I was tempted to title this post “The Girl Who Ate Venice.” I think I mentioned to you that I went on a juice fast the second we touched down at JFK. I wouldn’t say we grossly overindulged, but you know that restaurant food is just that much richer, and I can’t say we really denied ourselves much. Everywhere you go in Venice, people are eating gelato, and the flavors are irresistible: the deepest, most fragrant coffee; nutty pistachio; fior di latte (flower of milk) that tastes of the purest cream; fig and walnut; fresh strawberry…who could resist? I was armed with 6 pages of restaurant recommendations, culled from friends, the internet and a long-hoarded issue of Departures magazine devoted to Venice, and I feel like we barely made a dent. We didn’t make it to either Da Fiore or Alle Testiere, two much-touted restaurants on everyone’s lists, but we had many wonderful meals.

You may have noticed that most of the Venice photos were taken by G. Despite my best intentions, I find that I get caught up in the moment when we’re traveling, and have a hard time remembering to shoot. Also, when you’re in a cozy little trattoria surrounded by locals, you don’t really want to pull out your honking Nikon (or even your iphone) and start snapping away. That said, there’s plenty of eye candy coming up.

seafood diet

On our first day, stumbling exhausted out of the Rialto market, we simply collapsed at a sidewalk table outside a little restaurant crowded with locals (always a good sign). Artichokes were in season and everywhere at the market, so I ordered the artichoke pizza, and G had the gnocchi with mussels, which came with a rich oily tomato sauce that was to die for. Ultimately, Venice is all about the seafood and most menus feature the local specialties, like polenta with tiny shrimp, risotto with langoustines, cuttlefish braised in its ink, fritto misto, and pasta with clams or mussels or spider crab.

That night, we met up with friends for dinner at Harry’s Dolci in the Giudecca, where you can dine outside right along the canal, looking at the sparkling lights of Venice across the way. I passed on the classic Bellini and had a whiskey sour which was perfection. Then I dug into a big plate of their renowned pasticcio (pastiche), essentially a deconstructed lasagna that is a glorious mess of pasta and bechamel and cheese and a few unimportant vegetables.

use your noodle

The next day, after we’d gotten our bearings a bit, we had lunch at Al Covo, a sweet restaurant owned by an Italian man and his American wife. It’s friendly to tourists without seeming inauthentic, and it has a very seasonal approach to traditional Venetian food.  The restaurant is calm and lovely, and a fresh breeze came through the curtained windows. I had a wonderful lemony pasta with the meat and roe of the impressive spider crab from Venice’s lagoon.

shell game

G had the iconic moeche on the very last day they were available during their short season. In a technique that goes back to the 1500s, these tiny crabs are “matured” in wooden crates in the internal waters of the lagoon until their shells soften. They were lightly grilled and served without salt, as they maintain their own naturally perfect sea-salt flavor. It came accompanied with a salad of valeriana, which seemed to be some sort of mâche.

sole asylum

Next I had a delicate filet of sole with more of those tender artichokes, atop a thin puddle of celery root puree and garnished with some fried parsley.

spear me

And we couldn’t resist ordering some of those delectable asparagus we’d seen at the market. Drizzled with pungent olive oil and a bit of egg mimosa, they did not disappoint.

get your licks in

Dessert was a few scoops of vanilla gelato kicked into the stratosphere with a light dusting of licorice powder and a couple of slicks of licorice syrup. Who knew this would be such an intensely compelling flavor combination? And those crunchy butter biscuits were not simply gratuitous.

