank you both, so much, for helping me. I really appreciate it,” the blond man said as the other gentleman helped him snap the clasps shut.
“You sure have a lot of black sweaters,” said Angelina.
“Well, they’re very slimming.” He smiled. “I’m Guy Mariano.” He extended his hand.
She reached out to shake it. “I’m Angelina.”
He was slightly taller than she, square shoulders, meticulously clean-shaven. Her earlier impression that this was a nice-looking man was more than confirmed up close; he might even have been too good-looking but for a nose that had probably been broken a time or two when he was a kid. He had pleasant laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and an awkward, engaging smile.
“Nice to meet you,” Guy replied, then extended his hand to the other man.
“My name’s Pettibone. Pleased to meet you.” He shook both of their hands, then two business cards appeared from nowhere, one for each of them. Angelina read D. WINSTON PETTIBONE, HEAD BUYER, JOHN WANAMAKER’S.
“So why are you trying to get into Dottie’s house?” Angelina said to Guy. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
He stuck his hands into the pockets of his black pea coat. “Dottie’s my aunt. I’m staying with her for a while.”
“That’s unusual,” said Mr. Pettibone.
Guy and Angelina both looked at him. He sniffed at the crisp autumn air just once, like an alert retriever, then looked over at them and quickly explained, “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean that it’s unusual for you to be staying with family. I was thinking aloud. I smell fresh lavender. And coriander, and, I believe, a hint of allspice?”
After a bemused few seconds, Angelina pulled the bunch of herbs she’d cut earlier from her apron pocket. “You can smell all of that?”
“Indeed. Looks like I missed the winter savory.”
“You didn’t miss much. I just cut these herbs, but the allspice is back in the kitchen.”
“Kitchen?” said Pettibone. “Are you cooking with fresh lavender?”
“I was about to.”
Pettibone tapped his umbrella lightly on the pavement. The pencil-thin mustache under his prominent, aquiline nose twitched curiously, and his storm-gray eyes came to life under dark, aristocratic brows.
“My word. I’m a bit of an amateur gourmand myself. I would be quite interested to know what you plan on making with that lavender.”
Angelina saw a glimmer of a prospect in this elegant-looking gentleman. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I can show you the recipe now.”
“I will make the time,” said Mr. Pettibone.
She turned to Guy then. “Why don’t you take your trunk to my house? Mr. Cupertino comes to me for dinner, so, worst case, he can let you in then.”
“Okay,” said Guy. “Are you sure we’re not imposing?”
“Not at all.”
Mr. Pettibone tucked his umbrella under his arm. “Take sides?” he said to Guy.
“Pardon?”
“The trunk. You take one side and I’ll take the other.”
“Oh, right.”
They balanced the load between them like stretcher bearers and followed Angelina in procession back across the road.
Soon, Guy sat at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee. Mr. Pettibone had taken a post by Angelina’s side with his hands clasped behind his back as she was skillfully dressing the second leg of lamb.
“I like to use an aromatic herb,” she explained, “like rosemary or lavender, especially with lamb, because it infuses the meat and the aroma gives it a whole new level o
f flavor just before you bite into it.”
“It smells wonderful already,” Pettibone said, rapt in admiration. “It’s French-countryside cooking all the way. Beautifully done.”
Guy cocked his head to one side. “Hey, did you hear something?”
“Like what?” asked Angelina.
“A thump?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Guy got up and joined them at the counter. “So, Mr. Pettibone, how did you know what Angelina was carrying in her pockets, anyway?”
“Oh, I’m not a mentalist or anything,” said Pettibone. “I’m a parfumeur, amongst other interests. I’m a perfume buyer. I have an extremely sensitive olfactory instrument.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You know, a good sniffer.”
Angelina smiled appreciatively. “I haven’t seen you around the neighborhood before, Mr. Pettibone.”
“Funny thing, that. They changed the buses and my transfer takes me right up this street now. I’m glad they did.”
Guy saluted him with his coffee cup. “Lucky thing for me today, anyway. I’d have hated to lose those papers.”
Angelina finished bundling the herbs into the lamb and trussing the meat, then washed her hands. “What were they?” she asked Guy.
“I’m working on a book, sort of.”
“Oh, you’re a writer?” she asked.
Guy looked down and scuffed a foot on the floor. “Not really. I’m sort of between jobs.”
“I know the feeling,” said Angelina, since, technically, she was between jobs, too, even though she was actually doing all right, at least for the time being. She pulled a knife out of the holder. “How long are you staying?”
“Not sure yet,” said Guy. “A while, I think.”
Angelina started cutting up zucchini, first lengthwise, then thinly across on a bias. “You know, Mr. Mariano—”
“Guy.”
Angelina nodded. “Guy. Speaking of dinners, you should think about eating here.”
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