Tag Archives: food stories

November 1, 2010 · 2:54 pm

#17: Rice Balls at Faicco’s Pork Store

It’s 8:58 and I’m already late.

Lucky for me, I can be at work in only 2 blocks time. But in my race to arrive on schedule, and as I exit my apartment and pull the door to slam it shut, my flimsy full length mirror slides from its unstable perch and falls to the floor.

Cracked.

I have 200 tiny little pieces and seven years of bad luck to contemplate. As I painstakingly pick up the shattered slivers, I start to wonder about the reality of that old wives tale. Legend leads us to believe that a mirror not only reflects our outfits, but actually steals our soul. And when we New Yorkers run around with no time to spare and crowd our oh-so-tiny abodes leading to living room liabilities– we not only bump into and break our mirrors but we damage our destiny in the dealing. Since our cells and our souls are said to regenerate every 7 years, I may have several seasons of unseemly events to sort through.

Feeling like I could use a little luck, I went in search of a cure to combat my curse. I had hoped for a Ladybug landing or even a penny in my path, but no such luck. And unfortunately, the only wishing well I know is 2 hours east of here on Mill Race Road in my hometown of Hampton Bays. Finally, I found a food that would force my good fortune to return. Ancient Chinese tradition hints at the historical significance of rice as a source of good luck – which is one of the reasons we sprinkle the seed ceremoniously on the bride and groom. To combat my 7 years of instability, I must attempt to harness the healing and restorative recources of rice. But in my Italian neighborhood of Greenwich Village, the only suitable starchy seed to secure is the one found in the rice-centric Sicilian Arancini.

I spent last Thursday making Italian Rice Balls at Faicco’s Pork Store at 260 Bleecker Street. And without that full length mirror to monitor my appearance, the 10 hardworking and honorable hunks at Faicco’s must fill the gap. Indeed, Faicco’s is the only place I know that a self conscious single girl can walk into feeling a little uneasy and alone and, after a few supportive smiles, can walk out feeling like the loveliest lass in the village – and without a mirror in sight.

Internationally known – and for good reason – sandyhechtman.com

With my luck ready to run out and a rainstorm about to arrive, I step into Faicco’s small space and walk safely over the sawdust covered blue and white checkered tile floor. The soft yellow streamers hung from the ceiling serve to brighten this grey day. I’m compelled to step further into Faicco’s by the calling of the clear glass cases featuring house-made sausages in Sweet Italian, Hot Italian and Plain Sweet Italian – although there is nothing plain about the sweet Italian on the other side of the counter.

The streamers change seasonally. The customers stay the same. Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

SWEET, HOT, ITALIAN Sausages – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Sweet Italian from Sorrento – Photo: sandyhechtman.com

At Faicco’s, you’ll never feel like a piece of meat-sandyhechtman.com

I have entered an old time meat market that has been holding its own for over a hundred years. I am the only female in sight and the staff seems eager for my arrival. I have never felt more welcomed. Judging by the line of ladies that forms around lunchtime for Faicco’s famous Italian Special Sandwich, I am not the only one who feels at home here at Faicco’s.

Awaiting my arrival – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Carefully sidestepping the considerate compliments from Faicco’s baby-blue-shirted cast of lovable characters, I immediately go to work– hoping my rice ball creation will revive my fortune. I walk past the display cases filled with Pork Chops and Pinwheel Steaks and skip over the shelves lined with everything from anchovies to artichokes and escape to the secret space in the back of the shop. As I round the corner I get a glimpse of the coveted rice ball propped up like a pyramid behind the old-school-style sign. I only hope my rice ball preparation will yield equally appetizing results, and provide a little luck to spare.

Everything you need is in this tiny shop – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

The pride of Faicco’s – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

In fact, I’m already starting to feel just a little luckier than I did a few hours earlier. I’m about to be schooled by the chief of the shop. In a city of shiny facades and false fronts, and with so many avenues filled with awnings advertising the names of absentee or non-existent owners, here at Faicco’s, there actually is a Faicco – and his name is Eddie. By my side to teach me the tricks of his inherited trade is the ever popular Eddie Faicco – leader of the pack and owner of the shop.