So, as you can see, we ate well. But to be perfectly honest with you, while there is no shortage of classic, well-executed food in Venice, the only real epiphany I had was realizing how spoiled we are in New York. There is no David Chang in Venice. Many of the seafood preparations I’ve had from Dave Pasternak’s Il Pesce at Eataly surpass anything from the lagoon. And, perhaps most surprisingly given all the beautiful produce we saw at the Rialto market—the artichokes, the radicchio, the green cauliflower, the agretti, the pristine lettuces—there is scarcely a vegetable on any restaurant menu. And this, for a vegivore like me, makes for tough going. With some planning and a little luck, you are not going to have a bad meal here, but it’s really more about the wine (oh, those amarones), the ambience, the vistas, the history, the sheer Veniceness of the place.

totally rawsome

That said, we did enjoy some special places. The Fondamenta delle Zattere runs the length of the south side of the Dorsoduro neighborhood where we were staying, along the Giudecca Canal. It’s a popular spot to stroll, with some fascinating buildings, including the Ospedale degli Incurabili, where 16th century syphilitics were housed to live out their lunatic lives. Some of our friends stayed in a sweet little hotel there, La Calcina and Ristorante Riviera is right nearby. G and I had a lazy lunch there, involving a seemingly bottomless bottle of sparkling rosé and some equally refreshing seafood. We started with an assortment of crudi, 8 different types of raw fish, each one flavored differently. There was salmon with a swirl of creamy burrata cheese, tuna with mandarin, mackerel with strawberry; other flavors included vanilla, lime zest, fennel, mint and passionfruit. It was quite good, although we were imagining what it might have been like with judicious sprinklings of different sea salts…

rice, venetian style

We shared a divine risotto with a deeply green puree of spring herbs and a few pieces of sweet shrimp. The rice in Venice is always cooked to a toothy, soupy perfection.

meat me in venice

Despite the many well-researched restaurants we tried (the list and more highlights are below), some of my favorite food moments on the trip were the serendipitous ones, when you are simply wandering and chance upon a little café or gelatteria or sidewalk restaurant, and you plop down and point to something and suddenly your mouth is full of crunchy toast topped with a creamy fluff of whipped salt cod, or the best mortadella of your life, or the classic spritz (“spreetz”), an effervescent mix of Aperol and prosecco. Try your luck in Venice, at least some of the time.

you scream, i scream

When all else fails, there is always gelato. The málaga (rum raisin) is sin incarnate. If you order the modest little coppette, you might even try three different flavors a day. Everybody’s doing it.

your humble servant

Recommended restaurants in Venice:

Osteria L’Orto dei Mori – Campo dei Mori, Cannaregio; www.osteriaortodeimori.com; closed Tuesday

We had a boozy dinner here with a big bunch of friends and, even though we got into a fight with the waiter (it was ultimately resolved with kisses all around, very high-drama Italian), this was my favorite Venetian find. It’s a cozy place in a lovely, quiet neighborhood and it’s almost entirely populated by locals. The young Sicilian chef makes exquisite and creative arrays of antipasti and traditional Italian favorites. The scampi en saor (sweet and sour shrimp) were divine. It’s also a very good value.

Harry’s Dolci -  Giudecca; www.cipriani.com

Sit outside on the canal, sipping bellinis or a whiskey sour. Eat rich, simple classics. Dress up.

Al Covo – Campiello della Pescaria, Castello; www.ristorantealcovo.com; closed Wednesday and Thursday

Considered among Venice’s finest; traditional and updated seafood classics; lovely service; see above for details. Not cheap.

Ristorante Riviera – Zattere, Dorsoduro; www.alpesador.it

Great location on the canal, wonderful service, sparkling fresh seafood. Pricey.

Avogaria – Dorsoduro; www.avogaria.com

This charming restaurant is attached to a little hotel. We had a nice, simple dinner here with good food, wine and service. Try the fritto misto, and don’t miss the involtini—thin strips of zucchini rolled around milky cheese.

La Bitta – San Barnaba, Dorsoduro

Sick of seafood? We were actually with a friend who doesn’t like fish, so we indulged her with a visit to this all-meat trattoria. It has a low-key, homey vibe and very friendly service. I had delicious slow-stewed pork cheeks. I also treated myself to a cheese plate that was a highlight of the trip, including grillo di monte major; monte veronese al durello; asiago stravecchio; formadj frant; and gorgonzola naturale. It came with an insanely good fragolaceto, a strawberry balsamic, and mostarda di pomodori, a tomato-based mustard. Still dreaming of this.

