A Winning Recipe for Oscar Night

"Ligurian Chicken"

Who’s your money on for Best Picture?  Did you pick Gravity in the office pool?  Or maybe you are banking on actor favorite American Hustle to take the gold statuette?  Or perhaps after the Golden Globe Awards, BAFTAs, and various Guilds (Director, Writer, Actor, etc. etc.) you are just ready for this Oscar campaigning to be done with so we can get a jump start on watching the nominees for next year’s race.

No matter who you are rooting for, there’s a pretty good chance you will be part of the 40 million people who tune in Sunday night for the glittery dresses, tearful speeches, inevitable gaffes, and of course, those fateful envelopes.

And if you are cuddling up to the television for the evening, you are going to need something to eat.  Given how long this show runs, might I suggest something hearty enough for the long haul and comforting enough to soothe the pain of watching your favorites lose (or just losing the office pool)?

Typically food for Oscar viewing parties seems to run the theme of elegant cocktail affair, with snack food as dolled up as the starlets themselves- think truffled popcorn, caviar blinis, champagne cocktails, and gold-dusted chocolates.

But you don’t have to wear a cleavage bearing skin-tight dress and stand in front of the cameras, so why not embrace your comfortable digs, throw on some sweatpants and eat something a little more substantial?

As this year would have it, there is some good inspiration hidden in the award nominee lineup.  (No, I’m not talking serving astronaut ice cream in solidarity with Sandra Bullock.)

Between the gorgeous shots of Rome, haunting music, and existential crisis of the main character in Best Foreign Film nominee The Great Beauty, there is actually a recipe- a recipe that ends up being a crucial part of minor character’s personality sketch. 

At a dinner held in honor of a nun nicknamed “The Saint”, a self-absorbed, pampered Catholic Cardinal tries in vain to horde attention as he explains how to make coniglio alla Ligure, or Ligurian Rabbit.  As he walks through the steps of cutting the rabbit into pieces, browning each in olive oil, adding olives, tomatoes, and wine, I had a moment of recognition.  I know this recipe!  In fact, I have been making it for years. 

It all started with a similar recipe from a Jamie Oliver cookbook.  Rabbit, however, can be hard to find.  And though I’m a big fan, I understand some people can’t get past thinking “Thumper” when they see rabbit is on the menu.  So I adapted the recipe to work with chicken, a fine substitute and a universal crowd pleaser. 

Browning the chicken

Essentially, the steps I do are the same as the cardinal’s.  I start by dredging a quartered chicken in seasoned flour then brown each piece in a heavy pot (think Le Creuset) with a good amount of olive oil.  To the pot I add a sliced onion, garlic, pitted olives, chopped tomatoes, and rosemary.  White wine comes up to the sides of the meat and a lid goes on.  Twenty-five minutes later the house is fragrant, and dinner is made.  All you need is a good loaf of crusty bread to sop up the juices. 

All ingredients in the pot

In the movie, the cardinal’s grandstanding may have failed to impress the other dinner guests, but the recipe made an impression on me.  A few nights after watching the film I cut up a small chicken and made a pot of Ligurian Chicken.  John and I polished off a baguette dipping the bread into our bowls to soak up the rich braising liquid. 

There will certainly be well-dressed people on Sunday night who go home empty-handed.  And you might not win the office pool.  But when it comes to viewing party food, there's no excuse to feel glum.  With dish of movie-inspired braised chicken to dig into, everyone is a winner.

Another food that plays a prominent role is the blackberries that Solomon Northrop crushes to make a form of ink in order to write a letter in 12 Years a Slave.  Blackberries are not in season now, but if you can find a pint, a simple dessert of berries with maybe a dollop of whipped cream would be a fitting finish. 

