Italian Lessons: Three-Meat Meatloaf Arrabiata

Sergio was short. Handsome, but very short. I didn’t notice this at first, however, as when I met him I was sitting down. By the time I stood up and realized my mistake, it was already too late.

I was at a private club called Lochness located just a few blocks from my Florentine flat. Private clubs are common in Italy, where the "members only" policy allows the bar owners to skirt one (or a dozen) of those complicated Italian government regulations. The term is used casually in this city, though, and I was able to offer un sorriso (a smile) in lieu of the 3 Euro membership fee. I still have my card in my wallet; a green laminated rectangle featuring a cartoonlike image of the famous monster inviting me to “get messy with Nessy.”

The night I’d met Sergio, I’d been stood up by my wonderful, albeit flaky, roommate who’d promised to meet me after running an errand. I quickly realized that errand had turned into a sleepover with the boy she was not-so-secretly shagging, and so I was left alone at the bar chatting with the cute barman who kept generously refilling my wine glass each time the owner looked away. He spoke Spanish and English, but I preferred to use my newly-acquired Italian to chat away about cooking school and living in the city. He convinced me to stay until closing and offered to drive me the few blocks home in his funny-looking little Italian car.

I met him at the bar again the next night(this time in flats)and again the following evening. But I was quickly starting to realize that the problem with dating the bartender is that he can never leave the bar. That, and the fact that a cute bartender fluent in English in study abroad-saturated Florence is never a good idea. After a week or two of copious text messaging and side-street kisses, I arrived a few minutes later than usual one night to find him kissing the neck of a willowy blonde who giggled as she loudly massacred the Italian language. Furious and humiliated, I shot him a look of death and quickly turned to head out the door. He darted past me, blocking my exit, and in a pleading ménage of languages explained that he was just "helping her with her Italian." I stared at him in stony silence, prompting him to ask me nervously:

“Sei arrabiata??”

I laughed despite myself. Though it was a word I’d not yet officially learned, I recognized it from countless dinner menus back home. Arrabiata. I instantly understood the way my feelings at that moment mirrored the fiery, spicy red sauce.

“Si!!” I shouted angrily, as I pushed him out of the way and walked out the door.

That was the end of Sergio, but as it just so happened, arrabiata sauce was on the menu in my class the following week. It was then and still continues to be one of my favorites.

******

This very simple, spicy tomato sauce comes from Rome and is wonderful over pasta for a quick afternoon meal, but I think it is even better over a savory three-meat meatloaf made from pork, veal, and beef (feel free to replace ground Sergio, if you can find it).

You don’t have to be angry to serve this dish; it's a pretty great comfort dish no matter how you feel! But trust me when I say that when you’re mad at a man (or woman), there are few things more satisfying that pounding one’s hands into a large bowl of ground meat.

Arrabiata
You can adjust the spice in this dish by adding more or less red pepper. I, as I'm sure you've guessed, like it hot...

Ingredients
1/4 cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1 28 oz canned crushed tomatoes with their juice*
1 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes
3-4 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 cup chicken stock
salt
pepper

*Remember to use canned, not fresh. Tomatoes aren’t in season now so canned is going to taste much better.

1) Place a heavy saucepan over medium –high heat and add the olive oil. Sauté the minced garlic until it starts to turn golden, but not toasted.

2) Add the tomatoes (along with their juice), chicken stock, and pepper flakes to the garlic and reduce your heat slightly. Season with salt and pepper, and allow the tomatoes to cook down for about 30 minutes, until the sauce is thick. Lower the heat if it starts to boil—you want to keep it at a gentle simmer.

3) When the sauce has thickened and the tomatoes have broken down. Turn off the heat and either serve over meat or pasta (or both) or allow to cool before refrigerating

Three-Meat Meatloaf
This is basically a giant meatball for the lazy. Instead of lots of little balls you just shape the meat and bake. The replacement of breadcrumbs with bran and flaxseed dramatically ups the fiber content and lowers the carbohydrates. How perfect is that?!

Ingredients
1/2 cup chicken or beef stock
1 diced medium-sized yellow onion
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 handful of Italian parsley, chopped
1/2 lb ground beef
1/2 lb ground veal
1/2 lb ground pork
1/3 cup course unprocessed bran
3 tablespoons ground flax seed
1 egg
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup Extra Virgin olive oil


1) In a heavy saucepan, heat the olive oil and sauté the onions until transluscent.
2) Add the garlic and cook until golden. Remove from heat and let cool
3) In a food processor, blend together the stock, cooked onions and garlic, parsley, red pepper, and salt.
4) In a separate large bowl, combine the three meats and knead until combined evenly.
5) Pour the stock mixture over the meat and combine well with your hands
6) Add the bran and flax seed and mix in well
7) In a separate bowl, beat the egg slightly and then pour over the meat mixture. Again knead until everything has been distributed evenly.
8) Turn the meat mixture onto a large roasting pan and mold into a loaf in the center, allowing room on all sides.
9) Bake at 450 degrees for approximately 35-40 minutes.
10) Raise the oven to broiler, and broil for an additional 3-5 minutes until the top is golden and develops a nice crust.
11) Remove from oven and let sit for ten minutes before slicing so as to not lose all the juices.

