Best Food Writing 2012

by Holly Hughes (ed) (epub)

  “My name is Giorgio.” He tapped a cigarette on his pack. “I can get you tartufi,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It is . . . how do you say? Not simple.”

  “Complicated,” I said.

  “Yes.” Giorgio lit his cigarette and took a deep puff. He pulled out his card, wrote an address on it, and said, “Take a taxi, give him this address. When you get there, go in the back door. Ask for the owner of the restaurant and give him this card.” I looked down at the cursive Italian writing. The only word I could distinguish was the last one, tartufo.

  As I walked away, Giorgio cautioned, “Be careful, Giovanni . . . John. And keep your hands out of your pockets.”

  Thirty minutes later my cab reached the mountain restaurant. I walked across a parking lot under the yellow glare of its sign and opened a big wooden door—the same one I had just opened with Tony and Bruno behind me. The room was not well lit. Pale green walls showed splotches where the plaster had chipped off. Shelves all around held jars of unidentifiable brown things floating in liquid.

  A dozen or so locals were bantering with their friends. Four old men at an old wooden tabletop played cards to my right. Middle-aged waitresses lounged and cackled at a small bar on the other side. I stepped into the middle of the room.

  “Hi,” I blurted out to no one in particular. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of my face.

  Everything stopped. The abruptness was so intense that it could only have been better choreographed if someone had taken a record player and scratched the needle hard: RRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIP. I looked around, my hands and brow sweaty. Even my brain seemed to sweat. All the faces were hard and expressionless. It was one of the longest silences I’ve experienced in my life. I looked down. “Oh shit,” I thought. There were my hands, in the pockets of my coat. The oldies at the card table had their hands under the table now. I removed my hands slowly.

  “Buona sera.” A man appeared from behind a patterned curtain, arms outstretched in the clothesline position. He was over six feet tall, with graying, balding hair and a bushy unibrow held up in a “what do you want” look. He cracked his neck with a snap and cocked it to one side, expressing, in timeless guy language, “Gimme what you got, punk.”

  “I came to get some truffles,” I squeaked, cursing myself for sounding like a little girl.

  “Americano?” he asked.

  “Yes, er, si,” I replied. “I need them for my pizza at the World Pizza Competition.”

  “Who send you?” the tall man demanded.

  “Giorgio, at the hotel.” I pulled out his card, trying to keep my hand steady.

  A smile flashed across the guy’s face. It was like someone had put the needle back on the record. All was good, all was right, just a stupid Americano.

  The tall man shook my hand. From the back room he brought out a large, plastic container, covered with a cloth. He looked around again, and then summoned me with his hand. He grabbed the cloth and stared at me as though he was about to show me my future or the meaning of life. Then he lifted the lid.

  The truffle fumes were overpowering. I smelled black pepper and garlic with a hint of gunpowder, cashews, and ozone. The truffle guy nodded his chin for me to take a closer whiff.

  “Heaven,” I muttered appreciatively.

  “Tartufi bianchetti,” the truffle guy said.

  I paid forty dollars for three large, marble-sized truffles and a big bag of dried porcini, and I made a new friend. We completed our deal with a toast of limoncello, and I dashed to the waiting taxi. Considering that the porcini go for fifty dollars a pound in the United States, I calculated I was holding over two hundred dollars’ worth of great mushrooms. Not to mention the truffles.

  I used the truffles to create a pizza with American bison, fontina di Aosta, arugula, and a béchamel sauce. I scored in the upper echelon but did not win.

  Buying truffles this time around is bound to be different. I have Bruno to translate and Tony to back me up. But as I open the heavy door, I’m hit with a major déjà vu: four old men at the same table turn to stare at me. “No freakin’ way. Not the same guys in the same chairs,” I say to no one and everyone. I stand there with my mouth open. Tony and Bruno push me into the pale green room with the jars. Nothing has changed. We get the same silent treatment, the same record player scratch, only this time I’m armed. My weapon is Bruno di Fabio.

  Bruno sidles up to a waitress at the bar. “Buona sera.” I watch her face closely as he continues, because Bruno, besides being a consummate pizza aficionado and fluent in Italian, never hesitates to have fun at my expense. For all I know, he could be saying, “My two Hungarian friends over there are lepers. They want to know if the dishwasher found a finger in a soup bowl last night.”

  Bruno turns. He must have noticed me boring holes into the back of his head. “What! I just asked her where the truffle guy was.”

