Puntarelle and My Brooklyn Vegetable Man
My first crush landed on the shoulders of one Vinnie Barbarino. He babysat me from the age of three until I was a ripe old seven. It was the first time I felt anything, you know, special for a guy.
My mom knew about this crush, the way moms do. One day, after a grueling afternoon at Brownies, she tossed me a trading card of the Supreme Sweathog. The card was one that you'd get in a set, packed with some stale gum. I cannot explain how my mom came to own such a thing. I blushed, and asked, "Why are you giving me that?" She said, "I don't know, because you're glued to the set whenever he comes on, I thought he was your favorite..." I jumped off the couch and shouted, "I don't like him! I don't like him at all! I hate him!" I stormed up the stairs to my bedroom and slammed the door.
My mother will assure you that I have not yet graduated from this phase.
Our babysitter, Jimmy Metzler, was a lot like Vinne Barbarino. He was tall, he had brown hair, and he was in high school. He, too, was originally from Brooklyn.
Jimmy drove a motorcycle and once I got to ride on the back of it. In the winter months, he drove a Rabbit. I remember the day he showed me that he had his girlfriend's initials engraved in the passenger door, enclosed in a heart. I was brave for a few minutes, until I could no longer contain. I ran to my house, up the stairs and onto the bed where I sobbed, until I gained the strength to play a little Gloria Gaynor on my Fisher Price record player. Jimmy is a cop now, and he married that high school girlfriend. I was invited to the wedding service, but I chose not to attend. I had something better to do; a date with a 6th grader, I believe.
Now this pre-pubescent star-crossed romance walk down memory lane has a point, and it is this: There's something about a guy from Brooklyn. And I know I'm not alone when I say this, so kindly give a shout out if you know what I mean. There's something vital, protective, gritty, and real about these men; it's primal in a way I can't explain.
Enter Vesuvio, my vegetable man. I was sent to his shop by JChef, as he's the produce supplier for the better Brooklyn restaurants. His shop in Cobble Hill borders on ironic; a stubborn remnant of a time that's going, going, gone. I think Juan Epstein worked there during high school. I hear Tony Manero used to hang out there all the time, picking up produce for his mom. In fact, he's the reason Loretta Castorini got fired and had to find a job on Bleeker Street.
Vesuvio won't be there for long, but he's there now, and as long as he is, I'll be stopping by. Not because he needs the revenue, because I think he's doing just fine if not better with the restaurants, but because I. need. him.
The first time I dropped by his shop, I hitched my mutt to the parking meter in front, and strolled around casually (the place can't be more than 200 square feet, tops). I asked about the salsify (a tip either that I know a thing or two about food or that I know nothing but enjoy eating in yuppie restaurants). It piqued his curiousity, and he asked if I'd tried the tiny turnips that he gets from a Japanese farmer upstate. I said no, he pointed to the cooler and said, "Try some," and walked away.
An aggressive salesman. I picked up a few and tossed them in my basket. He returned, and asked what I thought. I pointed to the basket, and he said, "No, I meant try them. Eat one." I was surprised. A raw turnip? He saw my hesitation, and said, "What, you need me to eat one first?" He grabbed one, took a bite, and handed it back to me."
It was like Adam and Eve in reverse.
I bit, and it was crisp and light. Not sweet like an apple, more like endive, but thicker, and incredibly refreshing. It lifted me.
He watched me eat it, and sensed that I liked it without me having to tell him so, "It's good, right? I eat them all day like candy." And with this, he went outside to have his 25th cigarette of the morning. The man with access to the best produce in Manhattan has a nasty old nicotine habit. We couldn't have him be too perfect, now could we? Nah, then we'd lose the JChef storyline.
He noticed some green cabbage in my basket while he was ringing me up (in another country, he'd be using an abacus; in Cobble Hill he uses his fingers). He got a little ageda and said, "You sure you don't want my Savoy instead?" Indeed I did. Quite a catch, My Vegetable Man.
Vesuvio is the reason home economists the world over encourage home cooks to become friendly with their butchers, fishmongers, and green grocers. These guys know something we don't. They know the who, what, when, why and how of what we eat, we get it when the process is 90% over. But part of what they enjoy is helping us enjoy. They'll remember if we appreciated something delicious and unexpected, like a baby turnip, and they'll notice if we order filet mignon and used it as stew meat because your friend from Connecticut told you "it's the best."
I recently went in to scope out a vegetable I'd read about, and enjoyed in Italian restaurants, but never seen in a grocery store: puntarelle. Since he supplies the restaurants, I figured I might have a shot. No puntarelle on display, but a quick query to Vesuvio rewarded me with a big head of the pointy, lacy chicory, and a lesson.
"So you know how to do this, right?" he asked. I nodded, unconvincingly. He knew better. "You take these outer parts, these dark green guys here..."
I interrupted, "They're the best part, yeah?"
