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Nothing is simple about milk: a Shavuot meditation

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The thing I liked most about working on a dairy farm was fresh milk every morning. The thing I liked the least was the sound of the male calves at night.

I was a city kid spending a summer of my junior year on a northern California farm, and it was hard to reconcile these opposites. At breakfast, I sat down to a pitcher of milk that tasted of the sweet fresh grasses carpeting the Marin hills and the sea mist off Tomales Bay. 

At night I went to sleep to the bellows of male calves taken from their mothers too early and locked in pens and fattened for slaughter as veal. The cries of the calves were answered by the pained lowings of their mothers, and the pleas echoed across the rolling hills and even drowned out the sound of the cars on Highway 1. 

The people who ran the dairy farm were progressive and wonderful—and Jewish!— and explained to me that there was no way a dairy farm can be financially viable without selling the male calves as meat. They understood the physical and psychological pain mother cow and child endured, and they did their best to mitigate it, but they weren’t in the business of raising pet cows. 

I never saw a glass of milk the same way since. On the one hand, no milk ever tasted as good as what I drank on the farm, not even close. But also I couldn’t un-see and un-hear the pain and cruelty that was now an indelible ingredient of every sip of milk and bite of cheese I enjoyed. It’s been many years since I slept in that farmhouse, and I still can’t separate my love of all things dairy from the cruelty that’s inherent in it.

Now comes Shavuot, the holiday we traditionally celebrate by eating dairy foods: cheesecake, blintzes, borekas, rice and cheese pies. There are two reasons commonly given for this tradition. One reason is that Shavuot falls in the seasonal cycle just as nature provides a surplus of milk and grain. Cows, goats and sheep have just given birth and the spring rains have brought forth carpets of grass. The rabbis long ago fashioned this natural cycle into a metaphorical second reason: Shavuot celebrates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai, and Torah, the rabbis say, is like mother’s milk to the Jews.

It’s all very sweet, except we know that the Torah, like dairy, has its malignancies as well. There are dark passages we can’t unread—genocide, stoning, incest, mass rape—and that’s just Genesis. Last March, a Utah father sued to have the Bible banned from the local school library for its violent and pornagraphic content. I oppose book banning, but the dad does get points for consistency.  

Then there’s the way people over the centuries have used the holy book’s words to justify all sorts of hate and atrocity. In America it’s the prooftext for the anti-gay movement. In Israel it’s the final authority on a land dispute over the West Bank which is slowly draining the country’s democracy away. No joy comes unalloyed. 

That, maybe, is a third reason that we eat dairy on Shavuot: to remind us that the world is complicated, that cruelty and sadness are mixed up with joy and pleasure. Our task, I guess, is to work to lessen the cruelty, as much as we can, from the systems and traditions we inherit. 

I don’t know of any commercial dairies that don’t sell calves for veal, but after decades of activism the industry adopted far more humane standards for their care. So I also still eat dairy, if not with a completely clean conscience, then at least with an informed one. 

 

Homemade labne cheese and za’atar

For this Shavuot, I decided to turn homemade yogurt into labne cheese, serving some rolled in zaatar, chili flakes or mint, and others baked inside sourdough pita dough, a kind of Levantine Hot Pocket. If you’ve never made your own cheese before, this Middle Eastern staple is a perfect gateway recipe. No special cultures or equipment are needed, not even a thermometer. Plan on a few minutes of work and a couple days of waiting, then you can store the cheese submerged in olive oil in a cool cupboard.

1 gallon whole milk

2 cups whole milk yogurt or labne

½ teaspoon salt

In a large pot, heat milk over medium heat until it begins to simmer. Let cool until you can insert your very clean finger into the milk and hold it there for several seconds without any pain. In a small bowl, combine a cup of the warm milk and the yogurt, stir well, then add to pot and stir to combine. Cover with a towel and set in a warm place overnight. The yogurt will set up and be relatively firm.

Place a large colander into a large bowl. Line the colander with cheesecloth and dump in the yogurt. Cover the top with more cheesecloth and allow to drain overnight. You’ll have to periodically spill out or use the whey that accumulates. You can also place a plate or heavy flat object on the yogurt to press out more liquid.

When the cheese is firm it will holds together easily when you squeeze some in your hand.  Sprinkle on about ½ teaspoon of salt and mix in well. 

To make the balls, line a baking sheet with parchment. Roll two tablespoons of cheese into a ball and place on the sheet. When finished, cover loosely with parchment and refrigerate several hours or overnight.

Prepare three small dishes with zaatar, dried mint and Aleppo or Korean red chile flakes. Roll each ball in one of these.

Add the balls to a very clean jar. Cover with six cups olive oil. You can refrigerate or leave at room temperature for several weeks. Serve balls as appetizers, stuffed in pita, with warm vegetables or as a filling for the pockets below.

‘Hot Pockets’ with labne and zaatar

1 recipe pita or pizza dough, or premade dough

10 labneh balls rolled in za’atar

Sumac or za’atar

Salt

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Divide dough into pieces just larger than a golf ball. Roll into balls, then flatten each ball with your hands. Use a rolling pin to roll out a six inch circle.