Venice was perfection. I’m so excited to tell you all about it, but I’m still organizing photos and sifting through my impressions. Please check back next week to read about the restaurants, the markets, the parties and the romance of one of the world’s most glorious cities. We returned home to a word in full flower. I had been hoping to see some black locust trees in bloom this year, as I have read about the wonderfully fragrant edible flowers, and suddenly there they were by the dozens as we drove through Paramus, New Jersey, en route from the airport. Serendipity!

similar to a sweet pea

Equipped with the pair of garden shears I keep in the car for just such encounters, I gathered armfuls of branches festooned with flowers and swooned at their delicate perfume, akin to the sweet scent of orange blossoms. Robinia pseudoacacia is a tree related to the pea family, believe it or not and, as with other leguminous plants, its leaves fold together in wet weather and at night. It’s a native species with dark, deeply furrowed bark and wood prized for being extremely hard. You’ll often see it planted alongside streets and in parks, especially in large cities, because it tolerates pollution well. The long clusters of white blossoms hang down, sort of reminiscent of wisteria. The flowers are pea-like and creamy with a yellow spot on the upper petal. If this spot is bright yellow, the flowers are good to eat; if it is dull or faded, they are too old. Eaten raw, they taste a bit like pea shoots. They can be tossed with cream for a decadent pasta sauce or divine ice cream, or folded into a sweet batter and fried for the most ethereal fritter ever.

nectar of the gods

Since I am on a post-Venice juice fast, I decided to forego all of the above and use my blossoms in a light elixir made with lemon juice, water and a little orange blossom honey. It’s spring in a glass.

why don’t they call it pinkbud?

The Eastern redbud outside our kitchen window is an early bloomer. The petals fall down and create a rosy carpet that looks like something out of a fairytale.

this bud’s for you

Someone told me that the flowers make good eating when they are fresh and full of nectar. I imagine this is what the wood sprites subsist on.

the color of liz taylor’s eyes

Or maybe they’re eating these tender beauties. I must have spent an hour collecting this bowlful of wild violets in a nearby field. They are as soft as a baby’s eyelids.

flower power

Candied violets were a popular delicacy during Victorian times. They’re also delicious fresh, tossed into a salad or garnishing a panna cotta.

sweet surrender

I made a syrup with my violets, steeping the flowers overnight and then mixing the strained liquid with simple syrup and a splash of lemon juice. The color is lovely and there’s a floral hint, but I think any heat really masks their delicate aroma and flavor (though Winnie seems to have had good luck making violet jelly). If you’ve never eaten flowers, I suggest this be the year you nibble on some rose petals, toss a couple of dandelions in your salad, make nasturtium butter or at least slurp a little sweet nectar.

A few years back, New York magazine announced that eating goat was starting to become a trend. A reader wrote into its website, saying, Here are white people again!!!! Acting like they invented goat meat. That’s pretty funny, and also painfully true. Goat is actually the meat most consumed around the world. We’re behind, people.

Goat is not only delicious, it’s sustainable, higher in protein than beef and lower in fat than chicken. This leanness makes it particularly good when braised or steamed so it doesn’t dry out. Fresh goat is still hard to find in New York City markets, so I imagine it’s not readily available from your average grocer. Try farmers markets or Halal butchers, or look for it on the menus of hip, locavore-friendly restaurants.

At Scarpetta, Scott Conant is known for his roasted capretto—that’s Italian for baby goat aka kid. At Girl and the Goat in Chicago, chef Stephanie Izard—who got into goat (and named her restaurant for it) when she discovered that izard is a breed of Pyrenees goat—uses it in a homemade sausage on pizza and in a ragú with gooseberries and rosemary that she tosses with homemade pappardelle. Now she buys her goat from a local farm (as do I) and goes through seven whole goats each week (I do not).

steam table

My go-to recipe for goat is from Mexican cooking authority Rick Bayless by way of a restaurant in Jalisco that specializes in birria, a savory stew that’s really a bowl of chile-based broth combined with chopped or pulled roasted meat and served with corn tortillas, onions, cilantro and fresh lime. Now my mouth is watering. There are a few easy steps and in the end you wind up with something authentically delicious that you could serve to real Mexicans or a deserving bunch of gringos. I use a deboned leg that’s been tied, but on the bone might be even better (more flavor). First, you steam it, well-wrapped, on a rack in the oven over a watery bed of onions and garlic.

