Adventures in Pasta Making: Pasta is both easy and not so easy

My newest obsession has been homemade pasta. It seems so easy: flour, eggs. Maybe some salt and olive oil if you're feeling feisty. So, one day, I followed this little tutorial and was well on my way. Except (there's always an exception, right?) for the little issue of not owning a pasta machine. But, I figured that back in the day, before pasta machines were invented, people somewhere in China or Italy had to be rolling sheets of pasta by hand. I had hands. I had a rolling pin. I could do this!

Ravioli filled with mushroom, spinach, and marscapone came first. The filling was easy, thanks to Giada. And, thanks to the tutorial above, making a seemingly nice mound of pasta dough was easy enough, as well.

This is where brute force came in. I'm about 5 ft 3 in tall and weigh about 110 pounds. I tell my husband that if aliens were ever to invade Earth and eat humans, my meat would be prized and served for ridiculous amounts of money. I would be the kobe beef of humans. I'm weak.

Rolling out pasta by hand is hella hard. In the dead of winter, with heat in my apartment being sub-optimal, I have broken out into major sweats.

The first attempt at ravioli was... well, at least edible. The filling was wonderfully sexy (that's the only word I can think of the marcapone laced mushrooms and spinach). The pasta itself was a bit chewy. I had some left over, which I tried again the next day, but by boiling it for a few more minutes. Still chewy. Props to the husband for putting a big smile on his face and even asking for seconds. I sometimes feel he would eat uncooked grass if I told him I made it, god bless his heart.

The next attempt a few weeks later was a double header ravioli night, with the mushroom-spinach making a repeat appearance, and the new, completely Amni made-up, balsamic and rosemary roasted butternut squash ravioli. If boiling time was not the issue last time, perhaps I did not roll out the pasta thinly enough. This time, I pulled up my hair, changed into a tank top, and pulled out my rolling pin. I stook on a mini step ladder so that I could use all my weight to press the pasta to perfection. Muuuuuch better.

My most recent attempt was a double batch--one for ravioli and the other for other kinds of pasta. Again, an experiment. Half the experiment was orrechietti (with sauteed broccolini, grape tomatoes, and garlic) and the other half, dried tagliatele. The orrechietti was a disaster in much the same way my first batch of ravioli was chewy... only much worse. The tagliatele, on the other hand, was a dream. I rolled out a very, very thin sheet, rolled it up, and sliced the roll. Then I unrolled the strips, hung them on clothes hangars, and waited 24 hours. The noodles broke as they dried and fell to the ground, but a safety net of paper towels made sure that none went to waste.

A couple nights later, I needed to use some ground beef and eggplant. So, the dried noodles came into play. They took a bit longer to cook than fresh pasta but less time than store-bought semolina noodles. But, they were delicious when draped in beef, eggplant, and marinara.

Next up is trying the process with double-zero flour. It's hard to find here, even in NYC... but that's why we have the internet. Muwhahahaha...

I'm Here, but Not Really - Gateau Basque aux Cerises Noires

After graduation, my husband and I did a whirlwind tour of three weddings in two weeks and then flew out to Guéthary, France for six weeks, where his parents are now spending half the year. Needless to say, it's hard to be back, especially in the face of economic crisis and joblessness. Oh well... or, rather, tant pis. I promised my father-in-law that when we meet for Thanksgiving, I would make what we enjoyed eating so much during our six weeks en famille: un gateau basque aux cerises noires. Thanksgiving is, incredibly enough, right around the corner and so I thought I'd better get practicing.

I'm not a good baker. My husband hates my cookies and my passive-aggressive way of handling this is to just not make them anymore. (There, take that, Asshole!) But, my love for this amazingly buttery, almondy, shortbready cake filled with dark, sweet Itxassou cherry preserves prevailed and I was determined to be able to enjoy the comforts of French Basque country in my own home in New York. Before leaving Guéthary, I stocked up on four pots of cherry preserves and brought them over to my tiny, but temporary city apartment.

I did some research on recipes and collected about eight of them. Most recipes were for the creme version, which, to be honest, just doesn't do it for me. I prefer the cherry version and the recipe is easily corrected by ignoring the cream part! According to Mark Kurlansky, in his The Basque History of the World, the cherry version is original, anyway.

