The Italian word “sprezzatura” is one of my favorites.
It means “a practiced nonchalance.” Or, put more plainly, “working hard to make difficult things look easy/effortless.”
Spaghetti western legend (and one of my favorite actors) Terence Hill (real name, Mario Girotti) is spezzatura in human form.
He also makes me very, very hungry for a plate of beans…if you got the money.
There are those unenlightened folk who view Panettone as the Italian equivalent of fruitcake. Meaning, it’s a culinary curiosity that nobody really likes. You know, sorta like IPAs.
I am not one of them. I’ve always liked Panettone. Even the cheap, $7 ones that are found at Aldi and are objectively not-so-great. I mean, there are few things that can’t be made to taste good when lightly toasted, schmeared with butter, and accompanied by a decent cuppa Joe.
So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that Olivieri 1882‘s Panettone has been on my radar for more than a year. Olivieri 1882’s Panettone has been trumpeted as the best Panettone on the planet by sources no less than the New York Times and Food & Wine Magazine.
Olivieri 1882’s Panettone is also damn pricey. And for good reason. To quote their website:
“Our panettone is made only with natural sourdough and the dough passes a 4 days double fermentation. We fill it with raisins and candied oranges. You can find little black dots of Bourbon vanilla inside. Panettone is a rich but highly digestible cake, thanks to the usage both of first quality raw materials and of long fermentation techniques. It’s completely free from preservatives, semi-finished products, flavorings and vegetable fats. 100% prepared by hand with passion since 1882, in keeping with tradition.”
What they don’t mention is the most interesting part. The Panettone, once baked, must be hung upside-down while cooling so that it doesn’t collapse into itself. Much like most of my college roommates.
The Olivieri 1882 buzz eventually caught up with my wife, who last month stood before me and said, “Hey…I was just reading about this Italian Panettone that sells for $100.”
“You mean Olivieri 1882’s?”
“How the fuck did you know that?”
“How did you not?”
Now, there are two things to know about my wife. One is that she is game for pretty much any food adventure. The other is that, unlike her husband, she is not a world-class cheapskate.
So she ordered one. The Panettone Classico, to be exact. And we waited, more than a bit impatiently, a good three weeks for it to arrive.
And when it arrived, we (i.e., she, I, and our boy) tore into it like we had an imminent date with the electric chair.
Our unanimous verdict? Yeah…totally worth $100!*
[*Assuming you didn’t need that $100 for life-saving medication or to pay your already past-due mortgage.]
I could spill 1,000 words explaining what’s so special about this glorious hunk of dough that costs an inglorious hunk of dough, but the NY Times said it best (and saved me another 20 minutes of typing):
“If you think you’ve never had a good version of panettone, you’ll likely change your mind after tasting Olivieri 1882’s Classic Panettone. The bread’s impressively tall domed top towers beautifully over its paper collar, and when we cut into it, we were immediately struck by its bright saffron-colored crumb and pleasant orange aroma. Egg yolks are listed as the third ingredient, which likely explains the vibrant yellow color and rich custardy flavor. The bread hails from Arzignano, Italy, but tastes as fresh and moist as if it had been crafted by a local bakery.
The Olivieri 1882 panettone is tender, buttery, and fluffy with a pronounced citrus flavor that’s punchy yet not overpowering. The raisins are juicy, and the candied orange is plump and tender, not dry as in some versions we tasted, so each piece melts in your mouth. We also like that the candied citrus is evenly and generously distributed throughout the bread.
The Olivieri 1882 panettone is quite expensive, but as chef Jürgen David, director of pastry research and development at the Institute of Culinary Education told us, “If it’s good quality, just spend the money. It’s always worth it.””
It is.
We did.
It was.
And no toasting or schmearing were required.
Buon Natale, MoFos!
In my previous post, I described our recent trip to Uruguay and indoctrination into parrilla culture.
Parrilla (pronounced, pah-REE-juh) refers to meats, sausages, and veggies grilled over a hardwood fire. Indeed, parrilla in Uruguay is not just yummy AF. It’s also (often) an hours-long social event.
Upon our return to the US, I vowed to bring that same joyful Uruguayan parrilla magic into our Texas backyard. The question was, “How?”
I started by looking into pre-fabricated stone parrilla grills, much like the ones I saw in Montevideo. Very expensive. Like, thousands of dollars expensive.
Then I looked into having a stone mason fabricate one for me. Same issue, but worse. I’d not only need to shell out a couple grand, but I’d also have to micromanage a tradesperson. I’m too old for that shit.
