We had purple cabbage slaw, roasted beets, homemade blue corn tortillas, wine braised meats, purple potato salad, blueberry pie, and an epic punch bowl of sangria full of deliciously purple and black things: blueberries, blackberries, cherries & grapes.

As we pulled together our own dishes — squid ink pasta dressed simply with olive oil and black Hawaiian salt, a black quinoa salad with purple mustard greens, dried bing cherries, roasted pistachios and a honey balsamic vinaigrette, spicy black bean dip, basil seed lemonade, and black sesame and orange peel ice cream from the pages of Serious Eats — we found ourselves with many purple-and-green ingredients. Perhaps the next round of color dinners will be color combos?

But first, to feast!

color dinner no. 7: indigo continuum

Ingredient inspiration from Dual Specialty Store!

And so, today on Serious Eats I present: the Senegalese-focused Adja Khady Food Distributors in West Harlem. It’s an amazing spot, and Mary’s story  — from selling hats on the street to running a multinational distribution company — is inspiring! When you’re there, be sure to pick up a bottle of ginger syrup for the best homemade ginger beer you’ll ever have.

The dish is everywhere in Miami. It’s not surprising — it is, according to popular lore, the National Dish of Cuba. Still, to this day I’m always amused to find such a simple staple exalted on restaurant menus. It’s not much more than a decent way to dress up leftovers (perhaps the origin of its nickname?) — some shredded meat, a few vegetables, something saucy, maybe a little spice.

Growing up, we ate ropa vieja on the regular, and I dreaded it (so much so that I even had it in my head that we called it ropa sucia – dirty clothes! – but neither my mother nor my brothers can confirm this is true.) The pattern was set: first, Mama would make puchero — essentially, a potful of boiled meat and vegetables, consisting of whatever you have on hand — another simple staple popular in Argentina. The resulting broth would be re-purposed for real soup, we’d dine on what we could stomach of the boiled remnants (any real flavor having been sacrificed to the stock) and then, we’d find the leftovers of the leftovers on the table the next day — as ropa vieja.

Ah, puchero — even just thinking about it now makes my mouth pucker. I looked through Así Cocinan Los Argentinos — one of the few actual Argentinean cookbooks on our shelf in Brooklyn — and was not surprised to find the very first chapter dedicated entirely to puchero. The description is interesting, and accurate to my memory. First, the author notes that “there is no established formula for making puchero, as such. Each region, and every season of the year, comes up with its own variations. However it may be said that all Argentine pucheros have in common a number of related peculiarities which will always help in distinguishing it from other similar preparations found all over the Americas.” Two of these “peculiarities” refer to its enforced mild taste, and the last peculiarity is particularly striking: “Should there be any puchero leftovers, these will not be taken again to the table unless thoroughly modified, or reworked into another dish.” Aha! The “reason” behind roja vieja ?

(The best part of the whole puchero ordeal was the ladle-full of stock I always managed to skim off the top before of the pot before it was dispatched for some other dish: dotted with fat, and flavored with freshly ground pepper and some Parmesan, it was delicious. How I savored my mugfull!)

Our weekend in Miami brought back memories of evenings at home in Cowtown, eating ropa vieja, and as I dug into Puerto Sagua’s now-famous version, I began to think I should give my Mama more credit. While puchero remains to this day nothing more than a good way to make stock (and no amount of salsa golf will fix the eating of it), when you peel back layers of child-clouded memory, the ropa vieja she’d make was actually pretty good. It’s an ingenious way to use up the bits and pieces that might otherwise get thrown out in the stock-making process, and endlessly variable — reflecting the season and whims of the maker. So out of nostalgia, and because the cold weather makes us want restock our frozen stock of stock (he!) we set out making ropa vieja, Patty-style (skipping  eating-of-puchero step, of course.)

