A century ago, families would take the train out to Southampton for weekend duck dinners at John Duck’s famous restaurant, a short walk from the depot. Never a favorite of the seasonal nobility, John Duck’s was patronized by the local burghers and known not so much for its ducks, which were still roasted in their own fat rather than with the fat extruded in the current fashion, but for its addictive coleslaw, which was served as a kind of amuse-bouche. John Duck’s is now out of business, but the composition of its coleslaw continues to intrigue local cooks.
One day last summer, at Halsey’s farm stand in Watermill, as I waited to be served, I was wondering aloud to a friend whether to buy yet another cabbage and try once again to solve the mystery of John Duck’s coleslaw. “I know the recipe,” conspiratorially whispered the farm-stand proprietor, who had been following our conversation. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She darted away to her house to retrieve her recipe box. “Look through it,” she said, “and you’ll find it.” And so I did.
John Duck used an old fashioned cabbage grinder that quickly and accurately reduced the vegetables to a confetti-like but still-crunchy texture. A carefully managed food processor produces similar results, batch by batch.
JOHN DUCK’S COLESLAW
Remove the outer leaves and core from a medium head of green cabbage. Cut the cabbage in quarters, and each quarter in three chunks. Put as much as will fit easily in a food processor, and process off and on four or five times, until most of the cabbage has been ground to the size of confetti but no smaller. Empty the ground cabbage into a bowl, remove any large pieces, and add them to the next batch. Cut a bell pepper in chunks, and chop a carrot and two stalks of celery coarsely, and run them quickly through a food processor, retaining as much texture as possible. Cut an onion separately by hand into very small dice, but be careful not to add too much or it will overwhelm everything else. For a medium cabbage, mix one cup of mayonnaise—either Hellmann’s, to save time, or homemade sweetened with a third of a cup of sugar and diluted with enough milk to melt the sugar and thin the mayonnaise without making it watery. Or substitute buttermilk or plain, unstrained yogurt for milk. Then mix all the ingredients with a teaspoon of caraway seed, add salt very carefully, a few grains at a time, and a few splashes of white vinegar to taste. Chill it for an hour or so. The result will be first cousin to John Duck’s, but creamier and crunchier.
FRIED CHICKEN
I like to serve this coleslaw with Sal Iacono’s two-and-a-half-pound chickens, cut in eight pieces, which I marinate in Lawry’s Seasoning for a few hours, dip lightly in flour or Wondra, shaking off the excess, and fry the drumsticks and thighs first, then the breasts and wings, in vegetable oil at 350 degrees in a cast-iron skillet, taking care that the oil is not so deep as to cover the chicken, which I turn several times, so that the skin does not blacken where it touches the pan. The chicken is done when the internal temperature reaches 135 degrees on an instant-read thermometer, after about ten minutes for the legs and thighs and a minute or two longer for the breasts. For three-and-a-half-pound chickens, the legs and thighs will take a little longer and the breasts not so long. Don’t try this with factory-raised chickens. They will be dry and tasteless.
Sal Iacono, in his white apron and farmer’s rubber boots, was an East Hampton institution; he died in 2008 at seventy-nine. His widow and son now carry on the business. Long before the term “free range” was invented, Sal’s chickens were running this way and that outdoors in good weather in a half-acre pen, and when it rains they file two by two into their spacious henhouse. Since the 1950s, when he inherited the farm from his father, he had raised his chickens on a simple diet of corn without chemicals, hormones, antibiotics, or anything else in a clean henhouse, and he sold them the day after they were killed. The chickens are the widely grown Cornish Cross, so what gives them their intense flavor and delicate texture must be their diet of unadulterated grain, their freedom to wander outdoors in search of food, their freshness, and perhaps the clean East Hampton air—in other words, their freedom to live like other birds. Whatever the reason, they are unlike any other chickens I have ever tasted, including the celebrated blue-legged poulets de Bresse of France. Sal himself was as cheerful and easygoing as his chickens must have been to produce such flavor and texture, an honorable and humorous man, without pretense, who made a fine product, gave good value, enjoyed his work and his customers, and in his humble shop played tapes of the music to which he (and I) came of age many years ago.
