Artichoke

The grainy mustard and bacon dressing is best when made and served immediately. The artichokes, however, can be prepared in advance.

If you like, snip the prickly points of the leaves with scissors before you cook the artichokes. The tender leaves and hearts are delicious dipped in Aïoli (page 305).

The baby artichokes are cooked in advance, so they only need to be grilled for a short time.

These make a wonderful addition to any summer salad or antipasto. They can also be served as a side dish for roasted or grilled lamb.

Couscous, a quick-cooking Moroccan staple, gets a Mediterranean makeover with fresh lemon juice, oregano, mint, and feta.

A sprinkling of crumbled feta tops this very tasty mix of fresh spinach, sweet grape tomatoes, artichokes, and basil.

Creamy texture, pretty green color, and assertive taste—this dip has it all!

Braising meat in milk is a classic cooking technique in Italy. The milk acts as a tenderizer and creates a beautiful caramelized sauce. This is a perfect dish for the wood-fired oven or cooker because the braising pot is surrounded on all sides by heat and cooks more evenly. When artichokes aren’t in season, use leeks or even Swiss chard in their place.

Tart crusts can be made from other ingredients, including cooked spaghetti, polenta, and rice, or in this case, thinly sliced potatoes. The goal is to make a crisp, shallow vessel that will contain the filling without leaking. This is especially important when a custard filling is used. The baby artichokes in this recipe can be replaced by thinly sliced artichoke hearts.

This recipe from Georgeanne Brennan shows a classic way to cook in a tajine, layering flavors and food together for the slow, moist cooking. It includes the Moroccan sauce sharmula, which gives a spicy flavor and adds moisture to the fish during the cooking. You can make many variations on this dish, substituting chicken for fish or tomatoes and eggplant for artichokes.

As soon as it’s artichoke season, I often make this dish when I’m firing the oven for making bread or pizza. It’s so very simple in both ingredients and technique, you’ll want to make it often. After you’ve baked your bread, throw this dish in the oven for a quick accompaniment to your meal. The heat from the oven slightly caramelizes the outer leaves of the artichokes and the skins of the lemons. You’ll be amazed at how flavorful and sweet artichokes taste cooked this way! The lemons and juices are used to make a dipping sauce.

This delicious stew of roasted baby artichokes, trumpet mushrooms, and asparagus is a nod to spring. Deborah Madison and I developed this recipe at her Santa Fe home using ingredients from the local farmers’ market and topped it with a lovely goat cheese from northern New Mexico. Upon returning home to Northern California, I roasted the ragout in a clay baker in my wood-fired oven, which further highlighted the earthy flavors. It’s easy to prepare, and the rich broth and meaty mushrooms are so satisfying. All you need is a few hunks of crusty bread and some beautiful cheese and you have a robust supper.

Insalata di Pesce Dove il Mare Non C’è (A Salad of Fish in a Place where there is no Sea). Though the Teramani, in truth, live not so far from the sea, their cuisine is one of the interior, of the highlands, with sea fish playing an insignificant part. And so when we were served this divine little salad in a backstreet osteria in Teramo, it proved a light, breezy surprise for an early spring lunch. When we asked the old chef why he had made such an unexpected dish, he answered that sometimes, even in a place where there is no sea, one can have a desire to eat some good, bracing, and briny-tasting fish.

Perhaps until the beginning of this century, there came always, in the severe mountains of the Abruzzo, a haunting desperation with the first days of May. Bankrupt of the thin stores conserved to abide the incompassionate winter—their handkerchief-sized patches of earth sown a few weeks before—the contadini (farmers) waited then for the land to give up its first nourishment. Often it came too late and many died. And even as time brought more mercy, these terrible days were remembered, the pain of them soothed by a simple ritual. The story says that on the first of May, sette fanciulle virtuose—seven young virgins— went from house to house in a village in the Marsica, the area that suffered most in the past, and begged whatever handful of the winter food that might remain in the larders. And, then, in the town’s square over a great fire in a cauldron, the fanciulle prepared a beautiful pottage to share with all the villagers, to bring them together, to warm them, to keep them safe. The potion was known as la virtù—the virtue. The soup is still made, ritualistically, faithfully, each first of May in many parts of the Abruzzo—most especially in the environs of Teramo, as well as in the Marsica—now more extravagantly, brightening the humble dried beans with spring’s new harvests. Employing even a handful or so of all the ingredients results in a great potful of the soup, assigning it thus as a festival dish. On some sweet day in May, invite twenty-nine or so good people and make the soup for them. The tail of a pig and one of his ears, though they are traditional to the soup, seem optional to me.