So I thought about building one myself. That uber-indulgent fantasy lasted about thirty seconds (i.e., the exact amount of time it took for my wife to stop laughing).
I looked into portable pre-fab metal grills that incorporated the important functional elements of Uruguayan or Argentine parrillas. Even those elicited acute sticker shock, and some of them looked like tinny junk.
Then an idea hit me. I have a 22″ Weber kettle grill that I love and works great for charcoal grilling. With a tweak here and a tweak there, could my Weber kettle be retrofitted to become an Americanized, yet still abundantly kick ass, wood-burning Uruguayan parrilla?
Forty minutes of Internet surfing later, I stumbled upon an outfit called Ash & Ember that sells products for backyard grilling–many of which are inspired by South American parrillas. And there it was! The Holy Grail that I had been searching for.
The Ash & Ember Santa Maria Attachment for 22″ kettle grills! And it cost less than $200, FFS!!!
It all made sense, conceptually. A Weber kettle grill–despite being designed for charcoal grilling–is a perfectly functional vessel for building a hardwood fire. There is sufficient space for a pile of logs. The adjustable air vents at the bottom of the kettle allow plenty of airflow to fuel the fire. And it is very well constructed, allowing for a safe-ish and stable fire hazard. So…why don’t more people chuck aside the Kingsford briquettes in favor of a 100% hardwood fire that would give a slab of four-legged protein that irresistible South American, smoke-kissed flavor?
The answer is that it would be hard to manage a hardwood fire in a Weber grill because the cooking grate is not adjustable. And that is precisely why the Santa Maria attachment is a godsend.
The key characteristic of a Santa Maria grill is that the cooking grate is attached to a wheel and pulley system and can easily be raised or lowered as the cook requires. Drop it down close to the fire for a good, crusty, high-heat sear. Raise it up to allow thicker hunks of meat to roast more slowly and gently until the ideal internal temperature is hit. Conceptually (again), I saw no reason why a Santa Maria-outfitted Weber kettle wouldn’t/couldn’t/shouldn’t replicate the Uruguayan parrilla experience.
So I bought one. Because, of course I did.
And I am happy to report that in this case, reality met–dare I say, exceeded–the concept. It worked beautifully. Here are the details.
The Weber kettle has two grates: a lower grate for the fuel, and an upper grate for the food. Remove the upper grate and toss it into the shed. You don’t need it for this configuration.
Next step, fully open the adjustable vents at the bottom of the kettle to maximize air flow around the fuel.
Now for the fuel. I start with two starter cubes placed on the lower grate. Then I take two hardwood logs (I use oak or any fruit or nut tree) and lay them parallel to the starter cubes. Then take a long, thinner log or piece of kindling and lay it perpendicularly across the two bottom logs. This is the support beam for your teepee of kindling. Then take a bunch of kindling and build the teepee. Then lay a few more logs around the teepee, again allowing enough space for air flow. The set-up looks something like in the photo below.
Place the Santa Maria attachment onto the kettle. It will fit snugly into place.
And now…time to fire that shit up!
Light those starter cubes and let the magic begin. Assuming your wood is sufficiently dry and cured, you should have a blazing fire in no time. Now comes the hard part. Waiting.
That fire needs to be left alone for 45 minutes to an hour until the wood starts breaking down, is ashed over, and is wicked hot yet no longer spewing flames. You don’t want flames licking your meat (no pun intended…well, maybe a little intended). Flames will burn the meat and leave an acrid taste, contrary to what Burger King would have us believe. So be patient and don’t jump the gun. Scroll to the top of this post and see the first photo as an example of the state of fuel that we are shooting for.
When the time is right and the embers perfect, add the meat. Depending on your preferred technique, you can start with the grate closer to the fuel for a crusty, high-heat, direct sear and then raise the grate for slower and more controlled roasting. Or you can do a “reverse sear,” which means starting with the grate up high until the meat almost reaches the desired internal temperature–then lower the grate to finish with a good, crusty, tasty sear.
And that’s it. How well you manage the fire and grate level will determine the perfection of your finished product. That finished product will have a smokier flavor and aroma than you’d get by using charcoal or propane.
And that, mis amigos, is what makes the Uruguayan parrilla muy especial.
The countries of Uruguay and Argentina eat more meat per capita than any other nation on Earth. Such dedication to the carnivorous cause is not only due to the quality of the main ingredient (although that certainly is a factor), but also to the way that those meats are prepared. Join me now me as we delve into the multi-sensory joys of the Uruguayan parrilla.