out of the oven

If you’ve eaten some gamey old goat somewhere and are afraid to try it again, be brave. A young goat which has met its end at around 9 months and who, up until then, frolicked happily in green pastures, is sweet, tender and delicious.

spice of life

The next step is to make a wonderful chile sauce rich with sesame seeds and classic Mexican spices, including clove, cinnamon and cumin. I also used Mexican oregano which we grew in our garden last summer and dried. Very satisfying.

chile today

Still a chile virgin? ¡Basta! This is your moment. Latinos are now so prevalent in this country that you can usually find a good selection in most markets, but you can also order them here or here. Many of the Mexican chiles are not super-spicy; it’s more about their complex flavor that includes hints of chocolate, wine and earth.

glazed over

You separate the steamed (and now slightly cooled) meat into big hunks, lay it in a roasting pan and pour most of the sauce over. Then it roasts until the meat is beautifully glazed. While it’s in the oven, you take the remaining chile sauce, the oniony liquid left over from the steaming step, as well as tomatoes, agave and cider vinegar, and blend it all into the sauce you’ll serve with the roasted goat.

shreds of evidence

When the goat is done, you chop or shred it as you would barbecued pork. I like to pour some of the sauce over it, and serve the rest at the table, along with chopped onion, cilantro and some hot sauce, like Tabasco.

a crisp slaw is the perfect side dish

I make a simple slaw to tuck into warm tortillas along with the goat meat. You can find my recipe here. Together, it’s pretty much the perfect combination of salty, spicy, sweet, tangy and savory, with just the right crunch. For dessert, I made a chocolate sorbet spiked with a little cinnamon. It was pretty divine. Let me know if you’re interested in that recipe.

come to the table

Is there anything better than sitting down for a late Saturday lunch with good friends?

Remember “Singles,” Cameron Crowe’s 1992 film about young love and indie music in Seattle? No? I’m not surprised. It really wasn’t that good. But I’ll never forget how Bridget Fonda’s character, who was hopelessly in love with Matt Dillon’s indifferent rocker, waited in vain for him to say “Bless you” every time she sneezed. In my family we always said “Salud” whenever someone sneezed. To not say it was unthinkable. Like a jinx. What with spring allergies kicking in and everyone getting those changing-season colds, there’s lots of sneezing going on nowadays. If you’ve got a scratchy throat, runny nose or just a general malaise, try this therapeutic treat. It’s a sorbet—from Jeni’s, of course—packed with vitamin C, soothing honey and a fiery combination of ginger, bourbon and cayenne. It feels restorative and it will definitely clear a few things right up.

back to the rind

The recipe calls for fresh orange and lemon juices. I had Cara Cara and blood oranges on hand, and they imparted a gorgeous coral color to the final sorbet. You could definitely get creative with the citrus here.

so grate

My friend Tomo brought many treats back from her recent trip to Japan, including this delicate but strong bamboo brush, ideal for flicking ginger off your grater. I recently picked up some excellent ginger-related tips from this video, and now I always keep a piece in my freezer. Jeni’s recipe calls for powdered ginger, but I used fresh, finely grated. I’m sure this made my sorbet even spicier than hers. What can I say? I have Latin blood.

hot stuff

I use cayenne a lot in my cooking. Just a pinch adds that certain yo no se que (that’s Spanish for je ne sais quoi) to everything from scrambled eggs, salad dressing and granola to chocolate meringue cookies and tequila cocktails.

get the scoop

I didn’t have the liquid pectin called for and the sorbet seemed fine without it, but I’ve learned that Jeni’s recipes are perfectly calibrated to create the best textures, so pick some up if you can. There’s something irresistible about the way this sorbet goes down icy-cool yet spicy-hot. I prescribe it for whatever ails you.

