The following recipe is exactly as Patience wrote it out, except for the explanatory matter placed in brackets and in the cook’s notes at the end.
LA PEPERONATA CON RISO
[serves 2 as a meal, 4 as a side course]
3 each red and green Italian or Cubanelle peppers
1 red or green chile pepper
1 large sweet white onion
olive oil (see note)
salt to taste
4 handfuls Italian rice (see note)
1 pound plum tomatoes
a sprig each fresh thyme and oregano
1 small glass red wine (optional)
2 cloves garlic
parsley and basil leaves
Slice the peppers in half, remove stalks and seeds, then slice each half again into substantial strips. Do the same with the hot red or green chile pepper, only slice this rather finely. Slice the onion horizontally into thin rings.
For this dish I use a quite heavy Swedish iron frying pan (about 10 inches diameter at top and 2 inches deep). Cover the bottom with good olive oil, then put in the strips of pepper, skin side down, and cover with the onion slices. Sprinkle with a little salt, put the lid on the pan, and set over low heat. When the peppers begin to soften, lift the lid and add the rice handful by handful, stirring it into the pan with a wooden spoon. Now you raise the heat a bit.
I use the small Leccese tomatoes that we grow in quantity, adding them at this point because, being ripe, if added earlier they would overcook. First, put them separately into boiling water for a few seconds. Then put them through a food mill directly into the frying pan [see below for an alternative method]. Pour in twice the amount of cold water as rice—the use of cold water is unorthodox, but it is my way and also Catalan—and bring to a simmer.
Lower the heat, sprinkle the surface with the thyme and oregano leaves, put on the lid, and stop worrying for a quarter of an hour. When the liquid is absorbed, the rice should be cooked. If it isn’t, add a little more water or a small glass of red wine.
Pound the garlic in a mortar with some chopped parsley and torn basil leaves. Liberate with a little oil and pour into the pan. Cover with a cloth for 5 minutes and serve.
Cook’s Notes.The Olive Oil: “I use our own virgin oil (notextra virgin).”
The Amount of Rice: When asked for an approximate cup measure, Patience wrote back: “A woman’s hand grabs three or four ‘handfuls,’ and stirs these into the pan. I have no experience ofcups.”
The Food Mill: If you lack such a device, cut the tomatoes in half and, pressing the cut side against the mesh of a strainer, rub the pulp through it into the pan, discarding skins and seeds.
RIS E LATT
The whitest, the creamiest, and the simplest of allriso in bianco dishes is iris e latt, in which Italian rice is sprinkled into a mixture of one part water to five parts milk that is already simmering in an open pot. A disproportionately large amount of liquid is used, since rice takes about twice as long to cook in milk as it does in water. During this long cooking time, the dish slowly thickens (and the kitchen becomes saturated with gentle, comforting aromas) as the milk evaporates and the starch is released from the cooking grain, eventually producing the ultimate bowl of cream of rice. Here is an example of the traditional version, adapted from Mila Contini’sMilano in bocca:
RIS E LATT. Mix together 10 cups of milk and 2 cups of water in a large saucepan and bring to a strong simmer. Sprinkle in four fistfuls rice (a scant ¾ cup, measuring by my fist), a pinch of salt anduna noce (a nut) of unsalted butter. Reduce the heat until the mixture barely bubbles and cook until the rice is soft but still chewy, about 40 minutes. Pour into soup bowls and let these stand for ten minutes to allow the creamed rice to cool enough to eat.
Here is how I adapted the dish to make rice with asparagus … my way.
RIS E LATT CON PARMIGIANO E SPARAGIO
[serves 2 as a meal]
4 cups whole or low-fat milk
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup Italian rice
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
a dash of Tabasco sauce
1 pound asparagus, trimmed and cut into pieces
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan
Pour the milk into a 3-quart saucepan (I don’t dilute this with the traditional fifth part of water). Set over medium heat and bring to a gentle simmer. Stir in half of the salt and then sprinkle in the rice, keeping the milk at a simmer. Cook uncovered, stirring often enough to keep a skin from forming on top of the milk. Gradually, as the rice swells and the milk thickens, increase the stirring to keep the mixture from sticking (and burning) on the bottom of the pan. Keep at this for about 40 minutes, or until the rice kernels are chewy but tender and the mixture has thickened into a densely creamy rice pudding.