When an Uruguayan commits to an afternoon of meat sweats, whether at home or in a restaurant, that meal is likely to be prepared on a parrilla (pronounced, with Italianesque flair, as “pah-REE-juh”). This is the more rustic, and I would argue more manly, counterpart to the gas grills and charcoal kettles favored in the US.
An Uruguayan parrilla is a wide, open-air, wood-burning hearth lined with heat-refracting bricks. It will often, but not always, vent up through a chimney. If you live in Uruguay and own a house, odds are that there is a parrilla featured prominently in your backyard and patio.
On the left-hand side of the typical parrilla is the brasero, which is an elevated, wrought-iron fire box into which you load paper, kindling, and firewood. The bars of the brasero are spaced widely-enough apart to allow (a) ample air flow to fuel the fire, and (b) red-hot embers to break off and drop from the box onto the parrilla’s brick floor.
On the right-hand side of the parrilla is a large, wide cooking grate. The grate is often positioned at a sloped, 45 degree-ish angle, so that part of the cooking surface is closer to the parrilla floor and other parts are more elevated.
Those red-hot and/or ashed-over embers that fall from the brasero are then dragged under the cooking grate. This is where the cook’s skill and experience shine. He/she will accumulate a thick layer of embers under one section of the cooking grate for high-heat direct cooking and searing, a more meager layer of embers under another section of the grate for lower temperature roasting, and no embers at all in another section for “low and slow” indirect heat cooking.
The meat is then positioned onto and manipulated around the cooking grate. Thin pieces of meat may be cooked quickly and completely on the hottest part of the grate. Thicker hunks may start at high heat for a nice crusty sear, then move to a cooler part of the grate for slower, more gentle roasting until the desired level of doneness is achieved.
The result is a beautiful hunk of grass-fed animal flesh that fills your noggin with the intoxicating perfume of hardwood smoke as you chew each juicy morsel. It is this pervasive, all-encompassing essence of hardwood smoke that sets the meats cooked on an Uruguayan parrilla apart from those turned out by backyard Weber grill warriors in the US.
As for doneness, there are four main categories:
Jugoso, for the win!
As for the meat itself, cow is king. Unlike the corn-fed beef that fattens-up and eventually kills corn-fed Americans, Uruguayans prefer grass-fed beef–which, they argue, is leaner, healthier, and tastes better. I don’t know about the first two claims, but I can vouch for the third.
The specific cuts of beef are somewhat different in both name and (to a lesser extent) form than what you’d expect from a US butcher. That’s a topic for a separate blog post that I’ll probably never write, but you can get the idea from the diagram below.
If you were to attend a parrilla-cooked meal at an Uruguayan’s home (as we did last month) or restaurant (as we did multiple times last month), you will start with some sausage–most likely, morcilla (aka, blood sausage, black pudding, or boudin noir) and chorizo (Argentine-style, not the nuclear orange, vinegary Mexican stuff that they toss with eggs). You’ll then segway into some fluffy, fatty, unctuous mollejas (aka, sweetbreads…aka, thymus gland)–which may be my favorite animal part of them all. Later, you might be served a thin cross-section of short rib (asado de tira), followed by a thicker cut such as Entrecot (ribeye) or tri-tip. There might even be a hunk of pig (perhaps a thick-cut pork shoulder steak) or lamb thrown in for good measure. All this will be accompanied by a bowl of Chimichurri, which acts as an herbaceous dipping sauce. Finally, dessert–which is likely to be something smeared with Dulce de Leche.
Dulce de Leche rivals Yerba Mate as heroin to the Uruguayan masses.
Maybe, if you are really lucky, the cook might offer some salad and grilled vegetables as penance. Otherwise, expect a side of fries.
And let’s not forget the wine. You know, for health reasons.
Uruguay has a thriving wine industry, even if most Americans have never tried any of its offerings. The Tannat grape reins supreme in carnivorous Uruguay, and it makes for a thick, robust, deep-red wine that’s every bit as good as Argentine Malbecs.
In my next blog post, I will describe how I’ve attempted to mimic the Uruguayan parrilla in my Texas backyard without shelling-out $3,000 to a stone mason. This may take me a few weeks, so be patient as I continue this noble experiment.
For now, however, I will close out this post with my recipe for Chimchurri. I typically eye-ball this preparation, so take the quantities listed below as more suggestions than gospel.
CHIMICHURRI
The Ingredients
Chopped fresh parsley, let’s say 1 cup
3 garlic cloves, minced or passed through a garlic press.