  “Those guys staring at us look harmless,” Tony says, nodding toward the old guys. “Why do they all have their hands under the table?”

  “They’re probably holding old rusty shotguns under the table ready to blow us to smithereens,” I whisper. “Didn’t you ever see Godfather II?”

  I’m interrupted by a loud “EEEEEEEEEEAAAAAYYYYYY” that sounds more like a shotgun blast than a greeting. Tony and I jump. It’s my truffle guy, appearing from behind the curtain. “Buona sera, my pizza friend!” The truffle man hugs me with his lanky arms. His gray unibrow now seems welcoming. I beam. Now my buddies know who’s the real pizza guy, I think. Truffle guy mutters something to the old men and they relax, but they still keep their hands under the table.

  “You want tartufi? Porcini?” he asks as he walks to the front door, where he pokes his head out and scopes out the parking lot. Bruno takes over communications and explains what I want, accurately for once.

  “Wait,” the truffle guy says, disappearing behind the worn tapestry.

  “I wonder what these guys would do if I grabbed this jar of porcinis and ran to the door?” Bruno asks playfully. Tony and I giggle.

  “Tartufi bianchetti,” the truffle guy announces. He puts a two-by-one-foot plastic box on the bar, and we all crowd around. I’m surprised to see the waitress crowding too. The grand presentation begins with a bbblllllurrrrp from the vacuum-sealed plastic container. Musky, pungent truffle fumes waft out. I imagine shucking an almost rotten ear of corn, popping a can of Planters nut mix, then sticking my nose next to diesel truck exhaust for half a second. I smack my tongue against my upper palate and breathe out slowly. I experience disgust and fascination, repelled and attracted in perfect, intense equilibrium.

  With the pressure of the contest tomorrow, all I want is to get my truffles, nod in ignorance, drink my limoncello and haul ass out of there. I hold up three large truffle marbles and ask how much.

  The truffle guy holds up fifteen fingers (not all at once), indicating fifteen Euro.

  “Less than thirty bucks for all that?” Bruno exclaims.

  “Great deal,” Tony said. As a bonus, the truffle guy gives me half a bag of dried porcini that he has handpicked.

  The next day, as we enter the stadium to register at the Pizza Championship, we see our competition—the world. The world sees us, too. To enter with such a pizza legend as Tony Gemignani is like being a bodyguard for the president. Heads turn to stare at him. I am proud to be on his team.

  All countries are represented: Iran, Bangladesh, Ireland, Scotland, Brazil. The French show up and try to bribe the judges with some of their kick-ass Champagne. Each contender wants the title of “Best Pizza in the World.” Now in its ninth year, the World Pizza Championship makes Iron Chef look like a yoga class at a retirement center.

  The best pizza dough I’ve ever tasted is from Bruno’s biga. He’s such a fanatic that he’d probably stand at the mixing bowl all night telling bedtime stories to his biga if he knew it would make his pizza crust better. Biga is pre-fermented dough, Italian style—basically, a batch of dough left at room temperature
for twenty-four hours or more and added to a new batch. This approach concentrates the flavor, adds complexity, and leads to better digestibility and taste.

  Bruno’s goal at this year’s competition is to become the “World’s Fastest Pizza Maker.” Five dough balls rest in a pile of fine-grained Italian flour on his table. He has to stretch them faster than all his competitors. Bruno walks three feet to the back wall, facing it as if in greeting, then pulls up his checkered cook’s pants and squats, sumo style. His nose is just inches from the surface; his face is gnarled in knotted confidence as he beats his chest with closed, flour-covered fists. Puffs of flour shoot up the wall with every beat. Back at the table, he pushes each dough ball with both hands, stretching the gluten strands outward as fast and economically as possible. Bruno makes the time of 48.93 seconds, beating his close Italian friend Salvatore Salviani’s 52.68-second score. When he hears the news, Bruno’s primordial yell of “Yeah!” is probably audible in Bulgaria. He struts to the edge of the stage, gazes out at the crowd, and crows, “That’s gold, baaaaaaby!” as only a New Yorker can.

  My other USA teammate, Justin, progresses to the finals of the acrobatic championship with a great score. He places third in the world in acrobatic dough tossing.

