A dinner at Piccola Cucina - By B

The dinner I had the other night truly captured the essence of the experience of food.   Yes, the food was incredible, and I will attempt to describe it, but it wasn’t just the food, it was the company, the atmostphere, the sights and sounds, it was the full experience.

First, I have to explain how I arrived at this dinner.  It started a few years ago, through a long, and strange story, when I met Chris.  We quickly became friends and together created a lot of crazy memories painting the town red, which is a very polite and politically correct way to cover a multitude of sins.  One in particular forever changed my mental reference to Yonkers.  But eventually, we lost touch, for a variety of reasons that I’m not sure either of us could fully explain.  It was only through the ever-misunderstood value of facebook that two years later I still had any connection to Chris.  It was just a few weeks ago that we reconnected.   By the way, I am aware of how vague that back-story is, but that’s neither here nor there.  It is merely a back story and all you really need to know is that this was dinner with an old friend.  

So he picked me up after work, and we headed off to a Mexican place, we weren’t in search of culinary genius, just a dinner to catch up over.  However, it’s hard to do that at a restaurant that no longer exists.  So we headed downtown into SoHo for sushi… for which there was an hour wait, an hour that our grumbling stomachs were not willing to wait.  We began wandering the neighborhood, stopping to read the menus outside a few neighborhood hole-in-the-wall restaurants.  If you’re not already aware, this is one of, if not the only true way, to find some of the best restaurants in the world, no matter what town or city you happen to find yourself in. 

We nearly stopped for rabbit pot pie, and later quickly said no to the traditional, potentially pedestrian, Italian food.  However, we stumbled upon a teeny-tiny, barely-contains-seats-for-thirty, homey-without-being-rustic, Italian place.  The few tables appeared to be taken, and when we asked how long the wait would be, the young girl who greeted us scurried over to ask the man by the bar.  He was dressed in black, with a non-descript white apron, kerchiefed at the neck and wearing a gently-loved fedora.  Throughout the rest of the evening he appeared to jump quickly, but comfortably, between the roles of host, chef, waiter, owner, and even our oldest friend, introducing us to his wife between dinner and coffee courses. 

Upon greeting us, he asked, almost apologetically in his breaking English if we could wait just 15 minutes.  For anyone who knows Manhattan, 15 minutes for a good meal can hardly be considered waiting.  Nevertheless, to thank us for our patience he quickly produced two flutes of Prosecco to sip while we watched him separate a small end table from a larger set table.  He pulled it six inches over the threshold of the open French doors to the side walk and reset it.  He sat us with a humble “wha-la” flourish.  I was in love with him and his restaurant before I’d even taken a bite.

We sipped prosecco and perused the menu while settling in, I explained the Italian course names, Primi and Secondi to Chris while wistfully remembering my college semester in Rome when I actually spoke Italian.  We chatted with the slightly flighty, but charming, Russian turned American waitress, who we found out is now married to a “cute- Italian.”  After our order was taken, a friendly taste from the chef arrived in front of us: fresh mozzarella buffalo, fried in breadcrumbs light enough to make you forget the frying.  It rested on pesto so thin that it barely held its decorative line down the plate, yet produced a basil flavor as fresh as any garden plant.  This unexpected treat set the mood for the meal, a leisurely Italian meal with plenty of room for digesting and chatting with each other and the staff in between courses.   

My choice of appetizer brought clams and mussels bathed and soaking in a thin tomato broth, with thick, crunchy, crostini to mop up the flavorful sauce.  Not a bad way for Chris to taste his first mussels, lucky for him I was willing to share.  The bite he gave me of a caprese wrapped in thin slices of swordfish (resting on the same bright green pesto) was simply not enough and I was forced to steal another, the mozzarella oozing out as my fork pierced the tender fish. 

For the main course my pasta arrived full of sweet golden raisins, thin slices of sardine which were almost imperceptible in sight, but never in flavor, and enhanced by underlying tones of fennel.  There was no fancy presentation, no frilly garnish, and it was never missed.  Across the table Chris’ tender lamb chops arrived stacked neatly amongst cherry tomatoes.

While we resisted the temptation of dessert, my steaming Americano came with another pleasant surprise, a small cordial of Italian liquor, warming my insides more than the coffee.   Throughout all of this, we were greeted by any and all three of the staff members, sometimes almost arriving at the same time.  The service wasn’t about who our server was or which patrons each was designated to, instead it felt very much that we were simply there for dinner and they were simply there to host us.  This is the type of place, and the type of dinner, that takes hours to eat, but in which I get so lost in that I don’t realize the time until it finally reaches an almost sad end.  It is the type of place that leaves me wishing I had a better vocabulary to capture its essence, but I don’t think words, any words, will ever do it justice. 

This restaurant, and this meal provided the perfect backdrop for catching up with an old friend, sharing what happened in each others’ absence, philosophizing about beliefs, and laughing over Yonkers and past stories.  It’s a dinner where the food itself would be worth writing about, but which was so much more, it was an experience. 

-By B

For your own experience at Piccola Cucina: www.piccolacucinanyc.com

Cakes -By B

Yes, I admit, I am one of the many who have jumped on the bandwagon of watching all, or nearly all of the cake shows.  I love Ace of Cakes, Food Network Challenge, Last Cake Standing... and on and on...  I've dreamed of cakes and always thought it would be exciting to create such masterpieces.  So when I started planning a suprise 30th birthday party for one of my closest girlfriends, I begged her husband to please, above all else, let me do the cake!  He, thankfully, had enough faith in my crazy idea, to allow me to.  So I planned a cake... a very ambitious (for a first timer), three tier, buttercream frosted, handpiped cake.  Did I have experience in any of these areas?  Of course not.

