Rich Zesty Tomato Pie... How Pleasure Works

Verve, juice, crunch, tang- this is a pie humble only in effort and expense. The basil on the veranda is fragrant and thriving, and the tomatoes at the market heavy and firm. Abundance has lowered their price. They have been on all of our summer tables. In this dish, they star.

Greek baking features a dazzling host of grand variations of the pie ("pita"- like in "spanakopita")- sweet and savory, grand and individual- with fillings nearly as diverse as nature itself. This pie we're having today is very Greek in that it celebrates the generosity of the season, but apart from that it is inspired only my love of the zesty satisfaction of hot tomatoes- a love perhaps more 1950's red sauce Italian than Greek, and the profusion of large leafed basil, pointing again to Italy. Far more substantial than a pizza, but not at all heavy, warm, fragrant, crisp-crusted and golden, it makes a rustic and elegant main dish and will not keep you long near the hot oven.

We will need:

Anything you like for crust- by all means your own hand-rolled phyllo if you like, but I used here some "Perek"- these are crackling dried rounds of thin dough that can be moistened to use as layers of rustic phyllo. 6 come in a pack- this is plenty. One could also use lavash- any type of carpet bread. We need just the three layers on top and on the bottom, and so will be using much less butter than traditional crust calls for.

Perek or Lavash

100 g/ 3.5 oz butter

1 k/ 2 generous lb. of tomatoes

a large bunch of fresh basil

250 g/ half a pound feta

an egg

pepper, and some salt to taste

Wash the tomatoes and put them in a pan on the top rack, with the heat on 200 C/ 400 F- this will blacken their skins and concentrate their juices. Check after 15 or 20 minutes (and throw anything else in on another rack that may need some heat- sliced onions to roast for another dish, stale bread for crumbs or croutons, etc.) The charred skins will slip off easily, and the tomatoes will be surrounded by their golden, thickened juices. While the tomatoes are roasting, melt the butter.

Turn the oven down to 180 C/ 375 F. Assembling the pie will take not five minutes: Coarsely crumble the feta into a bowl, tear the basil leaves and add them along to the feta along with the egg to bind it and as many of the skinned tomatoes as you like (but not the liquid they have shed- save that for a sauce or a stock or a gazpacho)- tomatoes make up the bulk of our red and juicy pie. Salt and pepper this to taste (the heat of freshly ground black pepper is most welcome).

Moisten the brittle perek sheets with water if you are using them. Brush a baking sheet with some melted butter and lay on it one sheet of perek or lavash, brush that generously with butter, sprinkle with salt, and repeat this with two more sheets. Spread the filling over it, leaving some room at the edges:

Cover with the remaining 3 sheets, brushing butter on each and salting lightly, saving plenty of butter for the top (melt more if you need to- use as much as you like. I found the 100 g to be enough, and I am lavish with butter). Score the pie and put it into the hot oven. 20 minutes should see it golden and crisp. The phyllo is thin and already baked so one needn't have the oven on as long as for a pie made with an uncooked dough- a very great advantage in the heat of  summer.

The generous proportion of filling and the juicy tomatoes give the pie the feel of a main dish- we had it as such, but it was also excellent as a snack later on at room temperature, listening to D'Angelo and rereading a 'dessert' book- Paul Bloom's delightful How Pleasure Works. Instant gratification linked all these substantial pleasures.

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Boureki- A Cretan Dish of Zucchini, Potatoes, Mint, and Tomato, Enriched with Butter and Goat Cheese.

Do you know how it is to meet someone for the very first time and find yourself having the warmest and liveliest of conversations, going on for hours under the stars- that strange and wonderful feeling you somehow have always known each other? Well, this is that feeling- in a dish. Even if you have never had the rich, bright, and zesty combination of butter, goat cheese, tomatoes, and mint, from the first silky mouthful it is as if you had always known it would be just like this, so fabulous, so precisely right that is somehow familiar from the first time you try it. I have made this dish many times, both here in Greece and in San Francisco and the Oregon Coast, for family and friends who know little of Greek cuisine, and the response is always ravenous delight. All of them have made it again themselves, with great success (that being the delight of the friends they served it to- is there a sweeter success for the cook?). 