Put 2 labneh balls in the center of the circle. Fold over to make a half-moon shape and press edges to seal. Brush with olive oil and sprinkle top with salt and sumac or za’atar.

Bake until golden, about 10 minutes.

 

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Sourdough Chard and Feta Hand Pies

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A chard and feta hand pie made from sourdough starter.

If you ever come across a recipe that instructs you to feed your sourdough starter by first discarding a portion of it, throw out the recipe. How wasteful is it to toss off perfectly good flour, especially the fancy organic Central Milling stuff I buy from Kings Roost? Instead, I make a quick pita-like dough from it, which I keep around either in the refrigerator or freezer to make pizza, pita or, in this case, hand pies.

I haven’t measured out the precise amount of flour I need for turning starter into pita dough; I go by feel, and you can too. You’ll know it’s right when the dough starts to come together in your hands, and after a few good kneads you have a soft, smooth mass. It’s a good feeling. Try it once:

Start by taking 200 grams of sourdough starter and plopping it in a medium mixing bowl. Loosen with 100 grams of filtered water. Add a teaspoon of salt and a tablespoon of good olive oil, and stir well. Now add flour, mixing until everything comes together in a nice but somewhat shaggy ball.  Scrape it all out onto a floured surface and knead, adding more flour to create a cohesive but soft dough. Clean your bowl, smear it with olive oil, and plop the dough back in it. Cover and let rise until double. If your starter is active, this should take an hour or so in a warm place, since this dough is mostly starter.

Preheat the oven to 500 degrees and place a cast iron pan, baking stone or griddle inside. Take about a pound of chopped chard and 1/2 cup finely diced onion. Saute the onion in a little olive oil until translucent, add the chard and saute until it is cooked down but still bright green. Stir in 3/4 cup of crumbled feta and some fresh ground pepper. Let cool.

Turn out your dough onto a floured work surface and separate into pieces the size of a small fist. Roll out each piece using flour as needed, until you have a circle about 1/8 – 1/4 inch thick.  Plop your filling down the center, fold over, crimp, brush with olive oil and dust with sumac or zaatar. Bake on the hot sheet or pan  for about 10 minutes, until golden.

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Torta di Santiago

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This is the traditional dessert of pilgrims on the road to Santiago de Campostela in Spain. It is suspiciously similar to cakes Jews make during Passover, as it uses no flour and no dairy. It also uses almonds and citrus, two ingredients the Arabs brought to Spain. My hunch is the Catholic Spaniards adapted it from their Jewish and Muslim neighbors, before forcing them out (or killing them) in 1492.

On Passover, I baked it in a nifty hamsa mold to celebrate its Jewish and Arab roots.

The history may be fraught, but the dessert is delicious and easy to make. The traditional cakes have St. James’ cross stenciled on as decoration. I’ve stenciled on a Jewish star, Naomi’s initials (for her birthday) and a goat (for mine).

My birthday torta di Santiago.

INGREDIENTS

  • 1/2 pound (1 3/4 cups) blanched whole almonds or almond flour
  • 6 large eggs, separated
  • 1 1/4 cups sugar
  • Grated zest of 1 orange
  • Grated zest of 1 lemon
  • 4 drops almond extract (optional)
  • Confectioners’ sugar for dusting

PREPARATION

  • Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9-inch springform pan or a hamsa mold. If using a cake pan it helps to line with parchment.
  • Pulverize the almonds in a food processor if you don’t use almond flour.
  • To make this cake more easily, I start by beating the whites. Separate the whites directly into the bowl of your mixer with a whisk attachment. Put the yolks in a small bowl. Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form. Transfer them to a large bowl.
  • In the mixer, beat the egg yolks with the sugar until the mixture looks pale and creamy. Beat in the orange and lemon zest and the almond extract. Add the ground almonds and mix very well.
  • Add about 1/2 the whites to the egg yolk mixture and stir well to lighten everything up. Then fold in the rest of the whites with a spatula.
  • Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 40 minutes. It should feel firm to the touch. A toothpick inserted into the center will come out pretty clean. Let cool, then unmold.
  • Make a stencil. Use a cross if that’s your thing, a Jewish star, a crescent, a birthday boy or girl’s initials — a cookie cutter of a goat, whatever. When cool, dust the top of the cake with confectioners’ sugar over the stencil.
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Do I dare grill a gefilte fish?

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Kebab-style ground fish can improve your Passover menu

Ground white fish, grilled, in a bright herb sauce. Photo by @foodaism

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

Here’s a Jewish paradox: Passover celebrates freedom, so why force people to eat gefilte fish?

Some people like it, I understand. But for most dinner guests, especially those new to the sight of grayish pockmarked oblongs of mystery flesh sweating jellied fish globules, it’s at least confusing. If you are free to eat anything, why eat this?

The short answer is, of course, tradition. Ashkenazi gefilte fish, Sephardic fish cakes — which are a huge improvement in flavor and appearance — have been the taste of the holiday for centuries.

But Passover is also about change. The Passover liturgy tells us that “in every generation” we must tell the story anew, and so every generation has reconfigured it to suit the needs of the day. 

The same goes for the food. The Torah’s original menu, in the Book of Exodus, Chapter 12, called upon each household to eat lamb, “roasted over the fire, with unleavened bread and with bitter herbs.” Nothing about gefilte fish, not even macaroons.

