Category — Food

My first adventure in Fornacci di Barga was to find a wireless internet drive.  It’s just a crazy little jump drive that has a place for a micro card and a sim card.  Plug it in, and you get internet.  Lovely.

I asked if there was anything I could pick up while I was out.  Yes, some bread.  Seems easy enough, right?  Not so much.  On the way from the airport, the first day, we stopped at the grocery store.  My one task was to grab some bread.  “Brown bread” said Sandra, “cooked in the oven.”  Now, I don’t know about you, but when my family picks up freshly baked bread, we give it a squeeze to make sure it has a good crunch with a nice soft center.  I searched the bread bins (you can’t believe how many different kinds of bread there are) and, after rejecting a flat, tough loaf, I found a nice soft one.

Wrong.  I went back to the bread area with Deb to see what, exactly, I should be looking for.  Well, first, you go to the bread counter, not the bread bins.  Second, you have to know what you’re ordering.  Then they just cut off how ever much you want from these foot-and-a-half long loaves of flat, brown bread.

When I squeezed it, it was clear I had no idea what I was looking for.  Never would I have selected this bread.  However, it makes some of the best toast in the world!  And is great with cheese!  And is just yummy!

So, today when I asked what I could pick up, I wasn’t so excited to hear, “pane cotto nel forno a legna.”  I tried to memorize as much of the phrase as I could, and headed out.  I scoped out the bread shops on the way to the internet place.  There were two.  On the way back, I would pick one and stop.  After success with the computer guys, I was excited to see if I could work out the bread.  I got a good feeling from the first shop, so I stepped in.  Oddly enough, there was almost no bread in the bins.  Perhaps it’s a little late in the day.  I have no idea.  However, these lovely ladies responded brilliantly when I apologized for not being able to speak well in Italian and asked them for “pane cotto nel forno…” – “a Legna,” they supplied.  Si, si!  I was so excited.

“No, non aqui.”  Not here.  Really, in a bread shop.  Maybe it’s because there’s no bread in the shop.  “Dove?”  Where could I find this elusive bread.  One of the women came out from behind the counter and spirited me outside the shop, pointing across the street and telling me to go to the meat shop.  Mind you, this was all in Italian, so I’m fairly sure that’s what she was saying.

I headed across the street, but couldn’t see the meat shop.  I looked back at the bread store, and both women were now standing outside their door, waving me on to the meat shop.  As I entered the shop they celebrated with me.  I had found the Pane, cotto nel forno a legna!

Now, let me just say that, as a vegeterian – even one who isn’t that principled about the thing – the smell that comes out of these meat shops is horrifying to me.  It’s seriously like death.  The case is filled with beautifully presented slices of meatiness, but the smell is tough for me.  Regardless, after another apology, and another request for pane cotto nel forno… “a legna,” came the response, I had my half-loaf of lovely, hard bread.

When I came out of the shop, the bread ladies were still there, waiting to celebrate my success again.  We waived and shouted “CIAO!” across the street at each other.

When I got back home, I relayed this story to Deb who laughed at me when I asked why the bread shop wouldn’t have this type of bread.  Apparently, this is bread cooked elsewhere and brought in.  It’s cooked in a wood oven.  The other bread at the bread shop is not.  That’s a good tip.  So, if you’re looking for hard, flat, brown bread, try the meat shop.

A couple of weekends ago, our friend and carpenter, Derek, took us to a new breakfast spot in Portland.  It was new to us, but not new to Portland.

Founded in 1947, Fullers has seen it’s share of Portland diners.  Black and white pictures of Portland landmarks like the St. John’s bridge in construction, hang on the plain walls.  Derek kept talking about men in flannel suits and fedoras.

The counter (which is the only place to sit) is in a “W” shape, allowing the well-practiced waitresses access to everyone without leaving the kitchen area.  Sidenote:  These waitresses are amazing.  They’re working in a place that’s roughly 4 feet wide, serving hot food and slinging coffee.  We watched as 3 of them worked silently to replace an empty coffee pot,one removing the pot, another removing the basket and yet another replacing the basket and a clean pot, in a dance that only comes from years of working together in close quarters.

The food was excellent.  The kind of food you expect from a good, old-fashioned diner.  Hashbrowns and eggs and big-ass bacon.

I had the fanciest thing of any of us – a scramble/hashbrown creation full of veggies and cheese.  Yum.  I even broke my coffee embargo in favor of some really great black coffee served in a brown diner mug.

Somehow, it seems that Fuller’s has been missed by the Portland breakfast-crazed masses.  Either it’s been explored and rejected, or remains unfound by the hipsters standing in hour-long lines at any number of other breakfast spots.  We arrived on Saturday morning at about 10AM, and waited for maybe 5 minutes before a couple of people who could have been my parents moved over to make room for the three of us.

I’m a big fan of diners.  Fuller’s is one of the best I’ve ever been to.  If you’re looking for a good place to grab some breakfast and a large amount of coffee, head to Fuller’s.  Just don’t tell the hipsters.  Let them wait in line.

One of the great things about working in downtown Portland is the access to great, cheap food.  When I lived in DC for a semester, I fell in love with street vendors.  There, the kind of food I got from carts was “Chipwich” ice cream sandwiches and big, soft pretzels.  The kind of food I enjoy from Portland food carts is some of my favorite food ever.

Just around the corner from the office where I worked for three and a half years there is an Indian food cart – actually there are two.  It’s a long story, but basically, one cart operated for a number of years, and after a divorce, a second cart opened up in the stall next to the original one.  (It took a coworker and me about two months to figure out which one we were loyal to.)