Meanwhile, melt the butter in a 10-inch skillet over medium-low heat. Stir in the remaining salt, the dash of Tabasco sauce, and the asparagus pieces. Cook until the asparagus is just tender, turning occasionally with a spatula. When the rice is ready, blend in the Parmesan and then the contents of the skillet. Taste carefully for seasoning (this stuff is hot!) and then let cool for 10 minutes before serving.
STICKS-TO-THE-POT
The Gohyang Korean Restaurant is a hard place to find. It shares one of three tiny storefronts in the shabbiest, mini-est minimall on a highway lined with them, hidden behind a curve in the road, its signage (in Korean) blocked by a telephone pole. This is why, although we knew that it existed somewhere on Route 9 in Hadley, Massachusetts, we had driven past it countless times without ever spotting it. When we finally did I was so shocked that I made an immediate U-turn, pulled into its eight-slot parking area, and sat there staring disbelievingly at the place, as if it might yet vanish before my eyes. Then I noticed the proprietor looking out the windowat us, his face expressing very similar sentiments. Matt and I were, in fact, on our way to a doctor’s appointment, but we agreed that we would have to come back afterward for lunch.
When we returned, at about half past one, there were no cars in the lot and the interior seemedvery dark. Still, theOPEN sign was lit, so we got out of the car and went hesitantly in. The restaurant was totally deserted. We stood together in the empty room, looking around. To our left, demarcated by a short wooden divider, was a raised-floor banquet area where several foot-high tables were turned up against the wall. Before us and to our right were ordinary tables and booths, made of varnished pine, not one of them set for dining.
“What should we do?” Matt whispered to me nervously. Suddenly, just a few feet away, a young man scrambled to his feet. He had been napping on the floor on the banquet cushions, hidden from view by the wooden divider. He looked at one and then the other of us in sleepy-eyed confusion, opened his mouth, shut it, and fled into the kitchen.
A moment later, the same door burst open and a crowd of welcomers appeared, settling us in, laying the table, bringing us menus and pouring us tea. We placed our order, and soon it was all before us:goon mandu27 (panfried dumplings);jopchae (stir-fried glass noodles with meat and vegetables); and eight tiny bowls of pickled vegetables, including, of course,kimchi, as well as chunks of spicy potato, marinated cucumber, a Korean version of coleslaw, and threads of grated daikon tossed in a fiery dressing.
The food, although good, wasn’t memorable; what was—starting with the potboy sleeping on the cushions—was the feeling ofhominess. I use that word not only in the sense of “like home” but “like it is in Korea.” Our meal progressed in a succession of little surprises, from the earthenware cup of rice tea28that began it to the complimentary muskmelon ice pop with which we were ceremoniously presented at its conclusion. (This unanticipated generosity seems to be fueled in part by a cultural imperative of mutual gratitude: at Gohyang, most of the conversation—for server and served alike—consists of saying “Thank you!”)
The bowls of pickled vegetables weren’t even mentioned in the menu, but they appeared magically and were instantly refilled when emptied; the plate ofgoon m
andu, although a single order and an appetizer, held a dozen good-sized, handmade panfried dumplings. These, as soon as I saw them—even before I lowered the tip of one into the dipping sauce and brought it to my mouth—seized my entire attention.
Matt and I are both dumpling lovers, and we rate Asian restaurants in part on how well they turn them out: the panfried dumplings at Taipei & Tokyo; the steamed Thai version at Siam Square; the wontons with sesame sauce at the late, lamented Rasa Sayang; and thegyoza at Ichiban. But none of these, however much they brought us back to a restaurant, ever drew us into our kitchen. Like a croissant, they carried with them the aura of professionalism: something you bought, not something you made.