This year, in the run-up to Passover, the idea struck me: Why not treat ground fish like Persian koobideh, grilling the meat over a flame? In my case, I decided to forgo the actual skewers and traditional koobideh spices. I processed fish, vegetables and herbs in a Cuisinart, rolled it in parchment, grilled it, unwrapped it and served it with a bright spring green sauce— and it was delicious.  

And so a new Passover tradition is born: grill-filte fish. It’s a recipe in process. You may want to add traditional Persian koobideh spices (garlic, sumac, turmeric) or lean into North Africa (garlic, chile, cilantro, sumac, cumin, turmeric). The whole idea is to make it your own, like Passover itself.

“Grill-filte” Fish

Roll gefilte fish kebab in parchment, grill, then unwrap. Photo by @foodaism

Grilled Fish Kebab with Spring Green Sauce

1½ pounds white fish filets, cubed (I use sustainable wild cod and local rockfish)

1 egg

½ carrot, chopped

½ stick celery, chopped

½ leek, white part only, chopped

1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon pepper

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

2 teaspoons matzo meal

Add all ingredients to the bowl of a food processor. Pulse, scraping down often, until the mixture is well blended but still a little coarse.  Cover bowl and refrigerate for at least two hours.

Preheat your grill. Cut two large sheets of baking parchment. Rub or spray with olive oil. Remove mixture from the refrigerator and lay some mixture along one edge of each parchment. Gently and firmly roll up into a cylinder. Each should be about 2-3 inches in diameter.

Place parchment rolls on the grill and cook over medium-low heat until they are just springy to the touch. Turn them midway through cooking. You can use a meat thermometer to test for doneness. It should register 140 degrees. They will cook in about 20-30 minutes.

Remove from the grill. Let them rest for a few minutes. Gently unroll. Cut a slice and taste to test for doneness. You can always place them back on the grill for a few minutes more.

Cut logs into 4-inch cylinders. Serve each one on a plate with some green sauce.

Passover Green Sauce

2 cups fresh curly or Italian parsley

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon pepper

½ cup extra virgin olive oil

½ lemon, juiced

1 clove garlic

½ – 1 teaspoon prepared horseradish (optional)

Blend all ingredients together in a blender or food processor until you have a bright green puree.

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Rob Eshman is Senior Contributing Editor of the Forward. Follow him on Instagram @foodaism and Twitter @foodaism or email eshman@forward.com.

This article was originally published on the Forward.

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Searching for Jewish Sicily, I returned with two Hanukkah recipes

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Caponata alla giudia and panelle make for a perfect holiday meal

Caponata with fried eggplant Photo by @foodaism

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

We drove to Modica for chocolate and Jews. The chocolate we found, but the Jews, not a trace. Were we, like Rick in Casablanca, misinformed?

The woman in the tourist information office told us, dismissively, we would find no markers of  the once-thriving Jewish community in the small Sicilian hilltop town. According to her, there probably were never even Jews there.

“These are legends,” she said.

We refused to believe her. We schlepped around for an hour, following a clue in an internet posting that on an archway by a church there’s a Hebrew inscription marking where the Jewish quarter used to be. 

We asked locals, we doubled back, we marched up and down the steep streets until our tempers snapped. There are dozens of churches in Modica, and even more archways. Nothing.

Still, we knew she was wrong. Historians documented that prior to the Inquisition in 1492, about one out of 20 residents of Modica were Jewish, living in a hilly quarter across from the main church called il Cartellone. On Sunday, Aug. 15, 1474, a Dominican priest gave a fiery sermon denouncing the Jews, inciting a mob to ransack il Cartellone. The Modicans rampaged through the Jewish quarter screaming, “Long live Maria, death to the Jews!” apparently unaware that Jesus’ mother was, you know, Jewish.

They killed 360 Jews and drove many others out. Those who remained, not just in il Cartellone but anywhere in Sicily, were hounded out following the Inquisition.

We weren’t the ones who were misinformed. The Jews had been here. 

Looking out from the former Jewish quarter of Modica. Photo by @foodaism

But that’s the challenge of Jewish Sicily: You’re chasing ghosts. Remnants of Jewish life are there to be found, but after hundreds of years and so much forgetting, they speak in a whisper. 

To me, they whispered through the food.

Take Modica’s chocolate. The city is famous for its coarse-textured chocolate, so of course we visited the chocolate museum on the third floor of a municipal building. The museum didn’t mention what some Jewish food experts surmise: that the Jews, who brought chocolate-making skills to France, also brought it to Sicily. One clue: a photo exhibit in the same municipal building of local Byzantine-era tombs, several of which were adorned with stone carvings of menorahs. 

Sweet and sour

The Jews arrived in Sicily in the first century and were instrumental in building the island’s flourishing trade and mercantile systems. They mingled with the Arabs who conquered Sicily in the ninth century, bringing oranges, lemons, pistachio and sugar cane among other foods.

The Arab-Jewish influences — dishes that combine sweet and sour flavors, the use of eggplant, even olive oil —  are difficult to tease apart. “The traditions imported to Palermo by the Arabs were maintained there by the Jews,” writes Mary Taylor Simeti in Pomp and Sustenance: 25 Centuries of Sicilian Food.

