Venetian Cuisine: Deja Vu All Over Again

When I travel, I am always up for a new adventure, but then I am also fond of places with a tinge of the familiar.

Venice, with its meandering alley ways, peaceful piazzas and decaying architecture, put me in mind of my grandparents' native island of Hvar in the Dalmatian region of Croatia, and not a little of New Orleans.

Likewise the tiny trattorias dotting the back alleys far away from the tourist joints around San Marco, serve up food strongly reminiscent of Point Cadet: stuffed sardines, fried anchovies, pasta i fagoli, baccala, calf's liver with onion, seafood spaghetti and fried seafood platters. This really did not surprise me. For centuries, Dalmatia was ruled by the Republic of Venice and, years later, Dalmatian immigrants "ruled" the very eastern tip of Biloxi.

One of my favorite meals in Venice was my last dinner at Taverna Ciardi, a little restaurant/bar in the Cannaregio neighborhood. The menu was small, but market-driven, the mood relaxed with lots of locals (always a good sign). It was almost like eating at home -- in more ways than one.

We started with polenta topped with tiny baby Adriatic shrimp -- a Venetian version of shrimp and grits. Polenta really is just good old-fashioned stone-ground grits, the kind you so rarely get here anymore now that everybody has gone the "instant" route. These shrimp are so teensy -- much smaller than anything I've ever seen come out of the Gulf -- yet so sweet and flavorful.

Baby shrimp made their appearance again in the Spaghetti Taverna Ciardi -- which changes every day depending upon what they find at the market. Lucky for me, the market that particular day offered clams and mussels which together with garlic and white wine made for a simple, but delicious, pasta course.

For dessert, I had the taverna's signature cake studded with pears and apples and flavored with nutmeg and lemon zest. It looked like pound cake and tasted like bread pudding -- another familiar taste!

So what's the point of leaving home, you might well ask. As familiar as it was in many ways, Venice offers up many sensory delights you won't find anywhere else. Read all about them on my other blog, "The House Where The Black Cat Lives."

Until you can go yourself, here's a recipe for Taverna Ciardi-inspired shrimp with polenta, seafood spaghetti and apple-pear torta. Pour yourself a nice glass of Pinot Grigio (preferably from the Veneto region), pull up a chair to your dock (or your swimming pool or bird bath) and pretend you're sitting alongside a Venetian canal.

Salute and buon appetito!

Garlic Shrimp with Grits

The Venetians call this classic dish schie con polenta but it's okay if you just call it shrimp and grits -- that's what it is. I adapted this from a recipe in Food and Wine magazine.

6 1/2 cups water
Salt to taste (I like a lot; polenta can be kind of bland on its own)
1 3/4 cups white polenta (10 ounces). (If you can't find polenta in your neck of the woods, substitute stone-ground grits. Do not, repeat do not, use instant or quick grits. You want the kind your maw-maw used to cook.)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 pounds shrimp, shelled and deveined
2-3 large garlic cloves, very finely chopped

In a large saucepan, combine the water with a large pinch of salt and bring to a boil. Add the polenta in a thin stream, whisking constantly.

Reduce the heat to low and simmer, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the polenta is thick and the grains are tender, about 20 minutes. Stir in the butter, season the polenta with salt and pepper and keep warm.

In a very large skillet, heat the olive oil until shimmering. Season the shrimp with salt and pepper. Add them to the skillet and cook over high heat until they are lightly browned on one side, about 2 minutes. Add the garlic, turn the shrimp over and cook until cooked through, about 1 minute longer.

Transfer the polenta to shallow bowls. Top with the shrimp and some of the garlic oil from the skillet. Serve immediately.


Spaghetti a la Taverna Ciardi

1/4 cup dry white wine
2 dozen mussels, scrubbed
2 dozen littleneck clams, scrubbed
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
4-8 garlic cloves, minced (depends on how much you love garlic. It's Halloween so I like to keep the vampires at bay and add all of them)
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper
1 pound spaghetti
1 pound of small shrimp or 3/4 pound medium shrimp--shelled, deveined and halved crosswise
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons chopped parsley

Bring the wine to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the mussels, cover and cook over high heat until they open, about 2 minutes. Using tongs, transfer the mussels to a bowl. Add the clams to the saucepan, cover and cook until they start to open. Transfer them to the bowl with the mussels. Pour the cooking liquid into a glass measuring cup (discard the grit if you can). Shell the mussels and clams and return to the bowl.

Heat the olive oil in a medium saucepan. Add the garlic and cook over low heat until golden, being careful not to burn. Add the red pepper and cook over moderate heat. Add the reserved shellfish cooking liquid and simmer over moderate heat until slightly reduced, about 3 minutes.