To serve, place a thick slice on a plate topped with a couple heaping tablespoons of the arrabiata sauce. Shave Pecorino cheese on top and garnish with more parsely if desired.

Dinner at Eight: A Birthday Dinner Party

"We need to talk about the party," Moe reminded me for the fifteenth time.

We've been celebrating our joint birthday every year for the past six, but for some reason I'd been dawdling this year.

"I know," I replied, promptly changing the subject. Truth was that I didn't know what I wanted to do. Having recently hosted a fairly large Christmas party, I was reluctant to throw another big bash, but I didn't want to go to a bar or dinner. I wanted to host.

Perhaps it's something best discussed with my shrink, but I enjoy parties significantly more when I'm hosting, cooking, or--at the very least--contributing a large platter of stuffed mushrooms. Maybe it's a control thing. Maybe I just like the praise. It’s probably a bit of both. The only thing I am certain of is that few things match the rush I get when watching new and old friends enjoying food that I've prepared for them. There is power in knowing ones way around a kitchen; a power that I’m often eager to display.

And yet, I was hesitant to make the commitment.

Our birthday fell on a tough week this year: Moe was going out of town for work and I had Fashion Week parties, visiting editors, and way too many deadlines to meet. 3 AM had become my new bedtime as I juggled my full-time editorial position with the demands of my increasing load of freelance assignments. I longed for a bit of leisure and wasn't sure that I could successfully take on party planning and hosting duties. So I vacillated. I delayed. I hemmed and hawed, and avoided making any final decisions until the absolute last possible second.

But then I remembered the pork.

"Moe!" I typed in an IM box. "Let's do it! The party. A cozy dinner party at my place. Just 10 or 12 people, followed by drinks and jazz somewhere nearby. Send me emails--I'm writing the invitation now!"

"You're sure?" She asked, likely shocked by my sudden burst of enthusiasm after so many days of noncommittal replies.

"Oh yes," I wrote. "And get this. I'm making pork! Pork shoulder, to be exact, stuffed with fruit and thick slabs of bacon. I'll marinate it for a couple days and cover with brown sugar before roasting. And I'll make smoky black beans. And mofongo. Oh oh oh...and flan! Creamy, caramel flan. It's going to be the most amazing meal ever. Just you wait!!"

And that's how it began.

The Menu

Appetizers
Fried Chorizo on Dominican “Pan de Manteca.”

and

Fried Plantain Mofongo


Salad
Avocado and Corn on Romaine with Blood Orange Dressing


Main Course
Citrus Marinated Roast Pork Shoulder
stuffed with candied guava shells, dried plums, ham, and bacon served with Caramelized Yuca and Smoky Black Beans and Saffron Rice


Dessert
Vanilla Caramel Flan

I'd seen the original recipe on a Food Network special some time ago. It was the usual Food TV fare: Bobby Flay bringing his cocky NY shtick to a beach in Miami and getting (quite rightly) schooled by the Cuban masters of pork. Even he conceded defeat in that episode, and I filed away the featured Cuban chef's brilliant idea of stuffing pork with one of my all-time favorite treats: candied guava shells (casquitos de guayaba).

Blame it on the guava.
Usually purchased canned (look for them in the Goya aisle), the fragrant scent of the fresh fruit at the market made me wonder if perhaps I could give it a go from scratch. I'd never actually handled a fresh guava before, but the process proved fairly simple. I peeled and seeded the fruit, reserving the citrusy peels and fragrant pulp in a bowl. I then quartered the fruit and boiled in a 1:1 sugar syrup for about an hour. I added a bit of Mexican vanilla extract just because.

The fruit softened and collapsed into itself like pairs of very naughty-looking lips. Since I used white guava (you can use white or the more common red), a few drops of red food coloring in the syrup gave them that fiery red glow I loved as a girl. I stored them in a jar, where they bobbed and floated, suspended in the translucent red syrup like pornographic maraschino cherries.

I used the reserved pulp and peel to make a creamy guava flan, which, when topped with two or three of the syrupy shells, gives off a slightly decadent appeal—just perfect for sharing with a hungry lover by the light of the refrigerator door. (More about this tomorrow...)