Eddie Faicco – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Coffee and our classroom – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Behind the scenes and below the degrees- Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Watching & learning – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Tricks of the trade-Photo by Sandy Hechtman-sandyhechtman.com

Faicco’s sells nearly 600 rice balls on their busiest day so I’ve got 600 chances at salvation. I have no time to waste. Eddie advises me as we combine our cheese-lovers trifecta of fresh ricotta, chopped mozzarella and grated romano. We mingle the mix together and add a sprinkling of seasoning: salt, pepper and parsley. Next, I suffer through the long process of laboring over 10 pounds of long grain carolina rice. Julio and I keep the flame low and the mixing to a steady speed. If we burn the bottom, our entire pot of rice is ruined and we’re all out of luck. For 15 minutes we steadily stir as each turn of the wooden paddle becomes a struggle to complete. Our only saving grace is the timed 10 minute break while we wait for our rice to thicken. Julio and I return to our mixing madness, combining the cheese trio with our ready rice. Eager to glean some luck from each grain – and while Julio isn’t watching – I sneak a taste as I bring the fantastic formula into the fridge where it will cool and become ripe for rice ball formation.

My lucky rice getting ready – sandyhechtman.com

The magical flavors mingle – sandyhechtman.com

Harder than it looks – sandyhechtman.com

While no one is looking, except for: sandyhechtman.com

Hoping the luck will rub off – sandyhechtman.com

It’s 10 minute resting place – sandyhechtman.com

With Julio on hand for advice, and Eddie always an earshot away, it’s time for Franco and me to mold each ounce into a full tray of 85 perfect portable bites. We drench them in egg wash, shower them with bread crumbs and dip them in the deep fryer. 85 down and 215 to go to complete today’s rice ball requirements. Franco works fast and he works hard. But according to him, he has a debt to repay to the ‘best boss in the world.’ As we round off those rice balls, Franco – with the passion of an Italian – fills me in on how he is forever indebted to Eddie Faicco. When Franco asked Eddie for a job, it became instantly clear that he didn’t need anyone new. But since Eddie has the biggest heart on all of Bleecker Street, he took him on anyway. Maybe these rice balls are lucky after all? Not only does Eddie take on the lost, lonely and unlucky, but he buys us breakfast every morning as well. In these tight quarters in the back basin of Faicco’s, it’s difficult to tell where one worker ends and another begins. They finish each others task and do so with speed and a smile. I’ve rarely seen 10 guys so talented and attentive. But then again, the father of this ‘family’ is worth working hard for.

Julio, finding my inabilities humorous – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Getting the size right with an ice cream scoop – sandyhechtman.com

Almost edible – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Teamwork at Faicco’s: Franco and me – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Not quite perfectly round – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Franco enjoying my still flawed rice balls – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Perfectly round rice balls ready for breading – sandyhechtman.com

Hoping for no shells – sandyhechtman.com

A quick dip in the bread crumbs only adds to the flavor sandyhechtman.com

215 to go for today – Photo by: sandyhechtman.com

Almost complete – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Final fryer phase – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Eddie Faicco’s family arrived in America in 1897 and they opened Faicco’s Pork Store 4 years later. Eddie’s Great Grandfather (Edward) passed the store down to his Grandfather (Joseph) who handed it to his Dad and Uncle (Joseph and Edward) who proudly passed this shop and their Brooklyn store on to Eddie and his two brothers. And if you arrive at Faicco’s on a Saturday afternoon, you might just see the next generation ready to force Eddie into early retirement: daughters Jillian and Gianna are always eager to stock the shelves and serve the sea of customers.

Just like his daughters, Eddie started his work behind the counter at age 7. He began with one simple task: to crack open their Green Sicilian Olives with a wooden mallet. It was an all day affair. He’d place the olives upon a butcher block, which was worn down from repeated use, and crack each one of the 100 pound pail. Olives are often cracked so that they can absorb the curing materials faster resulting in a fuller flavor. After all that cracking, Eddie’s olives were bathed in oil, fresh garlic, chopped parsley and crushed red pepper. And since they’re cracked open, all that goodness can seep inside.