The one dish that speaks that history most clearly is eggplant caponata. Of course I’ve eaten it in Italian restaurants in America, but in Sicily, it is always on offer. Always. Lost in translation is that it was the Jews who popularized the eating of eggplant.

“What most people ignore is that the Sicilian caponata actually has Jewish origins,” writes Benedetta Jasmine Guetta, author of Cooking alla Giudia. In a few cookbooks the dish itself is called caponata alla giudia.

At our first dinner in Siracusa, at a small family-run spot called O’Scina, there it was: eggplant, onion, garlic with vinegar and sugar providing sweet and sour notes. In two weeks we would learn every variation of the dish: some grilled or roasted the eggplant, some – my favorite – deep-fried it. Some threw in pine nuts and raisins, others tuna or swordfish.

Eating caponata connected us to a deep Jewish past. Before the Inquisition, at least 10% of the population of the southeastern port town was Jewish. In the now-Judenrein Jewish quarter, the Giudecca, we joined a small group of tourists and descended a staircase inside a hotel to arrive at the remains of three mikvahs, which once served the men, women and the rabbi’s family.

15th century Jewish tombstones on display in Siracusa are one of the few tangible markers of a once-significant Jewish presence in Sicily. Photo by @foodaism

Nearby stood the four walls of a large roofless church of San Giovanni Battista, built on the remains of what had been the quarter’s main synagogue. The only sign of a once major Jewish community was farther down the street at the Regional Gallery at Palazzo Bellomo, where four tombstones, taken from a Jewish cemetery and once used to build a seawall, were on display in the courtyard. We translated their faded Hebrew descriptions. “On the fourth day of the Month of Tevet in the year 5187, the young Ester daughter of the honorable Rabbi Shabetai was buried. May she rest in Eden.”

Traveling on from Siracusa toward Palermo, it was easy to see how Sicily felt like home to the Jews.

The signs are everywhere

The late Israeli novelist A.B. Yehoshua campaigned to have Palermo, whose name comes from the Arab name for the city, Balarm, serve as the capital of a Mediterranean confederation of Arab countries, Andalusia and Israel.

“As I rapidly approach the end of my life,” he wrote, “the idea of forging a Mediterranean identity has become fundamental and of great importance to me.”

The idea always struck me as quixotic and arbitrary — Palermo? — until we arrived in the city. The climate is closer to Israel than Europe. Arab culture suffuses architecture, food and language. It’s Israel without the religious strife — or rather, centuries after the strife.

Again, the clues were in the foods. In the Ballaro market, fry shops offered squares of deep-fried chickpea flour called panelle. For a couple of euros you get four pieces stuffed into a split roll, doused with salt and pepper. It was warm, crisp and comforting.

Panelle are as ubiquitous as caponata in Sicily. Chickpeas originated in Turkey and made their way through the Middle East and then Europe, arriving long before the Jews and Arabs. But the deep-fried preparation spoke of a Mideast influence.

Panelle, or chickpea fritters, are common Sicilian street food—and a good idea for Hanukkah Photo by @foodaism

Jews once made up 5% of Palermo’s population. The Giudecca, just outside the old city walls, has recently been marked with Hebrew and English signs for tourists. Aside from that, there are few traces. But if you know where to look, the signs are everywhere.

“That’s where they were tried and tortured,” said our guide, Bianca Del Bello, who specializes in the city’s Jewish past.

She was pointing to the city’s main cathedral, a massive, stunning edifice across from our hotel. Tourists walked the ramparts and crowded the plaza, as unaware as we had been of its gruesome Jewish past.

Del Bello pointed out a church in the former Jewish quarter built on the site of what a medieval Jewish traveler once called the grandest synagogue in the world. And she pointed to another church, now shuttered, which was returned to Palermo’s two dozen or so Jews in a sign of penance and reparation by Palermo’s archbishop, Corrado Lorefice.

Palermo’s archbishop returned the former Baroque oratory known as Santa Maria del Sabato, which was once a synagogue, to the Jewish community. Photo by @foodaism

In the market, Del Bello said that Jews once worked as butchers and made sandwiches out of the inexpensive entrails they didn’t sell. Those somehow evolved into pani Ca’meusa, in which pieces of lung, spleen and intestine are boiled, fried in lard, and slopped on a roll with some ricotta. Food historians differ on how exactly the popular sandwich developed, but Del Bello hinted at antisemitism, which, given the ingredients, seems about right.

My favorite part of the second season of  White Lotus, the popular HBO series which takes place in Sicily, is when the Italian American visitors travel to their ancestral village only to be chased out. My wife and I don’t have Italian heritage, but it was hard not to feel connected to Sicily’s Jewish past, centuries after the Jews, all of them, were chased out. All Jewish travel, after all, is roots travel.

It struck me, with Hanukkah approaching, how much Sicilian food with Jewish roots is fried. The best caponata we had – and we ate a lot of caponata — used deep-fried cubes of salted eggplant. Those panelle — also fried. I decided that when we returned to LA I’d be including both on our Hanukkah menus, when eating fried food is traditional. That would be, I figured, a way to resurrect a once great Jewish community, at least in my kitchen.