1 T of red pepper flakes
1/4 t of dried oregano
1-3 T of red wine or balsamic vinegar (I err to the vinegar-heavy side, because I friggin’ love vinegar)
1/4 – 1/2 c Extra virgin olive oil (you’ll need to judge the optimal consistency, but use the photo below as your benchmark)
Salt and pepper
The Assembly
Places for great parrilla in Montevideo, Uruguay include (a) Cabana Veronica (our favorite parrilla of them all); and (b) Estancia del Puerto (where Anthony Bourdain and his brother Christopher channeled their inner Henry VIII in No Reservations Season 4, Episode 14). Both restaurants are located in the the Mercado del Puerto in Montevideo’s old town section.
When I was backpacking through Europe between college semesters in 1988, I rented a moped on the Greek island of Corfu and it changed my life.
I had years of pedal biking under my belt at that point, so I assumed that I knew what I was getting into. I was wrong. From the moment I twisted the right hand throttle and my feet left the pavement, I felt like a baby bird that was pushed from the nest and suddenly discovered that it could fly.
And man oh man, did I fly.
I rode that bare-boned, underpowered, crap-ass moped around the island for a good five hours until it started getting dark and I started getting cold. At one point during the adventure, I distinctly remember thinking to myself, “This is the greatest feeling of freedom I’ve ever experienced. It just doesn’t get any better than this!”
And that was it. I returned to the US, returned to college, graduated, moved on to grad school, graduated again, worked, got married, had kids, and before I knew it…forty years had passed. Forty years without ever again parking my boney ass onto the seat of another two-wheeled motorized vehicle.
At least, not consciously. I did have a full forty years of recurring dreams of owning and riding motorcycles. But I never acted upon the unavoidable urge to buy one of those death traps, because I was far too sensible. Or too chicken shit. Both answers can be correct.
And then, in 2023, I spent Christmas at my parents’ house in Chicago and asked to test ride my father’s new Aventon Ebike. And goddammit…that Corfu feeling hit me afresh the moment I left the driveway.
So, finally…after another two years of hemming and hawing, I bought an Ebike. A Lectric XP4 750. I named it “The Electric Rigatoni.”
So…what’s the deal with Ebikes, you may be wondering? Let’s take a closer look.
An Ebike is a (usually) pedal-powered bike that has a motor (typically built into the back wheel hub, but sometimes into a mid-frame compartment) and a battery. The battery powers the motor, and the motor powers the bike.
Many, if not most, Ebikes have two modes of thrust: throttle, and pedal-assist.
Operating an Ebike under throttle power is a lot like operating a moped. Or a mini-bike, if you were lucky enough to grow up in the 1960s or 70s (yet young enough to avoid all that Vietnam shit). You engage the throttle–which typically takes the form of a thumb-pushed lever or a motorcycle-like twisting hand grip–and off you go. No pedaling required.
Pedal-assist, as the name implies, requires you to pedal in order to get and keep the bike moving. Once you start pedaling, the Ebike motor kicks in and propels you forward like a bucking bronco. It’s a wild and unforgettable sensation–much like, I’d imagine, when the Steve Austin (the Six Million Dollar Man, not the wrestler) first tried running on his new bionic legs.
The next logical question is, “How fast do these things go?” The answer depends on many things, but most importantly an Ebike’s max speed depends on its “Class.” US laws divide Ebikes into three Classes.
Class 1 Ebikes have no throttle and therefore are pedal-assist only. Class 1 Ebikes max out at 20 mph.
Class 2 Ebikes have both a throttle and pedal-assist. These also max out at 20 mph.
Class 3 Ebikes also have both a throttle and pedal-assist. These max out as 20 mph if using the throttle, and 28 mph if using pedal assist.
Let me tell you, people…20-28 mph in a car feels like a snail crawling up-hill through a vat of molasses on a cold day. 20-28 mph on an Ebike feels like Mario Friggin’ Andretti on his fourth cup of espresso. It never fails to put a smile on my face.
But Americans pride themselves on being “free,” even if freedom is reckless and bordering on stupid.
It’s what we do.
It’s who we are.
So it probably won’t surprise you to learn that there are a multitude of “hacks” found on the Internet that will allow you to override a stock Ebike’s controls and “unlock” speeds that range from 29 to 60 mph, depending on your Ebike model. Some of those hacks involve simply cutting one wire in the motor or controller.
The people taking advantage of these speed hacks are precisely who you’d imagine: Males under the age of 23 whose frontal cortexes are not fully formed. The same frontal cortexes that may some day be found within a police chalkline on the pavement.
What do local laws say about Ebikes? Again, the answer depends.