The Gohyang’sgoon mandu, however, said something quite different. The wrappers had the slightly uneven thickness that comes from being flattened out by hand; their pleats still bore the impression of the maker’s fingers; the beef and vegetable filling they contained was delicate and yet firmly textured. The result was something that spoke so directly, so emphatically, to me—You like me … then go make me yourself —that I had no choice but to listen. I went home and began to figure out how to do just that.
As it happened, beginner’s luck was with me, and I found a recipe forgoon mandu in the Korean section ofThe Encyclopedia of Asian Cooking. The catch was that it called for commercially made wonton wrappers—andI have had enough experience in East Asian cooking to know I wanted nothing to do with those soulless things. This started a search for the right wrapper recipe in our collection of Asian cookbooks, and thus I was unwittingly launched on a voyage of culinary discovery.Goon mandu, it turns out, are the Korean version of dump-lings that can be found all over Asia but especially in China. There they are calledchiao-tzu, and much has been written about them, some of it very fascinating indeed.
Peking is famous for its “small eats” as well as for its classic dishes. Indeed, in Peking today you can probably eat better at sidewalk stalls and cafés than at the fancy restaurants that cater to tourists. Street vendors sell fruit and wheat dumplings stuffed with sweet or savory fillings. Noodle shops abound.Chiao-tzu halls sell millions of those marvelous dumplings. They are boiled or shallow-fried without stirring, in which case they are “pot-stickers,” because the bottoms toast themselves onto the pan, becoming exquisitely crisp.
— E. N. Anderson,The Food of China
Chiao-tzu29translates approximately as “three-sided (crescent-shaped) dumpling“ Chinese restaurant menus in this country usually call them“ either “meat dumplings” or “Peking ravioli,” after the city that is famously passionate about them. According to the culinary food historian E. N. Anderson, this dumpling originated among the nomad peoples of Central Asia, who unintentionally spread a taste for them during their incursions both east and west. He explains thatchiao-tzu are but one member of a family that includes
theashak of Afghanistan,mu-mu of Tibet, Russianpelmeni, Jewishkreplachs, samusa of Arabia and South Asia, and Italian ravioli.
Anderson could have added the Japanesegyoza —which shares an identical ideogram with its Chinese sister—and, of course,goon mandu.
You might think that a cuisine that already possessed a wealth of delicious dumplings—ch’iao-mai,for instance, the Cantonese open-faced pork-stuffed purses; that perennialdim sum favoritehar gau, the delicately translucent wrappers of which encase a mixture of shrimp bits and bamboo shoots; and the omnipresenthun t’un, wonton, deep-fried, of course, but perhaps even tastier when savored floating, tender and succulent, in clear broth30—would hardly bother to open its arms to this simple, rustic dumpling barbarian.
In truth, however, the reverse has been the case.Chiao-tzu have become so popular among the Chinese that native food writers, when they turn to the subject, almost always strike an especially nostalgic note, as does Ken Hom, for instance, inThe Taste of China.
Of the many other popular snack dishes, some of the most cherished throughout China arechiao-tzu dumplings. These are wonderful snacks which are sold boiled, fried, or less often, steamed. Filled with meats, vegetables, garlic, scallions—each region has its own touches and variations. Really a well-balanced, light meal, I have eaten more of these dumplings than I care to count and enjoyed every one.
Read this quote closely and you will have a major clue as to their popularity. Since they can be eaten as either a snackor a meal, there is often a pleasant confusion about which of the two is taking place. Settle yourself into a table at achiao-tzu parlor, and once the heaping platter of these delectable, inexpensive dumplings arrives, no one is going to tally how many of them you eat.31As Ellen Schrecker remembers:
A mammoth plateful of them accompanied by a bowl of spicy dip sauce was a feast for the whole family. The children competed among themselves to see who could eat the most; the adults stuffed themselves without counting.
For grown-ups this is pleasurable enough, but for children it can be ecstasy. They delight in the moppet size and the juiciness, and they love the abandon that comes with being allowed to eat all they want. “When I was young I could eat thirty at one meal, and I never tired of them,” writes Mai Leung inThe Chinese People’s Cookbook, words to which many Chinese would nod a wistful assent.
