ετσι ειναι η ζωη: Livin' the good life, Greek-style.

My Frappe: Metrios Me Gala

ετσι ειναι η ζωη: Such is life.

(phonetic: etsee-eeneh-ee-zoe-ee)

This was one of the first phrases I learned from my Notre Dame-North-Carolina-Indiana-Jones Professor upon arriving in Ancient Corinth in 2003.  Such is life.  At the time I was in full Greek-immersion mode, "efharistoe"-ing my way around the picturesque village, downing bowls of avgolemono and living mostly off of homemade wine bought from the little old lady's back room in a tiny village outside of town, that we, naturally, used to store in large, plastic gasoline containers on the front porch.  Life seemed good.  It seemed very good.

When I think back to that brief period on the Peloponesos in the summer of 2003, I recall nothing but the ideal of what life was: hot summer days, the esoteric beauty of piecing together Ancient yellow-limestone Corinthian roof tiles to reconstruct a geometric era temple, of meeting third-generation Pot-shard experts from the local village and watching them apprentice their sons for the same, the views of the peninsula from the top of Acrocorinth (Ακροκόρινθος), that first dinner at the local taverna where I learned how to properly pronounce Moussaka (μουσακά), eating raw garlic by the clove with 20-hour cooked mutton and homemade bread and cheese in the mountains, pathetic attempts at sketching Penteskoufi (a tiny ruined village nestled in a beautiful valley near our house), learning to orient myself based solely on the Isthmus and the surrounding mountains, diving into the impossibly beautiful waters of Perachora on a hot summer day and admiring the bountiful sea urchin next to the ancient Greek ruins of the Heraion (Ηραίο Περαχώρας), eating freshly washed, ice-cold cherries at a roadside restaurant with a view of the ocean and a nice breeze after cruising at indecent speeds in our cooky professor's dilapidated, A/C-less, white Lada, window shopping in modern Corinth while sipping a Greek Frappe (Metrio me Gala, for the record), learning bazouki songs after a giant outdoor barbecue of a whole lamb in a hand-dug charcoal pit, laughing and singing and telling stories late into the night, every single night, with a tiny glass of wine (ποτηράκι) in hand.

I didn't tend to think about the less than ideal aspects of the "good life" in a tiny village in Greece: village gossip - especially about expats and the new "archeology arrivals," constantly changing rivalries between family-owned restaurants and bars which effectively reduce your eating options by 50%, no hot showers - and no indoor showers, for that matter - oh, and no indoor toilets either, no air conditioning (even when it's bitterly hot), being jokingly punished for too much drinking by being forced to climb Acrocorinth while seriously hung-over, a mostly-vegetarian diet (this was particularly painful for me), sleeping in a room with crumbling ceilings and a perpetual fear of rodents, lizards and spiders crawling between your sheets, endless afternoons spent sketching temple blocks on graph paper in a hot room, or even more endless afternoons spent sorting through endless piles of said-ancient temple blocks to catalog and re-sketch them again.  The list goes on.

Still, that summer, like many others I've lived, is one suspended forever in my mind and heart as representing a form of true happiness - the kind built upon utter simplicity and freedom, making it ever-memorable and, in its own imperfection, perfect.  And the one culinary memory that best represents that carefree Grecian summer for me is the Greek Frappé.  I drank them every chance I got.  They were one of the first things I learned to order on my own.  And they hit the spot on a hot, dry afternoon of too much antiquity.

Summer these days is, admittedly, full of neighborhood pools and play dates more than leisurely dips in pristine Hellenic waters, but, one day in June, on a perfect Denver afternoon, I decided to take a moment for myself by making a frappé after almost a year since touching my $13 / can Greek Nescafe.  It transported me immediately.  And reminded me that whether it's the Colorado sun, or the Corinthian heat, summer is summer.  Happy is happy.  And ετσι ειναι η ζωη: Such is life.

*  *  * 

Image credit

To make your own frappé, first, find a Greek grocer near you and purchase this.  Then go to Frappé Nation and check out their real Greek recipe and method.  I prefer mine metrios (2 sugars) "me gala" - with milk.  If you have regular American Nescafe, just add more coffee.