Cracked Olives – Eddie Faicco’s first job in the family business – sandyhechtman.com

I started thinking about my cracked mirror back at home and the poor luck that was predicted. The word cracked reminds us of broken-mirror-bad-luck and of step-on-the-crack-break-your-mother’s-back childhood rhymes. And looking deeper, I discovered the mid-15th century meaning of the word cracked to be defined as Mentally Unsound, Unstable, and Insane. But after one bite of Eddie Faicco’s Cracked Sicilian Olives, I started to think that cracking up and breaking the mold might not be so bad. I may have some shattered shards of glass waiting for me back home and I may not always follow a predictable path free of zig-zag nooks, crannies and cracks in my timeline, but in my mind and for my life, these dents and seams seem to provide the most flavor.

Faicco’s seems to support this very same philosophy. A few cracks and seams in it’s only-timely atmosphere only make for richer rewards. And while their sandwiches and other italian specialties are always top notch, Faicco’s sees no need for a shiny new makeover. This shop is one of the few you’ll find in New York City that is still filled with warm souls not fake smiles, real people not unnecessary artificial attitudes. Here you’ll find a personal touch as evidenced by the handwritten signs hanging everywhere and the absence of many modern technologies and corner cutting techniques. Faicco’s serves as a model for so many newly opened shops attempting to appear old fashioned. But this deli is the real deal. Faicco’s is one of the few in NYC that has achieved an utterly effortless authenticity, absent of any pretension or pomposity.

Equally appealing: The meat and the men at Faicco’s-Photo by: sandyhechtman.com

A little break with one of my Faicco’s favorites – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Hand written with heart – sandyhechtman.com

As I untie my apron strings and step out from the Faicco’s inner sanctum I see the buzz of midday shoppers lining up all around me. After Shaheer advises me on how to slice the meat for Faicco’s famous Italian Special Sandwich, I consult with one of our regulars while she is waiting in line, Tribeca based writer Wickham Boyle. Wicki’s been shopping here since 1972 and today’s she picking up some house-made hot and sweet sopressata for her husband. ‘Meat makes men happy’, she says, and Faicco’s is thrilled to maintain her merry marriage. Wicki is an intriguing character who serves as tornado of optimism and positivity. On her way out she informs me that today – Thursday, April 26th – is the 10th annual Poem in your Pocket Day – a NYC invented, and now National, celebration. Wicki hands me a small card with a poem written on it and she’s gone. In a flash she speeds away on her basket fronted bicycle and it’s almost as if she was never even there. All I’m left with is the card in my hand with a poem that reads:

Ladder

Lord knows you can’t avoid it sometimes,
you need to walk under a ladder —

but what about the bad luck?
Try this, if you have faith:

They say spit on your shoes and let the spit dry
and you are safe to walk on through.

I believe it. Sort of.
Do you?

My new friend, Wicki – Photo by Sandy Hechtman – sandyhechtman.com

Spreading the Poem in Your Pocket message for all – Photo by: sandyhechtman.com

Wicki is an intriguing character and someone worthy of tracking down and talking to some more. She’s grounded yet mysterious and mystical and by some miracle she handed me a Poem in Your Pocket that provided some insight into my recent search for lucky charms and superstition solutions. Maybe all my work with those rice balls has instantly paid off. Maybe my dear Wicki and her pocket poem was sent to foster my faith. I’m starting to feel a little bit lucky to have met Wicki and mostly, to have worked with my Faicco’s friends… but only time will tell what the next seven years have in store.