Ligurian Chicken

1 small chicken, quartered

1/3 cup flour

1 tsp. salt

½ tsp. ground black pepper

3 T. olive oil

1 small onion, cut in half and thinly sliced

4 garlic cloves, lightly crushed

8 kalamata olives, pitted

2 Roma tomatoes, chopped

2 spring rosemary

½ bottle dry white wine

salt and pepper to taste

Quarter a small chicken or have your butcher do it for you, leaving skin on.  Mix flour with 1 tsp. salt and ½ tsp. black pepper on a large plate.  Dredge each piece of chicken in the flour mixture shaking off excess.  Heat olive oil in a large heavy pot over medium high heat.  Add breast pieces skin side down.  Cook until crisp and browned.  Turn over for a minute on the other side.  Remove to a plate and let rest.  Add thigh pieces to the pot skin side down.  When thighs are browned on the skin side, turn over.  Add onion and garlic around the chicken thighs.  Cook for 3-4 minutes until onion has begun to soften.  Nestle breast pieces and their juices back in the pot with the thighs and onion.  Scatter olives and tomatoes with their juices around the chicken.  Tuck two sprigs of rosemary in with the chicken.  Add wine until it comes ¾ of the way up the sides of the meat, but do not fully cover.  Bring wine to a boil.  Reduce heat to medium low.  Place the pot lid on leaving it slightly askew to let out some steam and allow the wine to reduce.  Cook for about 20-25 minutes until chicken is cooked through and liquid is slightly reduced.  Add additional salt and pepper if necessary to the sauce.  Remove and discard the rosemary.  Serve chicken with the braising liquid and a side of crusty bread. 

Amy Powell is a food and travel writer based in New York City. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell

Yunnan: Cuisine and Kitchen Of Its Own

Chinese Greens and Lamb Meatballs

Six years ago I made a trip to a less frequently visited area of China deep in the Southwest.  A week of eating in homes, restaurants, and street stalls left a permanent mark on my understanding of “Chinese” food.  The food of the Southwest was a far cry from the xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) of Shanghai, the Muslim influenced lamb and wheat noodle dishes of Xi’an, or the multitudinous small plates of Hong Kong’s dim sum parlors.  It was at times reminiscent of the Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand, neighbors to the south, while also feeling inextricably linked to faraway cities within the nation’s borders, like Beijing.  The result was less a facsimile of Chinese and Southeast Asian recipes than a food culture uniquely its own.  This was Yunnan cuisine.

One night I would eat barbecued oysters slathered in garlic sauce and a cold plate of thousand-year-old eggs and fermented tofu doused in black vinegar, all decidedly Chinese flavors but somehow fresher, more straightforward. On another night the plates would trend more to the flavors of Southeast Asia- fried rice served in pineapple boats, lemongrass grilled chicken, and smoky mashed green eggplant.  Then there were the bowls upon bowls of Crossing the Bridge Noodles, a pile of meats, noodles, and quail egg in fragrant broth topped with a slick of chili laced hot oil- it is a dish as legendary in this region as the story for which it is named. 

Flash forward a few years and the interest in regional Chinese cuisine continues to grow within both China and the rest of the Chinese-food loving world.  And the Yunnan has finally been given its due in New York with a restaurant dedicated to cuisine of the Southwest.   

Cold Chicken with Taro and Tamarind

Judging by the Sunday night crowds on a recent visit to Yunnan Kitchen in the Lower East Side, it isn’t just me who is curious about the food of this region.  To be fair, Travis Post, the chef, is not Chinese, simply passionate about the cuisine and channeling that interest into this new project with owner Erika Chou.

At first glance of the menu only a few items brought back memories of that long ago trip- lemongrass chicken, charred eggplant, three kinds of fried rice.  A plate of perfectly spherical fried potato balls was so light they could have levitated.  Dipped in the accompanying vinaigrette I was firmly brought back to earth with the grounding balance of soy, vinegar, and chilies.  Lamb meatballs were plain only in appearance.  The seasoning was heavy on cinnamon and cumin a reminder that a Southwest branch of the Silk Road passed through the Yunnan, a delivery route for tea, gemstones, spices and other precious goods bound for India and beyond. 

Fried Potato Balls

But it was a monochromatic plate of chicken and taro that really caused a jolt to my memory bank.  The chicken was served cold, shredded and piled high above a cylinder of creamy mashed taro root.  A drizzle of burnt orange hued tamarind dressing saved the plate from being the color of paste, while a hefty pile of fried matchsticks of taro added texture.  Taro, chicken, tamarind- sweet, earthy, tangy- these were flavors I knew well.