Fish Stew: Corfiot "Bianco" & My Love for Rick Stein

Bianco: White Fish Stew from Corfu

One of the things I unabashedly adore about the UK is Rick Stein.

A Little Background on Rick

Cornish Chef extraordinaire.

Rick, Chalky and some delicious Cornish seafood.

He is a middle-aged, awkwardly balding, ambiguously gay - but previously-married, like so many fruity British men - celebrity chef. I do have to say that I cringe a little when I use that loaded term "celebrity chef" to describe him, because Rick is just about anything but a culinarily-inclined-diva. What he is, is as non-glitzy and down to earth as someone who owns numerous award-winning restaurants, has written countless books, filmed countless cooking and travel shows, and is essentially *the* poster-boy for British seafood and therefore all of Cornwall, can be.

He is best known for his funny mannerisms, eloquent, typically British way of speaking ("it works a treat" most famously) and for toting his charming, scrappy little Jack-Russel Chalky (RIP) with him on all his world-wide cooking and eating adventures. With a degree in English from no less than Oxford University, it's no surprise all his programs have an air of the educated and refined. And his food, while both elegant and delicious, is also based on the respectable principles of sustainability, regionality, authenticity and - most importantly, in my mind - simplicity.

Currently showing on British tv are reruns of his "Mediterranean Escapes" (get the book on Amazon) and I happened to catch the one on Corfu a couple of weeks ago. I was immediately intrigued and lured in by a Corfiot fish-stew that Rick came across. It was made so simply and looked so delicious that I went out only a few days later and got all the ingredients to make it myself.

* * *

A Little Background on "Bianco"

(pronounced bee-ahn-coh)

Bianco, in Italian, means "white." Odd that a Corfiot dish would have an Italian name? Not so much if you know that Corfu was once controlled by the Venetians, which is where it and other fish stews in the Ionian sea, such as bourtheto - or "red" fish stew - (spicy and red from the tomatoes used to make it) take their origins. Though much simpler, Bianco, which is white because it lacks the "tomato" that bourtheto has, can also be compared somewhat to the Greek kakavia, a fisherman's fish soup which involves a quintessentially Greek touch - it is typically cooked on the boat, using seawater. How delicious does that sound?

What first caught my eye and piqued my interest about bianco - apart from the sheer quantity of lemon juice and garlic used in this recipe - is another important aspect of Greek cuisine that I dearly love: the use of whole, bone-in fish. As Rick sits down on a Corfiot beach, bowl of bianco before him, sun shining, and the whole giant cauldron of the stuff on the other end of his table, he makes a key observation:

"I thought of putting this on the menu in my restaurant [in Padstow, Cornwall] because I really liked it, but the only way that customers in Britain would like it would be chunks of fish off the bone, cooked in this garlicky lemon-and-peppery sauce. And I thought - nah, I'm not doing that. Because you need the bones of the fish to give the liquid its gelatinous quality. Without that, it wouldn't be the same, and someone would be bound to sue me for getting a bone in their throat anyway."

I love eating whole fish, or even chunks of fish with the bone in. It is something that the Greeks have mastered in their cuisine, and to me it is infinitely more appetizing. I've found my whole life in the US that people scare you about choking on fish bones to the point of absurdity, and for that reason we live in a boring world of fish sticks and salmon steaks. To me that is not what seafood is about.

Give me shrimp head-on. Give me a whole grilled sea bass cooked simply in butter and garlic. Give me octopus tentacles and whole baby calamari. Baby eels and live whole lobsters and crawfish, shell-on, galore. I'm so sick of people being squeamish about the food they eat. If you like calamari, don't complain about the tentacles. If you like fish, don't cry about having to pull the tail and head off - it's a FISH not just a chunk of meat!

Anyway, bianco is a great opportunity to get past the squeamishness of eating whole or bone-in fish because, as Rick says, without the bones in, the flavor is just not the same.