Caponata alla Giudia

“What most people ignore is that the Sicilian caponata actually has Jewish origins,” writes Benedetta Jasmine Guetta, author of Cooking alla Giudia, which includes this recipe. Guetta essentially deep fries the eggplant cubes, caramelizing them, so they add their own sweetness to the final dish. The not-insubstantial amount of olive and vegetable oil this recipe calls for makes it perfect for Hanukkah, though you’ll have to seek eggplant and tomatoes from warmer climates, or a greenhouse.

Serves 4

3 medium eggplants

Kosher salt

1 1/2 onions

2 celery ribs

5 cherry tomatoes

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

2 garlic cloves, smashed

1 cup chopped ripe tomatoes or canned diced tomatoes, with their liquid

2 tablespoons mixed black and green olives, pitted

1 tablespoon capers

1/2 cup white wine vinegar

1 tablespoon sugar

Sunflower or peanut oil for deep-frying

Freshly ground black pepper

5 basil leaves

  1. Cut the eggplants into 3/4-inch cubes. Transfer them to a colander, salt generously, weigh them down with a plate and let drain for 30 minutes in the kitchen sink.
  2. Cut the half onion into very thin slices. Cut the whole onion into chunks roughly the same size as the eggplant cubes. Cut the celery into chunks and cut the cherry tomatoes in half.
  3. Pour the olive oil into a large nonstick skillet set over medium heat, add the sliced onion and garlic and cook for about 3 minutes, until the garlic is slightly browned. Add the celery, tomatoes (both cherry and chopped), olives, capers and the chopped onion to the skillet and cook for 10 minutes, until the vegetables begin to soften. Add the vinegar and sugar and cook for another 10 minutes. Remove from the heat.
  4. Remove the plate covering the eggplant and squeeze the eggplant in the colander to remove any remaining liquid.
  5. Pour 1 inch of sunflower or peanut oil into a large saucepan and warm over medium heat until a deep-fry thermometer reads 350 F. You can test the oil by dropping a small piece of food, such as a slice of apple, into it: If it sizzles nicely but doesn’t bubble up too wildly, the oil is ready. 
  6. Add only as many eggplant cubes to the pan as will fit in a single layer without crowding and fry until golden, turning often. Remove the eggplant with a slotted spoon and spread out on a paper towel-lined plate to drain. Cook the remaining eggplant cubes in the same manner, adding more oil if needed.
  7. Once the fried eggplant has drained, add it to the skillet of vegetables. Season with 1/2 teaspoon salt and pepper to taste, adding a bit of water if the vegetables look dry, and cook the caponata over medium heat, stirring frequently, for 5 minutes.
  8. Stir in the basil leaves, remove from the heat and let the caponata cool to room temperature before serving.
Excerpted from Cooking alla Giudia: A Celebration of the Jewish Food of Italy  by Benedetta Jasmine Guetta (Artisan Books). Copyright 2022. Reposted with permission. 

Panelle, or fried chickpea squares

These fried chickpea squares speak to Sicily’s Middle East influences. Try serving them with caponata.

Ingredients

1 ½ cups chickpea flour

3 cups water

1 teaspoon coarse sea salt or kosher salt

2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley

Vegetable or canola oil for frying

Instructions

  1. In a medium saucepan, whisk together the chickpea flour, water and salt. Place over medium high heat and cook, continue stirring, until the mixture bubbles, becomes thick, and easily pulls away from the bottom and sides of the pan. This can take 5-10 minutes. The mixture should be very thick or else it will break apart when frying.  Remove from heat and stir in the parsley.
  2. Use a spatula to scrape and pour the mixture out into a parchment-lined pan, about 12 by 15 inches. A bench scraper or spatula will help you smooth the top to make it flat and even, about 1/4 inch thick. Place in the refrigerator to cool and harden. 
  3. When you’re ready to fry, heat 1/2 inch of vegetable oil in a cast iron or other sturdy pan. The temperature should read about 375 F.
  4. Cut the panelle into squares, about 3 inches across. Lower carefully into oil without crowding the pan. Fry until brown, about 2-3 minutes, then flip and finish frying on the other side, another 2-3 minutes. Remove with slotted spoon and let drain on a paper towel-lined plate.
  5. Serve hot, sprinkled with some additional salt and pepper.  

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Rob Eshman is Senior Contributing Editor of the Forward. Follow him on Instagram @foodaism and Twitter @foodaism or email eshman@forward.com.

This article was originally published on the Forward.

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Of course the Italians make a better latke

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Italian frico — potatoes, onion and cheese — is perfect for Hanukkah

Frico — potatoes, onion and Montasio cheese — on a bed of grilled radicchio. Photo by Factory Kitchen

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

The first time I tasted frico I immediately thought: latke.

A traditional dish from the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region in the northeast corner of Italy, frico is a disk of grated potato, onion and Montasio cheese fried in oil. That simple addition of a grassy, fragrant Alpine cheese turns what would otherwise be a light-ish latke into a complete, savory meal. 

“It’s simple and perfect for cold weather,” Bobo Ivan, chef at Factory Kitchen in downtown Los Angeles told me.