Even in these times of frequent flying, so few people from America make it to the Yunnan I doubt many will be debating the authenticity of say, the lemongrass chicken as they might a soup dumpling from a Shanghai-style restaurant.  But those visitors to Yunnan Kitchen might recognize one thing: the menu there is its own sort of tour guide, a variety of thoughtfully arranged tastes from a land of many peoples, languages and customs not enough people get to experience first hand.  Maybe after tasting Travis Post's earnest interpretation of Yunnan cuisine they'll reconsider sticking to the standard tourist itinerary when planning their next China holiday. 

Amy Powell is a food and travel writer based in New York City. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell

Why the Men Can Have Their Grill

Smoked Sausage and Pork Shoulder

It is still at least somewhat true that the grill is a man’s domain.  Frankly, if the men were always grilling like my brother and his friends did a few weeks back on a camping trip, I’d be perfectly okay never coming near a pile of hot coals. 

Over a weekend in Virginian Appalachia not once did I pick up so much as a pair of tongs to help with the cooking.  It was not for lack of offering.  Under normal circumstances I might have been itching to throw on an apron, but once the boys fired up the grill and the food started coming out, I was more than happy to sit back with the ladies and enjoy the spoils of their culinary adventure. 

Cabin in Virginia

I was a fool if I ever doubted the high epicurean standards of my brother’s crew. One of his friends went so far as to buy a smoker just to take the grill-out from standard to extraordinary. Friday night the R2-D2 looking contraption was put to the test with a pile of liberally seasoned chicken legs and breasts.  Even veggies found their way into the top layer of smoke- eggplant, onions, and peppers were cooked until soft and fragrant but still structured.  Both the leftover chicken and veg would form the filling for my post-hike sandwich the next day along with a liberal spread of roasted eggplant dip (yes, the boys brought that too).

Smoked pork shoulder

Chicken seasoned, ready for the smoker

The grand finale was a Saturday night barbecue to put all car camping cookouts to shame.  While playing dominoes, a snack of smoked and peppered wild boar loin appeared to whet our appetite.  This was followed about a half hour later by a plate piled high with smoked sweet Italian and spicy Andouille sausage.  Corn on the cob arrived next, still in their jackets and pleasantly charred.  A cast iron pot of potatoes mixed with peppers and onions, and was given a gentle bath of beer then allowed to bubble until the potatoes were tender.  Finally, buried beneath the sausage and wild boar on the bottom of R2-D2 a luscious pork shoulder had spent hours in a smoke sauna.  The result was pork so meltingly tender it needed nothing more than a fork to eat.

It may be still be a man’s world in a few too many ways, but if the men are cooking like they were the other weekend while the women folk are relaxing, that’s a world I am more than happy to live in.  At least for a weekend.

Amy Powell is a food and travel writer based in New York City. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell

I’m Just Saying: Parm, NYC

Meatball Hero at Parm, NYC.

 To say there has been a lot of buzz about Parm, the off-shoot of much hailed Torrisi Italian Specialties in New York City, is an understatement.  In one of his first reviews on the job last month, New York Times restaurant critic Pete Wells gaveParm two stars out of four.  That is a lot of stars for what is essentially an Italian-American sandwich shop. 

I’ll be the first to admit that unlike Pete Wells, I have not eaten at Parm multiple times.  But I did eat there last weekend with my brother, and one time was enough for me to understand a few simple things about this shrine to the hero. 

1.     Service. Perhaps in an effort to stay true to its Italian-American homage, service is spotty.  The waitresses, who seem to have a thing for cat-eye glasses and orangey red lipstick, paid little attention to our table save to plop down each plate as it came up.  I will give points to the hostess who managed the flow of food tourists like a seasoned air traffic controller, calling my cellphone at a bar down the street at the precise time she said she would when a table opened up.

2.     Calamari. When it comes to calamari, I like tentacles.  For my taste, this basket had too few.  But what it lacked in tentacles it made up for in a pile of sweet fried peppers mixed with the lightly breaded, but otherwise ordinary, calamari rings.   As my brother and I sparred forks over the last peppers, I almost wished our basket had been filled with just that.   

Calamari, Parm, NYC.