* * *

Bianco or "White Fish Stew" from Corfu

Serves 2

To me this dish screams summer, even though it's a stew. The simplicity and freshness of the ingredients "work a treat" on a hot summer day when you wish you were in Greece instead of stuffy old London. Fresh fish, fresh lemon, fresh garlic...I can't imagine something more appetizing.

In Rick Stein's show the Greek woman makes her bianco with a large Grouper fish. You can substitute seabass very easily for this fish as they come from the same family. I used Greek seabream because it was fresh and available that day in my supermarket. Oh and because it was Greek. :)

Here is a video of how to make Bianco from Rick Stein's Mediterranean Escape. I love watching it because it is an example of home-cooking at its best. Quantities are guest-imated, everything is chopped over the pot, and there is a large helping of Rick's commentary which makes it all the more pleasant.

Ingredients
1 whole Greek seabream or seabass (about 1-1.5 lbs in weight),
cut into steaks, keep the head and tail too*
1 cup lemon juice + 1 lemon cut in half
10-15 cloves of garlic, crushed and sliced
2 tbsp freshly ground pepper (don't be shy!)
1-2 cups water (or seawater!), adjust as necessary
1/2- 3/4 cup olive oil
3-4 medium potatoes sliced into thick-ish rounds
salt to taste
chopped parsley for garnish

* Ask your fishmonger to do this for you before you leave!

NB: I was tempted to add crushed red chili pepper to this, but thought it blasphemy as part of the allure is actually the spice and taste of the black pepper.


Method

1. Heat the olive oil in a large pot. Add the garlic and let it simmer in the oil for a minute to infuse it with its flavor.

2. Add the pepper, fish (steaks, head and tail), potatoes, lemon juice, and enough water to just cover everything.  Add the salt and adjust to taste.

3. Cover the pot and allow to simmer on low for 15-20 minutes or until the potatoes are tender. Then simmer another 15-20 minutes with the top off, allowing the sauce to reduce. It should not be soupy but rather like a light stew. Correct the seasoning.

Serve in shallow bowls with parsley sprinkled over them, some crusty bread and extra lemon wedge on the side for good measure. Oh, and don't forget the bone plate for the fish!

A Small Bone to Pick: You can also cook the fish in the stew whole, not chopped. If you do this you can easily remove the head, tail and bones before serving and just dish out flaked or chunks of fish with the potatoes and stew. Yum without bones in your throat. :)

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PS: I've just joined Foodierama. Check it out!

Foodierama is a homepage for foodies based on the idea of serendipity. It's designed as a portal front page containing teasers to the latest posts of all the best food blogs. Whenever users enter the page they discover something new and exciting: a new blog, a new recipe or cooking technique etc. With Foodierama users get a panoramic view of what's going on in the food blog-sphere all on one graphic page.

In Hopes of Spring Day 3: Orange & Fennel Salad

just a lovely little finocchio;
picture credit here.

Today we pay homage to something of a Springtime jack of all trades: fennel, or in Italian, finocchio.

Like many other of my favorite Italian ingredients, it was my husband and his family who introduced me to fennel. I'd heard of it, probably seen it, most likely had the seeds in some kind of baked good or sausage, but I'd certainly never known any of it. And I had definitely never eaten it raw and in a salad. In fact, the first time I did, at my then-not-yet-in-laws' house, I didn't like it. I never did and still generally do not enjoy most forms of licorice (much to the chagrin of my Danish friends, who seem to be obsessed with it), and fennel packs a pretty strong licorice-y flavor. You can smell it, you can taste it, and the fresh, crunchy vegetable quality it also has does nothing to lessen it. It took some time, but eventually I got used to it, and now, I love it.

These days, I use fennel in all kinds of ways in the kitchen: in salads (like today's recipe), roasted with olive oil and lemon juice, in chicken soup, steamed with fish, sauteed in pasta dishes, and even thrown into an impromptu version of veal or chicken piccata. But it wasn't until the other day that I had ever made it in a salad with nothing but oranges. Matt and I were both pleasantly surprised by how well the two ingredients go together and soon thereafter realized it was actually a common combination in Italian cooking. Some people add nuts, some add freshly chopped mint (ah! so good!) or other herbs, there are a few who like their salad with black olives, some make it with balsamic vinegar or throw in some lamb's lettuce or arugula, but however they do it, it's kept very simple and very fresh.