Bobo — no one addresses him by his last name, at his request —  is a friend, and when we showed up for dinner at his restaurant, he sent out a frico garnished with a head of grilled radicchio and drizzled with a balsamic vinegar reduction. It was one of those rare freezing cold nights in LA when the temperature plunged to 61 degrees, and the frico was the perfect way to warm up. Bobo said he puts it on the menu in winter and takes it off in spring.

I’ve made latkes, and I’ve made fondue. But until Bobo served me frico, it never occurred to me that the two should marry. Later I texted Bobo that I needed the recipe, because this Hanukkah we’d be eating more frico.

It turns out, there are dozens of ways to make frico, just like there are to prepare latkes.

The restaurateur and food TV personality Lidia Bastianich, who is from Friuli-Venezia Giulia, makes a version that encases the potato and onion between two sheets of grated, melted and browned cheese, like one of those inside-out quesadillas that have overtaken my Instagram feed. She makes another version that uses egg, which is, whether they know it or not in Trieste, a latke. Some recipes call for boiling the potatoes first, others for grating them along with the onion — again, very latke-like.

But in Bobo’s easy-to-make version, the role of the eggs is played by the far more delicious cheese, which binds the frico together long enough so that it can come softly apart in your mouth.

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Bobo is also Friulian, from Sacile, where he trained as a chef before moving on to work at the Michelin-starred Al Capriolo and restaurants throughout Europe, New York and LA. He said he makes his homey frico “restaurant fancy” by forming it in a ramekin and crisping it in olive oil, then serving it with radicchio, from one region away, and a balsamic reduction. 

“Not a Friuli thing at all,” he said.  “Sautéed porcini or speck would be a very friulano thing.”

After Bobo shared his recipe with me, I searched LA for Montasio cheese and came up empty. But Bobo recommended an aged piave as a suitable substitute. If you can’t find piave — this is me, not Bobo— try another aged Alpine cheese such as Comté or even a high quality Swiss.

Bobo’s version of frico is puck-shaped, with a uniformly crisp exterior that cracks open to reveal soft cubes of potato, rivulets of me cheese and wisps of soft-cooked onion. The radicchio garnish is optional, but the key is that cheese, which makes this latke, I mean, frico, a Hanukkah meal unto itself.

 

Rob Eshman is Senior Contributing Editor of the Forward. Follow him on Instagram @foodaism and Twitter @foodaism or email eshman@forward.com.

This article was originally published on the Forward.

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Chef Bobo’s frico

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Potatoes, onion and cheese make a new and improved latke

Frico — potatoes, onion and Montasio cheese — on a bed of grilled radicchio. Photo by Factory Kitchen

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

Chef Bobo of LA’s Factory Kitchen forms his frico in ramekins, then unmolds and reheats them. This recipe allows you to do that, or eat it the traditional way, hot out of the pan.

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Ingredients

  • ½ pound russet potatoes
  • ½ pound Montasio or other alpine cheese (piave, Comte, fontina, Swiss), grated
  • ½ pound onion, chopped
  • ½ cup olive oil
  • Salt and pepper

Directions

  1. Boil the potatoes until just soft. Let cool and peel.
  2. In a large skillet, heat 3 tablespoons of the olive oil. Add the onions and fry until soft and cooked through, but not caramelized.
  3. Add the potatoes and mash into the pan. Cook until the potato and onion mixture is dry, then add the cheese and salt and pepper to taste.
  4. Cook until the cheese is melted and everything is coagulated.
  5. You can continue cooking the frico over a medium low flame until a crust forms on one side. Cover with a plate, and flip over onto the plate. Add a little more oil to the pan, and, when hot, slide the frico back into the pan. Cook until the frico is brown on the second side, then slide onto a plate, cut and serve — or cut and serve directly from the pan.
  6. Alternatively, before browning the frico, you can scoop out the mixture and divide among four or more oiled ramekins. Let cool. You can refrigerate overnight if you wish.
  7. Heat 3 more tablespoons of olive oil in the skillet. When hot, gently turn the ramekins upside down into the oil. If your skillet is large enough, cook three or four at a time. Fry on one side until crisp and brown. Flip and cook on the other side until brown. Cook the rest of the mixture like this. You can keep the cooked frico warm on a sheet pan in a 180-degree oven.

Rob Eshman is Senior Contributing Editor of the Forward. Follow him on Instagram @foodaism and Twitter @foodaism or email eshman@forward.com.

This article was originally published on the Forward.

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Judy Zeidler, passionate purveyor of Jewish and Italian cooking, dies at 92

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The best way to remember Judy Zeidler is through her recipes

Dario Cecchini, Kim Wicks, Judy Zeidler and Marvin Zeidler dining out. Courtesy of Judy Zeidler

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

Many years ago I was searching the aisles of a restaurant supply store in Los Angeles when I ran into Dario Cecchini, the world-famous Tuscan butcher, who was visiting his friends Judy and Marvin Zeidler.

I introduced myself and reminded him that I was also a friend of Judy’s.

Cecchini instantly reached out and hugged me.

“So we are family!” he said.

Judy Zeidler, who died Oct. 31 at age 92, was a food writer, restaurateur and philanthropist whose passion for Jewish and Italian cooking was utterly contagious. She turned all who ate at her table into family.

