I've been quite taken of late with all the little vegetable dishes on offer at restaurants of all sorts. Starters often include numerous ingeniously composed salads that really let seasonal produce shine. Sides are no longer merely a choice between boring steamed broccoli or french fries, and I've been known to make a whole meal from the enticing options—pureed squash with hazelnuts, chile-sauteed broccoli rabe, ragù of mushrooms, polenta with gorgonzola, fennel braised in cream. I think I've mentioned to you a few lovely meals I've had recently at A Voce, Missy Robbins' Italian-inflected restaurant in New York City's Time Warner Center. The lunch menu includes a selection of verdure, small vegetable dishes like eggplant with calabrian chile; beets with pistachios and orange; cauliflower with almonds and raisins; and a delightfully simple salad of radishes with an anchovy vinaigrette. After trying this last combination, I began craving it at home. It's crisp, salty and satisfying while still being light and healthy.
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I’ve heard it said that truffles taste like dirt and I can’t really disagree, though to me they also have a distinctive musky perfume that is vaguely erotic. These hotly coveted fungi develop underground, generally in close association with certain types of trees. There are hundreds of kinds, though the most prized are those of the genus Tuber, the ones referred to by my hero the 18th-century French gastronaut Brillat-Savarin as “the diamonds of the kitchen.” The white truffle, Alba Madonna, comes from the Piedmont region in northern Italy. It grows symbiotically with oak, hazel, poplar and beech trees, and fruits in autumn—as in right now. Their flesh is pale and creamy or brown with white marbling. Prices vary from year to year according to the harvest, which is rooted out by the famed truffle-hunting pigs (and dogs, and men). This year, I've seen them at Eataly in Manhattan listed at upwards of $3,000 a pound. A counter woman was passing a white truffle the size of a small potato to a man who held it up to his nose, inhaled deeply and nodded. "Somebody's going to have a good dinner," I said. "My-a wife-a," he answered in a thick Italian accent. Better than diamonds.
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Saw The Social Network last night. I think Fincher's best movie thus far. He really got out of his own way for a change, and Aaron Sorkin's screenplay will probably win the Oscar. It's a great portrait of tortured soul and Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg, whose stupefying mix of arrogant brilliance and crippling insecurity reminded me of half the people I encountered at Harvard, especially the genius-geeks whose shameless misogyny stemmed from never being able to get a date. The film is  less about the phenomenon of social networking than it is about the irony that the dude who creates it is a social outsider. Jesse Eisenberg gives a flawless performance, his face a motionless enigma that rarely jerks into a grimace we come to recognize as a smile. Movie night was preceded by yet another trip to Eataly, this time at the sub-prime hour of 4pm. The place was buzzing but  not overcrowded, and G and I slipped right into a couple of seats at the counter of Pesce. An appetizer of razor clams bathed in olive oil, parsley, garlic and hot pepper was delicious, a harbinger of things to come. Both G's whole branzino, infused with lemon and roasted on a thin crust of half-crispy-half-velvety potatoes, and my smoked black cod with a crackling skin and salad of watercress were fresh off the boat and perfectly executed. A quick trip to the gelato stand (chocolate for G, equally smooth and unctuous pear-vanilla sorbetto for me) and we were off to the races. I love a dose of the city on an unseasonably warm fall day.
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The great pumpkin returns, this time in the tender little dumplings known as gnocchi, meaning "lumps" in Italian. Probably of Middle Eastern origin, they were introduced by the Roman Legions during the enormous expansion of the empire. At that time, gnocchi were made from a porridge-like semolina dough mixed with eggs, which bears a resemblance to the saffron-infused basis for malloreddus, Sicily's signature dumpling. Although potato is what you'll see most often, pumpkin or any sort of squash also make a wonderful addition to these chubby nuggets. The key is to ensure their lightness by using as little flour as possible. If you can get your hands on a kabocha squash (sometimes called Japanese pumpkin), you'll find that their dense, dry flesh can make up the bulk.

 

The making of gnocchi is not an exact science. You take pumpkin or squash, flour, a little egg, some grated cheese and you mix it together to make a dough. You don't want to beat it or knead it a great deal as this can rob it of some of the quintessential lightness that makes gnocchi so irresistible. You roll the dough into long snake-like coils and chop these into the bite-sized pieces you will begin to recognize. Push a fork into each one to create the signature striations so adept at catching sauce and you're done. Simply plop them into boiling water until they float, then scoop them out and serve with brown butter and sage. Or, as I prefer, sear them next in a hot pan with a little olive oil or butter so they get a bit crisp, then top them with anything you like: roasted tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, a scoop of ricotta, pesto, virtually anything goes.