Lately, Peconic Bay scallops, which used to grow in our bays like weeds, have been severely depleted by an invasion of algae. Now they seem to be returning, not yet in their former great numbers but enough to inspire hope that the worst is over, though another “brown tide” is moving ominously through the bays. These scallops are so sweet and tender that I like to eat them raw, lightly marinated in lime juice, with a few shreds of raw onion and some finely diced chilis. Most people, however, prefer them sautéed or fried.
FRIED SCALLOPS AND FRIED CALAMARI
To fry them I heat a half-inch of extra-virgin olive oil in a ten-inch cast-iron skillet until the oil begins to shimmer. Then I dredge a handful of scallops at a time in corn flour and discard any excess by tossing the scallops, a few at a time, in a colander, batting the colander firmly with my hand, and with tongs or a slotted spoon I lower the scallops carefully into the oil, so that the oil doesn’t splash and the scallops don’t gang up. They will brown quickly, and as soon as they do you must remove them from the oil and drain them on paper towels. Offer these to guests with drinks before dinner, three to a serving, with a wooden toothpick and a touch of cold mayonnaise thinned with lemon juice. Or serve them as a first course with andouille or chorizo sausage in small chunks warmed through in the same pan.
Sometimes I accompany fried scallops with fried calamari. I use the smaller ones, which I cut in quarter-inch rings, trimming the heads by cutting off the eyes. I dip them in milk and then in a mixture of Wondra flour and corn flour. After shaking off the excess, I fry them in olive oil at about 350 degrees for a minute or two, until they brown slightly. Then I drain them on paper towels, salt them, and serve them at once, while they are still crisp. They are much more delicate than the heavily breaded restaurant versions, but the delicate batter won’t stay dry for long, so don’t fry more at a time than your guests can eat in five minutes. Most fish markets sell squid already cleaned. If yours doesn’t, simply separate the head and tentacles from the bodies, then remove the transparent cartilage from the body, remove the pinkish skin, rinse out the body, and proceed as above. Do not leave the calamari in the oil for more than a minute or two or they will become mushy. The aroma of squid frying in olive oil reminds me of seaside lunches at Amalfi. You may also grill very small calamari, bodies split lengthwise, flattened out, patted dry, and seared in a ridged grill pan, quickly, on high heat until the grill marks begin to appear.
FETTUCCINE WITH SCALLOPS
Another, rather rich way to serve bay scallops for six as a first course at dinner, or a main course at lunch, is simply to poach a pound of bay scallops in a stick of hot butter with a whole garlic clove, sprinkling them with a few leaves of finely chopped rosemary—just a hint, since rosemary is very strong. Meanwhile, boil a pound of fettuccine, preferably fresh, and when the pasta is al dente, lift it out with tongs or a pasta fork and add it to the scallops with half a cup of heavy cream, a cup of fresh-grated Parmesan, a few grains of sea salt, and a sprinkling of white pepper. This simple dish—essentially fettuccine Alfredo with scallops tinged with rosemary—is wonderfully comforting, especially for long-distance bicycle racers in need of carbohydrates. If the pasta seizes up, add a cup or so of pasta water.
FETTUCCINE WITH CLAMS
Another version of this dish, which I learned from the late Pierre Franey, is to use shucked and chopped cherrystone clams instead of scallops, and add a good handful of chopped basil and some fresh-ground black pepper to the fettuccine, which I boil in water mixed
with claim juice. I omit the Parmesan. This dish is so rich that I seldom make it now, but when I do I serve only a generous forkful in a large pasta bowl to each guest as a first course.