Cook the spaghetti in a large pot of boiling salted water, stirring occasionally, until al dente. Meanwhile, bring the sauce to a simmer over moderate heat. Add the shrimp and cook for 1 minute. Add the reserved mussels and clams and simmer briefly to heat through.

Drain the spaghetti and return it to the pot. Add the seafood sauce and toss to coat. Season with salt and black pepper and transfer to a warmed bowl. Sprinkle with the parsley and serve immediately.

Note: As far as I could tell, there were no tomatoes in Taverna Ciardi's sauce; however, I have had seafood spaghetti on Hvar tossed in a very light tomato-spiked seafood broth that was extremely tasty. If you would like that version, add a pint of cherry or grape tomatoes to the skillet when you add the red pepper and cook for four minutes, crushing the tomatoes with a wooden spoon as they soften, just before you add the seafood stock.

Torta with Apples and Pears

This recipe makes a very dense, rustic cake. I've also seen it made with figs. Add a pinch of cinnamon if you crave more spice.

2 1/2 cups flour

2/3 sugar

3 eggs

2/3 melted, unsalted butter

grated zest of 1 lemon

1 teaspoon baking powder

pinch of freshly ground nutmeg

1/3 cup milk

3 apples or pears or a combination. Use ripe, firm fruit.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all ingredients except the fruit. Mix until batter is smooth.

Butter and flour a 9″ springform pan. Pour in the batter. Peel and core fruit, then slice thinly and arrange in a circle pattern on top of batter. Fruit may sink slightly into the batter.

Bake the cake until a wooden toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 1 hour.

Remove from oven and let cake cool slightly on wire rack. Remove the pan sides and slip the cake onto a serving plate. Serve at room temperature.

Daddy and His Pineapple Plantation Owner's Hat

When my father retired, he gleefully shed the tailored suits, French cuffs, silk ties and wing-tipped brogues my mother had picked out for him during his working life. In retirement, he wallowed in his own questionable taste, a byproduct of his color blindness.

Polyester blue and white checked pants, red and white striped shirts and a canary yellow sports jacket became the foundation of his leisure wardrobe.

The piece de resistance was a straw fishing hat from the fifty-cent table at Rose's discount store.

The hat was a plain straw boater -- the type worn by gondoliers in Venice or aristocratic Southern gentleman sipping juleps on their verandas.

However, it was accented by a tie-dyed band with all the colors of the Sgt. Pepper's album cover in the mix. And two plumey little feathers -- one red, one yellow --like the ones gracing the tips of plastic wands at Pet Smart. My cats, and not a few pimps, would have loved that hat.

My mother dubbed it "The Pineapple Plantation Owner's" hat. It became Daddy's signature accessory, as much a part of him as his horn-rimmed bi-focals.

He wore his new hat to the grocery store, the swimming pool, family picnics, even to Saturday evening Mass. Daddy claimed he wore the hat to protect his middle-aged bald spot from the sun. But I think he liked wearing it because, like Superman's cape, it unleashed his true nature.

Wandering around the New Orleans French Quarter, Downtown Biloxi or Edgewater Mall, while wearing the hat, Daddy could happily warble Christmas songs in July. Or speak pig Latin. Loudly. The prissy teenager in me was horrified and humiliated The other part of me was proud. My friends all thought he was original and cool. And he was.

No doubt encouraged by the hat, Daddy, taught my sister and me the fine art of swearing well. Not blue language that would get us in trouble but colorful original nonsensical phrasings that vented steam and got us giggling.

Goodnessgraciousjalapenopeppersheavenstobetsyhoohoohoo was one of our favorites.

The Pineapple Plantation Owner's Hat made life a little funnier and gave us all permission to act a little sillier. It became a beloved member of our family - rather like our poodle Tejean.

It left our lives as it had entered them-- as a fishing hat. One windy day, near Popp's Ferry bridge, a gust plucked the hat from Daddy's head and sent it skimming over the water. As my sister and I keened and wailed from the shore, it started taking on water, slipping ever further beneath the choppy waves, finally disappearing from view.

It was a noble end. A Viking burial without the funeral pyre.

And that hat deserved no less.

Coca Cola Cake

Daddy often wore the hat on picnics, including our annual Father's Day family picnics at Flint Creek Water Park in Wiggins. My mother usually baked a Coca Cola sheet cake for these occasions. I'm not sure if she got the recipe from Southern Living magazine or from Connie Bea Hope and Estelle Payton on their cooking show on Channel 5 out of Mobile.

They were sure good.