I still haven’t found any ramps, but it has begun to rain at long last and this is a promising sign for foragers. The forecast includes some nights in the 20s this week, though, and with everything in full bud, I fear for some of the less hardy plants. It was a strange winter and is shaping up to be a very strange spring indeed. Still, for some people it’s ramp business as usual, as you can see by the bunches I brought home from the local farmers market. Here are some ideas for how to use them if you, too, have access. Green garlic or slim scallions would also work with these recipes.

rooting around

As more than one person has pointed out lately, ramps—like all wild edibles—must be harvested responsibly. They have that wonderful wild taste that Euell Gibbons talked about, not quite like anything else, and people have gone so nuts for the whole locavore thing, that there has been a lot of pillaging and plundering of ramp patches from here to West Virginia. We’ve actually planted a bunch in a wet corner of our backyard, so we’ll see what happens there…

clean start

You can roast or grill whole ramps to great effect, but you can also separate the bulbs from the greens and use them in different ways. Like other alliums, they have a sheer, sometimes slimy membrane that needs to be removed along with the root end.

put up or shut up

I love to pickle ramps. You can pour hot brine over raw ramps, if they’re slimmer than your pinkie; otherwise you should probably blanch them first. Here is my recipe.

what’s brine is yours

Pickled ramps are delicious with cheese, grilled meats and roast chicken, on sandwiches and in martinis. They brine is also excellent mixed with seltzer or cocktails, or instead of vinegar in salad dressings.

ends zone

The greens are quite good sauteed in olive oil and butter, mixed into a frittata or mashed potatoes. They can also be blanched and pureed into a soup, or mixed with butter as I did.

butter up

This surprisingly mild ramp butter was the perfect dip for peppery French breakfast radishes. I also stirred a little into soft-scrambled eggs, and slathered some on roasted fish.

green construction

With the rest of the ramp greens, I decided to try replicating a delicious preparation I had recently at the beautiful Japanese restaurant in Manhattan, En Brasserie. They served a fat stack of room-temperature, cooked ramped greens topped with tender ramp bulbs, in a pool of what I determined to be warijoyu, a combination of dashi, soy sauce and mirin that is traditionally served with steamed vegetables. What’s amazing is how silky the ramp greens become when poached. It was a bit of work to stack them up like this, but worth it for the presentation and the satisfaction of getting a nice compact mouthful.

en-ticing

I served the ramp greens with scallops also poached in the warijoyu, a drizzle of wasabi-spiked mayonnaise and a sprinkling of sansho pepper. Light and quietly rampageous.

We’ve scarcely had any rain up here in the hinterlands. I’ve even considered doing some sort of little dance in an effort to placate the gods. A winter without snow means no melts to form the vernal pools where frogs and salamanders spawn, and it can also lead to precious few mushrooms. (And this was to be my year of tracking down morels!) But driving home late the other night, we came across a yearly event that would seem to indicate that things are mostly proceeding according to plan: smashed frogs on the road. Yes, every year they make the trek from the ponds behind our house to the ones across the way. I know not why as it seems like a dangerous endeavor. A good number give up their precious lives along the journey to greener pastures. Out in the woods, we found other signs of spring, too.

love, stinks

These gorgeous trillium—trillium erectum, to be precise—nodded at us from the forest floor. They are also known as Stinking Benjamin because the blood-red blooms give off a fetid odor that attracts the flies responsible for pollinating this deceptively dainty plant.

free lunch (well, almost)

After a day tromping trough the woods (and my friend Michael’s property), I was able to rustle up quite a refined little dish of fusilli with Japanese knotweed cream sauce and a swirl of wild garlic pesto.

wild bunches

Although similar to ramps—which are sometimes mistakenly referred to as “wild garlic,” or correctly referred to as “wild leeks”—you’ll notice that the greens on this wild garlic are decidedly thinner and more wispy than those of ramps. Paradoxically, wild garlic also seems to be a bit milder in odor if not in flavor than its allium cousin.

allium vineale

This plant was actually difficult for me to positively identify, as there is also something called “wild onion,” allium canadense, that looks quite a bit like it. If anyone can corroborate, please do so.