Local laws vary. But generally speaking, many (if not most) places allow Ebikes on roadways, shoulders, shared use lanes, and bike lanes. Public parks and forest preserves may or may not allow Ebikes on walking/running paths, so check their rules first. Rules of the road apply to Ebikes just like they apply to cars and motorcycles; as does common sense.
But, but, but…doesn’t riding an Ebike constitute “cheating?” Uh, no. No, it doesn’t.
I once asked the same question and was taken to the woodshed by a friend who was an early Ebike adopter/commuter. Riding an Ebike is certainly easier and more efficient than a 100% pedal-powered “acoustic bike” (as we cool kids call them)–especially on hills and during windy days. But it’s still a deceptively good workout and calorie burner. Plus, it’s cheaper than buying and driving a car, emits no noxious emissions, and depending on the density of traffic in your town, may even be a faster way to get from point A to point B.
Who might want an Ebike? In my 100% correct opinion, pretty much anyone.
Ebikes are great for senior citizens, allowing them freedom and mobility they’ve not known for years; as well as a good, low-impact source of exercise.
Ebikes are great for people looking to lose weight or get into better shape. It ain’t an Ironman triathlon, but it’s still a workout. And you’ll feel it.
Ebikes are great for commuters who live in a bike-friendly area and work at an office 5 to 15 miles from home. Farther, if you’re willing to wake-up early.
Ebikes, especially cargo bikes, are great for parents of young children who want to whiz past the line of Honda Odyssey minivans waiting to enter the school parking lot.
And Ebikes are great for anyone who loves the great outdoors, the wind in their hair, bugs in their teeth, and a snoot-full of Vitamin D.
Suffice it to say, there is an Ebike out there for everyone.
Cruiser Ebikes for people who just want to tool around and have fun.
Commuter eBikes for people who want to put on some serious mileage.
Fat tire Ebikes for people to want to go off road.
Cargo Ebikes for people to want to cart kids to school or groceries to home.
Foldable Ebikes (like mine!) for people with RVs, SUVs, or limited storage space.
And Etrikes (i.e., three-wheeled Ebikes) for people with balance issues or who, like the current President of the United States, never learned to ride a two-wheeled bike in the first place.
There are many Ebike manufacturers out there selling products at a variety of price points and levels of sophistication. Current major Ebike manufacturers include Lectric (the maker of *my* beloved Ebike), Aventon, Trek, and Rad Power. The number of smaller Ebike manufacturers seems endless.
When deciding which make or model to choose, I have three recommendations that you should keep in mind.
First, choose an Ebike that uses a UL-certified battery. You don’t want the damn thing exploding in your garage while charging overnight.
Second, research the manufacturer’s service network and affiliated local bike shops. Ebikes, like acoustic bikes, require regular maintenance and occasional repairs. Unlike acoustic bikes, these are sophisticated pieces of technology that are beyond the ken of the average tinkerer. Certainly beyond mine.
And finally, don’t do what I did. Don’t wait forty years before taking the plunge.
Now spread your wings and fly. And for god’s sake, wear a damn helmet!!!
Nabisco Royal Lunch Milk Crackers were my grandfather’s favorite snack.
Many nights before bed, he would grab a handful of the Crackers in his Andre the Giant-like hand, crush them into a bowl, pour in the milk, and snarf them down like a hungry bear emerging from hibernation. Hell, he even had a special bowl that he used–a tall, ivory-colored, heavy ceramic bowl with horizontal grooves that looked like an inverted albino beehive.
Grandpa was not alone. Royal Lunch Milk Crackers were ubiquitous and much loved throughout New England and upstate New York during the mid-twentieth century.
What do they taste like? Well…Royal Lunch Milk Crackers have, to my palate, a slightly sweet, malty flavor that, when swimming in a bowl of cold whole milk, tastes clean and refreshing yet filling.
Barely a minute into the milk bath, the Crackers would turn to mush. That’s not a bug. It’s a feature.
We, the kids, would usually have a bowl with my grandfather on many nights when we were together. This was the 1970s. On one occasion after eating all the Crackers in my bowl, I was about to toss the milk into the sink.
“Hey!” my grandfather yelled. “The gravy is the best part!”
My grandfather often claimed that anything I was about to toss into the trash–whether a hunk of gristle, a chicken bone, or a radioactive isotope–was “the best part.” That’s not a bug of my grandfather. It’s a feature.
The last time I tasted Royal Lunch Milk Crackers was 1986 when I was home for Winter break during my sophomore year of college. Some years later, Nabisco drastically cut back production and eventually discontinued the product line altogether. And I resigned myself to the sad reality that I’d probably never taste another bowl during my lifetime.