3.     Chicken Parm. Close my eyes, and I could have been at any cheap-o restaurant in the country eating the chicken parm hero, complete with the acrid taste of burnt oil.  You know, that bitterness that comes from a flat top that hasn’t been cleaned well enough, or a vat of frying oil that has seen too many baskets of fried things go through it?  Yeah, our chicken tasted a bit like that.  I’m just saying… that’s not a flavor you expect in from a restaurant team that is supposedly revolutionizing Italian-American food.

4.     Meatball. And then came the meatball. The meatball hero at Parm is not of any restaurant, or planet for that matter, that I have ever encountered.  The sweet, pink, melt-in-your-mouth combination of veal, beef, and Italian sausage is a revelation in meatball making.  Juicy, tender, and pink, the meat literally melted in my mouth like butter with each bite.  I will never look at a meatball the same way again.

Can a restaurant really thrive off one star-making menu item?  The burnt oil taste of the chicken parm might be forgivable and forgettable was it not so glaringly below the high bar set by the meatball.  But given the enduring popularity of red sauce Italian restaurants in this country, I doubt this one diner’s opinion will keep the hoards away.  That meatball really is something to behold, to hold, and to lustily devour.  But as for the blah calamari and chicken parm, I could find that mediocre standard anywhere you can find an Italian restaurant in this country, probably with no wait and at a fraction of the price.  I’m just saying….

Amy Powell is a food and travel writer based in New York City. She is a graduate of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration and the French Culinary Institute. Follow her on Twitter @amymariepowell

Kabeljou, Oryx, Chicken- The Pride of Namibia

“The fish came fresh of the boats this morning.” “The meat is all from our family farm.” “This bag of chicken will feed our family of fourteen.” Two weeks in Namibia proved to me that in a country with so much potential, one of its biggest assets is the pride of its people.

August in Namibia is the high season, perhaps not the best time of year to be winging a road trip in Africa. John and I had fantasized about our 4-wheel drive rental car with rooftop pop-up tent. We naively thought we could call around dealers on our first day, playing them off each other to find the best deal. Instead we found that tour operators and European independent travelers armed with advance reservations beat us to every 4x4 in Windhoek.

We happened upon what was perhaps the last available rental car in all of Namibia, a gold Corolla. We slapped down a credit card and prayed she would survive the dirt roads of this vast, open country.

The pre-planning tourists followed us everywhere, falling out of tour buses in front of us at service stations, caravans of white pickup trucks pulling into the ticket window of park entrances minutes before we did. We were not to be deterred. What we had going for us that all these supposedly smart planners lacked was the element of spontaneity. And it was just that sense of adventure, of not always knowing what city we would sleep in on a given night, that led to some of our most memorable encounters with the local people, not to mention their food.

Kamanjab is not much more than a blip on a map of Namibia. Two groceries, one petrol station, and one car repair shop pretty much sums up the entire town. Most tourists, don’t stop in this town for much more than lunch at Oase Guesthouse on their way to the bigger attraction, Etosha National Park.

We came the opposite direction, away from Etosha. Not quite sure of our destination we were looking for a place to rest our head for the night. The first sight of the dusty town is not terribly welcoming. The plains had recently given way to picturesque rolling hills but if one was looking for nightlife, curio shops, and maybe a German Bakkerie, this was not the place.

However, on deciding to stay, Oase lived up to its promising name. The guesthouse, a former market and then government headquarters, had a foliage filled courtyard with walls painted a soothing shade of green and a few hammocks perfect for afternoon reading. Owners Eban and Marianne along with their charming manager, oversee the small guesthouse with the warmth of long lost relatives.

We liked it so much we stayed on for a second night. Only later did we find out that they had been booked the second night, but chose to turn away an afternoon reservation so we could stay with them a second day. How quickly we became like family.

Both nights we feasted on oryx, a type of antelope with a deep venison taste. As we raved about oryx T-bone on night one and oryx fillet on night two, Evan proudly explained that all the meat, including the oryx, came from their farm. This was a family operation down to the provenance of the menu items.

