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Simply Tuscan by Pino Luongo 2000. 292 pages, 120 + recipes |
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If
you’re one of the three people who didn’t make it to Tuscany this year, Simply
Tuscan would make a pretty good consolation prize. Even if you never take
a look at the recipes, this is a charming bit of armchair travel. Beautifully
art-directed, it’s packed with lush photos of sensuous meals in romantical
Tuscan settings, intimate corners of Tuscan courtyards, and beckoning bends
in cypress-lined Tuscan roads. Interspersed throughout are lovely watercolor
sketches and artful scrapbook collages. (They look like they could be the
work of a romantic young Victorian heroine in a Merchant Ivory film.) The
author, Pino Luongo, is owner of a restaurant and Tuscanesque food emporium
in New York as well as
restaurants in other major U.S. cities. Although he’s lived half his life in
New York, he’s quick to claim
his uncompromised Tuscan character. When Luongo signs his name in the book’s
introduction he writes “New York, in body,/Tuscany, in spirit”. The book is organized by season “because Tuscan life follows nature’s lead”. He puts together menus showcasing bounty of each season. The most appealing tap into those earthy harvests of fall and winter such as the wonderful Arugula Salad with Speck (smoked prosciutto) and Walnuts (and potatoes). I’ll probably pass on the wild boar recipe. And while the menu which features truffles in every dish sounds dreamy, I’ll have to wait until someone gives me a truffle-finding pig and the truffle-laden property to go with it. The
“Simply” in the title could be misleading for those who equate simplicity
with ease and speed. True, the recipes are simple in that they are unadorned
by haute cuisine furbelows and cross-cultural experimentation. But many are
time- and labor-intensive. For example, the Spring Vegetable Lasagna with
Ricotta Ravioli with Osso Bucco Gremolata makes me tired just to read the two
pages of directions. These kind of
intriguing recipes would be perfect when you have time to spare and
consider cooking a leisurely, soul-restoring pastime. Of course, there are
some recipes that are simplein the quick-and-easy sense. Luongo’s mother’
bruschetta al pomodoro is the ultimate in simplicity. It’s made by rubbing a
thick slice of bread with fresh tomato pulp drizzled with a little olive oil
and salt. (In fact, it’s so simple that it is not presented as a recipe, but
a sentence in one of his remembrances.) It has become our bruschetta of
choice around here this summer. Every
now and then when I’m reviewing a cookbook I’ll discover an extraordinary
recipe which I consider worth
the price of the book alone. I found one in Simply Tuscan. It’s called
Pastina with Milk and Eggs. One taste and I felt like I had slipped into the
skin of an Italian version of myself. In my Italian persona I’d maybe live in
the slightly run-down arty section of Milan. Whenever I’d had it with the
stresses and responsibilities of grown-up life I’d goes home to Mamma in
Tuscany. I’d sit at her table
and ask her to make my childhood favorite, Pastina with Eggs and Milk. Of
course, Mamma would comply happily, urge me to have seconds and say I was too
skinny anyway. This is comfort food supreme. I wish I had grown up on
it. Aside
from recipes and wonderful visuals, the book is also something of memoir and
soapbox for Mr. Luongo. He may be a great a cook, but he is not a writer.
Perhaps his musings are supposed to give a warm intimacy to the book and give
us a real picture of what life is like in Tuscany. But he is like the dinner guest
who doesn’t realize his stories are not as interesting as he thinks they are.
And his opinions come across as
pronouncements: basil is “overrated”; white wine shouldn’t be drunk
with dinner; eating outside “leads to meaningful interactions.” Basta
already! Although
Luongo claims to “adore” his adopted city, New York, he frequently points out
the superiority of Tuscan life to city life among “the towers of
indifference”. He writes,
“Sometime I’m going to walk around (Manhattan) calling out to these people:’
When was the last time you took a walk in the park? Have you eaten a great
home-cooked meal this year?’ Me,
I want to call out to Luongo’s publisher, why didn’t you assign a
good, ruthless editor to this book?
Perhaps Luongo is a celebrity chef (if so, it shows how far out of the
food-scene loop I am), and maybe that’s why he was given the freedom to
ramble on. Luongo’s narrative in this otherwise lovely book is like the person who sits down in front of you in the movie theater and blocks your view of the screen. Although you are annoyed, you simply shift your position so he’s not in the way. Then you can sit back and enjoy the show. |
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