That's kind of the key to most Italian cooking, in my humble opinion, and what makes it particularly attractive for Springtime feasting (or nibbling, if that's your bag).

* * *

Much Ado About Fennel
a few interesting points on my love thereof

3. Olfactorily Pleasing, Somehow
A couple of years ago, Matt and I made a pilgrimage back to southern Italy with the sheriff to visit her hometown and family again for the first time in nearly 50 years. The tiny village in the mountains near Naples was modern enough, but still happily nestled in the somewhat untouched Italy of the world wars in a couple of ways. The most striking and interesting to me was the continued tradition of growing one's own produce and herbs that most of the old people in the town still adhere to.

The soil there being particularly fertile does aid this endeavor, and made walking in the hills particularly entertaining to me. At every corner there was a rosemary or oregano bush growing, unplanted and untended to. Also in abundance was fennel and its diminutive version, baby fennel. I was running around like a madwoman picking this, smelling that, shoving random shoots of flowers and herbs into my purse (only to find them days, weeks, months later). This wonderful and haphazard experience is how I learned to recognize fennel in its un-supermarketed state, growing in the wild, by its flowers, leaves, stems and bulbs.

But however distinctive its look, it can easily be confused with things like dill or carraway - so to me (and Matt by the end of it) the most pleasant part of deciphering whether I'd really found fennel was taking a bunch of whispy leaves and burying my face in them. Olfactorilly (and aesthetically) pleasing, somehow, wouldn't you say?

ah, fennel flowers!
picture credit here.

2. Edible, on the WHOLE
I call fennel the jack of all trades because it is one of the few veggies that is entirely edible. The seeds, the stalks, the leaves, the bulb: it's all good and it's all useful.

Whether you're making biscotti or Italian sausages with the seeds, braising the bulbs, stuffing the cavity of a chicken with the leaves and stalks, or making tea from the flowers, fennel has a million uses - culinary and medicinal - which make it incredibly versatile and yummy to boot.


1. A Classic example of a Classical Contribution
Would my post on fennel be complete without a little nerdy classical stuff?

- Fennel's roots (pun intended) can be traced back to - you guessed it - the Mediterranean, where it was used widely by the Romans and Greeks in ancient times, both for cooking and medicinal purposes. Much like the artichoke, it still is.

- In ancient Greek fennel was called marathon (μάραθον) and in Latin its name was feniculum, the diminutive form of fenum, meaning "hay."

- Fennel belongs to the Apiaceae family, along with another infamous Classical (but poisonous) herb that looks a lot like fennel: Hemlock.

Just in case that does nothing for you: according to Plato, Hemlock would be what Socrates was forced to drink to kill himself in Ancient Athens back in the day when he was accused and convicted of impiety. Not so delicious a death.

* * *

Insalata di Finocchi ed Arancie
(Fennel & Orange Salad)
Serves 2

my simple salad, screaming to be eaten

Another day, another veg, another simple salad. Like yesterday's post, this salad is so easy to make it's silly to give a recipe, but I think the combination of ingredients is one that most non-Italians would probably not think of on their own, and this is why I feel compelled to mention it.

This salad is remarkably refreshing and best eaten when the sun is shining, in true Springtime spirit. Serve it for lunch with some slices of bread, or with a simple pasta dish. It is not necessarily the kind of thing that everyone will like because of the strong anise flavor in the fennel, but if you can accustom your palate to it, it's worth the sensation of combining that with citrus-y, sweet oranges and large chunks of freshly ground pepper.


Ingredients

1 medium fennel bulb, sliced into rounds and separated into thin lengths
3 ripe oranges, peeled with a knife
2 tbsp good olive oil
1 good squirt of fresh lemon juice
salt & chunky, freshly ground pepper


Procedure

1. Put chopped fennel in a salad bowl, having removed the stalks and leaves at the top (you can always reserve them for use in a soup or as a garnish or just smell them at your leisure).