This is a dish form the island of Crete, and it is fair to say that there are many versions- notably some wrapped in pastry to make a filling savory pie. Like all truly elemental pleasures, the first one is the ideal against which all others are measured. My first- therefore ideal- boureki is my mother-in-law's. And it is indeed ideal- creamy minty goat cheese sauce and little rivers of bright orange tomato-tinted oil pooling on the plate around it. The potato slices are silky in the mouth, the zucchini tender. 

The Cretan dish centers around a Cretan product- a soft goat cheese called myzythra which eclipses feta in popularity on the island. It's not always easy to get elsewhere, even in Athens (except in the spring, when the milk runs generously and the Cretans are willing to part with the excess). Almost certainly we'll make the dish with a substitution- something creamy and with a goat-cheese tang. A soft chevre- the kind that comes in a log and has no rind, works very well. But in a pinch, I have blended cottage cheese and a goats' milk feta until smooth with good results, and this is what most of my friends abroad have resorted to also. 

As a vegetarian dinner party centerpiece, it can have few equals. Your most carnivorous friends will also be delighted and sated.

We will need:

500 g/ 1 generous lb. soft goat cheese or a combination of cottage cheese and goats' milk feta

4 or 5 large potatoes

4 or 5 medium zucchini

a very large bunch of fresh mint

3 or 4 large tomatoes

125 g/ 1 stick butter

100 g/ 3/4 C flour

salt and pepper

a pinch of baking powder, if you have it, for the top crust.

Melt the butter, grate the tomatoes on the large holes of the box grater, and mix these very loosely together with the goat cheese and salt and pepper to taste (we will use a little more salt and pepper between the layers). It will be pink. Set aside a very generous cup full- we will need it for the top.

Wash the mint and chop fine. Peel the potatoes and slice them very thin- a mandoline or other slicer is very handy. Do the same with the zucchini. Put the flour into a shallow bowl so you can get at it with your fingers, and have the salt and pepper handy.

Butter a large baking dish, and arrange a single layer of potato slices on it:

Dot generously with the goat cheese/tomato mixture, shower with a handful of mint, and dust with a little flour, as though you were making scalloped potatoes, and with salt and pepper (the black pepper adds warmth and zing to the dish) with a light hand. 

Now add a single layer of zucchini slices and cover them in the same manner:

Build up layers of alternating zucchini slices and potato slices with the cheese and tomato mixture, the mint, and the flour in between each layer. No need to press them down- keep air between the layers so that the potatoes can cook through. There should be 3 or 4 layers each of zucchini and potato, and if there is any of the tomato mixture left we can use it now, along with the mixture we reserved. We will be adding flour and a pinch of baking powder to this to make a thick batter (not a dough)- as thick as one for pancakes. This we will pour over the top and it forms a crust that everyone thinks is the best part. If it looks skimpy, as often it does, grate another tomato, add some melted butter, etc. The important thing is to make sure there is plenty of it. Spread the batter generously over the top, and put it in an 180 C/375 F oven, until it looks like this:

and a small sharp knife cuts easily through the potatoes- perhaps 45 minutes, sometimes as much as an hour. Test often and take care that the potatoes are tender enough- when everyone is famished from a morning at the beach, it is easy to remove it in haste, but a too-firm potato does not make for a nice dish.

As to haste- this is of course delicious piping hot, but just as delicious very warm. If you can let it sit for ten minutes, it can be served in nice squares, and it really does deserve a pretty presentation.

One could think that the richness of the butter and the cheese would make this heavy for summer, but there is plenty of zucchini, and the brightness of the mint and the tang of the tomato lighten it tremendously. Even though this makes a large dish, I would not think of making just the one if we are more than four at the table. Although so satisfying, it has a delicacy that makes everyone want seconds of it.

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Watermelon rind Chutney- Trash or Treasure? Virtue or Vice?

One of Roz Chast's most delightful cartoons (of so very many) celebrates the seven deadly virtues:

Of these, "uncalled-for thrift" (at 1 o'clock) has a special place in my heart. Bizarre concessions to economy have been made by my sweet but sometimes truly wacky mother in law over the years; Roz Chast's example is a paltry one (I see your dented cans of peas and raise you a strapless vinyl snakeskin harlot mini dress, in red, obviously, for a 14 year old, but a very good price!). Thrift can be a great source of mirth.