I suppose the luckiest landing of all is that I currently reside in this fair city and only a few paces from Faicco’s front door. As my friend Mayor Bloomberg put it best, 50.5 can’t be wrong. Be sure to pop over to Faicco’s at 260 Bleecker Street in NYC and say hello to Eddie and the gang. You’ll be instantly transported back in time and with one bite of NYC’s tastiest rice-centered treat – you’ll start to feel a little bit lucky yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

50.5 Million Can’t Be Wrong

By Mike Bloomberg – For Poem In Your Pocket Day

Hey there, fella! Lady, hey!
Didja hear? It’s “Poem in Your Pocket Day!”
Tenth anniversary—the bubbly’s flowing
People are cheering… yelling… Tebowing

Where best to celebrate this whole affair?
The Crossroads of the World—Times Square
Historic site of many a saga
And on New Year’s Eve… one Gaga

From across the globe, they visit here
50.5 million last year
Wanting to see all they’ve anticipated
Just follow directions—it’s not complicated

Bronx Zoo? (Take the 5 or the 2)
Rockefeller Center? (Walk 6 blocks, then enter)
Empire State? (Bus to Fifth, then go straight)
Ferry to Staten? (At the tip of Manhattan)
Unisphere in Queens? (Get there via several means)
NY Aquarium? (Too far for kids to walk. Just carry ’em)
“Mamma Mia”? (Right behind you. See ya.)

So on this big birthday of PIYP
Have a fantastic day in NYC
Take in the town—there is so much here to do!
(Just have a Poem in Your Pocket when you do)

The well known & much loved Faicco’s Italian Special Sandwich/sandyhechtman.com

~Rice balls and story brought to you… lovingly… by Amy Bandolik.

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Tagged as Amy Bandolik, arancini new york, bad luck, bleecker street, broken mirror, brooklyn, eddie faicco, faicco's, faicco's pork store, family rituals, food, food stories, Food Tour, Love lessons, Love story, luck, lucky rice, New York Food, NYC Food Blog, rice balls

March 10, 2010 · 11:59 pm

#10/52: French Culinary Institute

I am a terrible cook.

This news came as quite a surprise. With nine Delicious Thursdays under my belt, I was confident I could create a few of my own culinary concoctions.

Not so.

After hibernating in my apartment for the stormiest part of the winter season and after several weeks of working in my very own tiny test kitchen, I realized I had not absorbed as much as I thought. In some sort of skewed and twisted logic I imagined my cooking skills would improve by osmosis. I had hoped that the closer I stood to the chef and the more time I spent near their stovetops, the better I would become.

Wrong again.

Yes, it’s true. I am here to report to you the disheartening news: After nine weeks of deliciousness my only results were a series of small meals that ranged from tough steak to rubbery scallops. Even my chocolate caramel tart came our lopsided – which is actually not my fault because my kitchen counter is lopsided. In fact – my whole apt is on a very obvious angle of about 15 degrees. Sloping floors: One of the only drawbacks of Greenwich Village living.

Excuses won’t save me now. And so, with my latest kitchen failure – a pair dried out pork chops – I decided to send myself back to school.

I spent last Thursday – stripped of my chefs coat and hat – at the French Culinary Institute where I trailed a Chef/Instructor in the hopes that I could learn a few lofty lessons before battling my broiler again.

The restaurant of the FCI, 3-course lunch just $28 - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I arrive at 9:30 to meet the charming Chef X. X stands for Xavier and Xavier Mayonove is his full name but if I have learned one thing today, it is that in the kitchen the Chef is King and he must be addressed accordingly. All the students refer to Xavier simply as “Chef.” As silly as it might sound coming out of my mouth, I will be a good student today and do the same. Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef. Why are my scallops so rubbery, Chef? I was beginning to get the hang of the lingo.

The word ‘chef’ literally translates to Chief or Head of the Kitchen and Chef X certainly embodies that spirit. He has a charming sense of humor. He is warm and welcoming. And while there is no question that Chef X is in command of his kitchen with his encyclopedic knowledge and his substantial skills, he is not intimidating in any way. At least not to me.