2. Peel the oranges with a knife, then cut the wedges out one by one using the knife and leaving all pith and membrane behind. It's time consuming to do it this way, but makes for much more pleasant eating. Add to the bowl with the fennel.

3. Add the olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper to the bowl and mix until combined. Make sure the pepper is ground coarsely as that adds not only to the flavor of the salad but texture as well.

4. Leave the salad to marinate in the fridge for half an hour or so; this step is not compulsory, but I find the flavors meld much better together if you do take the time to set it aside. Otherwise, eating it immediately is perfectly fine. :)

In Hopes of Spring Day 1: Artichoke & Lemon Pasta

An edible thistle? sign me up.
I got this picture here.

What better to jump-start the Springtime series than a light and delicious pasta dish with Springtime ingredients?

It was one of a very few but lovingly hoped-for sunny days sometime about a month ago when I got the inspiration for this pasta dish. I was, as usual, flipping through one of my many food magazines when I saw mention of one of the most delicious upcoming seasonal ingredients: artichokes.

I keep a couple of jars of artichokes in olive oil in the pantry, just in case I ever get the urge, but I tend to use them only in dire desperation. Artichokes are one of those vegetables that, to me, lose part of their mystique when you don't get to clean and cook them yourself. There's just something about trimming the little tips, cutting off the stem, and peeling away the older, uglier leaves that makes me feel like a Roman matrona preparing dinner in Sicily. I love baby artichokes, but I love the big mama artichokes too. You can steam them, boil them, batter and fry them, or even eat them raw (as I learned from Matt), but whatever you do, they are most delicious, I think, when you can taste their subtle, meaty flavor without having to fight a million others at the same time.

Sadly, despite their growing season being March through May, it was still too cold here in the UK to find them in great abundance in the supermarkets when I decided to make this recipe, not to mention, the ones I could have found would have been ridiculously expensive and not so nice looking. So, a little deflated but determined nonetheless, I ventured to "the bodega" as Matt refers to my copiously and shamelessly crammed pantry, to take out one of my jars of artichoke hearts.

The sunshine abundantly flying through my living room windows seemed reason enough to make a light-filled Italian dish which requires little fuss and ingredients which can generally already be found in one's kitchen. But first, a little on artichokes and why I find them to be a particularly interesting, and aesthetically pleasing vegetable.

* * *

Three Interesting Tidbits Relating to the Vegetable with a Heart: The Artichoke

"Artichokes" by Clare Malloy;
glad I'm not the only one who finds them aesthetically pleasing.

3. Ancient Artichokes: a brief and glossed-over history thereof
The nerdy Classicist in me has an obsession with finding out the origins of all things edible. It really bothers me, for example, when people say that coffee comes from Colombia, or Potatoes are Irish, or, worse yet, chili peppers are Indian (which they are NOT!). With my obsessive and valiantly edifying nature in mind, I looked into the origins of Artichokes and found that my Italocentric view of them was not far off.

Artichokes may have come from North Africa or they may have come from somewhere in the European Mediterranean. The only thing that's clear is that they were widely used in Roman and Greek cooking thousands of years ago, and continue to be used by them today (hence my assumption that they are Italian). It was, however, the Greeks that introduced them to the Romans (like with everything else important) and the Romans who introduced them to everybody else. It wasn't until the mid 16th Century that Artichokes came to the UK, introduced to Henry VIII by the Dutch, oddly enough. Who knows how they got there, but I'm glad they did.


2. The Aesthetic of the Thistle: Why Artichokes are Pretty
I don't know about you, but a big part of what I like to eat is determined by what looks good. While the artichoke may not be as alluring as, say, a sauteed prawn, it ranks rather high on my list of aesthetically pleasing edible things, not least because of the beautiful colors and unorthodox shape it has.