But in the kitchen? Thrift- admittedly virtuous- is sad and small; it has no place in the kitchen. Greed serves us better- it's bold, resourceful, dynamic, and it gets us where we want to be. It's much more akin to hunger than thrift is. It was not some prim 'waste not, want not' thought that prompted me to turn those watermelon rinds- compost by any reasonable measure- into this glistening chutney. It was the memory of the first time I tried it in the Gourmet (how I miss that magazine!), the hand of ginger and a few dried chilies still out on the counter from last night's midnight Chinese noodles (we got homesick watching "Do the Right Thing"), and the fresh mint thriving outside the kitchen window (raita), to say nothing of the heat outside on the veranda. This will turn a handful of basmati into a fine little impromptu meal (chile peppers and lashings of hot tea are so curiously refreshing in the damp August heat). If you want to get the very most out of that chicken/watermelon/bunch of parsley or whatever you have on the counter right now, vice (not virtue) delivers very tasty results.

Trash!

Treasure!

You'll be happy with the result. But, having made it before, I didn't do much measuring at all and I used a few different ingredients. For a chutney you need the fruit or vegetable that is to be the bulk of it, plus tang, heat, and sweetness, plus any aromatics you like. It's enormously flexible- just mix it up to your taste, keeping in mind that it will get more intense, yet also more mellow, as it boils down. It's easy to tweak as you go.

This is what went into today's batch:

4 cups/ 1 liter of diced watermelon rind (dark green skin cut away, some pink flesh clinging to the inside)

1/3 C/large handful finely chopped ginger

4 chile peppers

8 whole allspice berries

a small spoonful of pink peppercorns

a little salt

1/2 C/125 ml vinegar

1/2 C/125 ml water

1/2 C/100 g sugar

a little lime zest after it comes off the heat

This is how to make it:

Slice the wedge of rind into strips 3 or 4 cm wide-
this makes it very easy to safely remove the dark green peel.

The peeled rinds with a pretty strip of red flesh still clinging to them.

The peeled lengths can be cut into narrow strips, then diced-
aim for about 1 cm. or a little smaller.

Carefully cut the ginger into thin slices, then do the same thing.

The ginger will be smaller than the melon, but still large enough
for texture and a nice bite of heat.

Dried red chiles, pink peppercorns, whole allspice berries,
and sugar.

All in the saucepan over medium-high heat

Adding the vinegar-

And the water.

After a moment, the melon releases its juices and it looks like this-
more liquid will come as it boils gently, then it will reduce and become slightly syrupy.
Turn it down and stir it once in awhile. after 20-30 minutes, it will look like this:

Translucent melon chunks still have a bit of crisp bite,
with a jammy spicy syrup through to their core.

Really, it's a bit unfair. This is so vice-quenchingly delicious. And yet, it's hard to suppress the feeling of satisfaction from so virtuously making a beautiful thing from something destined for the garbage can with the help of a handful of spices. Oh, I didn't mention- it fills the house with a sweet exotic perfume as it simmers.

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Eggplant Parmigiana- That's Amore

There is a type of ravenous longing hunger that can be quenched (so much the right word for this thirsty kind of hunger) only with red sauce Italian. When I say red sauce Italian, I mean Little Italy Italian, North Shore Italian- American Italian- the Italian I grew up with before the introduction into the American culinary vernacular of the more chic "Northern" Italian dishes- their subtlety failing to, to... quench.

'When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine',
well then you must be having eggplant paremsan for lunch.

You'd think a hot bubbling casserole of zesty tomato sauce, fried (deep fried) eggplants, and quite a bit of bubbling milky-tasting mozzarella (the cheap kind- not the kind in liquid) would be just too heavy for a hot, damp summer afternoon promising a thunderstorm. But consider- this is a dish conceived in a hot country, to make the most of the bounty of a hot season, and- oh my- does it ever! It is supremely satisfying, curiously delicate if prepared with some finesse, just a little sweet like the sauce on a slice at Stromboli off of First Avenue, and not a bit heavy.

As they say, truth has no 'versions' 

Our Parmesan here is truly like any other- and that's really the beauty of it. The dish, though not at all complicated, does involve a number of steps- the making of the sauce, the slicing and salting and rinsing of the eggplant slices, their breading and frying, and assembling the whole tempting thing and topping it with a white shower of shredded cheese. So as to not be overwhelmed with pans and bowls and so on, you could do the sauce before. One reason this particular eggplant parmesan is pleasingly delicate is that I took the trouble (no trouble really- it was a pleasure) of making a fresh sauce-the most obvious use of the plentiful tomatoes of July.