CLAMS CASINO
I also like to serve as a canapé my version—there are countless others—of clams casino. For these you should ask the fishmonger for small cherrystone clams or largish littlenecks, which are called “top necks” on Long Island. You will need three or four per guest. If you can’t open them yourself, ask the fishmonger to open them for you. Opening them is easy enough once you get used to it, but it takes some practice. You will need a clam knife. I prefer the kind with a somewhat flexible, thin blade. Don’t use an ordinary knife. If you are right-handed, hold the clam in your left hand, against the thumb joint, using your thumb as a clamp. You will notice that the clam is shaped rather like an ear, tightly curled at the top. Look carefully for where the two shells join at the top of this ear. The point is to hold the blade of your clam knife in your right hand (again, if you are right-handed) vertically against this notch, which is not always easy to find, and press the blade with the fingers of your left hand firmly into the notch. Adjust the clam in your hand for maximum leverage. Once you have wedged the blade firmly between the shells, turn the blade ninety degrees and twist the shells apart. Then cut the muscle which attaches the clam to the top shell, and discard the top shell. Don’t be discouraged if you don’t succeed the first or even the fifth time. You will eventually get the hang of it. Another solution is simply to put the unopened clams in a dry pan in a medium oven for ten minutes or so, until they begin to open by themselves. Since you are going to put the clams under the broiler eventually, this unorthodox method won’t substantially change the result, but you will not have had the pleasure of going mano a mano with a clam. If you plan to serve the clams raw, on the half-shell, and they don’t open easily, put them on ice in your freezer for ten minutes or so, and then pry them open. Clam openers at raw bars use this trick.
For my version of two dozen clams casino, you will need a green bell pepper; a sweet onion;a small jar of pimientos or a red bell pepper blistered over a flame, skinned, and diced;a jalapeño;some lemon juice;a half-stick of softened unsalted butter; Worcestershire sauce;and four slices of bacon. Remove the top and bottom and scrape out the seeds from the bell pepper, and cut it into thin julienne strips. Then cut the strips into fine dice. Dice the onion similarly, and chop the pimiento or skinned red bell pepper. There should be roughly equal amounts of each vegetable. Mince the jalapeño extra-fine (no seeds), and add it to the mix. Now wash your hands, lest you inadvertently rub your eyes. Mash two tablespoons or so of softened butter, and an equal amount of Worcestershire, into the vegetable mix. Meanwhile, cut four slices of good bacon into twenty-four pieces and soften them in a pan over a medium flame. Mix a tablespoon of bacon fat into the filling, and place a generous pinch or two on each opened clam, topping each with the softened bacon. Place the clams on a broiler pan, and put them in the refrigerator until you are ready to heat and serve them. When ready to serve, put the clams under a medium broiler until the bacon is crisp but before it burns, and serve while hot. You may want to experiment a bit with the mix.
There are countless varieties of clams, but for practical purposes in the northeastern United States there are only two: hard-shell and soft-shell. Manilla clams, which I prefer for pasta with clam sauce, are imported from the West Coast. Hard-shell clams are the littlenecks (smallest), cherrystones (larger), and chowders or quahogs (pronounced “co-hogs”), the largest, found in most East Coast fish markets. They are eaten raw on the half-shell, or stuffed with oregano and bread crumbs and baked, or as clams casino, or with pasta, though the much smaller manilla clams are more subtle and intense with pasta. Soft-shell clams are less often seen in New York markets but are common in New England, where they are steamed or fried. Hard-shell clams are also steamed, usually with a celery stalk and a sprinkle of chopped parsley, and the two varieties are interchangeable in chowders, but only soft-shell clams are fried. They are eaten raw only by seagulls.
FRIED SOFT-SHELL CLAMS
Soft-shells are easier to open than hard-shell clams, but their shells tend to crumble. This is a problem if you want to fry them, which requires that you shuck them first. But if you’re careful, you can open them gently by trimming away the membrane that holds the top and bottom shells together and delicately cutting the muscle that holds the clam to its shell. Then remove and discard the black sheath covering the neck, and dip each clam in cool water to get rid of the sand. For frying, you should look for smaller clams, two inches or so from top to bottom. They are easier to eat. Save the larger ones for steaming. Dip the clams in buttermilk or condensed or plain milk and then toss them to coat in a mixture of one-third all-purpose wheat flour and two-thirds corn flour and a pinch of fine sea salt. In a colander, shake off the excess. The battered clams will become soggy unless they are fried at once. Drop them immediately, one by one, into a fry basket, and drop the basket into corn, peanut, or canola oil at 360 degrees, cooking for a minute or so, just until they are the color of a paper bag. They will fry more quickly after the first batch. Drain them on paper towels. If I’m frying a lot of clams, I set a sheet pan on the stove beside my fry pot, line it with paper towels, and drop the fried clams on it. The classic accompaniment is tartar sauce made from a cup of Hellmann’s mayonnaise, chopped pickle relish, a tablespoon of capers, drained, lemon juice, a little chopped onion or shallot, and a tablespoon of Dijon mustard.