Brilliant AND charming, Chef Xavier Mayonove - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A few hands-on lessons from Chef X - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

If Chef X wasn’t intimidating, the student kitchen in Room 402 of the French Culinary Institute certainly was. Twenty-four stainless steel stations complete with metal bowls, measuring cups and meat thermometers, and fully stocked with a series of saucepans and stockpots. I wouldn’t even know where to start or which pan to pick. The room is steeped in formality as students in starched white coats and proper chefs hats go buzzing about. This is serious business and the look on the faces of the FCI students says it all. They don’t make much conversation – they are more concerned about correctly chopping their carrots. I have seldom seen such dedication.

A little intimidating for any non-chef like me - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

You can almost feel the tension - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A little private tutoring for me - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I am overwhelmed with the students and their sense of devotion to the task at hand – however simple it might seem. Every slice of the knife, every massage of the meat is open to evaluation. In this room – technique is everything. It feels more like an operating room and these students look as though they are about to perform open heart surgery. This is no kitchen for an amateur like me. Do I dare possess the discipline to tackle the toughest tasks? Can I take the heat? At 35 years old (well, 36 in 1 week) am I too old to learn some new skills? Do I stand a chance at improvement? And will Chef X help?

Mark Twain published The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn when he was 49.

Grandma Moses began painting at 76

And Julia Child didn’t start cooking until age 32. Her first book was published when she was 49. Her television debut came a few years later when she was in her early 50s.

Maybe there is hope after all. And maybe Chef X is the man to show me the way.

The topic of today’s class: Organ meats. And I’m glad because I have been having a meat issue lately – even my chicken turned out tasteless. First up: sweetbreads.

Tough class to tackle - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Sweetbreads, I learn after a few minutes of Chef’s Powerpoint presentation on the subject, are the thymus gland of the animal – in our case we are using veal sweetbreads. Couldn’t I have picked an easier topic to tackle?

A little lesson - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Chef X explains the joys of sweetbreads - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Like a herd of cattle following our cowboy leader, we all gather closely around Chef X to observe his hands-on cooking lesson. He is a master in the kitchen. Four burners going at one time is nothing fancy for him, but I am impressed. I had difficulty managing just two. With ease Chef caramelizes his onions, sautes his sweetbreads, cooks his carrots and melts his marrow bone. Nothing burns or boils over. His turnips turn out right and his green peas and pearl onions are perfection. What’s his trick I wonder? And how could I become even and ounce closer to his level?

The master at work - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Taking diligent notes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

In the corner of the kitchen my eye catches an unusual site: A tool box befitting of any handyman is propped up next to a stack of pots and pans on the silver side table. Is this just a box leftover by the refrigerator repairman or it is some clue to Chef’s kitchen success? I had to know. After Chef X leaves the front part of the kitchen to make his rounds, I quietly pry open the curious red and black toolbox to see what’s inside. To my amazement, the box contains tools but not of the refrigerator repair variety. Instead of a hammer and nails, I discovered layers and levels of wooden spoons and chopsticks, metal cleavers and knives – I even found a small food scale and a meat thermometer hiding under the second shelf. Is this Chef X’s secret weapon?

The Chefs tool kit. Don't forget your chopsticks - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I wondered about my own toolkit back home – or my lack thereof. Maybe that was the reason my meats turned out mediocre. My kitchen counter measures 2 square feet – and most of the space is taken up with an attractive wooden cutting board and a set of color coordinated napkins. My knives are not sharp and my pots and pans are hand-me-downs. Important lesson of the day: buy better equipment.

Chef takes a liking to me and as we continue simmering our sweetbread sauce we get to talking. Chef X was born in the countryside of southwestern France. His love of cooking began during his early childhood. I wonder if this puts me at a disadvantage right from the start. Not only am I not French, but I only started cooking in a semi-serious fashion in the last few months. If Chef X began cooking in his teens, then I am lagging behind by nearly 20 years. But Chef calms me down and insists that with the right tools, and the right ingredients (which for French chefs are simply butter, butter and more butter) I will make progress. But the missing ingredient, I already know, is discipline. These students surely have it. But do I?