It was nearly eleven on Saturday and Fernando was standing under the open roof in the rain, tender, silvered glissades of it plashing quietly, as it has for two thousand years, onto the black and white marble of the temple floor. He, not minding, stood directly in the puddle, its depths caressing the tops of his shoes, looking up at the sky like a child in wonder, the water settling in fine mists on his cheeks and eyelids. He turned fifty that morning in the Pantheon. His spiritual birthday thus celebrated, he pronounced that his carnal festival was to be solemnized in not less than six of his preferred ostarie/trattorie/ristoranti. Fernando wanted to eat artichokes. More, he wanted an artichoke crawl—a critical journey up and down the vicoli (narrow streets), an earnest search for great, golden-green, crisped Roman roses—as many of them as he might vanquish in a day and its evening in a half dozen genuine houses—we were in search of the one perfect carciofo alla giudia. Ten years ago, I might have propelled him into the arms of the trattoria da Giggetto, when I was still convinced of the authenticity of its cooking. Sidled up as it is to the edge of the Portico d’Ottavia, perhaps it was only the taberna’s majestic old neighbor that wooed me. Fernando had his own ideas. At midday, we made quick aperitivi e antipasti visits to Arancio d’Oro in Via Monte d’Oro and La Campana in Vicolo della Campana, taking only one or two artichokes and a glass of white wine. We would settle in at Agata e Romeo in Via Carlo Alberto for a proper lunch that would start with another of the little beauties. The evening’s gallop would open at Tram Tram in Via dei Reti before a stint at Il Dito e la Luna in Via dei Sabelli, where we would crunch on more fried thistles. Our palates veneered in stainless steel, our bellies convulsing, plumped, we brushed sea salt and crisp freckles from our lips and our chests and stepped at last inside the dimmed sanctum of Piperno in Via Monte dei Cenci. Murmuring something to our waiter about not having much appetite, he assured us that he would carry to us only those plates that could titillate a dead man. He started us with a salad of puntarelle—a thick-bladed wild grass collected in the Alban hills— glossed in sauce of anchovies. Then came the misty comfort of stracciatella, chicken broth scribbled with a paste of egg and pecorino. Expert by now, able to whiff their very presence from twenty meters, we knew then the artichokes were only moments away. He set them down, clucking over their beauty, assuring us their salty vaporousness would coax our hunger. He was right. We continued with la coda alla vaccinara—oxtail stew—abbacchio—roast suckling lamb—a few crumbles of a hard, piquant pecorino pepato—peppered pecorino—a soft brown pear, and sealed it all with a great fluff of roasted chestnut mousse that we ate with small silver spoons.

Not so many springtimes ago, I knew it was a Roman birthday for which I yearned, convinced that the salve of the place would soften the edges of a long sadness. Arriving crumpled and unslept on that morning, I slid my two dusty bags under the purple flounce of the bed in my genteelly shabby room at the Adriano and bolted off to the Campo de’ Fiori. I needed lilacs. I explained to the flower merchant in the market my desire to bring più allegria—more cheerfulness—to my little hotel room, that I was preparing for a sort of birthday party. He amplified the girth of the sweet-smelling sheaves I’d chosen and dispatched his helper to carry the towering bouquets through the twisting streets back to the Adriano. His field of vision completely contained inside thickets of blossoms, the porter left me to play front guard, to scream commands and admonitions back at him, staging a droll farce that could happen only in Rome. Safe inside the hotel with the lilacs, I purloined a large metal wastebasket from the reception hall, tied up its middle in a length of green silk, and installed the great, weeping blooms at the foot of my bed. I raced back to the market to fill two baskets with tiny, blushed velvet peaches still on their branches and hung them from wall sconces and draped them over mirrors and bedposts and on the roof of the dour, mustard-colored armoire. I collected breads from the forno (bakery) in Via della Scrofa, not so much to eat but for the comfort of their forms and their scents. I unwrapped the Georgian candlesticks I always carry with me from their cradle in my old taffeta skirt, threw open the shutters to beams of a rosy moon, and the birthday room was ready. I’d collected a beautiful supper at Volpetti: a brace of quail, each reposing on a cushion of roasted bread—depository for their rosemary juices—olives crushed into a paste with capers and Cognac, a stew of baby artichokes, new peas, and fava beans scented with wild mint and called, mysteriously, la vignarola—the winemaker’s wife—and a small, white, quivering cylinder of sweet robiola (fresh handmade cow’s milk cheese). I laid the feast on the dressing table, serving myself only bits of it at first. But little explosions of goodness insinuated themselves, and the quiet supper urged me into the goodness of the moment. Hungers found, strategies resewn. Happy birthday. During the time I lived at the Adriano, I went each morning to the market in Campo de’ Fiori, stopping to chat with my flower man, he introducing me to the lady with the slenderest, most delicate asparagus, which I devoured raw, like some earth-scented bonbon, and the one with the baby blood-red strawberries collected in the forests of Lake Nemi up in the Alban Hills. A ration of these beauties I vanquished each afternoon between sips of icy Frascati from my changing caffè posts along the campo. With those weeks as initiation, I might have stayed the rest of my life in the lap of that neighborhood, that village within Rome so contained and complete unto itself, and surely would never have known a single lonely day. More than she is a city, Rome is a string of small provinces, fastened one to the other by old fates.

Skirt steak is among those cuts of beef that a novice cook sometimes avoids, despite their excellent flavor and reasonable price. But few steaks will be more delicious when properly cooked, and I assure you it’s not hard to get right. With skirt steak, remember a few key points. Start by caramelizing it well on the hottest part of the grill. Then move it over to a cooler spot to finish cooking just to medium-rare. Any less cooked, and it’s chewy; any more than medium, and it becomes leathery, livery, and tough. Be sure to let the skirt steak rest a few minutes before slicing it. The most crucial thing of all is to slice the meat against the grain to ensure that it’s tender and not rubbery. Though mayonnaise might sound strange as an accompaniment for steak, the aïoli melts into a creamy sauce, leaving behind a trail of olives.

This is the sort of appetizer for a gathering of close family and friends. Picking the artichoke leaves with your fingers and sucking off their flesh encourages (requires?) intimacy. Because artichokes have a strong green flavor, they’re difficult to pair with wine, but a dry Alsatian white should work here.