But recently, succumbing to a fit of boredom and nostalgia, I started Googling “Royal Lunch Milk Crackers” on my phone. Three unexpected items came to my attention.
First, a Canadian company called Heritage Mills makes Milk Crackers that reportedly taste very similar to Royal Lunch.
Second, Nabisco sold the rights to Royal Lunch Milk Crackers to a private group in 2007. That group is currently manufacturing them in…are you ready for this?…Cape Verde, a former Portuguese colony island off the western coast of Africa (FFS!).
Third, and most important, you can buy both Heritage Mills and the reincarnated Cape Verdean Royal Lunch Milk Crackers *today* from the New England-based website (and my nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize) www.famousfoods.com.
So I did what any good grandson would do. I bought twelve boxes of both. My conclusions?
Well…I am pleased to announce that both products taste like the Royal Lunch Milk Crackers that I remember. The “new” Royal Lunch are thicker and darker than Heritage Mills, a bit sweeter, and with a fuller flavor. Heritage Mills, while a bit blander, holds its crispness longer than Royal Lunch when doused with milk.
So…while the new Royal Lunch tastes more like the old Royal Lunch I grew up with, as far as I’m concerned both Heritage Mills and Royal Lunch are interchangeable–especially after a nice soaking in a bath of cold milk. I will fight 100 silverback gorillas for a bowl of either.
Despite my 100% correct assessment, there are people on the Internet bitching and moaning about Royal Lunch and Heritage Mills. Because, of course they are.
“Waaaaa, they’re awful!”
“Waaaaa, they’re just glorified unsalted Saltine crackers!”
“Waaaaa, they’re not like they used to be!”
Well guess what? My grandfather also used to complain that Royal Lunch Milk Crackers are “not like they used to be.” He was saying this in the 1970s!
And maybe he was right. I mean…I wasn’t born in the 1940s. Maybe they really *were* better back when Benny Goodman was on the Hit Parade. Maybe those Milk Crackers of bygone years were so much better that Nabisco, dishing out bowls of Milk Crackers to our breakfasting boys overseas before the D-Day invasion, played an outsized role in taking down Nazi Germany.
Maybe.
All I’m saying is that I ate so many Royal Lunch Milk Crackers during the 1970s and 80s that its flavor remains permanently burned into my brain, and I’m telling you folks that Heritage Mills tastes pretty much like, and the “new” Royal Lunch tastes very much like, the Milk Crackers that I remember.
So if you want to spend the rest of your days lamenting the loss of your beloved Milk Crackers, then knock yourself out and pour a bowl of Cheerios.
Just know that those beloved Crackers are, in fact, right there in front of your nose and can be delivered to your doorstep the day after tomorrow. If you’d just quit your bitching and moaning.
I went to Naples, Italy in the early 2000s, and it was life changing. Until then, my experience with pizza was limited to the NY variety–with a bit of Utica Tomato Pie tossed in for good measure. But they don’t sell no stinkin’ NY pizza in Naples.
No, during that trip I pigged out on Neapolitan pizza. The soft, floppy pizza with light toppings that is eaten civilly with a fork and knife, rather than with your hands while strutting down the street. It was a revelation.
When I got home, I gathered some recipes and tried to replicate the pizzas that I had in Naples and continued to dream about. It was an epic fail. So epic, in fact, that I didn’t try again for nearly twenty years.
Then, in the late 20-teens, backyard pizza-making was revolutionized by the availability of reasonably-priced, portable, propane-powered pizza ovens like Ooni, Gozney, and the one that I have…the SoloStove Pi. These ovens, which heat up to and beyond 900F in 20-30 minutes, were total game-changers that solved the biggest problem with home pizza-making (i.e., kitchen ovens don’t get hot enough to make a proper pie).
With a SoloStove Pi parked prettily on my back patio, I resumed my long-delayed, Quixotic quest for Neapolitan pie perfection. I won’t bore you with the details of my subsequent tinkering, trials, and errors. No, I’ll get right to the point. Detailed below are my recipes for Neapolitan pizza dough and sauce, plus some other nuggets of advice that I acquired during the journey.
NEAPOLITAN PIZZA DOUGH (65% HYDRATION, FOUR 12″ PIZZAS)
The Ingredients
607 grams of 00 Flour (I use either Caputo’s blue or King Arthur)
9.2 grams of Active Dry Yeast (I use Fleischmann’s)
18 grams of Sea Salt
395 grams of luke warm Water
The Assembly
Step 1. Put flour, salt, and yeast in a food processor. Start the blade running, and slowly pour in the water.