not for vampires

Thinking they might be incredibly potent, I blanched a medium handful of cleaned stalks (roots and tips trimmed), then pureed them with a tablespoon or so of pine nuts, some good olive and a little parmesan. The taste was out of this world—not pungent at all, so I’m not even sure if the blanching was necessary. And what a beautifully vivid green, no?

knotweed is/is not a weed

As we walked along the brook, I noticed the first shoots of Japanese knotweed (Fallopia japonica) poking up and grabbed any that were about 6-8 inches long. An ornamental plant that was coveted in Victorian times for the delicate sprays of white flowers it produces in late summer, Japanese knotweed is now considered a noxious invasive species because of how quickly it spreads and takes over. Despite its noduled and hollow-stalked bamboo-like appearance, it’s actually related to sorrel and rhubarb, and has a similar mouth-puckering astringency.

string theory

Like rhubarb, it is a vegetable that lends itself to both sweet and savory preparations. Many sources I consulted recommend literally substituting it in any recipe that calls for rhubarb, but Euell Gibbons, my de facto (read, dead) mentor, wrote that it has an affinity for butter and cream. So I decided to boil them until soft and then puree them with a little of both. The result was extremely tasty, with a crisp vegetal tartness that balanced the richness; something akin to asparagus or sorrel. My only quibble is that no one mentioned the rather overt stringiness, along the lines of celery. The strings weren’t so tough as to be problematic in the dish, but next time I might push the sauce through a fine strainer.

green piece

So with your freshly foraged Japanese knotweed and wild garlic—or even with asparagus and green garlic from the farmers market—this is the dish to make. Wild things, you make my heart sing.

What a week. Couple of weeks, really. I am burnt. A lot of shopping and cooking, driving back and forth from the city, and a ton of work. You remember I actually have a business as a copywriter, right? Churning out loads of information-packed, pithy, witty little lines? Yep. What I do here is just for us chickens. But I loves it. One of the many rewards is getting to share with you recipes like this one, for a truly historic dessert: the Pavlova. I first posted about it way back in the Early Bloggian period, here; and it made another appearance at an Eastover celebration a couple of years ago, here. It’s truly one of my very favorite desserts, so texturally complex, light yet satisfying. And I also adore its provenance: created in honor of the Russian ballet dancer, Anna Pavlova, during one of her tours to Australia and New Zealand in the 1920s. The nationality of its creator has been a source of argument between the two countries for many years, though formal research seems to indicate that New Zealand is the original source.

peak experience

To make the meringue base, you can follow the recipe on either of my past posts I linked to above. I made one slight tweak this time, which was to lower the oven to 275º and leave it in slightly longer. What you want to achieve is a disc of featherweight meringue that is crisp on the outside and still soft, almost like a marshmallow within. Divine.

cool whip

I am eternally in awe of the way air can transform a few lowly egg whites and bit of sugar and cornstarch into such a voluptuous, glossy and copious mass. If you are using hand-held beaters rather than a KitchenAid, do be sure you beat a bit longer, until your meringue is shiny and firm.

base of operations

Use a rubber spatula to form your meringue into a circle atop a parchment-lined baking sheet. You want to make a crater with slightly raised sides, into which you will spoon your toppings later. Do not panic: the meringue will not “fall,” so you can take your time to sculpt the right shape before this goes in the oven. Once in, don’t open the door all the time “just to check on it.” It’s fine. Leave it alone. It needs the consistent temperature.

sunny disposition

Pavlovas are most often topped with some kind of whipped cream (Chantilly, Devon, créme fraîche) and some combination of fresh fruit (kiwi, berries, mango, etc). I think the crisp-crusted meringue makes the perfect foil for a rich and creamy curd and, while lemon is lovely, my heart belongs to passionfruit. I would like to bathe in the stuff. I felt like a wealthy woman after making 8 cups of it for Eastover. I am hoarding my leftovers like a batty old woman. If you don’t have fresh passionfruit puree, fear not. It’s a lot of work, for one thing, and it’s also available frozen, with no additives. Look for it in Latin or Asian markets, or order some online, here. (Expensive, but it’s like liquid gold.)