Some cookbook authors you read because they expand your tastes, others you love because they share your cravings.

Judy was that second kind: She loved biscotti as much as you, but she would spend hours tracking down an expert baker near Siena for the recipe.

In 2010 I came back from a food conference in Turin eager to recreate the single best thing I ate there: focaccia di Recco, a pool of melted fresh cheese between two thin, crisp layers of dough.

I couldn’t find the recipe anywhere. Then Judy sent me the manuscript of her new book, “Italy Cooks,” which featured a recipe for which she had traveled to Recco to learn to make directly from the bakers there.

Judy, who was born in the Boyle Heights section of Los Angeles in 1930, began cooking professionally after moving with her husband Marvin and their three children to a ranch in Topanga in 1963. A local restaurant asked her to supply it with her homemade apple strudel.

That turned into a career. Judy published “The Gourmet Jewish Cook” and eight other cookbooks. In the 1980s and 1990s she hosted “Judy’s Kitchen” on the Jewish Television Network, and began writing food columns for numerous publications, including the Los Angeles Times and the Jewish Journal, where I became her editor, and her friend.

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It was easy to see why an Italian butcher would think of her as family: Judy was joyful, curious and generous. Before I took a trip to any part of Italy, she’d give me a  list of her restaurant recommendations, along with the instructions to tell the owners I knew Judy and Marv. Judy appreciated chefs and restaurateurs and they returned the affection.

The couple, who were married 72 years, would eventually own or co-own some well-known  restaurants themselves: Citrus (with Michel Richard), Capo and the much-missed Broadway Deli. They created Zeidler’s Cafe at the Skirball Cultural Center in LA and its takeout spot, Judy’s Counter.

When her son emailed me that Judy had died, I was on vacation in Sicily, and in a flash I remembered a conversation I had with Judy when she and Marv returned from a trip there. A restaurant had served her a dinner of conserved fish, right out of the tin, and she said I had to try it. I did, and as usual, her enthusiasm was exactly right.

The best tribute I could think of for Judy is to post one of my favorite recipes from “Italy Cooks,” which she wrote after 35 years of travel and part-time living in the country. It’s an olive oil cake from Cecchini himself. Make it and share it so you can spread some love through food — it’s what Judy Zeidler spent a lifetime doing.

Judy is survived by her husband Marvin, her children  Susan Zeidler (Leo Frishberg), Kathy Mezzanatto (Steve); Paul Zeidler (Amber); and D. Zeke Zeidler (Jay Kohorn); predeceased last year by son Marc Zeidler (Amy), by seven  grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.

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Rob Eshman is Senior Contributing Editor of the Forward. Follow him on Instagram @foodaism and Twitter @foodaism or email eshman@forward.com.

This article was originally published on the Forward.

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Sukkot makes me dream of a beef tagine with quinces

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A fall dish for the holiday come from North Africa and draws out the charms of an often overlooked fruit

Beef and quince stew. Photo by @foodaism

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

When I see the pomegranates turn ripe on our tree and the quinces appear at the farmers market, I know it’s time to start planning menus for Sukkot.

Quinces aren’t much to eat raw, but cooked they offer up a flavor between apples and pears, and unlike both, lend more substance to a stew.

There’s a lot of recipes for North African beef or lamb tagines with quinces — many Persian and Syrian ones as well. From Claudia Roden’s books I learned to cook the quinces separately, giving them their own deep honey glaze, then folding them into the almost-finished stew.

Ingredients

  • 3 pounds boneless beef shank or stew meat, in 2-inch cubes
  • 3 onions, chopped
  • 5 cloves garlic, chopped
  • 1/2 cup olive oil
  • 1 tablespoon ras el-hanout
  • 1 teaspoon smoked paprika
  • 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 3 teaspoons salt
  • 1/2 teaspoon harissa or cayenne
  • 1 teaspoon pepper
  • 2 bay leaves
  • 1 carrot, chopped
  • 1 stalk celery, chopped
  • 2 large quinces
  • 1 teaspoon honey
  • 1 small lemon, juiced
  • 3 tablespoons vegetable oil
  • About 2 cups water

Directions

Sear the meat

  1. Season the beef with salt and pepper. In a large skillet, heat 1/4 cup of olive oil. Add beef cubes and sauté until well-browned on all sides. You may need to do this in batches so you don’t crowd the skillet. Remove the beef from skillet and let rest while you make the onions.

Make the onions

  1. Add another 1/4 cup olive oil to the skillet. When hot add onions and garlic. Sauté until clear, add the carrots and celery, then the bay leaf and all the spices. Sauté a few more minutes.

Cook the stew

  1. If you use an Instant Pot, add the beef and onion mixture to the Instant Pot. Pour in about 2 cups of water, so it comes about 3/4 of the way to the top of the meat. Stir well. Cover and cook at “Stew/Meat” setting for an hour. In a regular heavy pot, stir all ingredients together, add water, bring to boil, then lower heat to medium. Cover with a tight lid and simmer stew two hours.

Make the quinces

  1. Wash the quinces but do not peel. Place quinces in a pot of boiling water. Boil the quinces about 15 minutes or until barely cooked. They should still be firm. Cut quinces in quarters lengthwise. Remove core with knife. Cut in eights, then cut crosswise into chunks. In a large skillet heat the vegetable oil. Add quinces and honey. Saute until well-browned, turning frequently. Set aside.

