Dandelion Greens

Orecchiette—little ears—are a pasta made from grano duro, or semolina, and served often with a rough sauce of cima di rape, the bitter leaves of a variety of Italian turnip not always available in America. Do not mistake them for young broccoli, as some do. Should the real thing not be at hand, it is a better business to substitute dandelion or beet or turnip greens or red chard or even to make the sauce only with cauliflower, especially the grassy-green, purply-edged Roman variety.

If you’ve never had grilled duck breasts, you’re in for a revelatory surprise. The contrasts are striking: the smoke of the grill against the richness of the duck fat, the juicy meat capped by crispy skin. At the restaurant, we buy Liberty Farms breasts (see Sources), which I have found superior to others in taste and texture. They raise a variety of duck called Pekin, a smaller, more compact bird (a single breast is perfect for one person) with a brighter, more delicate flavor and feel. You may have more luck finding Muscovy duck breasts, which are heftier, more steaklike. If you use Muscovy, you’ll only need four breasts to feed six people. Grilling duck breasts requires some attention. The fat from under the skin will inevitably drip into the fire, causing flare-ups, which can blacken the breasts if you’re not careful. If a flare-up occurs, use tongs to snatch the breasts off the grill for a few seconds, then return them once the flames have subsided. You may need to move them around the grill almost continuously as the fat renders out. The reward for this vigilance, however, is perfection—crisp golden brown skin and plump, succulent meat. An easier option is to sauté them in a cast-iron pan over medium-low heat, still skin side down, taking your time to render the fat from under the skin. Once the skin is crisp, which can take longer than you might expect, turn the breast over and cook a few more minutes, until medium-rare.

In this indulgent salad, wild mushrooms are sautéed until tender and crisp, then tossed in a warm sherry vinaigrette with bitter greens and herbs. There are so many different herbs in this salad that each forkful tastes different, depending on which herb you bite into. Chervil contributes a mild anise nuance, while chives add a peppery, oniony note. Tarragon has a pungent licorice bite, and parsley a bright grassiness. Ribbons of pecorino and a sprinkling of toasted hazelnuts are the final layer of luxury in this delicious warm salad. All Italian sheep’s milk cheeses are called pecorino. They are usually named after their place of origin, as in Pecorino Romano or Pecorino Toscano. However, my favorite pecorino, Pecorino di Grotta, for this salad is from the Emilia-Romagna region. The story goes that the local housewives would hide a wheel or two of this aged cheese in the basement (grotta), storing it for later, when they would sneak out of the house and sell it for pocket money. Let’s hope that times have changed for the ladies in Emilia-Romagna!

This warm salad came about, like many of my dishes, as a way to show off one of my favorite ingredients—in this case, the lovely Kabocha squash. I roast the wedges of squash until they’re practically caramelized and then weave them into a salad of dandelion greens with a tart sherry vinaigrette. Tucked into the greens and squash you’ll find bacon lardons. Not to be confused with bacon bits, lardons are oversized rectangles of chewy, slightly crisped bacon, meaty and satisfying to bite into. Also hiding in the mix are salty toasted pecans and elegant shards of Roncal, an earthy sheep’s milk cheese from Spain.

This grilled pork confit evolved one night when I was making a staff meal at Lucques. I salvaged the leftover ends and trimmings from the day’s pork confit, crisped them in my favorite cast-iron pan, and ran to the walk-in to see what produce I could find to add to the dish. When I got back to the stove, I noticed half the meat was missing. Looking around, I saw that all the cooks had their heads down, suspiciously quiet. Half of my staff meal had disappeared, but I couldn’t be angry. Who can resist succulent pork, hot and crispy, out of the pan? Something so irresistible deserved to be shared with the outside world, so I put this staff meal on the menu!

One of my favorite dinners growing up was my mother’s veal piccata. Her recipe came from an old cookbook called The Pleasures of Italian Cooking, by Romeo Salta, a gift to her from my father. My father had been a devoted fan of Romeo Salta when he was the chef at Chianti in Los Angeles in the fifties. Back then, it was a swinging Italian joint with red-checkered tablecloths, opera 78s blasting, and red wine flowing into the late hours. My mother’s (and Romeo’s) veal was pounded thin, sautéed, and drenched in a lemony caper-butter sauce. There’s nothing wrong with that classic rendition, but, to add another layer of flavor, I brown the butter and finish it with salsa verde, a pungent purée of capers, anchovies, garlic, oregano, and tons of parsley. To get the finest, crispy crust on the veal, I dredge it in Wondra, a finely milled flour sold at most supermarkets. This dish is home-style Italian comfort food at its best.

Inspired by main-course salads found in the bistros of France, this dish comprises some of my favorite ingredients—beets, mustard, dandelion, and soft boiled egg. The salmon is covered in minced herbs, seasoned with fleur de sel, and then slow-roasted in a humid oven until it’s moist and custardlike at the center.