So-called Ipswich clams are soft-shell clams dug mostly from the coastal mudflats north of Boston. The rich mud provides their unique sweetness, noticeably different from their bland cousins dug from sandy bottoms. But genuine Ipswich clams have been scarce lately, and most clams sold under that name are harvested from mudflats along the Maine coast. The shells of clams dug from mud tend to be darker than those dug from sand. Occasionally the Seafood Shop in Wainscott, Long Island, has these darker clams, and though they are a long way from Ipswich, their greater intensity is noticeable. My fried clams are much more delicate than the heavily battered, more durable version sold by roadside stands. They should be eaten while still warm. With fried squid, oysters, and whitebait, if you can find it, they make a great fritto misto.
STEAMED SOFT-SHELL CLAMS
For steamed soft-shell clams, simply rinse the clams under the faucet to wash away the sand, and place the clams in a covered pot over a medium flame. In five minutes or so, the shells will have opened. Scoop up the clams from the pot with a Chinese strainer and drop them into a serving bowl. Strain the broth from the pot into as many mugs as you have guests, and serve each guest a small cup of melted butter. Guests should remove the clams from their shells and slip off and discard the black membrane from the neck. Then they should dip the clam into the broth to remove any remaining sand, and from there into the butter.
My mother, who needed no lessons in self-esteem, enjoyed, in her damp, drizzly November moods, taunting my father with the claim that she had agreed to their courtship only when he offered to treat her to fried Ipswich clams at Hugo’s Lighthouse Restaurant on Boston’s South Shore. Thus I learned at a vulnerable age that because of a fried clam I am. Perhaps this is why New York, where Ipswich clams are hard to find, still doesn’t seem, after so many years, like home.
SIX
THE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT GO TO SEA IN A BEAUTIFUL FRENCH LINE BOAT
On the morning of December 30, 1953, my first wife, Barbara, and I were married at a friend’s apartment in Morningside Heights in upper Manhattan, adjacent to Columbia University, from which I had graduated in 1949, with no idea what to do with the rest of my life and in no hurry to find out. At Columbia my friends and I read and studied literature as a kind of religion, an inexhaustible source of wisdom, we believed, to which we became addicted: Plato, the unknown authors of Ecclesiastes and Job, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Gibbon, Tolstoy. I wanted only to read, and after graduation that’s what I did that sum
mer, at a lakeside cabin, alone in Oakland, Maine, with Proust, Balzac, and Gibbon and, at bedtime, Yeats, whose concern for the fragility of cultures and their artifacts I share. I was too much in awe of the writers I worshipped to think that I might become a writer myself, but after a pointless year in graduate school, I was ready to leave the academy. My favorite pre-Socratic philosopher, Heraclitus, said that character is fate: we become what we are. So, relying upon Heraclitus, I wandered into the book-publishing business and became a valet and evangelist for writers.
This unexpected vocation explains why Barbara and I were speeding, after our wedding, down Manhattan’s West Side Highway, beside the sparkling Hudson, under a brilliant windswept sky, to the pier where the stately Ile de France, its old-fashioned perpendicular bows towering over the highway, was preparing to sail at noon. We had booked a first-class cabin. Neither of us had money, but two years previously I had suggested to the publishing company where I worked that, with the market for books bound to expand as a result of the GI Bill, the kinds of books my classmates were reading would sell many more copies as inexpensive but well-made paperbacks than as expensive hardcovers, which students could not afford. There was nothing new about my idea. European publishers had been publishing serious books in paperback, the kind I had in mind, for years. But in the United States at that time, paperback books, except for a few imported Penguins, were mostly ephemera sold in drugstores and at newsstands and removed at the end of each month along with that month’s magazines, to be replaced with next month’s thrillers, mysteries, and westerns. My plan to publish important books on good paper, slightly larger than drugstore paperbacks, and stock them permanently in bookstores, succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations, including my own, and this voyage was my reward for having precipitated what came to be called the paperback revolution.
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