Once I was ready (about two months after first starting the study), I dove in. The cake dough was too loose and did not roll out well, leading to a mini disaster with the top layer crumbling into the cherries. I, being stubborn, wasn't about to give up. I picked out the broken crust pieces and re-kneaded with some more flour to hold it together. The finished top was a bit purple, stained by the lust of its cherry affair, but I threw it in the oven anyway. When it came out, it looked pretty darn close to what I gorged on over the summer.

The cake is pretty hardy and resilient, just like the Basques. I was told repeatedly in France NOT to refrigerate it and that it should last five to ten days at room temperature, wrapped in plastic. I've actually never seen a cake last for more than two days, so I cannot verify truth. The cake pictured here ended up withstanding a crowded train trip out to the Hamptons for a weekend. It never came back. I hope you'll try this (corrected recipe, below) and see why I'm hooked and why this traditional cake has been around for generations and can be found today in every bakery in the southwest of France.

Recette: Gateau Basque aux Cerises Noires

Ingredients:
2 ¾ c. Flour
¾ c. Almond Flour
1 c. Butter, chilled
1 c. Sugar
1 tsp Baking soda
1 tsp. Salt
1 Egg
3 Egg Yolks
Zest of one lemon
1 pot Confiture de cerise noire d’Ixtassou


Directions:

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Butter and flour a 9-in cake pan.

In medium sized bowl, mix flour, almond flour, baking powder and salt together. In food processor, blend butter, sugar, and lemon zest until just blended. Add egg and two yolks one at a time, incorporating fully. Add flour mixture (1/2 cup at a time). Once flour is fully incorporated and dough starts to fall away from sides of processor, empty out dough onto a well-floured work surface.

Divide dough into two, with one portion slightly larger than the other. Mold by hand into discs, cover in plastic wrap, and chill for at least 30 minutes. Take chilled, larger disc and hand press into bottom and sides of the buttered and floured cake plan. Place pan in refrigerator while rolling out smaller disc on a floured work surface with a rolling pin into a 9 inch circle. Pour entire jar of black cherry preserves into cake pan and then cover with rolled out dough. Pinch bottom and top dough together. Make egg wash with remaining yolk (beat yolk and blend a tablespoon of water) and brush on top crust. Make grooved design with fork.

Bake in oven for 30 to 35 minutes, until golden brown.

Cool on cooling rack. Do not refrigerate! It will last for five days covered in plastic wrap, but I highly doubt it will be around for five days.

The Wharton Palate: Mastering Brew (Part Two)

As many of you know, before we left for winter break, I started making my first batch of homemade brown ale. After many trials, tribulations, and questionings of faith, I am proud to announce that Amni Brew is drinkable and – barring any long-term carcinogenic properties yet undiscovered – safe. The last I wrote about it, my beer was sitting, quietly fermenting in a plastic bucket.

After a week in that bucket, the liquid was transferred to a glass carboy (“kahr-boi, noun. –a large glass bottle protected by basketwork or a wooden box, used esp. for holding corrosive liquids”), where it sat for another week. The purpose of this transfer, I learned, was to have the brew undergo a second fermentation and to clear it of dirty, sludge-like residue (what was left in the plastic bucket looked like watery, bubbling cement mix).

On bottling day, the beer was moved back into the plastic bucket. And just to put a picture in your mind, each time the liquid is moved from one container to another, you can’t just pour. You have to set up a siphoning system, utilizing some plastic tubes and our good friend Gravity to get the beer flowing from the container on top of the counter to the empty one on the ground. What a pain.

From the plastic bucket, more siphoning was established and each bottle was filled. I had my husband help me as the official capper.

And then we waited. Again. For a week.

I talked about it constantly with my friends. I was a nervous, type-A Wharton student afraid of failing. I was an expectant mother, waiting anxiously to look into her baby’s eyes for the first time to try and find signs of who the father is.

Finally, it was time to drink. I carefully took a bottle and placed it in an ice bath. I dusted off the never-been-used engraved beer mugs I received as a wedding gift and placed it in the freezer to frost over. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Then, I took the mug out, uncapped the bottle and slowly poured the dark brown liquid into the tilted mug.