Working the line in a restaurant is usually challenging, often miserable, but always an absolute adrenalin-filled rush. When dinner service is going at full throttle, the only option is to do as instructed by the expediter and hang on. This is a version of an appetizer served from my station many years ago while I was interning for chef Nora Pouillon at her Restaurant Nora, in Washington, D.C. She was an amazing role model for me: not only was she an industry leader and a woman, but also a pioneer in the organic movement. Her restaurant was the first in America to be certified organic. Fresh mozzarella is radically different from the hard “pizza” cheese commonly found in supermarket refrigerator cases. The fresh version, in the form of balls packed in lightly salted brine or whey, is increasingly available in many local markets.

When I worked at Savoy in SoHo, we had salt-roasted duck on the menu but we served only the breasts, so there was always an excess of duck legs hanging around. We’d eat the legs at our family meal, but after a while everyone was sick of them. Then one night, I was in a pinch for an hors d’oeuvres idea, and that’s when I came up with my cheater’s confit. As they say, desperation can be inspiration! My confit tastes just as good and authentic as a traditional confit, but it’s SOOOOO much faster. As far as I’m concerned, the time you save with my recipe is outstanding (this is one streamlined operation!) and so is the flavor.

I don’t think there’s anything terribly exciting about grilled scallops—but I do think you can put them together with interesting ingredients and make them exciting. That’s why I pair scallops with—wait for it—watermelon! I know, who would think of putting scallops with watermelon, let alone three kinds (watermelon, watermelon rind pickles, and watermelon radishes)? It may seem wacky, but the sweetness of the watermelon offset by the bitterness of the dandelion and the sharp red onion makes this a spectacular combo. And, if you’re thinking ahead (like we always try to do!), make the pickles a day (or a week) in advance and keep them in the fridge. These pickles make anything taste tangy and delicious; I keep a jar on hand for whenever a salad or sammie needs an extra little pickle-y punch!

This is a great sandwich to make with leftovers (in this case, leftover pork loin). One of the key elements in this sandwich is the choice of greens. Dandelion greens are bitter, but balance the other flavors of prunes and mustard. If the greens are not to your liking, either try buying smaller-leafed dandelion greens (the larger the leaf, the more pronouncedly bitter) or substitute mustard greens or endive.

While this sandwich is not one of our top sellers, it has its fervent followers, like those of the anchovy sandwich (see page 68). Taking our inspiration from the traditional New Orleans muffaletta—the sandwich of salty meats and tangy olive salad on a thick round roll—we often pair a fresh smoked salami similar to a sopressata with a drier saucisson sec. But you can customize your sandwich for your palate with your own favorites: prosciutto, mortadella, pancetta—any salumi will stand up nicely to the myriad flavors that burst from the marinated cauliflower salad. Don’t let the name cauliflower dissuade you—this is not the boiled bane of your childhood. Rather, it’s a textured mix of tastes in a bold marinade, with raisins and caraway seeds.

The wilderness is filled with greens, from grassy glade and mossy rock to the leaves upon the trees. But how to celebrate this verdant splendor, when one eats neither grass nor moss, neither leaf-lined branch nor bud? The salad bowl is just the place for a pageant of greenery, as one can fill it with a tender mix of lush edibles scooped from the field. We prefer a wild salad to be austerely dressed; too much accessorizing can distract from its simple beauty. A drizzle of lemon and oil and perhaps a scattering of edible blooms are all that are needed here.

We found the greens for this salad by foraging in the woods and fields. You can forage farmers’ markets for tender young dandelion greens, purslane, wild fennel, and pea shoots to make a tasty salad. Even your refrigerator or kitchen garden might yield some goodies, like chives, tender young Italian parsley, thinly sliced red cabbage, or the yellow leaves from celery hearts.

Cicoria is a standard cooked green on menus all over Italy—it has a pleasing bitterness that's offset by the richness of the oil it's sautéed in. Sadly, it's hard to find that kind of chicory in America, but dandelion greens make a nice substitute.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are adapted from Molto Italiano by Mario Batali. It's part of a special menu created by Lidia Bastianich and Mario Batali for Epicurious's Wine.Dine.Donate program. Scarola alle Acciughe There are basically two ways of cooking greens: the long, slow method, and this one, where much of their water content is still present, leaving the leaves with a definite chew.

Instead of the usual approach of topping dandelion greens with hot bacon dressing, here we tame the greens' bitter bite with a Spanish-inspired dressing flavored with almonds, raisins, and Sherry.

This dish is a take on the bistro classic frisée salad with lardons. We recommend removing the ribs from the dandelion greens; though it's a rather lengthy process, the result will be much more delicate.

This is not the salad with feta and olives that most Americans know, but a version popular in the Greek countryside that typically includes a few wild greens foraged from the land. Active time: 30 min Start to finish: 30 min

Salmon fillets can be substituted for the char. For a shortcut version of the horseradish cream, just mix 3/4 cup heavy whipping cream with prepared white horseradish to taste.

In Rome, this is a typical way of preparing bitter greens. Active time: 30 min Start to finish: 30 min

Can be prepared in 45 minutes or less.

This recipe is very adaptable. You can use whatever quantities of mustard and dandelion greens and spinach you happen to have on hand—just keep the total amount of greens the same. Active time: 50 min Start to finish: 50 min

This recipe can be prepared in 45 minutes or less. Though detested on lawns, dandelions are now cultivated commercially and are widely available at farmers markets and supermarkets. Great additions to this salad are red onion and shaved Parmesan.