2 cups of all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon, baking soda
2 cups sugar
1 cup of carbonated cola beverage (I like Coca Cola, but you can use what you like. Just don't use diet cola)
1 cup butter
2 tablespoons cocoa powder
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract (real vanilla, please, not vanilla flavoring)
1 1/2 cups miniature marshmallows
Cola frosting (see below)
1/2 cup chopped pecans

Combine flour, soda, soda and sugar. Stir well and set aside.

Combine cola, butter and cocoa in a heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Gradually stir into flour mixture. Stir in buttermilk, eggs, vanilla and marshmallows. Pour into a greased and floured 13x9x2 pan. Bake at 350 for 30-35 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean. Spread cola frosting over the cake while still warm. Sprinkle with pecans. Let cool.

Cola Frosting

1/2 cup butter
1/4 cup Coca Cola (or your favorite cola brand -- again, no diet soda)
3 tablespoons cocoa
3 cups sifted powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Combine butter, cola, and cocoa in a heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in sugar and vanilla.

Out of This World Cheesecake

From 1969-1971, my parents, sister and I lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Twice a year Aunt Selema and her family stayed the night with us en route from their home in San Antonio to Biloxi.

On July 20-21, 1969, their visit coincided with the first Apollo 11 moon landing and moonwalk. We (and half a billion other people) were all glued to the TV watching Neil Armstrong take his historic first step for mankind.

All except for my dad, who stuffed with all the good food Mama had spent days cooking, snored through the whole thing in his Barcalounger.

Mama woke him up when it was all over and told him that the astronauts had discovered little green men and that the moon actually was made of green cream cheese just like the Mardi Gras song, "If Ever I Cease to Love" says.

He believed her for about the three seconds it took for him to wake up.

Maybe he just had cream cheese on the brain because he had just eaten half of her famous cheesecake - which actually is out of this world.

It's a classic not-overly-sweet New York style cheesecake. My daddy liked it so well, he often had her make it for events he catered at the restaurant. I often requested it as my birthday cake. I lost the actual recipe during the hurricane, but I think this one is pretty close.

The zwieback crumb crust doesn't overpower the taste of the cheesecake as graham cracker crusts so often do. If you can't find zwieback in the cookie section at the grocery store, try the baby food aisle.

Mama's Out-Of-This-World Cheesecake

Crust:
1 1/2 cups zwieback crumbs
2-3 T granulated (or brown) sugar
1/2 t cinnamon
6 T (3/4 stick) butter or margarine, melted

Batter:
1 1/2 lbs. cream cheese, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 cups sour cream
1-3 T lemon juice
2 t vanilla extract
1/4 t salt
4 large eggs

Sour Cream Topping:
1 1/2 cups sour cream
1/4 cup powdered sugar or 3 T granulated sugar

Position rack in the center of over. Preheat to 350. Grease a 9" springform pan.

For crust, combine zwieback crumbs, sugar and cinnamon. Stir in melted butter or margarine. Press into prepared pan. Chill.

For batter, beat cream cheese until smooth, scraping down sides often. Add sugar. Beat until light. Blend in sour cream, lemon juice, vanilla, salt. Beat in eggs one at a time. DO NOT OVERBEAT TO AVOID CRACKS IN BATTER. Pour into pan. Bake until firm around edges and slightly brown (about 1 1/4 hours). Turn off oven. Cool cake in oven for about 30 minutes. Remove from oven and cool completely before adding topping.

For topping: Combine sour cream, sugar and vanilla. Spread over cooled cheesecake. Refrigerate overnight.

Come In If You're Good Looking!

Back in the 40’s and 50's, people actually visited each other rather than texting, tweeting or poking each other on Facebook.

According to my mom, a knock on any door on the Point back then was likely to be greeted with shouts of "Come in if you're good looking." Most everyone knew everyone else in the neighborhood, so people rarely locked their doors or expected too many strangers.

One evening, Grandpa was off on the boats, Nona was at a Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting and the kids – then mostly in their teens - were all camped out in the living room after supper, shooting the breeze, playing cards or whatever people did before TV, the Internet and Wii.

There came a knock at the door. Assuming it was Miss Nettie or Miss Isabel from next door or perhaps Aunt Frances from around the corner, they all shouted out in unison, “Come in if you’re good looking.”

The door opened to reveal the biggest, burliest, baldest, meanest looking guy any of them had ever seen. He had tattoos up and down his arms and his nose looked like it had been broken. Several times. He stared at them. They stared at him. Before anyone could say anything, he ran through the living room, dining room and kitchen, out the back door and disappeared into the night.

To this day, no one knows who he was, where he came from, who or what he was looking for or who the hell lied and told him he was good looking.