The first sign of a good beer appeared before me: I had head. Meaning, I had achieved an appropriate level of carbonation, leaving a nice layer of foam at the top.

At this point, I brought the mug out to my husband and yelled, “Look at the head!” He lifted his head from both ESPN Sports Center on the television and ESPN on his laptop (the only time he can multi-task) and uttered some supportive words.

I sniffed first. It smelled a bit like caramel—another good sign. I brought the mug to my lips, and drew in a slow, small sip. As the liquid swirled around my mouth, I tasted the familiar, bitter ambrosia I know so well. It was only when I swallowed and was left with the flavors on the back of my palate (i.e. the after-taste), that I realized my baby was a bit deformed. What was that stank? I passed the mug to my husband, who took his first and last sip. It wasn’t hops. Was it too much malt? Our untrained tongues were so confused.

We were hopeful, though. We had heard through the underground homebrew society that a beer’s peak ripeness varies—sometimes its best fresh, sometimes its best with additional weeks of aging. So, we waited another week. Amni Brew definitely got better, but the stank was still there.

Since then, we’ve offered the beer to friends as a form of entertainment, with lots of warnings and cautions prior to first sip. Most have been very polite, struggling over hours to finish, refusing to let go of their glass when I tell them they don’t have to finish. Friends—what would I do without them?

But, Amni Brew is really a beer only a mother could love. When my husband is at Huntsman until later than me, I come home, open a brew and take the quiet, solemn, introspective moment to taste, make mental notes on any changes from the last one, and savor. I’ve slowly worked through the batch, and only have a dozen left. I know already that I’ll feel empty, alone without Amni Brew. I don’t offer tastes to guests anymore. It’s just me and the brew now.

I learned a lot through the beer-making process and feel that I have become a better leader because of it. I’ve honed my OPIM skills by figuring out how to make beer with literal and figurative bottle necks that arise from the limited capacity of an apartment kitchen. I’ve worked on Wharton Leadership Program points of patience and decision-making during times of great uncertainty. And as I steadily work through two cases of beer, I have truly understood the meaning of perseverance.

The Wharton Palate: Tasting Tinto

It seems that every new restaurant that opens is antithetically and unoriginally themed with “small plates meant for sharing”. Small plates meant for sharing? It’s a tired-out trend (like, so late-90’s) that I personally find utterly frustrating. I mean, seriously. When I am hungry or when I like what I’ve ordered, the most annoying thing is to have to cut a tiny, fried ball of potato croquette in half so that I can share with my dinner dates, who inevitably order things I would not have prioritized.

I know, I know. I’m a bitch… at least when it comes to my food.

The thing is, avoiding small plates in Philly is like having to cut out carbs or go vegetarian: nearly impossible for the true omnivore. And then we social MBA butterflies sometimes have very little choice over our playing fields. Sometimes we must succumb to small plates, such as when the birthday girl chooses Supper for her birthday dinner or when the visiting sister who had done her restaurant due diligence chooses to take me out to Amada. That birthday dinner at Supper was fantastic (despite my having to share my small plate of brilliant Sriracha deviled eggs… yum!), but Amada nearly killed me with not only annoying dishes that I had to cut and mangle in order to share but also with the amount of cream, butter, oil, and salt. Everything tasted the same. Amada was a disappointment and when I discussed this with my trusted Philly Foodie Advisory Team, the responses were nearly unanimous. I had to try Tinto.

So, I went to Tinto last semester. It was one of the first cold nights of the season and even though I almost walked past 114 South 20th Street (between Sansom and Chestnut Streets) because of its unassuming entrance, I entered and was immediately warmed by the glitter of wine glasses reflecting the low votive lights and the wine racks serving as the major design element. I was, in some senses, on a business dinner. I was meeting our very own Journal Publisher, whom I found already a bottle deep at the bar. Aggressive, yet admirable. He wasn’t chosen Publisher for nothing.

We sat down, immediately ordered another bottle of whatever he was drinking, and concentrated on the menu. I panicked for a second. How many of these little dishes would we need? How many pieces were included in each order? Does Mr. Publisher have any dietary restrictions (turns out he’s a rather picky eater… no seafood, no vegetables)? What do these words (“pintxos,” “montaditos,” “banderilas”) mean? Where is our wine? God, I need a drink.