There are three great things about eating at the Bombay Chaat House:

1.  Food:  The food is excellent.  It’s all vegetarian, and has vegan options.  Along with a complete menu, the cart features a 5-item lunch special that changes slightly every day.  You can follow the menu on their twitter feed, or on my sidebar.

My absolute favorite Indian dish is Navratan Koorma.  The Bombay Chaat House has it ALMOST EVERY DAY.  It’s amazing, with nuts and fruits and spices and creaminess.  I heart Navratan Koorma.  And their naan is amazing.  It’s soft and fresh and yummy.

For $5 you get naan, rice and three fabulous dishes, one of which is almost always a dal (lentil).  And you get free chai.  Not chai from a box, mind you, real chai.  Yum.  The food is far too much for most people to eat in one sitting.  For about a year I ate at the Bombay Chaat House.  I went every other work day, ate half, and put the other half in the fridge for the next day.  (Tip: if you put the naan on top of the food when you warm it up in the microwave and add a little water to the dish, it steams the naan.)

2.  Friends:  This is a great place to go with friends.  They have a little covered seating area, but I prefer to head one block over to the public corner of the garden at First Presbyterian Church on Morrison and 12th.  Hardly anyone uses it, so it’s quiet, and it has great seating.  (If the gate is closed, just reach around and push the lever to open it.)

3.  Family:  The folks who own the Bombay Chaat House are some of the warmest people you’ll meet.  I think food is a marvelous way to know people.  I love cooking for others, because it’s a way of sharing something personal to me.  I love food, and food made by people from their own recipes is special.

Every time I go to Bombay Chaat House, I feel like I’m going to someone’s house for a meal.  People waiting in line talk with each other about the food and about the people cooking it.  The owners recognize the people who frequent their cart and greet them like old friends.  When I became a fan of the cart on Facebook, one of the owners thanked me the next day.  He just recognized me and wanted to thank me for supporting them.

I’m really going to miss the Bombay Chaat House.  When I went last week for what might very well be the last time for a while.  I asked one of the owners for a picture.

He consented and then told me that he reads my blog.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I won’t be around for a while.  I think I’m in denial.  Did I mention how good the navratan koorma is?

I am exactly 1/8 Greek.  I was brought up, however, approximately 120% Greek and 110% Italian, depending on the day.  You see, the Greeks invented math, so we get to change the rules.

My grandfather is 1/2 Greek, but I think he’s pretty much all Greek.  Because his mom was from France, he wasn’t allowed to attend the Greek Orthodox church, or the Greek School at the church.  Well, they let him attend, but they wouldn’t speak Greek to him.  So, he is still making up for it.

When I was a kid, my mother made amazing Greek food.  We had a small group of Greek folks in our town of 3000.  That meant that the neighbors would show up to summer bbq’s with tiropita (cheese pies), and there was a Greek festival at the local Greek restaurant.  Yummy.  My dad would wear a funny hat that had a Greek soldier and the word “Yasou!” on it.  Yasou means literally, God is great, and is used as a type of greeting.  I can still hear “Yasou” hurled through the air as friends joined the festival.

When I moved to Portland for college, I had no idea there was a rather large Greek community here.  Every year when the leaves start to change, I start getting excited for the Portland Greek Festival.  It’s held every October on the grounds of Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church.  Being away from home, the festival always makes me feel better.  When I’m there, I’m not the only one with bushy eyebrows or big hair.  I don’t have the huskiest voice, and I’m not the only one gesturing wildly.  In fact, I’m pretty mild in comparison.  (I know, hard to believe.)

Today, I’m sitting in front of the computer eating leftovers from the festival (a first – I can’t remember ever having leftovers), and remembering the olive-pit-spitting contest from the little festival in Ketchum Idaho.  I’m also wondering if the next time I have Greek food it will be in Greece, and whether it will be at the Plaka in Athens, or a little village on an island.  It makes me giggle.  Yasou! indeed.

I’m not the only person in my family who loves pastry.  I come by it honestly.  We all do.

Today, which is my little sister’s 30th birthday (Happy Birthday Cath!), my mom decided to do something special – I mean really special.  She decided to make tortones.

For those of you who aren’t in my family, here’s what a tortone is:  Prunes in fried pie dough.  Yummy.

This is something that came from my Great Grandmother Harame who came to the US directly from France.  I remember playing the piano for her in her house.  I remember her sitting next to me and playing that upright piano.  She would write sheet music with the words of songs from France and those of us who played piano would try to learn.  Her hands were so little that she couldn’t reach a full octave, but she so enjoyed playing that it was a delight to watch.

Today when we were making the tortones, Mom pulled out a hand-written recipe and I teared up as I saw Grandma Harame’s handwriting, the same as it was on the sheet music, friendly and instructive.

It’s full of helpful hints like “try to make it your own” and “good luck with your tortones.”  Actually, as I’m sitting here reading the recipe, I’m realizing that I’ve misspelled “tortone” my entire life.  Grandma’s letter says “tourton” as though that is the plural!  Wonderful!  Well, I’ll probably continue calling them “tortones” anyway, the way her name changed from Haramis to Harame when she and her Greek husband came to the US.

So, here are some pictures of the tortones in process and finished:

We stewed the prunes, placed them in the dough like raviolis, and deep fried them (I swear this might be the one reason to own a deep fryer).

You can sprinkle with sugar or just shove them in your mouth while they’re scalding hot.  Sooooo good.

Sidenote, my family just realized what I was blogging about and nearly had a heart attack when they realized I was giving out the recipe.  Lucky for you I’m a fan of open-source recipes.  So, if you can read Grandma Harame’s writing, and come up with a functioning recipe, let me know.  They’re delicious.