Artichokes come in the loveliest shades of green and purple. The green is new enough to look alive, but muted enough to be wild. And the purple is sometimes so bright, so ethereal, you have to wonder whether nature was sending a warning sign. In shape, artichokes look to me like a combination between a flower and a giant, leafy, upside down acorn. In short, they look like a giant thistle (or sticker burr, if you're Texan), and that's exactly what they are. This prickly nature draws me to them more (much like my obsession with eating Nopales or Mexican Cactus) because they are a food you have to work for to prepare and eat in peace. As the saying goes: every rose has its thorn. Artichokes, pretty as they are, come equipped with deceptively small little spiny claws at their leaf tips which need to be ripped or snipped off before consumption. As enticing as their healthy verdant leaves are, as bewitching as the bright purple blossoms of the artichoke plant may be, do us all a favor and don't forget to cut off the thorns. :)

Ah, Artichoke blossoms.
I got this picture here.

In my search for all things Artichoke-related, I came across a Midwestern artist who seemed to agree with my predilection for Artichokes. Check out some of Clare Malloy's paintings which, though probably a little too minimalist and clean for my taste, are nevertheless rather pretty. Especially the artichoke one, which I've displayed above.


1. Artichoke Festivals and Ice Cream -The Final Frontier?
While natural cultivation of the artichoke, as mentioned above, was historically generally confined to Southern Europe and the Mediterranean, with Italy and Spain still leading the charge in modern day, our prickly friend can also be found in great abundance in none other than California (what doesn't grow there?!). I always tell Matt I want to move to California just because of the amazing garden / orchard I could have. Turns out, actually, that California grows nearly 100% of all artichokes in the US, and about 80% of those are grown in Monterrey County, which happens to include a little town by the name of Castroville.

Castroville gets an honorable mention on my blog today because they have, despite their puny size (pop. well under 10,000) and otherwise unremarkable existence, hoisted themselves into national stardom by proclaiming themselves "The Artichoke Center of the World" (very American of them isn't it?). (Thanks to Roadside America for the lovely picture of Jack Fitzgerald next to the Giant Artichoke in Castroville.)

Along with this title, they have also taken it upon themselves to host the annual "Castroville Artichoke Festival" every May for the past many, many, years (where Marilyn Monroe was crowned the first ever Artichoke Queen in 1948, incidentally), where people from all over the globe gather to celebrate and devour everyone's well-loved thistle in more forms than we can (or would choose to) imagine. They even make Artichoke Ice Cream. I'll try almost anything once. :)

NB: Interestingly, the Italian link sticks: Castroville's artichoke production is rumored to have been started in the 1920s by the same Swiss Italian immigrants who also started the first wine vineyards in "American's Salad Bowl" (Salinas Valley, California). Who knew? Roman imperial domination continued well into the 20th century.

* * *

Artichoke & Lemon Pasta
Serves 2

I first started eating artichokes when I moved to Italy. Italians put them in everything - pasta dishes, meat dishes, salads - you name it. The first time I tried to cook them I boiled the heck out of them for over an hour, not knowing exactly how to make heads or tails of whether an artichoke was "done" or not. Don't make the same mistake as me!

For this recipe, Iused ready-prepared artichoke hearts. I think pairing them with fresh lemon juice and zest gives back a little spring to the marinated hearts, and I always keep a little fresh parmesan around the house, without which this dish would be lost. Hope it brings as much sunshine to your day as it did to mine.


Ingredients

1 jar Artichoke hearts (100g), in olive oil or water, chopped into large chunks
1 lemon, zested & juice of 1/2 the lemon
2 tbsps good olive oil
1 handful flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese (the real stuff), plus more for garnishing
1 lb bag of tagliatelle pasta (substitute fettuccine if you can't find tagliatelle)
salt & freshly ground pepper


Procedure

1. Cook the pasta as indicated on the package (I put my pasta in quickly boiling, salted water for about 6-8 minutes), leaving it slightly al dente.

2. Meanwhile, take all the other ingredients except the olive oil and mix together in a bowl (only briefly), seasoning with salt and pepper as well.

3. Once the pasta is cooked, drain and put back into the cooking pot. Add the artichoke mixture to the hot pasta and over medium heat, toss the pasta and artichoke mixture to combine. Drizzle the pasta and artichokes with olive oil and continue to toss for about 30 seconds more, not allowing the pasta to overcook.

4. Serve with extra parmesan cheese grated on the top and one last squirt of lemon juice from the unused lemon half.