And then my eyes gravitated to a box on the page. “Chef’s Tasting / 55 per person”. Bingo.

The beauty of Tinto is that they make tapas the opposite of annoying. Everything, except a delicate turbot, came in individual portions. Our server did not even wince when all of a sudden Mr. Publisher had a “seafood allergy.” She said it was absolutely no problem and that the chef would substitute a non-seafood portion for him. I couldn’t tell at this point if I was falling in love with her or with the restaurant.

The tasting menu started out with Tinto’s famous Marcona almonds, warmed, coated in oil and salty-sweet goodness. They were addictive and my mouth waters as I write about them. With the almonds came a plate of various cured meats and cheeses. All were delicious, but the exact varieties are fuzzy in my memory and when it comes down to it, such a plate could be closely replicated with a quick trip to Di Bruno’s.

The true highlights were the brochettes. The first was chicken with garbanzo puree and truffle jus. The second, Kobe beef and lobster (“Mar y Tierra”). The chicken, beef, and lobster were each perfectly juicy, tender, flavorful. The chicken in particular, though, was fabulous—the brochette was inverted into an elongated shot glass, which was filled first with the creamy, mild savory-ness of the garbanzo puree, and the sweet, more pungent truffle jus—a perfect marriage of tastes and textures that I look forward to ordering again when I revisit.

The turbot, as mentioned above was the only thing we had to cut ourselves and dole out, which was pretty easy to do considering it was fish—fresh and bursting with citrus flavor (the plate was beautifully decorated with slices of various citrus fruit that ranged the color spectrum from green to yellow). Our publisher avoided the fish and was given instead a personal serving of another chicken dish.

The food kept coming. And almost every small plate was fresh, innovative, and downright delicious. This dinner put Tinto up there next to Mercato, which has been one of my go-to favorites.

I’m a traditional kinda gal. I like rituals. I especially love the dinner ritual; you know, cocktails before dinner, an appetizer, entrée, and then dessert. This whole movement to change the way we eat scared me. I resented “small plates meant for sharing.” But, restaurants like Tinto make me believe in change and the good that arises from jumping out of routine. Our meal was amazing and I’m looking forward to tasting Tinto, small plate by small plate, again sometime soon.

Next Time: The results of Amni’s homebrew are revealed. Be sure to read The Wharton Palate in two weeks to find out if her homage to beer bowed in honor or slapped disrespect.

The Wharton Palate: Mastering Brew (Part One)

Philly is a beer city. And we as Wharton MBA students truly do our part to sustain this municipal reputation as if our careers depended on it (or maybe just to drown the sorrows of the market downturn). And just as much as I love my pre-prandial cocktail rituals, I also love beer-centric rituals, such as cracking open a Tall Boy before busting out my Henckels knives to make dinner. (Safe, I know. I’m wild like that though.) Other beer rituals include drinking myself silly while catching up on all my recorded television shows (OMG, did Blair just really slap Serena?!) and celebrating life’s milestones with a Guiness float (vanilla ice cream – Häagen-Dazs works best – with Guiness poured over). In addition, with the recent creation of the Wharton Brewmasters’ Guild club and weekly penny pints found at Roosie’s, it’s prime time in our lives to be a beer drinker.

So, in true Amni fashion, I decided to kick off my Jimmy Choos, roll up my sleeves, and put on an apron to brew my own batch of brown ale in a deep bow of deference to my long-standing favorite: Newcastle. A certain WG ’09 once shared one of his own homebrews with me last year at a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving dinner, and since then, I’ve been intrigued. This past October, I made him take me to Home Sweet Homebrew, a make-your-own-beer store on Sansom Street (between 20th and 21st Street), practically next door to Melograno.

I was a bit turned off when I was greeted at the door by two fat cats lazing on boxes, and by the overall lack of order and cleanliness, but I trudged on in the name of beer. I tried not to breathe too much for fear of taking in dander, and concentrated on the menu of “starter kits”. My friend walked me through the process: You pick a type of beer, and Home Sweet Homebrew assembles the ingredients (malt, hops, yeast, dextrose), as well as all the equipment (fermenter, glass carboy, hydrometer, pipes, hoses, capper, caps…). Easy.