Step 2. Let the dough process for 30-60 seconds. You can also do this using a KitchenAid mixer or your own two hands, but I find that a food processor works best and most quickly.
Step 3. Remove dough ball and knead it for another couple of minutes on a floured surface.
Step 4. Put dough in a greased bowl and cover with plastic wrap.
Step 5. Put covered dough into a refrigerator and let it sit/develop for 24-48 hours.
Step 6. Remove from fridge 4 hours before you are ready to cook. Divide into four equal portions (each should weigh approximately 250 grams). Form into four balls. If you have a plastic proofing box (which you can buy much cheaper at a local restaurant supply store than on Amazon), that is the ideal place to…ahem…put your balls. Otherwise, you can put each ball in an oiled cereal bowl covered with plastic wrap. You want the dough balls covered while rising, otherwise they will dry out.
Step 7. Let the four balls rise at room temperature or higher (at least 75F…a hot garage is even better) for four hours.
Step 8. When it’s time to cook, I shape each ball into a 12″ pizza on a floured surface. I use my fingertips and hands, NOT a rolling pin. My exact shaping technique is a story for another day, but you do you. You’ll want to keep a 1″ rim around the perimeter of the pizza (aka, the “cornicione”).
Step 9. Once the pizza dough is shaped to a perfect 12″ round, I lift and lay it onto a baking peel dusted generously with semolina flour. IMO, semolina works best. It doesn’t burn, it doesn’t taste gritty, and the pizza will slide right off when launched into the oven floor. Corn meal works well for sliding, but it burns and tastes very gritty. Regular flour just plain sucks. I am told that rice flour works well, but I’ve not tried it. Why would I? Semolina works perfectly. As for the peel itself, I use bamboo. I’ve tried wood peels. I’ve tried steel peels. I’ve tried teflon-coated steel peels with slots. Trust me, people. Bamboo peels work the best. I’ve not had a single launch fail since I bought my bamboo peel.
Step 10. Once the shaped 12″ round is on your semolina-dusted bamboo peel, you can add the sauce and toppings. A couple bits of advice. Less is more in the toppings world when making a Neapolitan pie. Go light on the sauce. Don’t overload the cheese and other toppings. Go especially light at the center of the pizza. Be careful not to get sauce on the peel, or your pizza will likely stick when you are trying to launch. Once my pizza is topped, I typically “finish” it with a grinding of black pepper, a sprinkling of Parmesan or Romano cheese, and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. Then it’s off to the oven.
PIZZA SAUCE
The Ingredients
14oz can of Whole Tomatoes, undrained (I don’t bother with San Marzano tomatoes, because I can’t tell the difference)
1/2 teaspoon of Salt
2 glugs of Thai or Vietnamese Fish Sauce (trust me on this)
Generous handful of basil leaves (fresh or frozen)
The Assembly
Step 1. Add ingredients to a bowl.
Step 2. Process until smooth. I use a hand blender for this.
Step 3. That’s it! No cooking required.
SOME MISCELLANEOUS TIPS
My pizza dough recipe listed above makes four 12″ pizzas, but it scales up or down easily and perfectly. For each additional pizza beyond the four, just increase each ingredient by 25%. If you want to make fewer than four pizzas, just decrease each ingredient by 25% per slashed pizza.
My pizza dough recipe also works as a same day recipe. Just don’t stick it in the fridge for 24-48 hours. Simple as that.
I have found that 65% hydration is the sweet spot. The dough is easy to work with and the pizzas turn out…well, just look at the photo above. I’ve tried 70%, 75%, yadda yadda yadda. Don’t like it. The dough becomes very sticky, it tears easily, it’s harder to launch…trust me, don’t go there. That said, the Internet is full of people advocating for insanely high hydration doughs and yes, they do make a more airy pizza. But, again, the downside trumps the upside. Also (and allow me to vent), I see photo after photo of ultra-high hydration pizzas that look more like souffles than something I’d present to my cousin Vinny. Give me a break. 65% is the standard in Naples, and what’s good enough for Naples is good enough for me and it should be good enough for you, Chad.
When cooking Neapolitan pies, I keep my pizza oven cranked up to high the entire time. Neapolitan pies are supposed to be cooked quickly (90 seconds to 2 minutes) on blazing hot heat (at least 900F). Once I’ve launched my pizza into the oven, I let it sit there for 30 seconds to puff up and firm up. Then, using a pizza spatula, I turn it 1/8 rotation every ten seconds or so. Be vigilant and keep turning. Pizzas can burn quickly in a 900F oven. It generally takes me approximately 2 full rotations to perfectly cook the pie. Keep a watchful eye.