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Clearly, this was a banner year for winter squash. We planted a single plant and in return reaped this one mini Blue Hubbard in the foreground, above. But at Riverbrook Farm, they've been harvesting them by the barrel. In the back is a Cinderella pumpkin, a beautiful French heirloom also known as Rouge Vif d'Etampes. It first became available in the U.S. in 1883. The bumpy one at left is called Marina di Chioggia, another heirloom, this one with roots in the Italian coastal town for which it's named. The rich sweet flesh is deep yellow-orange and especially prized for making gnocchi. (Stay tuned later this week!) The other greyish one is an Australian variety—can't remember what it's called. They had at least a dozen varieties at the farm and I was a bit overwhelmed by the choices. Resting on top is the lovely striped Delicata. I would imagine it got its name from its thinner skin, or possibly from the fine-textured golden flesh that has a sweet, nutty flavor. I roasted mine and stirred chunks of it, along with flecks of smoked ham and fresh sage, into a risotto made with brown carnaroli rice.
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I've now made two trips to Eataly, New York City's new temple of Italian gastronomy, and although I haven't actually eaten anything on premises, I'm able to give you my initial impressions. On my first visit, shortly after it opened in late August, I muscled my way through the throngs of gaping tourists and irritated locals in what looked a lot like an Italian airport, barely able to check it all out before fleeing to the relative calm of 23rd Street. Porca miseria, I texted G. What a mob scene! And for what? A small, bedraggled-looking produce section (and alleged "produce butcher" Jennifer Rubell nowhere in sight); aisle after aisle of dried pasta; very pricey imported salume (culatello for $65 a pound!); walls cluttered with the kind of boxed biscotti and candies you find at most corner delis...well, you can see I was underwhelmed. (And the thought of the carbon footprint on much of this stuff gives me pause.) Still, I did get a glimpse of what looked like a very impressive selection of fresh pasta. Pat La Frieda's meats caught my eye, as did whole fresh duck, sweetbreads and tripe—not a common sight in most butcher shops. And the seafood counter, curated by the master David Pasternak, was flawless. La Verdura, a counter serving vegetable-based dishes and the only menu I eyeballed, seemed very promising. Now if all those people would just fuck off...
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Bear with me as I learn to use G's camera. I prefer to do things I'm already good at (I know that's so wimpy), so this means going beyond my comfort zone. That said, I'm having fun with it and it may ultimately mean more photos of dishes in progress, which might be helpful for you. Now, to artichoke hearts. I love the rich, buttery goodness that lies nestled within all those leathery leaves, the secret heart buried in this armored flower. But I'm not the hugest fan of the canned variety, finding them a bit slimy and strangely acidic, nor of the marinated kind in a jar that often swim in insipid oil. So what's a glutton to do but try to make them from scratch? Believe it or not, I couldn't find a recipe that didn't start with either big globe artichokes or a bag of frozen hearts. And what I had were these little beauties...
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The editors of Food52 picked one of my recipes as the wildcard winner this week! Hooray! They called my Tuscan chicken liver paté “a rich dose of umami,” which indeed it is thanks to the addition of anchovy, capers, parmesan, shallots, garlic and wine. This is not your Jewish grandmother’s chopped chicken liver! It is a gussied-up Tuscan version—taught to me by a diehard Italophile—and it really is a winner, especially when served with a garnish of fried sage leaves and a glass of prosecco or, my personal favorite, Lambrusco. Amanda Hesser tweeted that it would be a good prelude to spaghetti carbonara, but I can't agree—better before a whole roasted sea bass served with broccoli rabe.

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Risotto is one of those dishes that have been made to seem intimidating: all that stirring! the right rice! the stock! Newsflash: it's overrated. Not its deliciousness, that's indisputable, but its difficulty quotient. Simply assemble the right ingredients, have the patience to hang around the stove for 25 minutes or so, and you wind up with a rich, creamy bowl of goodness that works with so many different flavors. As for the right ingredients, it's really about the rice. A long-grain white rice is what you need for a classic risotto (although farro and barley make interesting variations), such as Arborio, Vialone Nano and Carnaroli, known as the "caviar of rice." Riso Acquerello is a kind of Carnaroli grown in Piedmont, and the one used exclusively by Le Cirque for its famous risotto. In a unique process, it's aged for at least a year to develop its structure and ensure that the grains are polished to perfection. A high starch content allows it to absorb liquid beautifully, so the rice retains a toothy "al dente" quality while acquiring a creamy consistency—the two hallmarks of the ultimate risotto.

There are so many different possibilities for risotto: with saffron for a classic Milanese; with the first peas and asparagus of spring; with pureed squash stirred in; with porcini; and on and on. The recipe, below, is inspired by the Italian master chef Nino Bergese, whose Riso Mantecato is decadent with butter and requires absolutely no stirring at all. I've called my version Risotto da Re (The King's Risotto), because it's fit for royalty: unctuous, luxurious and taken to new heights with a spoonful of rich meat stock ladled on top. It was selected as an Editor's Pick on Food52, an honor of which I do not tire.
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This cake came about because I found some gorgeous-looking hazelnut flour when I was poring over the Market Hall Foods website and I had some lovely fresh ricotta from the farm upstate. Plus I'm always looking for new, gluten-free treats for G so he doesn't feel deprived in this wheat-centric world. Sicilians make a ricotta cheesecake with chopped hazelnuts, perfumed with lemon zest, so that—and the classic Italian hazelnut cake—was my inspiration. It's sort of my own hybrid, so I've called it Torta "La Cosa Nostra," but after sharing it with you, I won't have to kill you. Light yet rich, it has a dense but crumbly texture. As with my orange-almond flour cake, I like to sprinkle the top with demerara sugar (a raw cane sugar with a large crystal) which forms a lovely crunchy crust. The cake is pretty irresistible served warm with a dollop of creme fraîche or a scoop of lightly sweetened ricotta. It's also good accompanied by fresh, macerated or stewed fruit. (Some suggestions: fresh blood oranges; strawberries macerated in balsamic vinegar; stewed apricots.)
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