I couldn’t get my act together until just yesterday to start brewing and embarking on this month-long process. We have, technically, been working on the process by drinking a lot of store-bought beer so that we can collect two cases worth of brown bottles to eventually fill. I just found out last night when I actually read the instructions that bottles cannot be of the twist off variety, which just about decimates half my collection. I guess my husband and I will have to get through another case in the next week or so.

I’ll go into some detail about the process, but one of the key outcomes thus far is that I think I broke my stove.

One of the reasons as to why I didn’t start brewing until well over a month after purchasing all my materials was that I do not have a large stockpot. The largest in my kitchen could hold about 2 gallons, whereas the instructions included with my kit recommended one that could hold 4 gallons. Yes, I could have purchased one, but I hadn’t gotten around to doing so and then it became Tuesday which meant that had to brew with what I had in order to make my deadline with this story. I went ahead with my 2-gallon pot and, well, had a huge boil-over of malt and hops, which flooded my stove top and consequently put out one of my pilot lights (or so I think… it could be a much graver issue once I actually look into it).

Then there was the issue of sanitizing everything. SANITIZE, SANITIZE, SANITIZE! This OCD mantra holds true for beer-making, too. It’s hard to keep everything sanitized when all you have is the bucket you’re supposed to use for fermentation and a small apartment sink. By the time I had everything cleaned and put away at around 1 a.m., my hands were dry and ashy from prolonged exposure to a bleach solution and all my pretty polished nails were chipping.

The brew, though only time will tell, has not been a complete disaster. After great frustration and fatigue, I sprinkled yeast over my wort (I’d be worried if you were just turned on by my beer taxonomy), sealed the cap to my fermenter, plugged the hole at the top and stuck my S-shaped airlock in. Done at last.

Did I do everything correctly? A wave of self-doubt and questioning came over me, but I was too tired to think about it. Instead, my anxiety haunted my dreams and I tossed and turned to my subconscious yelling at me for having infected my beer through improper sanitary techniques, whatever that means. When I got to school today morning, I shot an email to that friend who introduced me to home brew. Did I attach the airlock correctly? He wrote back almost instantly: “All you need to do on the airlock front is make sure that you have some water or sterilizing solution in it to start with. Generally mine is half way up both chambers at the start and then gets pushed over to just one side once the pressure from fermentation gets going. You will know that you have a good seal on your bucket if you can push lightly on the top of the lid and the water in the airlock moves from one side to the other.”

I had sterilizing solution halfway up both chambers, so I was good on that front. I was at school and could not check the efficacy of my seal, but I was dying to. When I got home this afternoon, not only did the solution push up with a gentle pressure on the lid, but it was already pushed over to one side! Hooray for fermentation!

The great thing about Wharton is that with such a large student body, almost every interest in the world is at least minimally represented. The fact that I ran into a beer-maker has exposed me to new challenges. Yes, such as making beer. Making beer is much tougher than a case interview, an investment pitch, or perfect attendance at Pub. I feel that if I can do this, I can do almost anything… even find a job in this economic downturn.

We’re still a month away from reaping the rewards, which means you’ll have to wait until January to hear how things went, but keep your fingers crossed and have a great holiday from the Wharton grind.

The Wharton Palate: A Tale of Two Sansom Street Italians

In the last Wharton Palate, I promised you a review of the new Melograno. I am a woman of my word, and so, I set up a date to go with my friend, the WG ’09 who first told me about the place over a year ago when we first set foot onto Hunstman. With both of our other commitments, by process of elimination, the Monday about two weeks ago was selected. The more savvy restaurant goer would never have committed the rookie mistake I did, but I turned the corner onto Sansom street and felt my heart sink into my very hungry, very empty stomach. Melograno was dark.

This is when my h-anger kicked in and a tsunami-sized wave of indignation overcame my shame of being so stupid for not checking beforehand. Sure, Melograno employees need a break, too. And sure, a restaurant should close its doors and not operate if doing so causes it to be unprofitable. But, I didn’t care. After all the anticipation, all the expectation, all the dreaming… I was disappointed and most importantly, still hungry.