Kindly, patiently, "And you get rid of em. They're bitter and disgusting. GARBAGE. The rest, the inside, tender and sweet. You cut these up, put em in a bowl with water. You know the rest, right?"
Pause.
"C'mon, Allison, you make the anchovy vinaigrette, eh? The lemon juice, the good olive oil, anchovy, garlic, you know how to do this. It's terrific. Want to have it even better, go over to Al Di La and get theirs, she does it real good."
"I've had it at Frankie's," I said, dropping a familiar local.
"They're good, too." And he checked me out.
Now Vesuvio's no angel, mind you. He likes to look, I mean leer, I mean appreciate a fine young thing, and he's got a picture of Monica Lewinsky in a low cut dress in his shop, for reasons I'd have to have Y chromosome to fully understand.
But until he kills himself with all that smoke, this man is alive. He's a man that handles salsify, parsnips, celeriac and artichokes all day. He knows his domain, and if you're a pretty girl experimenting with food, or a rough and tumble guy running a restaurant, hell, if you're at all interested in and appreciative of that which he's offering, he'll be more than generous with what he knows.
What more could you want from a Brooklyn Vegetable Man? Trading cards and motorcycle rides? Nah, that's for girls. Women graduate to the seductive description of a well dressed vegetable, and that's more than enough to satisfy.
Puntarelle with Anchovy Vinaigrette
Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4
Before you turn away -- if you don't have any puntarelle, mix up your chicories, and give this vinaigrette a whirl. Substitute 2 big heads of endive, sliced 1-inch thick and some frisee, or some radicchio and baby spinach. Hell, just toss some asparagus in it. It's good, that's all. Try it.
1 large head puntarelle
4 anchovies
1 small clove garlic
Coarse salt
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3 tablespoons very good olive oil
Freshly ground black pepper
1. Remove the long outer leaves from the puntarelle and discard; if you don't believe me, taste and see how bitter they are. (If they're not too bad, soak them in water with the rest.) Take the inner leaves and pull off the spikey bits. If the bottoms are thick, slice them. Toss everything together in a bowl of cold water and let sit 20 minutes.
2. In the bottom of a wide salad bowl, place 4 anchovies. On your garlic & onion cutting board (trust me, don't go cutting cake on this for the next month or you'll be sorry...), smash the garlic clove and chop. Sprinkle with coarse salt, and use the side of your knife to grind the garlic into a paste. Add to bowl with anchovies. Use the back of your fork to mash the anchovies and garlic, making one big paste. Add the lemon juice and olive oil, season with pepper.
3. Drain the puntarelle; toss in the dressing with your hands. Taste, season as needed, serve.
My mom knew about this crush, the way moms do. One day, after a grueling afternoon at Brownies, she tossed me a trading card of the Supreme Sweathog. The card was one that you'd get in a set, packed with some stale gum. I cannot explain how my mom came to own such a thing. I blushed, and asked, "Why are you giving me that?" She said, "I don't know, because you're glued to the set whenever he comes on, I thought he was your favorite..." I jumped off the couch and shouted, "I don't like him! I don't like him at all! I hate him!" I stormed up the stairs to my bedroom and slammed the door.
My mother will assure you that I have not yet graduated from this phase.
Our babysitter, Jimmy Metzler, was a lot like Vinne Barbarino. He was tall, he had brown hair, and he was in high school. He, too, was originally from Brooklyn.
Jimmy drove a motorcycle and once I got to ride on the back of it. In the winter months, he drove a Rabbit. I remember the day he showed me that he had his girlfriend's initials engraved in the passenger door, enclosed in a heart. I was brave for a few minutes, until I could no longer contain. I ran to my house, up the stairs and onto the bed where I sobbed, until I gained the strength to play a little Gloria Gaynor on my Fisher Price record player. Jimmy is a cop now, and he married that high school girlfriend. I was invited to the wedding service, but I chose not to attend. I had something better to do; a date with a 6th grader, I believe.
Now this pre-pubescent star-crossed romance walk down memory lane has a point, and it is this: There's something about a guy from Brooklyn. And I know I'm not alone when I say this, so kindly give a shout out if you know what I mean. There's something vital, protective, gritty, and real about these men; it's primal in a way I can't explain.
Enter Vesuvio, my vegetable man. I was sent to his shop by JChef, as he's the produce supplier for the better Brooklyn restaurants. His shop in Cobble Hill borders on ironic; a stubborn remnant of a time that's going, going, gone. I think Juan Epstein worked there during high school. I hear Tony Manero used to hang out there all the time, picking up produce for his mom. In fact, he's the reason Loretta Castorini got fired and had to find a job on Bleeker Street.
Vesuvio won't be there for long, but he's there now, and as long as he is, I'll be stopping by. Not because he needs the revenue, because I think he's doing just fine if not better with the restaurants, but because I. need. him.
