The Food Maven Diary
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Here's to the New Year
A funny thing happened on the way to the printer. The seventh printing of Naples at Table has just been released and my publisher, HarperCollins, made a small error. Instead of putting the original 1998 author photo on the back flap of the book, a picture taken by I.M. Hamburg -- otherwise known as Mort Hamburg, aka Skip Hamburg, aka Joan Hamburg's "long suffering" husband -- they put on the 1988 photo used for a previous book, Soup Suppers. I was a mere 41, the restaurant reporter for Fox 5's Good Day New York, and at the best weight of my life. TV can make you very vain.
I am looking at this error as a silly good thing. I'm enjoying it. I promise to take it in my stride when people make fun of my author photo from nearly 20 years ago, as I have myself done about other's age-defying author photos. ("Oh my, they really air brushed him." Or "Who does she think she's kidding?") It's a very silly good thing against the backdrop of the state of the world, and, for me and my friends, and I am sure other people reading this, against end-of-the-year sadness at the loss of friends in 2006.
I had three big loses this year.
Yesterday was the first anniversary of Rona Jaffe's death. She'd gone to London to celebrate New Year's and died of pancreatic cancer, at age 74, the day before. I'd had dinner with her at Sammy's Romanian (disgusting, by the way), just 10 days before. It was the same day she was honored at a women's literature symposium, amidst the many kudos she was getting apropos the re-publication of her novel, with "classic status" hoo-ha, The Best of Everything, and the release of a new DVD of the movie version starring Joan Crawford. Rona and a film historian do commentary on the movie. The film historian is somewhat interesting. Rona's comments are a hoot and a half, as was Rona in person.
And yesterday I went to the emptied apartment of my old friend Francesco de' Rogati, who died, also at age 74, in October. I went with Rozanne Gold to pick up some small things that his family thought we might want – like his personal recipe files and cookbooks.
Rozanne's mother, Marion Gold, also a dear friend, also died in October, just weeks after her 80th birthday, which Rozanne made sure was very joyous. I saw her mother at the beginning of September. She was quite ill, but she was, as always, gorgeous, elegant, and great at making conversation. What always intrigued me about Marion was that this very lady-like and urbane woman grew up Jewish in central Florida – Lake Okeefanoke or whatever. I mean, it was definitely more red neck than Miami.
I am going to Rozanne's house for New Year's Eve tonight, where we will be toasting her mother, and our dear friends, and, of course, keeping them alive with reminiscences.
Naturally, all three have food connections for me. From Marion, who was a wonderful Hungarian-Jewish cook, I only recently learned how to make a superior pot of cabbage with noodles. The recipe will be in my new Yiddish cookbook.
I didn't learn a thing about food or cooking from Rona Jaffe. In fact, I used to tease her about eating spaghetti sprayed with Pam, because she was so fat-phobic and had so little discernment about food. Rona never cooked, and at home she barely ate. But she could pack it away like a truck driver when we went out to eat, and her talent for observation of people always enriched every meal. She was a professional people watcher, and, as in her books, an astute social commentator. (Read again. You'll see.)
She did give one memorable dinner party, however, although it was Rozanne and I who cooked it. I barely remember the menu, but this I will never forget:
When we arrived with the groceries, Rona said, "Oh my god, I forgot to have Elaine (her maid) dust the oven."
"Dust the oven?!" Rozanne and I exclaimed.
"Well, it's been so long since I used it, it must be dusty," Rona said with all sincerity.
Rona did teach me a little about writing, and it was Rona's idea, when I kvetched that I was bored with writing restaurant reviews for the Daily News, that I use my restaurant reviews to tell little stories, like fiction, but true. Since Rona said that she always started with the characters, not the often complicated plots for her many best-selling novels, I made Rona a character in my restaurant reviews. A novel never happened, but I enjoyed the new format for a time.
Rona became Nicole, the Upper East Side Princess, who was my very regular eating companion. In real life, Rona relished being Nicole. She told everyone she was the real Nicole in Arthur Schwartz's restaurant review stories, even though I often made fun of Nicole/Rona's eating habits, and her self-centered princess-ly attitudes. You see, Rona was in a way a real princess. She was the granddaughter of Moses Ginsberg, who was the Donald Trump of his day. Early in his career, in the 1910s and 20s, Ginsberg built homes in Brownsville and East New York, in Brooklyn. Rona called it Mudville, and I just read that East New York was, in fact, derogatorily called Mud Town. Then Ginsberg built the Carlyle and Beverly hotels in Manhattan. One of them was named by Rona's mother, who was an English major in college. The other was named by Rona's not-so-bright aunt who had a doll named Beverly.