Thankfully, though, I always travel with a pocket ace. Many year ago when I lived in New York, I came down to visit my friend who lived in Philadelphia and who ended up taking me to his favorite Italian BYO, Porcini, where he knew the maitre d’ and would bring the kitchen staff six-packs of beer. I remembered this place fondly and when my husband and I came down to Philadelphia to look for apartments that spring before starting Wharton, we ended an exasperating and exhausting day with a comforting and delicious plate of hot penne in pink vodka sauce before hopping on a Chinatown bus and preparing to start the search process all over again. Porcini, despite all its faults, was my diamond in the rough world of Philly BYO’s.

The World Series had begun and since Porcini does not have flatscreens mounted on the walls, the restaurant was nearly empty. But David who runs front-of-house, was as friendly as ever, guiding us to our table, opening our bottle of wine, telling us the evening’s specials, and cracking a joke all in one breath. The food at Porcini is simple and some things are better than others. For starters, they offer three different kinds of bruschetta (the “Tuscan Bean” variety made with cannelloni beans is fantastic), the pastas are all very simple and pretty reliable, and my friend ended up having the special of veal medallions in a brown sauce, that was spot on in all its savory, tender glory.

The presentation (both décor and plating) leave something to be desired. I’m always at first a little uneasy with the carpeted dining room that’s decorated in rather cheesy, Holiday Inn-style framed prints, but Porcini is more of an everyday kind of place, somewhere you go with your husband when you don’t feel like cooking. David knows the names of his regular guests and makes them feel like Porcini is just an extension of their homes.

Porcini was a long digression, though, and I did eventually make it to Melograno. The full story is that I had not been impressed with Melograno in the past. Everyone loved it and everyone wanted to go always, and so I gave it a lot of tries, all of which were disappointing. I will not soon forget, for example, a tough and flavorless braised veal with waxy, congealed polenta. But, I was willing to forgive, even if I wasn’t going to forget.

I wasn’t able to reschedule with the original dinner date, but in true Amni fashion, was able to finagle a last-minute double date with a couple that previously double-dated with us at Melograno. The new space is much larger, which is great because 1) you’re not elbow to elbow with strangers (some people like that, but it’s more a logistical thing with me—I hate having to squeeze between tables to get to seats, making my bum very vulnerable to knocking over bottles of wine or glasses of water), 2) there’s now room for three or four larger, round tables that seat around six people (I love round tables), and 3) from an OPIM standpoint, increased capacity generally means decreased wait-times. All good. Now for the bad: I guess that when one has to decorate a larger space, it’s harder to make things feel intimate. The rustic feel of the former space was translated to white-washed wood panel wainscoting, and walls painted in a warm sunny color. And despite the shelves that held terra cotta pots of mums and other little “rustic” trinkets, I still felt like something was missing because there was too much blank space.

The new space must have had some sort of effect on me, though. I started with a special roasted beet salad with pears drizzled in honey, walnuts, aged goat cheese, arugula and a delicate lemon vinaigrette. The table agreed that it must be THE perfect salad, with flavors and textures so perfectly in harmony. For my entrée, I had the special again—veal ravioli. It was delightful, though I generally prefer my pasta to be cooked a little longer. The other couple both had fish—the bronzino and the orata—and their plates were completely clean by time our table was bused. My husband can’t refuse a seafood pasta, and so got the pappardelle with shrimp and scallops. I definitely used wife privileges to try it myself and it was delicious with the shrimp and scallops perfectly cooked in the tomato-based sauce. He, having become the connoisseur of seafood pastas, said that he has had better, but the plate that didn’t need to be washed was indicative of more-than-decent.

The thing that makes Melograno so great, though, is that Wharton loves it and shows up in droves. Maybe it’s the upscale, MBA version of 90210’s Peach Pit. In the old space, I was guaranteed to see a Wharton MBA there, even when I was just passing by. This past Wednesday night in the new space was not an exception. The WGA was having one of its small-group dinners at a round table and a clan of Wharton Japanese women dined at the round table right next to it. I went to second-year drinks afterwards only to talk to someone else who had also just been there. I love that, because “Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came.”

Next Time: Home Brew Part I – Amni embarks upon the world of home brew. Will her homemade nut brown compare to the Newcastle she loves so much?