In Cuba, ropa vieja is more typically made with beef, and as far as I can tell, it’s not only made from leftovers. Sometimes, it’s actually just made. (I stand willing to be corrected!) This version is, instead, typically Argentinean — it’s made with the leftovers from a good puchero, using the vegetables in season, and it’s not soupy like the Cuban version. It’s also made with chicken, as Mama would always make hers. But, unlike Mama, I served mine with a side of Dan’s new obsession, fried plantains. Miami inspiration, let’s say.

ropa vieja, à la argentina (or, à la patty)

the day before: make puchero

In a large pot combine four pounds of chicken — either a whole one, or meaty pieces — a few extra bones, and as many vegetables and herbs as you have on hand. [Mama would typically include a sweet onion, quartered, some celery ribs, a few large carrots and potatoes. Depending on the season and how many people she was feeding, she'd add sweet potatoes, or other root vegetables, a leek, zucchini, even green beans or a few cobs of corn if she had them on hand. To that she'd add a whole peppercorns, and herbs, fresh or dried: parsley, basil, oregano, sage, rosemary and thyme.] Cover with cold water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer about about an hour and a half, until the meat and vegetables are cooked through, but not falling apart.

When done, strain, reserving the meat and veggies for your ropa vieja and saving the stock for soup. (You can of course eat this as puchero at this point if you’d like!) If you’re not using the stock in the next two or three days, freeze it.

the day of

Shred the chicken and dice the usable vegetables (some bits might be too mushy for your liking). Toss together in a bowl. Add a two or three hard-boiled eggs for creaminess and whatever fresh herbs you like or have on hand — fresh parsley works especially well here. Add enough olive oil to add some fat and moisture back into the chicken (you’ll have to be generous),  a good splash  of red wine vinegar, salt, and pepper. If you’re feeling extra-Argentinean, mix in a few tablespoons of mayo, or a dollop of plain yogurt to tie it all together. If you’re feeling Cuban, add a side of fried plantains and some hot sauce!

fried plantains.

Take a ripe plantain — and I mean ripe, so ripe the skin’s gone black and you’re convinced it’s past its prime — and slice into rounds, about 2 cm thick. Heat canola or another neutral oil in a wide skillet over medium heat, enough so the plantains will be mostly covered but not submerged. When the oil is hot, turn the heat down to low, add the plantains, and fry them slowly, a few minutes on each side, until they’re golden and beginning to caramelize. You want the plantains to heat through and caramelize; if the heat is too hot, the outsides will burn but the insides will be cold. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on a paper towel. Sprinkle with salt and a squeeze of lime juice and eat plain or with some yogurt!

Perhaps Giacomo Leopardi said it best, about the beauty of Bologna:

Io sospiro per Bologna…dove non si pensa ad altro che a viver allegramente senze diplomazie, dove i forestieri non trovano riposo per le gran carezze che ricevono, dove gli uomini d’ingegno sono invitati a pranzo nove giorni ogni settimana,  dove Giordano mi assicura ch’io vivrò meglio che in qualunque altra città di Italia…in Bologna, nel materiale e nel morale, tutto è bello.

I sigh for Bologna…where one thinks of nothing but living happily and without diplomacy, where foreigners find no rest with the great many caresses they receive, where men of talent are invited to lunch nine days per week, where Giordani assures me that I will live better than in any other city in Italy…in Bologna, in materials and in morals,
everything is beautiful.

The view from my balcony on Via Bellombra

Afternoons after class I’d leave Via Zamboni, the heart of the sprawling Università, and amble along the city’s cobblestoned streets, perhaps stopping at the butcher, or at the vegetable stands on Via Drapperie, perhaps pausing a moment at the Piazza Maggiore to watch the world go by, perhaps downing an espresso, standing, at the counter of a corner caffè.

But — always — I’d stop just as I reached the historic porta at the end of Via D’azeglio, just before crossing out of the old town and taking the last few steps into the new town and to the magnificent park and my own little apartment on Via Bellombra, at Antica Bologna for a gelato. And I would always order the same thing: una coppa di due gusti, a cup with two flavors, with gelato di cioccolato e sorbetto di limone, rich, velvety dark chocolate gelato and its perfect pair, a bright, tangy lemon sorbet. It remains, to this day, my favorite pairing.

Bologna has been on my mind lately. Something about mid-March — the quietly sunny days, the leftover rain, the wanting  so much to be able to walk home — leaves me dreaming of my other “B” city. And so, though the city itself is far away, I set about recreating my afternoon pausa in Brooklyn, churning up a batch of chocolate ice cream and digging into the season’s beautiful lemons (March is peak citrus season, after all) to make my own sorbetto di limone. 