Leaving our dusty, desert oasis in Kamanjab, we headed southwest towards a campground in petroglyph filled Twyfelfontein, the first recognized Unesco World Heritage Site in Namibia. In the strangely Greek sounding town of Khorixas, we stopped at this one stop sign dusty desert outpost to stock up on groceries, gas, and give the old Corolla a wash.

The markets in rural Namibia did not have much. We were lucky to find a few local sweet potatoes, onions and garlic. The meat was all frozen. We went for the boneless skinless chicken breasts hoping they would defrost more quickly than the rest.

In line behind me a perky girl of fourteen chirped, “Hello! How are you?” Griselda asked where I came from. I told her New York and she gasped. “That’s very far away.” Yes, I said. We had not seen many people from the States during our trip thus far. Americans were still a bit of a novelty in these remote parts.

I told her she had a very beautiful country, that we were enjoying our holiday very much. “Yes, thank you. It is a beautiful country. We are poor, but proud.” I told her I could tell, that they were proud not poor. She giggled.

We talked about school- she is number two in her class and wants to be a doctor. We talked about her family- fourteen relatives from several different families all live together and she is the oldest child among them.

We were both buying chicken, I noted. John and I had picked up four chicken breasts we planned to eat over two nights, the most expensive selection by the pound in the meat section. She had a 5 lb. bag of chicken pieces on the bone, the cheap stuff, frozen solid in a family pack bag. She said they would cook it up in water and a bit of oil and eat it with corn meal porridge, they hoped to make it stretch for all 14 people.

Meanwhile the cashier protested as she was ringing us up. She ran to the freezer section and came back with a bag identical to the one Griselda held. She was trying to tell us we could buy more chicken for less money than we were spending on our boneless skinless breasts if we bought the frozen family pack. It was too hard to explain that we didn’t need that much food and that we would pay more money if it meant wasting less.

We thanked the cashier anyway. She finished ringing us up and we waved goodbye to Griselda. I hoped that her chicken dinner with porridge would feed that big family. And I prayed that smile and spirit would see her through this tough life and on to her dream of medical school.

In addition to vast desert landscapes, teaming wildlife, and dramatic mountains, Namibia is known for its cryptically named barren northern shores, The Skeleton Coast. With a name that implies death (so given for the many sailors who met their demise after ship wrecking on the bleak, deserted coast), one would not think it to be a habitat teaming with life, fish life.

Hentiesbaai, just south of the entrance to Skeleton Coast National Park, is not high on the tourist agenda unless the tourist in question is a fisherman. I’m not good with a rod nor does John have much interest but Hentiesbaai is where we found ourselves one unplanned evening, looking for a guesthouse to crash for the night.

What we found was a town not particularly friendly to tourists save for the Desert Rendezvous B&B and two restaurants the manager recommended. Fishy’s Corner, with its fishnet décor and quaint green awning, drew us in with a welcoming store front on an otherwise bleak street in an foggy, empty fishing town.

Kabeljou was the fish of choice that night. The large Afrikaner waitress in a purple and neon pink tracksuit informed us that it was just off the boat that morning. John tried to order his fried and mine sautéed. They both cam out fried but we were not disappointed. The white flesh was firm and sweet in the way only a truly fresh fish can be. It had been lightly floured and fried, served with a wedge of lemon and superfluous tartar sauce, the fish being so good on its own it did not need more than this simple presentation.

A place like this does not get many outside visitors. Perhaps we should not have been surprised then when the tracksuit waitress was put off by our questions about the fish. She immediately became defensive of her pronunciation (the Afrikaans accent was heavy), but relaxed a bit when we assured her we just wanted to know more about the fish because we liked it so much. She repeated the spelling and the fact the fish was fresh off the boat this morning. In a city that has little else to pride itself in besides their main industry, an outsider messing with the fish, even if it is a misunderstanding, is probably the ultimate insult.

Black or white, German, Afrikaans, or Damara descent, the people I met along our journey all struck me with a dignity and patriotism that rises above all contrived notions of origin and ownership. As far as I could see, from the badlands of Khorixas where Griselda lugged home frozen chicken to feed an oversized family to the barren seaside town of Hentiesbaai where our white Afrikaner waitress announced the fresh catch of the day, the people of Namibia are proud of their land… and the food that comes from it.