Of course there's no need to use those photogenic tomatoes like you get for a caprese. I use the sacks of tomatoes of jumbled size and ripeness that can be had so for so little towards the end of market day. Fresh tomato sauce is less red, less heavy, and where the sauce of canned tomatoes has that nice edge of tang, this has an even nicer edge of sweetness. Even after a good simmer, it is still both thinner and lighter, so we can use lots and lots of it without upsetting the balance of our dish. So, as much as the eggplant slices absorb it, there will still be some sauce pooling around the tender eggplant on your plate.

We'll need:

10 to 15 tomatoes

4 garlic cloves

2 large eggplants

3 eggs 

1 C flour

2 C breadcrumbs

fresh basil

salt

a little freshly grated parmesan

200 g/7 oz dry style mozarella

2 cups of olive oil, maybe more

For the sauce:

Grate the tomatoes on the large holes of a standing grater into a bowl, and discard the skins (or save them for a quick bright vegetable broth)- You'll want a couple of liters- this goes much quicker than it sounds, and is pleasant light work.

When the tomatoes are ready (but not before as you'll risk burning it) saute three or four thinly sliced garlic cloves until they take just a bit of golden color, and add the tomatoes. Salt gently- it will cook down and get progressively saltier. We'll season the sauce with fresh basil when we compose the dish, so there's no need for anything else save the plenty of garlic and the judicious salting.

Let it take on a bit of color- don't to be too subtle.

So this doesn't take long at all but you'll be glad to get it out of the way what with the grater and the bowl and the cutting board and the pot. The eggplant preparation, though not difficult, commands a lot of space. Getting the sauce taken care of in advance does much in the way of averting incipient chaos- the very last mood you want near a shallow pan of sizzling oil.

Now the eggplants-

Slice three or four eggplants into slabs about a half cm thick (less than a quarter inch). In their thinness lies much of the delicacy of the dish. Much thinner than this and perhaps they'll tear though. Place them on a tray and salt them on each side and leave them to release a bit of their moisture.

As the eggplant slices sit, get out three large shallow bowls. One will hold flour, one will hold beaten eggs (you'll probably need three) and one will hold bread crumbs (I had some from the "Dinner Candy" day), plenty of them. As you do, heat a couple centimeters of olive oil in a skillet.

Now this next bit may seem like a lot of work, but actually it's just a lot of bowls.

Rinse your eggplant slices and give them a gentle squeeze. Dredge one in flour:

then in the beaten egg:

and lastly in the bread crumbs:

It works beautifully- the flour sticks evenly to the naked eggplant, the beaten egg in turn clings to the flour, and the crumbs to egg. A thin but sturdy and intact crust is all over the slice, sealing in the moisture and making clean, spatter-free work of the frying. This three-layer breading makes a substantial crust that holds up very well in the oven, absorbing the sauce to become a layer of tender resistance.

Shake the slice over the bowl and slip into the rather hot oil you have ready in a shallow skillet:

Fry until golden on the one side, then turn and do the other, then let them rest on some paper towels as you continue:

Two eggplants should fill three or four skillets. It could be that towards the third batch, the oil gets smoky on account of the little bits of crumb falling off and starting to burn. The oil could develop an off taste from this, and the subsequent batches turn out blacker than you'd like. I changed the oil after the third batch, wiping the pan out with a paper towel to make sure no bits of crumb were clinging to the sides. 

Cover the bottom of a large baking dish with some of the fresh sauce, and lay the slices of eggplant over it- overlapping them if you must but not stacking them. Cover these with some shredded basil leaves, and then more sauce, about this much:

See the sweet slices of garlic in the sauce?

The breading absorbs quite a bit of sauce- make sure you use enough. Then dust it with some freshly grated parmesan, like this:

And then the shredded mozzarella, making sure to not use too much- you should see plenty of sauce peeking through:

A lacy blanket of shredded cheese lets the dish breathe.