  As for me, my biga is ready for the fire, just twelve hours old, and incorporated into my seven-ounce dough ball that rests on the marble pizza table near the oven. Three Italian contestants burned the bottoms of their pizzas just before me. This is not promising: they are all better wood-fired pizza men than I am. The optimal temperature for baking a traditional Neapolitan pizza, 905 degrees Fahrenheit, is set by the Verace Pizza Napoletana, an organization founded to protect the way true Neapolitan pizzas are made. In this traditional method, the pizza can bake for only up to ninety seconds. But the actual temperature depends on whether the oven judges stay with an existing 900-degree temperature or whether they throw another couple of oak logs on the fire. The latter is obviously the case, as bottom bricks are burning every pie. The oven temp must be well over 1,000 degrees.

  The oven judge watches as I hand stretch the tipo 00 flour, a more refined and higher-gluten flour perfect for making high-temperature, wood-fired pizzas. I jab the tips of my fingers into the soft dough and create my eleven-inch disk, spreading Italian goat cheese from the Piedmont (caprino di Rimella) over it. Next, I shred fresh asiago pressa (un-aged, unlike the cheddar-like asiago d’Allevo more common in the United States) over the pizzas, followed by small squares of mozzarella di bufala. I add thinly sliced braised baby fennel, fresh thyme, Parmigiano-Reggiano, and my par-cooked Maine diver scallops cut in half horizontally. I sprinkle a fine chiffonade of roasted red peppers over all.

  One of the pitfalls for many contestants is not making certain that the ashes are brushed out from the previous pizza or from fallout of the burning wood. Ashes ruin the bottom of a true Neapolitan pizza. Any good Italian oven judge can see the ashes, because they stick to the dough and turn the crust gray. Some oven judges see a chump coming to the final bake and “accidentally” forget to brush the oven bottom. Any contestant must remember that this guy docks points for just about anything, scratching away at his little scorecard at the tiniest screw-up. Too much flour on your dough? Scratch. Put sauce on the wrong way? Scratch. Forgot to pull the dough onto the pizza peel? Scratch. Neglect to clean your area? Scratch. Hail from Ohio? Scratch. I nod to the judge and grab the oven broom. He takes it from me and sweeps the oven himself.

  I use the dome method to cook my pizza. I lift the pizza off the too-hot bottom bricks with the long pizza peel and hold it aloft into the domed upper roof of the pizza oven. This technique ensures an even bake and would have saved previous contestants from their burnt bottoms. Ninety seconds, and I withdraw my pie from the oven and place it on a plate, then pull out my truffle slicer and glide my tartufo bianchetto across the razor-sharp blade, depositing small, fragrant slices onto my pizza. The heat of the pizza enhances the scent. Finally, I garnish my pie with a fresh arugula and sunflower-sprout salad, and then a spritz of lemon. A great pizza, if I say so myself.

  But it’s Tony who wins “Best Pizza in the USA” in the Pizza Classica category, with a whopping 713 points out of 800, for his pie of white asparagus wrapped with prosciutto, Parmigiano-Reggiano, San Marzano tomato sauce, fresh buffalo mozzarella, and fresh basil.

  Still, I end up scoring higher than any other American for all categories, having successfully completed every culinary competition at the World Pizza Championship. My pan pizza with feta, chicken, sun-dried tomato, and spinach scores a respectable 607. I place first in the USA with a 550 score for my Neapolitan pizza. Even my last place in Non-Gluten garners 438 points. The 600 for my truffle and Maine diver scallop pizza puts me in First Place USA with a total of 2,195 points.

  I see my American team of Bruno, Tony, and Justin only once a year, but we always bond, despite the prickly circumstances and stress that break us down to exactly who we are inside. Our shiny varnish and outward personas vanish with the jetlag, lack of space, surly hotel-kitchen chefs, hostile competitors, and the mere fact of being at the toughest pizza competition in the world. A smart guy once said, “In prosperity, our friends know us; in adversity, we know our friends.”

  As our last night in Italy winds down and Bruno’s pathetic karaoke version of “Baby, We Can Talk All Night” wafts across the disco, I think about our tartufo adventure. Was there really danger or impending doom at the hands of the truffle mafia? The intrigue made the trip more exciting. Besides, I’ve saved the biggest truffle for myself. It’s stinking up my hotel room, along with a big bag of dried porcini mushrooms. After I smuggle them home, I can tell the story of the truffle guy to my family while shaving my white beauty over freshly made risotto. Then, as we taste the memory of the World Pizza Championship, I can exclaim, “That’s gold, baaaaabby!”