And he's funny too! - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

But food is serious business - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Notice the flame - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A closer look - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I have completed nine weeks of self-created cooking classes. My technique has been tutored but my skills have not truly been sized up. In nine weeks time, I have created a series of malformed mozzarella balls and a few misshapen pizza pies. I have burned my hand and arm and burdened my back, neck and feet. But those were baby steps compared to the caliber in this kitchen.

In this kitchen every move matters. From the cleanliness of my collar to the cut of my carrot – every action affects my success. To be considered a great chef – and not just a common cook – my knives must be sharp and my cuts must be clean. Every aspect is to be evaluated. This is not your mom and pops kitchen.

Perfect cutting technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And more technique - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And again, getting the technique just right - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Tedious tasks - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Not as easy as it looks - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Chef X making some suggestions - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The temperature in our kitchen classroom is rising. I notice large beads of sweat beginning to form on the foreheads of the Level II students. They are about the perform their final task of the morning. Each student is required to plate their prepared dish and present it to Chef X and I in the front of the room. Scrupulous attention is paid to presentation, taste and timing – in equal amounts. A sea of classmates all watching and awaiting approval. The tension is high.

One by one the chefs-in-training march to the front of the room – their hopes and dreams artfully displayed on clean white plates ripe for the judging. Chef X pokes and prods the turnips with the tip of his fork. Without even a taste he can distinguish the over-cooked from the under. A few tastes of the thymus. A few sips of the sauce. And within seconds Chef X offers his critique: Overcooked. Under-breaded. Not enough salt. Out of the 12 plates passed up for inspection – only two pass the test. Tough odds.

Evaluation time - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

What will the verdict be? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Did we pass the test? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

The face of hope and fear - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Offering some advice - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Some cause for concern - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

One final taste - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

When we order up at our local pub or sit down to dine over five-star fare – we take for granted the complexity involved in perfecting the plate. The main course and its sides must be tasty, timed to a T and presented with style. I’m lucky if I can even get my omelette to flip in the air without half of it falling flat on the stovetop. I can’t imagine I would be able to juggle more than one burner at a time.

I’m glad I am safely behind the counter with Chef X and not parading my own measly meals in front of him. What would he think of me then? I don’t suspect I possess thick enough skin to withstand the criticism nor the discipline to vastly improve my skills. Not yet, anyway.

The students of the French Culinary Institute are put to the test in a manner well beyond what you and I ever experience. Their talents, their creativity and their resourcefulness are all on the line. My only judge is me – and the few friends and family who have tasted my treats in the safety of my home. I leave here today with a newfound respect for anyone who has the guts to get behind a burner and to present their creations to the community around them.

I left the French Culinary Institute and walked 15 blocks uptown towards my apartment on an unusually warm winter day. The air smelled as though spring was in sight and I was feeling optimistic. I stopped in to Ottomanelli Prime Meats on Bleecker Street and bought a radiant Rib Eye. I was ready for round two: The Chef vs. The Steak.

I am now the proud owner of a brand new HDTV complete with cable – my first TV in almost two years. I have 200 channels but so far, I only use one. The Food Network serves as the musical backdrop for my culinary adventures. Now at home, I flip on the TV and consider it reinforcement for my morning lesson at the FCI.

I studied my notes from my conversations with Chef X and found a few tips and tricks I could safely follow: I used my best pan, paid careful attention to my technique and used Chef’s three favorite ingredients: butter, butter and more butter. I used sea salt instead of table. Fresh ground pepper instead of pre-ground. Olive oil instead of canola. On the stovetop I seared both sides of the rib eye to seal in the juices and popped the pan in the broiler. Only a short while later I found myself eating the best steak I have ever consumed: Juicy, flavorful and cooked to perfection. I’m on my way. And while I’m not quite deserving of the title Chef, but you can certainly call me a cook.

-Amy Bandolik

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Tagged as Amy Bandolik, chef in training, Cooking School, Cooking school NYC, FCI, food, food stories, Food Tour, French Culinary Institute, HDTV, Love stories, mozzarella making, NYC Food Blog, Ottomanelli's, Romance, rubbery scallops, what is cooking school like?, Xavier Mayonove

February 5, 2010 · 10:30 pm

#9/52: Bellavitae

I don’t like alot of things.