NY pizzas are a whole nuther matter. I cook those at a lower temperature (I typically turn my SoloStove Pi burner knob to Medium or a bit below Medium after launching) for a longer period (perhaps 5 minutes).
My go to recipe for NY style pizza dough was developed by Kenji Lopez-Alt for the Serious Eats website. It’s great, although I prefer Neapolitan.
I’ve found that propane is the best fuel for pizza ovens. It gets hot, it gets hot quickly, and it doesn’t make a mess. My SoloStove Pi can use either propane or wood. I tried using wood once, and didn’t like it. It didn’t get as hot as propane, it required more wood every five minutes, it left black soot on the front of my oven that I needed to clean off, and (shockingly) I couldn’t taste a damn difference using wood vs. propane. So stick with propane.
Whether you choose SoloStove Pi, Ooni, or Gozney is up to you. They all work great. But if you want to shell out several grand for a true wood-burning brick oven in your backyard, then knock yourself out. I doubt you’ll use it much because it takes a long time to heat up, a long time to cool down, and is, in general, a large pain in the ass. But for some people, it’s very important that they impress their friends and neighbors. Just don’t say that I didn’t warn you.
To repeat what I said above, semolina flour is best for dusting your peel. A bamboo peel works best. You’ll need a turning spatula to rotate your pizza while baking.
And finally, keep at it. Making good pizzas is a learning curve. I’ve ruined plenty of pizzas during my journey. It happens. It happens much less now. But I learned something new with each failure. For that reason, I typically make enough dough for one extra pizza. You know, sort of a back-up contingency plan. And if I don’t screw up, then that extra pizza goes to a neighbor. My neighbors love me, and now you know why.
Man does not live on pusties alone.
No…a man needs other interests and endeavors to be well-rounded (and to prevent himself from becoming too rounded after snarfing a pair of pusties for breakfast each morning over the course of a week). Since my dreams of becoming a male underwear model probably ended with my 50th birthday (and no, that birthday was NOT last year), I embarked on the next best journey: Krava Maga.
Krav Maga is not a political thing. In fact, the name Krav Maga predates that other Maga by something like 70 years. It is, in fact, a personal defense system created by a Hungarian Jew named Imi Lichtenfeld prior to WWII. Today, Krav Maga is the personal defense system taught to the Israeli armed forces, as well as to countless police departments and soccer moms throughout the US.
Two weeks ago in class, we studied defense against a baseball bat attack. The drills during that class were a mix of Krav Maga and a Philippine martial art whose name I didn’t quite get.
For the benefit of my aging memory (and because my handwriting is illegible even to my own eyes), I detail the defense against the baseball steps below.
There you have it. If done correctly, you have just safely disarmed a pissed-off Little Leaguer. If not correctly, you’re in for a hell of a headache.
I have joyous news for the three other Italian-Americans living in the state of Texas. There is a bakery in Dallas that–and I can’t believe I am typing these words–sells pusties.
Pusties! In Texas, FFS! I mean, it’s hard enough to get a good eggplant parm in Texas, let alone pusties.
Pusties, for those whose surnames do not end in a vowel, are custard-filled pastries found throughout the Italian province of Puglia (where my ancestors are from) and, more importantly, throughout my beloved hometown of Utica, NY.
I published my laboriously home-tested recipes for pusties here, and it has been far and away the most popular post I’ve ever written–although my Tomato Pie post is a close second.
The Dallas bakery that sells pusties (or “pasticciotto,” as it is formally called) is Palmieri Cafe.
As you can see from the photo, Palmieri’s pusties are the traditional oval shape found in Puglia, Italy–as opposed to the fluted tart shape favored by Utica’s bakeries.
#PROTIP: Pusty tins are available for purchase from my friends at NJ Flihan & Co. (hey David!).
I’ve not been to Palmieri myself yet, but my wife has and she reports that they are almost as good as those served by Utica, NY’s Florentine Pastry Shop–the bakery that, in my 100% correct opinion, makes the finest pusties on the planet.
She also said that Palmieri’s pusties are “obscenely large”–because, you know, everything is bigger in Texas.
My sweet-toothed intelligence sources report that there is an Italian bakery selling pasticciotti (aka, pusties) in, of all places, Dallas, Texas! That bakery is Palmieri Cafe, located at 307 N. Bishop Ave, Dallas, TX 75208.
This is joyous news to those of our tribe who have long-since left the northeast, yet still long for its food.
As luck would have it, my wife is traveling to Dallas on business next week and promised, under penalty of divorce, to bring back a dozen. I will have more to report shortly.
[This is a developing story.]