Remember it's a thin dish- just the one layer of those wispy eggplant slices. There'll be plenty of cheese in each mouthful- too much would make a heavy blanket and weigh down our surprisingly delicate lunch. If it goes into the oven (170C/350F) while the sauce and the eggplant slices are still warm, it won't need but 20 minutes to look like this:

Just enough time to have a cool shower, pour some wine, and fix your play list. Mine most unabashedly includes Dean Martin.

Most happily, so does the soundtrack of Fading Gigolo, a film which, like this dish, for me has all the innocence and sweetness of the New York I grew up in. Try this too, and this.

Perfect for July.

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Butter Cherry Tart- Bliss, Golden and Black

Make this when you have shy guests-
really, we talked of little else but how beguiling it was.

Last week at the market the vendor misheard me and gave me 2 kilos of black cherries rather than one. They were extraordinary- more like small plums in size, glistening and firm. He started to lighten the sack, but that didn't seem like a good idea.... Anyway, we were 7 at home that week; it really wasn't a daunting quantity. They went into a large glass bowl in the refrigerator, next to a smaller glass bowl of fat golden cherries. We did blind taste tests. They were both achingly fabulous.

Of course we took some to the beach, along with nectarines, and washed them in the waves to enjoy biting through their slightly salty skins. We had them cold from the refrigerator and ate handfuls of them at the sink. Still, what with the watermelon and the sagging trays of nectarines and apricots (it is such a generous season), some remained, and started to shrink up and condense.

They were just enough for a tart (and not too many to bother pitting), filled out a little and bound with a little... something. For me, cherries have a magnificent affinity for vanilla (think of the marvelous ice-cream flavor), and a little bitter almond underscores their aroma (think of the scent of the Jergen's lotion). I love a frangipane, but it can be a little dense, and detract from the fruitiness. The more delicate buttery, pudding-like texture of both lemon bars and pecan pie- a nutless frangipane if you will, leaving us with just butter, sugar, egg and a whisper of flour to hold it together, vanilla and almond to perfume. 

The shell:

For a baker, I am unfond of rolling out dough unless it is going to be showy- galette, lattice-topped pie, etc. This tart crust, adapted from Alice Medrich, is at once sturdy and delicate, and leaves you with a clean counter and just one bowl to clean up. 

1/2 C/ 125 g butter

1 1/3 C/ 130 g flour (maybe more)

2 Tablespoons sugar (for tenderness and structure)

Line the bottom of a 9"/ 24 cm springform pan with parchment (I don't cut a circle- I just put a square over the base and close the ring around it, trimming the overhang from the outside of the rim with a pair of scissors)

Melt the butter in the microwave and add the sugar and the flour and stir. It takes a moment for the butter to absorb the flour- wait a moment while it continues to stiffen, and then add a little more flour if you need it. We are aiming for a crumbly dough- not a paste- which we then press onto the bottom and sides of a pan, neatening the top edge.

The crumbly- not sticky- dough is pressed easily into the pan

No need to be too tidy- just make sure there are no tears.

This goes into the freezer- an indispensable step: the frozen crust, plunged into the hot oven, will bake without schlumping like a borphin, and there are no tiresome linings and pie weights to contend with. When the crust is frozen (it freezes quickly as it is so thin), bake at 375F/185C

for 10-12 minutes, until it takes on a golden color. 

The crust, pitted mixed cherries, and the rich golden egg/butter mixture
(Greek eggs have spectacularly orange yolks)

The filling:

As much fruit will fit loosely in the shell- that's about:

2 C cherries, pitted

or 

15 or so apricots, 

3 quite large peaches.... no real need to measure here.

1/4 C/ 60 g melted butter

3/4 C/ 150 g sugar

2 eggs

3 Tablespoons flour

1/8 tsp/1.5ml salt, if the butter is not salted

a few drops of bitter almond extract (discreet)

natural vanilla to taste (generous) 

Cherries strewn over the golden crust.

The filling- poured over the top- seeps all around them.

Put the fruit into the partially baked shell, and pour this mixture over the top. Bake for about 30 minutes- the filling will puff a bit, turn golden, and be just barely set in the center- still wobbly.

I have never made anything that smelled better than this- the butter-vanilla-sugar-fruit aroma knocks you out. It tastes of every individual thing- the eggy richness, the butter, the flavor of the sugar (not just its sweetness), of course the lush jammy fruit. We talked of little else all evening.

Cooling on the windowsill, it perfumed the veranda.

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