Rona told the whole story of her grandfather in her autobiographical novel, "Family Secrets". Like Trump, the Ginsburg empire toppled at one point, but Moses, also like Trump, came back and made an even bigger fortune. He built ships for the U.S. Navy during World War II. He was a friend of FDR. He was the first Jew to buy property in Greenwich, Connecticut. He built a family compound with three houses, no less! So Rona was a rich girl even before she made her own fortune as a novelist. These days she is credited as the creator of what is now called "Chick Lit," even in academic circles.
I met Francesco de' Rogati in a food context, so he was a food friend from the beginning. I was taken to a dinner of L'Academia della Cucina Italiana (the Academy of Italian Cusine) by Heddi Giusti Lanham, an older woman who I knew because she was an expert on Venetian cooking and had written a book on the subject. Heddi wanted to introduce me to some of her older, rich women friends in the hopes that we could make each other happy. I am trying to be polite here. But I was game. I was in my early 30s and I owned a black velvet dinner jacket. I wasn't about to marry an older woman for her money, but I thought it would be a hoot to meet one who was open to the idea of marrying a younger man for his companionship. And so I did. In the end, however, the only person at the dinner with whom I became friends was Francesco, a very dashing, handsome, and cultured Italian (from Genoa, but the son of an Italian-American and a Neapolitan – and that's another story, a great romantic story) who lived in New York, did public relations for Italian entertainment, beauty and fashion accounts, and had written two cookbooks. Later, he had an Italian TV show reporting on New York theater, restaurants, and night life.
I have many wonderful stories to tell from our nearly 30 years of friendship. I went through various ups and downs with him. He was present at almost all my life-changing occasions, both happy and sad. Right now, however, I am enjoying his presence in his recipe files. In his apartment, there were seven index card boxes full of recipes, all meticulously organized alphabetically. Because I just picked these up yesterday I have only gotten through four of them. They are very revealing, although I knew Francesco so well these are not revelations to me.
He loved artichokes and avocados, and fancy dishes you could make with them. He liked fruit tarts, and molded frozen desserts. This was the formal, high-society Francesco. He loved ricotta. He has recipes using ricotta from antipasti to dessert, including multiple cards on the same ricotta dessert ball recipe that he got from a friend I have yet to identify. I think that was the Neapolitan in Francesco, and the many different recipes for spaghetti and seafood that he saved. He loved béchamel. Every one of these boxes so far has had at least one recipe for béchamel. I have no idea why he thought he needed printed recipes for béchamel – I need to think harder about that one. Francesco was such a good cook. Béchamel is so basic. He could make it blindfolded in his sleep. But he did love white sauce and cream. In the days when he was going back to Italy every summer, he always brought back these sort-of fresh tortellini packed under vacuum – now you can buy them here, too – and invited a few friends over for sort-of-fresh tortellini alla panna, swimming in cream and butter and Parmigiano. It was his own welcome-back party, in his incredibly charming, beautiful and heroically over-stuffed apartment on W. 53rd and Eighth Ave. Yesterday, empty of Francesco and all his furniture and photos, it turns out to be an ugly space with the ugliest river view you have ever seen.
I could write a book about Francesco's recipe cards, but for the sake of this newsletter, which is going on too long, I have to say that I was very touched to find my own recipes from my days at both Newsday and the Daily News, all clipped and pasted down on index cards.
Let me share one with you, because it obviously intrigued Francesco, I remember it fondly and know it is well-tested because I used to make it all the time, and because, even though is Turkish, it is a lentil recipe and, in Italy, lentils are considered good luck for the New Year. Francesco firmly believed that.
Turkish Red Lentil Soup
Serves 4 to 6
½ cup red lentils, picked over and washed in a strainer under cold water
6 cups beef broth (canned is acceptable)
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
1 small carrot, coarsely chopped
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon flour
1 heaping tablespoon tomato paste
¼ teaspoon salt, or to taste (be careful if using salted canned broth)
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Croutons (optional)
In a 2½ to 3-quart saucepan, combine the lentils and broth. Bring to a boil. Add the onion and carrot. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes. Let cool slightly.
In a blender, puree the lentils and vegetables. Return all but 1 cup of the puree to the saucepan.
In a small skillet or pot, over medium-low heat, melt the butter and blend in the flour. Cook for 5 minutes, stirring constantly, until the mixture become golden. Pour in the reserved 1 cup of lentil puree, stirring until smooth. Stir in the tomato paste until dissolved. (If necessary to smooth out the mixture, return it to the blender and process a moment.)
Pour the thickened puree into the puree in the larger saucepan. Bring to a simmer and simmer gently for 5 minutes, adding salt, if necessary, and pepper.
Serve hot, with or without croutons.
The soup reheats beautifully, but may need to be thinned slightly with a few tablespoons of water or additional broth.