As it turns out, this festive aspect carries over into the making ofchiao-tzu. It is a tradition for extended families to gather together during the Chinese New Year. In northern China especially, men, women, and children sit around the dinner table together and, laughing and gossiping, make—then eat—hundreds ofchiao-tzu.
Ordinarily, Chinese rules of propriety would frown on such behavior, so it is important that the character ofchiao-tzu undermines these rules. It does so via another aspect of their slippery identity, this time regarding culinary status. As happens in all cuisines, the Chinese bestow various rankings to their primary cooking methods. Boiling, the most common, sits at the bottom of the totem pole, steaming clings to the middle, and frying roosts at the top. Not only arechiao-tzu prepared by all three methods, but, in the form popularly known as pot stickers—kuo teh—they are both boiledand fried, acquiring, as Irene Kuo puts it, “a dual texture: they are fluffily soft on top and crunchy-crisp on the bottom.”
This duality brings together two qualities of great importance in Chinese gastronomy—the two basic textures,tsuei (crisp, crunchy) andnun (soft and tender)—even as plain boiled or steamedchiao-tzu have already united the two basic foodstuffs,fan (the all-important starch) andt’sai (the civilizing, i.e., “Chinese-making,” filling, the deliciously consonant melding of various tidbits).
They also unite the two flavor elements,hsien (sweet, natural)—the dumpling itself—andnung (potent, heady, concentrated)—the salty, tangy dipping sauce. Such auspicious harmony can only help in drawing everyone—including distant, sometimes poor relations and household servants—into the family circle to participate in the New Year ritual of their making. This is whychiao-tzu is the one dish that Chinese men and little children know how to prepare.
Sometimes, the more you learn about a dish, the less you feel inclined to make it. You become intimidated; you become confused; you find your interest to be all worn out. But with these dumplings, the opposite happened. As I read, I slowly began to realize that the resonant hominess of the Gohyang’sgoon mandu resided in the nature of the dumplings themselves.Goon mandu, chiao-tzu, gyoza—the distinctions between them are interesting, but what is essential is what they all have in common. Their tastiness and ease of making means that their time-consuming preparation invites participation, and, with everyone gathered around the table, the feast has, without their knowing it, already begun.
Chiao-tzu are served mostly by the dozen; the steamed ones are snuggled in bamboo steamer trays; the boiled ones gleam in tasty soup; and the fried ones show off by lying in rows on the plate with their crusty sides up. Accompany them with a cup of tea or a bowl of soup and a bottle of good Chinese beer (we have great beer), and who can leave the table not contented.
— Mai Leung,The Chinese Peo
ple’s Cookbook
MEAT-FILLED DUMPLINGS
Amy [Tan]’s mother had always wanted to open a restaurant, a specialty place that offered only pot stickers or chiao-tzu. And, indeed, her dumplings were famous among family and friends. She would make the dough from scratch, roll it out into a long roll, then cut off pieces and roll them out into doughy circles. These she would fill with pork, shredded squash, ginger, and other ingredients. She had no recipes. She simply tasted, looked, smelled, felt, and hefted the dough to decide whether it was right. And it always was, even if it was a little different each time.
— Ken Hom,Easy Family Recipes from a
Chinese-American Childhood
Despite the fact that homemadechiao-tzu wrappers are almost always made with nothing more than flour and water, it’s hard to find two Chinese cookbooks that agree on a recipe. The proportion of flour to water varies widely, to be sure, but the essential disagreement concerns whether the water itself should be boiling-hot or cold (with many compromisers filling the ground in between).
None of the texts we consulted offered a persuasive reason to use one or the other of these methods, but practice did—and immediately. The cold-water dough, even though it absorbed much more flour than the hot-water one, remained soft and sticky and proved much more fragile. The hot-water dough, in contrast, became firm and smooth when kneaded. It felt much like traditional pasta dough and, like it, could be rolled out into a very thin but resilient sheet. It was strong enough to hold together when the dumplings were poached, and it became translucent enough to reveal the filling—a very appetizing sight.
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