Finish the stew

  1. If you’re using the Instant Pot, let cool, then open. Stir in most of the quinces and the lemon juice. Taste for seasoning: You may want more harissa, salt or pepper. In a casserole, remove lid, stir in most of the quinces and the lemon juice. Taste for seasoning: you may want more harissa, salt or pepper. To serve, dish stew into a warm serving bowl with the liquid. Garnish with reserved quince.

Rob Eshman is Senior Contributing Editor of the Forward. Follow him on Instagram @foodaism and Twitter @foodaism or email eshman@forward.com.

This article was originally published on the Forward.

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Moroccan fish tagine and carrot salad help complete Judaism’s best holiday

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It’s not too late to win Sukkot

Carrot Date Salad Courtesy of Rob Eshman

This story was originally published in the Forward. Click here to get the Forward’s free email newsletters delivered to your inbox.

Sukkot, if you didn’t already know, is the best Jewish holiday. You eat outdoors in homemade, temporary shelters. You gather together, maybe drink a little, and enjoy good food and conversation in the company of nature.

Rob Eshman’s sukkah Courtesy of Rob Eshman

I married into Sukkot. In our Reform household, we marked the Big Three (High Holidays, Passover, Hanukkah) and if I learned about the other holidays in Hebrew school, I figured they were for real Jews, or extra credit.

But Sukkot was always a part of my wife Naomi’s life, and it would be part of ours. The first year I figured I could build my own sukkah. I knew what a bamboo hut looked like: I’d seen every episode of “Gilligan’s Island.”

We had a few new friends over, I made sweet corn tamales, and halfway through dinner the sukkah listed north and collapsed. The next year I bought a prefab sukkah kit and focussed on cooking, not construction.

The sukkah goes up for just seven days to symbolize the temporary shelters of the Israelites as they wandered the desert. But very few of us actually dwell in our sukkahs. What they really are is temporary dining rooms. Sukkot is the original pop-up, like, 2,000 years before pop-ups. 

And in that spirit, it’s also a time I like to try new dishes for a new year. This year for Sukkot, which ends Sunday evening, Oct. 16, I’m rolling out a carrot salad with fresh ginger, a dash of harissa and a date dressing, and a fragrant tagine that cooks fish (or fried tofu) on a bed of sliced potatoes or zucchini under a bright green, fragrant Moroccan sauce called chermoula.  

Add a round honey-glazed pumpkin challah and maybe some flan for dessert, and enjoy another beautiful evening outside.

Carrot Date Salad

Serves 4-6

4 medium carrots, grated

1 cup chopped parsley

1 cup chopped cilantro

1 lemon, juiced

½ cup olive oil

1 teaspoon fresh chopped ginger

5 dates, pitted

½ teaspoon harissa 

½ teaspoon salt

Pepper to taste

 

Place carrots, parsley and cilantro in a serving bowl. In a blender or food processor, add dates, lemon juice, ginger, salt, pepper and harissa. Puree. 

Add dressing to carrots and toss well. You may need to add more dressing, or thin with some oil. Serve.

Moroccan Fish Tagine

Fish Tagine Courtesy of @Foodaism

The chermoula recipe is adapted from one by Martha Rose Shulman in The New York Times. This dish works well with tofu (see below), and a very low-carb version can be made using just zucchini and no potatoes.

Chermoula

2 cups cilantro leaves  

2 cups parsley leaves  

4 garlic cloves

½ -1 teaspoon chopped fresh red or green chile pepper

¾ teaspoon teaspoon salt  

1 teaspoon ground cumin 

1 teaspoon sweet paprika

½ teaspoon ground coriander  

½ cup extra virgin olive oil 

¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

Fish

2 pounds fresh white fish filets (halibut, cod, snapper)

1/4 cup olive oil

1 onion, sliced thin

4 cloves garlic, crushed

2 potatoes, peeled and sliced ⅛ inch thick

2 zucchini, sliced into ½ inch-thick rounds

salt and pepper

 

Place all chermoula ingredients in a blender or food processor and process until well-blended. It can have some texture if you like but should be closer to a puree.

Heat olive oil in bottom of casserole or tagine. When hot, add onions and garlic. Let cook until fragrant and slightky brown.

Add the vegetables to make a nice bed. Spread some chermoula over the vegetables. Salt and pepper the fish filets on both sides and lay on top of the vegetables. Add a cup or more of the chermoula and rub over the fish. Sprinkle with more salt and pepper.

Cover the dish tightly and cook over medium high heat on a gas stove, or in a preheated 375-degree oven, about 20 minutes. Keep warm until serving.

Serve with lemon slices.

Note: This recipe works well with tofu, too. Use two packages of extra firm tofu. Slice in ½ inch sections, drain and press dry. Sprinkle both sides with salt and pepper. Heat vegetable oil in a skillet and fry on both sides until browned. Then use them in the above recipe.

Rob Eshman is Senior Contributing Editor of the Forward. Follow him on Instagram @foodaism and Twitter @foodaism or email eshman@forward.com.

This article was originally published on the Forward.

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