I’m not into sports (playing, watching or even the Superbowl), I don’t get swept away by island vacations, and after seeing the wonder that is the Taj Mahal I was, sadly, not moved. I have often felt that the things I was supposed to enjoy – the things that other people seemed so excited by – just didn’t click for me.

I can count, on one hand, the rare few things (aside from the obvious friends and family) that never do me wrong and always make my heart beat a little faster. Here is my list:

1. NYC – anytime, all the time.

2. Farmers Markets, Specialty Food Shops, Street Food Vendors & Roadside Farm Stands.

3. Knowing my neighbors by name.

4. The painting Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth.

5. Google-ing and finding answers to random questions at 3AM.

These five never fail me.

But, from the moment I walked into Bellavitae Restaurant one year ago, I found myself not wanting to leave. Something clicked. Something felt right. A possible #6 on my list? I wasn’t able to put my finger on it just then, but I knew I was on to something big.

Front entrance of Bellavitae on Minetta Lane - this shot and the interior also featured on Saturday Night Live (Season 34, Episode 8) - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Over the next year I recall telling the owner, Jon Mudder, how much I adored his place in the hopes that maybe he would grant me a permanent reservation at stool #5 around the Chefs Bar. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to work there or eat there or maybe I could simply move in to the cozy corner near the brick oven and take up residence. Are there still laws in support of squatters rights in NYC?

The charming Jon Mudder. Who wouldn't want to hang around Bellavitae? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman

I wondered and brainstormed about what it was that made Bellavitae so appealing. And then it dawned on me. Bellavitae is everything I am looking for in a partner. If I were going to describe my perfect mate it would most closely resemble my first impression of Bellavitae:

SWF seeks SWM who is: Charming yet unpretentious, simple yet elegant, rustic yet refined, sexy yet sophisticated, intimate without being too intense. Must like being surrounded by family and friends. Must reside in the NYC but enjoy weekend visits to farms and wineries to scout out and bring back the finest food and drink. Should enjoy a day of food shopping for the best ingredients and then cooking dinner for friends. Your door is always open and you are inviting of new friends and adventures. Above all, you are warm… much like a brick oven.

A preview of the brick oven at Bellavitae - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

After spending last Thursday evening at Bellavitae, I realized the importance of being with the right people and in the right space. I also learned that those right people, places and spaces thankfully do exist. The search is over.

I arrive at 4pm to Bellavitae at 24 Minetta Lane – the quiet and hidden oasis just steps from crowds on both sides: the taxi-cab filled Sixth Avenue at one end and the pedestrian playground of MacDougal Street on the other. As the winter sun begins to set and the chilly air chases me around the corner, I stand, for a moment, in awe of this small and shadowy street. I am only a stones throw from the West 4th subway station but suddenly I feel like I am a world away from the chaos of a typical Thursday night in Greenwich Village. This is a good thing.

Aged balsamics & wines at Bellavitae's entrance - Photo by Sandy Hechtman-sandyhechtman.com

I enter the restaurant through the wooden doors and walk past the barrels of aged balsamic vinegar and bottles of wine from family owned vineyards. The click-clack of my boot heels against the large wooden plank floorboards in the ample and open space reminds me more of a rustic farm-house than a downtown restaurant. I slide my gloved hand along the sleek and smooth Tuscan marble bar and I greet Jon, Bellavitae’s owner, at the other end. Luring me into the back, along with Jon’s obvious charm, are the Venetian style lamps – handmade with silk and hand painted with gold – dotted throughout the interior. This is the kind of place you’d find (and I did find) in the hills surrounding Bologna, not just off Sixth Avenue. But sometimes… we New Yorkers… we get lucky enough to have it all. Country comforts in an urban setting.