hit the sauce

A Pavlova is a lily that can take a lot of gilding. The meringue is relatively benign, and it’s built to have things piled on it, so why not? Over a slick of passionfruit curd, I layered strawberry sauce and fresh blueberries (for color and textural contrast). Do you know how to make a fresh fruit sauce? With summer on its way, you really should. I’ll teach you the technique(s) for that soon.

broken promises

In anticipation of Eastover, I made three, count ‘em, three meringue bases. We ended up only needing two. As you can see, they are not easy to transport. If you look closely, especially on the right side, you can see the way the top crust has lifted off the soft, creamy center. This is what you want. And believe me, you want it. The curd, by the way? Vivid yellow, buttery and sweet, with a velvet mouthfeel and the most gorgeous floral taste. As good straight from the spoon as it is eaten on toast, with yogurt, swirled into ice cream or slathered on shortbread.

The main course for our Eastover celebration was this bacon-wrapped halibut and I’m pretty pleased with how it turned out. I had originally wanted to serve local trout but there was none to be had. Those few days of exceedingly warm temperatures had me (and many of my plants) fooled into thinking spring had actually arrived, but the sad reality is that it’s been dropping to the 20s at night. G is outside right now building two new raised beds and we’re itching to start planting…but I digress. I arrived at the fish market last week, firmly intending to buy 17 whole branzini (sea bass), but changed my mind when I realized how much work that would be for some of my guests. Instead, I came away with two enormous, thick and gorgeous wild-caught Pacific halibut filets. (Need to know which fish are sustainable and thus a better choice? Go here.) My plan was to wrap them in bacon and roast them in the oven.

fish, cake

Turns out I am not the first person to think of bacon-wrapped halibut. People like Oprah and Rachel Ray have recipes for this online. But I did it my way. I had to, because there was no way I was going to sauté 17 pieces of fish on top of the stove. Mine is a dead-simple technique and the result it truly delicious. I think it would work with any thick, meaty fish. I simply removed the skin, cut the fish into chunks roughly the same size, and rubbed them with olive oil and pepper.

wrap it up

My one trick? I pre-cooked the bacon—not all the way, it needs to remain pliable enough to wrap around the fish. I decided this would help it attain the right crispiness, and also cook off some of the excess fat. I even blitzed the fish under the broiler for the last couple of minutes to bring it on home. As far as how long to cook your fish, it really depends on the thickness. You don’t want to wait until you see the fish flaking, and if it starts to ooze that white stuff (I think it’s albumen, a kind of protein), you’ve definitely overdone it. 10 minutes per inch of thickness is a loose rule. Mine was perfectly cooked and infused with a subtly smoky saltiness that offset the mild flavor of the halibut quite nicely. I encourage you to go fish.

Let me just say, that picture does not do them justice. Quenelle is a generic term for a mixture of creamed fish, chicken or meat, sometimes combined with breadcrumbs and lightly bound with egg. Essentially glorified dumplings, they are usually poached and were often used as a garnish in traditional French haute cuisine. Quenelle has also come to refer to the gently rounded shape, made by passing the mixture from one spoon to the next, until it resembles a tiny football. I’m not sure where I tasted my first quenelle de brochet, the pike mousseline version that is a classic of Lyonnaise cooking, but it remains one of my favorite treats. Rarely seen on menus at this point (and when they are, you’d better be at a reliably good French restaurant), you’d have to go to France to sample one—or man up and make them yourself. I envisioned them as the perfect replacement for the much-maligned and rejected gefilte fish—essentially a cold, butter-&-creamless version of the quenelle.

back to the grind

I’m not going to lie to you: making quenelles requires some work. The only classic French cookbook I have (an original Julia Child from my mother’s collection) is buried in storage somewhere, so I was casting about on the interwebs for a good recipe. I came across several, including a very recent, very authentic and very beautifully detailed one posted by the prolific Francis Lam in his latest incarnation on Gilt Taste. (He also says you can get a good quenelle de brochet in Manhattan, here.) In the end, I combined much of his recipe with elements from a few others, to create a flourless, somewhat less labor-intensive quenelle that turned out light as air yet paradoxically richer than Croesus. You start, as above, by processing skinless fish filets into a puree. I used pike with a little carp thrown in; trout would also work.