Maybe he just wanted a piece of my Nona's jelly roll. You don't hear about these too much anymore, but this used to be one of her go-to weekday desserts. It's an old-fashioned sponge cake rolled up around a jelly center.

Jelly Roll

3 eggs
1 cup of sugar
3 Tbsp. water or milk
1 tsp of vanilla
1 cup of flour
1 tsp baking powder
Pinch, salt
powdered sugar
2/3 cups jelly or jam (your choice but Nona usually made with strawberry preserves).

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a jelly-roll pan (15 1/2" x 10 1/2" x 1") with greased wax paper, aluminum foil or parchment paper.

Beat eggs until light and fluffy. Add sugar, water ad vanilla and cream well. Stir in vanilla.

In separate bowl, sift together flour, baking powder and salt. Mix gradually into wet ingredients.

Pour into prepared pan, spreading to the edges. Bake 10-12 minutes, until cakes bounces back when touched or toothpick comes out clean.

Spread towel on clean surface and sprinkle liberally with powdered sugar. Turn cake onto towel. Carefully remove paper and trim off any crispy brown edges from the cake.

While the cake is still hot, working from the narrow end carefully roll up the towel with the cake. so that the towel is inside the cake. Cool on a wire rack about 10-15 minutes. (Note: some people like to wrap a damp cloth around the dry cloth).

Unroll the cake. Spread with jam (beat with a fork to make more spreadable). Re-roll the cake (without the towel). Sprinkle with more sifted powdered sugar. Slice and serve.

Monkey Business

I often monkey around in the kitchen. My nona did, too, but then she had a real spider monkey to hang out with. His name was Hoy and he actually belonged to my father while he was still a swinging single (Daddy, not the monkey). Hoy didn’t work out so well in his rented bachelor pad so Daddy “temporarily” dumped him on his fiancée (my mother) and her parents.

Hoy moved in and never left. And why would he want to? Nona brewed him milk coffee every morning, baked his favorite cakes on weekends and even sewed him a little clown costume for Mardi Gras. He slept in a little house Grandpa built for him.

The only bummer was during the day, they would chain him to a cinder block near his little house so he wouldn’t get into trouble. Yeah right.

One nice spring day, Nona left a cake cooling on the kitchen table. Hoy smelled it and got tired of waiting to be offered a piece so he took matters into his own hands – literally. He picked up the cinder block (those little fingers are strong) and marched chain, brick and all up the back steps, opened the screen door and made off with the cake.

History does not record what type of cake it was, but it may have been a pound cake. My family was fond of those. As Hoy knew well, it is delicious with a cup of milk coffee.

CREAM CHEESE POUND CAKE

1 1/2 cups butter, softened
1 8-oz. package of cream cheese, softened
3 cups of granulated sugar
6 large eggs
3 cups all-purpose flour
1/8 tsp. salt
1 tbsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp. of almond, lemon or orange extract (optional but oh so good)

Beat butter and cream cheese at medium speed with an electric mixer until creamy. Gradually add sugar and beat well. Add eggs, one at a time, beating until the yellow disappears.

Combine flour and salt; gradually add to butter mixture, beating a low speed until blended after each addition. Stir in vanilla and other flavorings if desired. Spoon batter into a greased and floured 10-inch Bundt or tube pan.

Bake at 300 degrees for 1 hour and 35 minutes (my oven actually takes about 5 minutes longer, especially if I use extra large eggs) or until a long wooden pick comes out clean. Cool in pan on a wire rack 15 minutes. Remove from pan and cool completely on rack.

MILK COFFEE (ALSO KNOWN AS WHITE COFFEE OR CAFE AU LAIT)

Brew coffee to your liking. * In a small pot pour one cup of milk (on the boats they used evaporated milk which would make it BOAT COFFEE). Heat milk until it just comes to boil. Do not let it boil completely. Add a good spoon (regular spoon, not measuring spoon) of sugar to the milk. Pour in one cup of coffee. Stir.

* If you want to be truly authentic with this recipe, brew your coffee the Point way -- in a sack. First you have to make the sack out of a piece of muslin or handkerchief. You want about a 4-inch deep sack. My grandmother's cousin Frances, stitched her sack to the frame of an old hand-held soup strainer with the mesh removed. You can also make the frame yourself, using an old wire hanger. Boil one cup of water in a small pot. Just before it comes to a boil, add 1 spoon full of ground coffee to the water. Remove the pot from the heat after it comes to a boil. Set the sack into an empty coffee pot. Pour the coffee/water mixture into the sack and let it drip through. The sack will serve as a coffee filter.

Photo: My nona, Mary, with Hoy, late 1950's.