A Twist on the traditional
In Cuba and Puerto Rico (where my family is from), sour orange juice is often used to marinate pork and other meats. These oranges, also known as Seville Oranges, are like the ugly aunt to the perky fruit bowl navel. A thick, bitter, and bruised peel protects the lip-puckering juices that taste much closer to lemon juice than the stuff you drink with breakfast. This intense acidity makes it an ideal base for marinades and dressings, adding an additional layer of flavor not found in lemon juice alone.

While these oranges are readily available in my Manhattan neighborhood, I opted to recreate their flavor using slightly less traditional ingredients. I settled on a blend of my two winter favorites: blood oranges and Meyer lemons, which I juiced by hand, rolling the room temperature fruit on the counter first to release the juices.

The preparation of this marinade is a full-blown sensory experience. The colors of the citrus juices melded beautifully in the bowl. To this I added a few fresh bay leaves, slightly crushed garlic cloves, and a handful of course salt (I have very small hands, mind you). I poured a couple tablespoons of whole peppercorns into the traditional wooden pilon (mortar) my mother bought me the last time we visited the island, and crushed them by hand with the matching hand-carved pestle. It’s not necessary, of course, and would certainly be much quicker and easier in a food processor, but I’m convinced it makes a difference to get that involved in the process. I find something soothing about the methodic grinds and bursts of fragrance from the peppercorns as the crack and split under the pressure. It’s aromatherapy for the epicurean.

A generous blessing of extra virgin olive oil finishes off this incredibly beautiful marinade, which is then poured and massaged into the flattened and de-boned pork shoulder (I had my butcher remove the bone for me, and then made sure he included it in the package so that I could use to cook the beans.). I scored the fat and tucked the crushed garlic cloves into the little crevices, then covered the whole thing and let marinate for nearly 30 hours.


The finished dish is a thing of beauty. Just before roasting, I drained the excess marinade and layered the inside with the candied guava, dried plums, thick slabs of country bacon, and slices of slow-cooked ham. I rolled this up and tied securely with twine, then rubbed completely with handfuls of soft muscovado sugar. I poured half a bottle of Malta over the entire thing and roasted at 350 degrees. About three hours into the cooking, I poured on the rest of the Malta and surrounded the pork with raw pieces of peeled and split yuca that roasted and caramelized in the flavorful pan drippings. To keep the starchy vegetable from drying out, I finished them off in a pan with a sour orange mojo sauced thinned with chicken broth.



I served the pork sliced over golden saffron rice and surrounded by the caramelized yuca, and accompanied this with a pot of smoky black beans cooked slow and low with the bone from the pork shoulder and a generous amount of smoked Spanish paprika, garlic, and cilantro.

My guests clearly enjoyed the meal, moaning with pleasure as they heaped their plates and then came back for seconds. Everything was served family style in large bowls and platters. I think latin food is best served this way because I like the feeling of comfort it creates: everyone gathered around the table, laughing and leaning over each other, grabbing more of a favorite or taking just a bit of everything. Another wonderful this about this meal is that while it required quite a bit of planning and forethought, nearly all of it is completed ahead of time and only requires the tiniest bit of preparation throughout the dinner. This meant that I was able to sit and enjoy the food and conversation (and copious drinks) right along with everyone else.

The main course was followed by a round of fresh mint mojitos and slices of blood oranges, which served as a refreshing palate cleanser before the creamy vanilla caramel flan was served. The flan disappeared in a matter of moments. No sooner had I served a piece than the plate was passed back to me for seconds. It was sweet and creamy, with rich hints of mexican vanilla contrasted by the slightly bitter caramel.

The entire meal lasted around four hours, after which we piled into cabs and made our way to a nearby lounge for more drinks, including a round of sweet, fiery shots for the birthday girls (that would be Moe and me). It was well past three when we made it back to my apartment, boozy, happy, and singing off-key as we loaded dishes haphazardly into the dishwasher and picked at the leftovers that seemed to taste even better cold. With the kitchen (somewhat) clean, Monica and I finally collapsed into a sleepy, satisfied heap on my bed, where we remained until well past three the next afternoon.

It was, quite possibly, a perfect evening.

I still have to write up all the recipes for the evening, but I will post them soon... (Soon being a relative term, of course.) If you're absolutely *dying* to have one or all of the recipes now, shoot me an e-mail (nanditablogs[at]gmail) and I just might oblige...

I should note that most of the incredible photos in this post were taken by my co-birthday girl Moe, who is many things, but not the least bit mediocre. (And yes, she is available for weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, or even if you just want a cute girl to take killer pictures of your pork.)