  A SLICE OF FAMILY HISTORY

  By Daniel Duane

  From Food & Wine

  Hobbies have a way of turning into book subjects for San Francisco–based novelist/lifestyle writer Daniel Duane—surfing, rock-climbing, and now food and wine. His latest book: 2012’s How to Cook Like a Man: A Memoir of Cookbook Obsession.

  Several months ago, I received an unexpected UPS delivery: a cardboard box from my wife Liz’s Aunt Mary in Omaha, Nebraska. Inside, buried among the packing peanuts, I found an old black leather knife roll—a huge one—heavily worn and without a note. But I knew instantly what it was: the knives of my wife’s grandfather, Mary’s father. And I wondered if it might not carry a message from the past, if only I could figure out what.

  I never met my wife’s grandfather. He died relatively young, back when she was in second grade. But when I first met Liz, a picture of the man chopping vegetables hung in her kitchen, as well as in the kitchens of all her food-besotted cousins. “Papa”—his name was Bernard Schimmel—loomed like Moses in that family; over time, I grew more and more curious about him. A professional chef who had trained at the world’s oldest and finest hotel school, in Lausanne, Switzerland, Bernie seems to have had an outsize, gregarious personality, a natural party host who loved his Scotch, his lemon drops and his three daughters, one of whom was Liz’s mother, Judy.

  Bernie was also the head chef and dining consultant for the hotels that his own father had built along the rail lines south of Chicago in the mid-20th century. At one of those hotels, Omaha’s Blackstone, family lore has it that Bernie invented the Reuben sandwich for one of his father’s regular poker buddies, Reuben Kulakofsky. (A competing origin story credits an earlier “Reuben Special,” from a New York deli, but that sandwich had neither sauerkraut nor pastrami and was not grilled.)

  I’m something of a knife geek, so my first hope, as I opened Bernie’s knife roll, was that I would find treasures—maybe a collection of midcentury carbon-steel Sabatiers, from Bernie’s time in Switzerland. Instead, I found run-of-the-mill American stuff: stainless steel slicers for bread and big roasts; a lightweight boning knife for la
mb and poultry; a long fish-filleting knife; and a bunch of accessories, like a melon baller, a butter curler, an orange peeler, an oyster-shucking knife, old salad tongs, a carving fork and a plain wooden spoon. What I found, in other words, was the functional tool kit, heavily used but well maintained, of a working Midwestern hotel chef from the 1950s.

  Tools are for using, even heirloom tools, but I felt a little stumped: If I dumped all of Bernie’s things into my own kitchen drawers, the collection would get lost among my many implements, fast losing their identity. If I left them all in the knife roll, they would stay there forever, unused and under-appreciated.

  All this mattered to me because I never cooked before I met Liz. In fact, I never thought much about food. But after we got engaged, Liz’s parents started taking us along on their competitive restaurant-going, hitting every great San Francisco spot: Zuni Café, Gary Danko, Spruce, Charles Nob Hill, Aqua. In their company and on their dime, I ate my first foie gras torchon, my first fresh truffles.

  I knew I would never be able to afford regular Michelin-starred fabulosity on my own, so I taught myself to cook. By the time Liz and I had two daughters, cooking had become my primary pastime. I blew the first few meals I made for Liz’s parents—some through poor menu selection, like serving a main course of pig’s liver caillettes (sausage patties made from liver and spices), wrapped in lacy caul fat and baked. Other meals flopped through my sheer ineptitude, like the time I opened the oven, with dinner already an hour late, to find my chickens raw and cold. But I fought my way toward triumph, culminating in a nine-course menu from The French Laundry Cookbook, prepared with help from my then-seven-year-old daughter Hannah, a cheerful and brilliant assistant.

  After that, Judy began to say that “Dad” would have loved knowing me, that he would’ve loved my fascination with the craft of cooking. I felt flattered by this, and I suspected that I would have loved knowing Bernie, too—not just the chance to learn from him, but also the chance to eat, drink and party with a man whose appetites apparently matched my own. The gift of the knives, I thought, might reflect nothing more complicated than that. They were just knives—less fancy and less materially thrilling, to be honest, than all the handmade Japanese blades I’d accumulated on my own. The talismanic power of all this stuff, if it had any, came from its integrity as a collection, and the link that it provided to Bernie himself.