Both these recipes were, of course, culled from the pages of the Perfect Scoop. The chocolate I’ve made many times before. It is as perfect as chocolate ice cream can be. But the sorbetto – how quickly my first bite brought me back to the gilt mirrored walls of Antica Bologna! It’s just the right tartness, just the right texture for the chocolate and it is divine. A spot of brightness for the melty days of March.

sorbetto di limone.

adapted from David Lebovitz

2 1/2 cups water
1 cup sugar (if you want yours sweeter, add an extra 1/4 cup here)
2 lemons, unsprayed if possible
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (about 6 large lemons)

1. In a medium nonreactive saucepan, mix 1/2 cup of the water and the sugar. Grate the zest of the two lemons directly into the saucepan. Heat, stirring frequently, until the sugar has dissolved. Remove from heat, add the remaining two cups of water and chill thoroughly in the fridge.

2. Stir the lemon juice into the sugar syrup then freeze the mixture accordingly!

Airport Studies: Miami No. 1 (The only good thing about the massive and massively unnecessary “rental car center” at the dreaded Miami airport.)

We stopped in at the Palacio de los Jugos, or “Juice Palace” on our way to the hotel. It’s something of an semi-outdoor food market, complete with a juice bar (the passion fruit was particularly delicious), a sandwich stand, and lots of interesting fruits and veggies. We snacked on empanadas (as we would all weekend!) and a hefty cuban con lechón. This can of yerba mate soda, however, was an abomination. ¡Que asco! 

The best bit was the man at the entrance with his hatchet and shopping cart full of young green coconuts. He’d pluck a round one from the bunch and with two swift whacks create a little opening through which you’d drink the delicious cold coconut water.

(Yes, we may or may not have gone full on Miami with a bright blue convertible. Hey, it made for a nice reflective surface.)

(If you went back to the man with the hatchet, he’d crack the coconut the rest of the way and scoop out its nutty flesh for you.)

Saturday was a trip to the Royal Palm Visitors Center at the Everglades National Park. We weren’t expecting to be greeted with this:

But sure enough, vultures abounded:

And, alligators! (They’re clearly not intimidated by people. This one was practically slogging along the path with the rest of us.)

so…many…alligators!

Then dinner at Puerto Sagua, where we tried their famous ropa vieja.

And a cone of Latin-influenced helado from Azucar in Little Havana. That Abuela Maria helado was damn good!

A late night shot of some of the amazing street art in the Wynnwood neighborhood.

A Sunday bite to eat at Las Olas cafe — the best non touristy spot for empanadas and sandwiches in South Beach.

And then, South Beach, in all its sandy art deco glory.

Miami-fied! Hot pink nail, and hot blue car, top down.

And an art deco sunset to see us on our way back to slushy New York.

And a hearty meal it was! We made a stunningly delicious and surprisingly creamy (despite not having any cream) chestnut soup from the Mark Bittman archives. We got a boule of dark pumpernickel bread from the farmer’s market, and served it with some homemade spicy brown mustard (which turned out a bit too spicy but we managed to salvage it at the last hour with a little honey and cinnamon). And, in keeping with the colored pasta tradition, we made a batch of bitter chocolate pappardelle — Bolognese style — which we topped with Julia Child’s own beouf bourginon. There was a North Indian brown lentil stew, a spectacular fig jam, a (vegan!) mushroom soup, brown rice with figs and toasted almonds, dark n’ stormies and some bottles of dark ale. And, as expected, many a sweet bite to finish: spicy chocolate fondue, chai panna cotta doused in a spiced red wine caramel sauce, vanilla ice cream Guinness floats with whipped cream and nutmeg, and some southern sorghum candy.

To feast!

color dinner no. 6: brown

roasting chestnuts in the oven

we served the soup as a cold amuse-bouche to start, garnished with fried mushrooms and rosemary.

salvaging the mustard!

That’s cheese, not butter! (The mustard needed something to tone down the sharpness.)

making the chocolate papardelle