But there's something you will need to know about me dear reader, something that is particularly true when I'm in the kitchen.  I tend to get these ideas in my head and then, I become unable to let them go.  Furthermore, I refuse to believe I can't turn them into reality. Ultimately, I think this is what makes me successful in my endeavors.  I simply refuse to believe that I can't do something, therefore, with a little online reseach, and a whole lot of gumption, I can. 

So I prepared for the (three tier, buttercream frosted and hand piped) cake: borrowing pans, reading online instructions and tips, purchasing piping bags, researching recipes, and trying to ignore any doubts that attempted to creep into my head.  Along the way I came to the realization that it was either going to be amazing ... or disasterous. 

Well, I don't think it qualified for a win on The Food Network Challenge, but for a first attempt, I thought it was pretty darn amazing.  But I'll let you judge for yourself:

But what I discovered in the process of this creation - was that it was really fun.  And soon, a hobby was upon me....

Cupcakes for Alexandra's 2nd birthday:

My first trip into the land of fondant for another birthday:

And with each project came lessons... For instance, I wish I had let these ribbon loops sit on their sides a bit longer to set stronger and then they would have sat up a little taller. But this is part of the fun - learning and doing it better the next time...

Potato Salad -By B

It was Easter, a family day.  An afternoon typically reserved for egg hunts, pastel dresses and, as with most holidays, a family meal.  However, I live a couple thousand miles from my family, and Easter is not one of the holidays I make the flight home for.  This year, I had made no preparations for Easter, it kind of snuck up on me.  My mind and schedule were busy with work, home projects and a 3 tier cake for a certain little man's first birthday (yes, there will be a post on that later!).  And as long as I'm being honest, I should admit that there was a part of me that didn't want to think about Easter, a holiday away from my family, with no plans. 

To say that I have no family where I live is not a completely accurate statement.  I am part of a small church plant on Long Island, and while most of my family is on the West coast- I have another family here- my church family.  They have become my brothers and sisters, and some of my closest confidants and supporters.  They will also probably play a significant role in this blog, as they are the ones I cook for most often, my designated taste-testers.  So after our Easter morning service we engaged in usual chatter, sipping coffee and guiltily nibbling yet-another-cookie.  During this the realization came about that last year we shared a huge Easter meal, including communion with the largest loaf of bread you've ever seen, and vowed it to be tradition. Yet this year, it had not been organized.  The next realization was that I was not the only one without Easter plans, and quickly, the tradition was back on.

Within a few short minutes it was decided who's house we would gather at as well as other details. With a long-awaited warm day upon us, the grill would be cleaned, and that pre-seasoned pork tenderloin in their freezer could be defrosted.  The birthday party the day before had yielded a significant amount of leftover cookies and cake which meant dessert was covered.  And since I was the one woman in the planning group not pregnant, and I typically need no excuse to cook, I volunteered to cover everything else.  This also meant I only half-listened to the rest of the conversation as my mind spun with what sides would be put together in the next few hours. 
By the time I reached home, I knew the menu, and exactly where to find the recipes I needed.  The sides "-By B" would be a Cranberry Jello Salad, Potato Salad and Deviled Eggs.  Yes, that's right, I'm starting a food blog talking about about Jello Salad, Potato Salad and Deviled Eggs.  I assure you, my food is typically a bit more elevated than this on the culinary scale, but, this Potato Salad, is not just Potato Salad, and neither are the eggs or the jello.  There is history, memories, and love wrapped up in each.

The Potato Salad is a recipe found in a family cook book assembled by my cousins a few years ago.  A recipe submitted by my paternal grandmother.  If you were to see this recipe, I am sure it would seem like an ordinary potato salad to you, and it is.  But when I see it, when I taste it, it floods my mind with backyard bar-b-que's in rare Oregon sunshine, surrounded by family, younger cousins running around, and laughter.  I think of my grandparents, my parents, my cousins, aunt, uncles... I remember my family. 

The Cranberry Jello Salad is a recipe that was passed to me by my maternal grandmother just a couple years ago, after years of her making it for me.  It's full of cranberries, celery, orange, and other tasty ingredients, but in the end, no matter what, jello salad never ranks very high in culinary greatness.  But when I make it, when I taste it, I remember how my grandmother used to make it for my Valentine birthday when I was young, creating a heart-shaped mold that was all for me, because it was one of my favorites.  It appeared at many holiday tables, but more than that, I think of the last couple years when she and I had opportunity to stand side by side in the kitchen while she taught me "her way" to make the salad, slightly varied, but slightly better, than the recipe. The taste of this salad is wrapped up with moments we shared, working together, moments too few and far between now.

The Deviled Eggs were not a passed down recipe (and really, do you need a recipe for deviled eggs?), but there was a holiday gathering with the family years ago when I was put in charge of them, surely because it was a simple dish and I was still a young kid just learning the kitchen.  But oh how grandpa raved over them.  And it became a dish I loved to make for family gatherings.  My grandmother even gave me a crystal plate from the recesses of her China cabinet with indents around the edge perfect for holding each egg.  Deviled Eggs may be simple, they may not be fancy, they may even be cliche, but its the first dish I remember being proud of.

My family may not be close, geographically speaking, but this Easter as I worked in my kitchen, they were all around me, memories dancing in my head, the nostalgia almost overwhelming.  And in the evening, I took the not-so-glorious dishes -By B to my other family, sharing them with dear friends, surrounded by love.  This is the experience of food for me, it is so much more than the food.  Whenever you cook, especially when cooking for others, please remember to take a moment and look around.  Appreciate the people you are with and the memories you are making.  Your food doesn't have to be fancy to be special. 

-By B