batter up

Then you add eggs, cream and butter and whip it into a silky smooth paste. Season this with salt and cayenne. White pepper is traditional but I think it smells and taste like horse manure so I left it out. The paste is then refrigerated for 12 hours, which allows it to set enough that you can form it into its requisite shape.

perfect form

Shaping the quenelles was perhaps the most challenging step. I think if you make the traditional “panade,” which uses flour as a thickening agent, the paste holds up a bit more. I opted for a gluten-free version and so ended up with a slightly looser paste. BUT, it still worked, and may have resulted in an even more gossamer quenelle. For a brief tutorial in shaping the quenelles, Francis refers you to this video. You’ll get the general idea, though the chef mispronounces “quenelle” and skips what I think is a crucial step—rinsing the spoons in hot water between the forming of each one. As in all things, practice makes perfect. I made about 35 of these and, by the end, they looked a lot better.

freshly poached

You poach them in batches in simmering, well-salted water. Nude and vulnerable, they cry out for a lovely sauce. Traditionally, it’s a creamy crayfish sauce but I took Francis’ advice and bought some lobster bisque from my fishmonger (sacrilege! but so convenient) and doctored it up with a little cognac and—in yet another nod to Passover—a heaping cup of freshly grated horseradish. Bathed in this dreamy sauce, puffed up in a hot oven and liberally garnished with chives, this was a first course worthy of celebration. One of our guests said it was the best thing he had ever eaten. That’s no faint praise.

When it comes to entertaining, I’m a bit of a control freak. (OK, even sometimes when I’m not entertaining.) I happen to like things just so. When I invite people over I want them to feel relaxed and indulged. To me, this means the proceedings should be well-conceived, flow comfortably and add up to a pleasant experience for all the senses. I like soft lighting, good tunes, incense or scented candles (subtle and spicy, nothing cloying), comfortable places to sit, beautiful flowers, excellent company and good food. I get as much done ahead of time as possible so I can kick back and have a lovely time along with my guests. This particular Eastover menu had me in the kitchen a little more than I like. And a number of people brought hors d’oeuvres, which resulted in lots of food I hadn’t planned for, albeit all quite delicious. Let me tell you about it.

front roe

I made a holiday-appropriate version of April Bloomfield’s divine bottarga sandwiches, using matzo instead of pane carasau, the paper-thin Sardinian flatbread. Nobody can resist the crunchy, buttery, salty, spicy, umami combination—even those who would normally avoid something as unusual as dried fish roe.

in a pickle

These pickled radishes spiced with shichimi togarashi are an easy and refreshing snack, and they’re good for the digestion, too.

green light

I also made a chilled watercress soup, whose slight bitterness is offset with a dollop of crème fraîche. I served it in these lovely paper cups. (I know, I felt guilty.)

for the birds

I saw a recipe for Jim Lahey’s bird’s nest pizza a couple of weeks back and instantly thought of asking my friend Tomo to make a couple for the party. She’s such an expert pizza-maker, and often whips up Jim Lahey’s dough, so I was emboldened to put in a request. She arrived with a couple of picture-perfect pies, topped with shaved asparagus tangles that nestled beautifully cooked quail’s eggs.

slice of life

And she also brought a couple more topped with thinly sliced potatoes and slivers of bacon. All the pizzas were devoured in no time.

have a ball

Tomo almost never shows up without some Japanese delicacy and this time is was these gorgeous pink rice balls, wrapped in cherry leaves and perfumed with dried cherry blossoms. I guess she couldn’t resist since the cherry blossom (sakura) is Japan’s national flower and heralds the arrival of spring. They had a delicate floral aroma and taste. The rice was also cooked to perfection, of course.

On top of all this bounty, Stephanie made deviled eggs, and Roman and Renata brought their traditional Ukrainian sausage, a kind of wonderfully smoky kielbasa, with horseradish mayonnaise, raw beet-and-horseradish relish and a spicy brown mustard. It was all irresistible, and I’m sure you can understand how stuffed we were before the first course even appeared. I’m tempted to complain, but this is a seriously First World problem.