The first time I dropped by his shop, I hitched my mutt to the parking meter in front, and strolled around casually (the place can't be more than 200 square feet, tops). I asked about the salsify (a tip either that I know a thing or two about food or that I know nothing but enjoy eating in yuppie restaurants). It piqued his curiousity, and he asked if I'd tried the tiny turnips that he gets from a Japanese farmer upstate. I said no, he pointed to the cooler and said, "Try some," and walked away.
An aggressive salesman. I picked up a few and tossed them in my basket. He returned, and asked what I thought. I pointed to the basket, and he said, "No, I meant try them. Eat one." I was surprised. A raw turnip? He saw my hesitation, and said, "What, you need me to eat one first?" He grabbed one, took a bite, and handed it back to me."
It was like Adam and Eve in reverse.
I bit, and it was crisp and light. Not sweet like an apple, more like endive, but thicker, and incredibly refreshing. It lifted me.
He watched me eat it, and sensed that I liked it without me having to tell him so, "It's good, right? I eat them all day like candy." And with this, he went outside to have his 25th cigarette of the morning. The man with access to the best produce in Manhattan has a nasty old nicotine habit. We couldn't have him be too perfect, now could we? Nah, then we'd lose the JChef storyline.
He noticed some green cabbage in my basket while he was ringing me up (in another country, he'd be using an abacus; in Cobble Hill he uses his fingers). He got a little ageda and said, "You sure you don't want my Savoy instead?" Indeed I did. Quite a catch, My Vegetable Man.
Vesuvio is the reason home economists the world over encourage home cooks to become friendly with their butchers, fishmongers, and green grocers. These guys know something we don't. They know the who, what, when, why and how of what we eat, we get it when the process is 90% over. But part of what they enjoy is helping us enjoy. They'll remember if we appreciated something delicious and unexpected, like a baby turnip, and they'll notice if we order filet mignon and used it as stew meat because your friend from Connecticut told you "it's the best."
I recently went in to scope out a vegetable I'd read about, and enjoyed in Italian restaurants, but never seen in a grocery store: puntarelle. Since he supplies the restaurants, I figured I might have a shot. No puntarelle on display, but a quick query to Vesuvio rewarded me with a big head of the pointy, lacy chicory, and a lesson.
"So you know how to do this, right?" he asked. I nodded, unconvincingly. He knew better. "You take these outer parts, these dark green guys here..."
I interrupted, "They're the best part, yeah?"
Kindly, patiently, "And you get rid of em. They're bitter and disgusting. GARBAGE. The rest, the inside, tender and sweet. You cut these up, put em in a bowl with water. You know the rest, right?"
Pause.
"C'mon, Allison, you make the anchovy vinaigrette, eh? The lemon juice, the good olive oil, anchovy, garlic, you know how to do this. It's terrific. Want to have it even better, go over to Al Di La and get theirs, she does it real good."
"I've had it at Frankie's," I said, dropping a familiar local.
"They're good, too." And he checked me out.
Now Vesuvio's no angel, mind you. He likes to look, I mean leer, I mean appreciate a fine young thing, and he's got a picture of Monica Lewinsky in a low cut dress in his shop, for reasons I'd have to have Y chromosome to fully understand.
But until he kills himself with all that smoke, this man is alive. He's a man that handles salsify, parsnips, celeriac and artichokes all day. He knows his domain, and if you're a pretty girl experimenting with food, or a rough and tumble guy running a restaurant, hell, if you're at all interested in and appreciative of that which he's offering, he'll be more than generous with what he knows.
What more could you want from a Brooklyn Vegetable Man? Trading cards and motorcycle rides? Nah, that's for girls. Women graduate to the seductive description of a well dressed vegetable, and that's more than enough to satisfy.
Puntarelle with Anchovy Vinaigrette
Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4
Before you turn away -- if you don't have any puntarelle, mix up your chicories, and give this vinaigrette a whirl. Substitute 2 big heads of endive, sliced 1-inch thick and some frisee, or some radicchio and baby spinach. Hell, just toss some asparagus in it. It's good, that's all. Try it.
1 large head puntarelle
4 anchovies
1 small clove garlic
Coarse salt
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3 tablespoons very good olive oil
Freshly ground black pepper
1. Remove the long outer leaves from the puntarelle and discard; if you don't believe me, taste and see how bitter they are. (If they're not too bad, soak them in water with the rest.) Take the inner leaves and pull off the spikey bits. If the bottoms are thick, slice them. Toss everything together in a bowl of cold water and let sit 20 minutes.
2. In the bottom of a wide salad bowl, place 4 anchovies. On your garlic & onion cutting board (trust me, don't go cutting cake on this for the next month or you'll be sorry...), smash the garlic clove and chop. Sprinkle with coarse salt, and use the side of your knife to grind the garlic into a paste. Add to bowl with anchovies. Use the back of your fork to mash the anchovies and garlic, making one big paste. Add the lemon juice and olive oil, season with pepper.
3. Drain the puntarelle; toss in the dressing with your hands. Taste, season as needed, serve.
posted by Allison Fishman Task at 6:38 PM
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