You will feel 'at home' at Bellavitae. The space reminds me of a farmhouse I visited in Umbria - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

At Family Meal Jon introduces me to the staff, sets the stage for the evening and offers a casual quiz on some Italian food vocabulary. (Q: Parma is? A: A city in the Emilia-Romagna region. Q: The pasta which translates into ‘little ears’ is? A: Orecchiette.) After a few bites of pasta – only a preview of the food fantasy we are about to create – and with our Italian adjectives in tow we scatter to our stations. My assignment for the evening is to work behind the Chefs Bar with the lovely Liza – the two of us will be on display all night in true open kitchen style. Any mistakes or missteps will be easily identified.

Amy & Liza preparing for the evening at the Chef's Bar - the best seat(s) in the house - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

At 6pm the double doors fling open, the diners are greeted, the coats are checked and the first party is seated. The waitress sends us a wink and within minutes the first order of the night pops up at our station. The sound of the ticket printing is like a morse code or a magical tune with a meaning that only we know. The dishes on the ticket are written in Italian and, for once, I am thankful for my month-long intensive Italian language lessons at Scuola Italiaidea near the Spanish Steps in Rome.

Jon Mudder is warm and welcoming. Here we are studying the first food ticket of the night - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A tinge of fear flies through me as I read the order. It’s time for Gnocco Fritto: Fried pillows of puffy dough pockets served with hand sliced aged Prosciutto di Parma Grand Reserve. Some things in life taste better when you work hard to get them. This is one of those occasions.

Liza guides my hands on the Berkel imported hand slicer – which a work of art in its own right. I need both arms to garner enough strength to pull this off. It feels as if I have the weight of the whole animal to slice through. I’m getting stuck at the top and can’t even finish one rotation successfully. Little bits of Prosciutto are being shaved off – certainly not pieces worthy of plating at Bellavitae. Eventually, I complete one fluid motion after another and begin to churn out tender slices of our 6-month dry aged Prosciutto. Around and around the wheel goes as tender, delicate slices of velvety rich meat flow free.

Do I have the strength to slice through that? - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Getting stuck on the Prosciutto - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Finally getting the hang of it - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I gently swirl the slices – eight in all – around the edges of a small white place and step over to the fry station to quickly deep fry and plate the crisp doughy bread pockets. In a flash the pockets rise to the surface and the dough is done. At the table, our diners tear open those bread pockets and fill them with the newly sliced Prosciutto. A better sandwich has not been born.

Prosciutto Plate Art - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

This is where the word FRITTO comes in - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Presentation matters: Marc Levinson & Amy Bandolik arranging the Gnocco Fritto on the plate with the Prosciutto - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

And off she goes - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Moments later, some friendly faces prop themselves up to the Chefs Bar. Watching their meal be prepared makes it all the more meaningful – for us and for them. Appetizers of Arancine, Polpettine and Mozzarella di Bufala fly from the kitchen. The couple at the bar chooses the Il Polletto – the de-boned young Chicken with Italian Herbs roasted in the Brick Oven with Fennel and La Costoletta di Maiale al Forno – the Pork Chop (also) roasted in the Brick Oven with caramelized Onions.

La Costoletta di Maiale al Forno. My photographer was hungry so I made one for him! - Photo and full belly by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

However enticing these dishes may sound and however tasty to the tongue, (and they are. I ate both later that night.) these menu choices represent a conundrum for me. It means that I will be, once again, lunging into a 600 degree brick oven. I can only hope my arm hair will stay intact.

Liza coaches me through the rules of the game as a gear up to tackle the oven. Jon stands by my side to quietly root me on.

Moral support from Liza - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I pour a drizzle of olive oil on two silver sizzle plates and slide the plates deep into the hottest part of the oven. My hand instantly turns red and remains that way the rest of the night and into the morning. I prepare the meat (one pork chop and one baby chicken) and place them on to the metal plates – being sure to coat the sides and all the edges with the sizzling hot oil. Sparks are flying (and not of the romantic variety) and hot oil is splattering everywhere. Liza seems cool and unaffected while I am ducking for cover and shielding my chef’s coat from going ablaze.

Making sure the edges of the pork chop are dipped in the sizzling olive oil - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Clearly, I am afraid of the oven - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Into the oven they go – but this time I beg Liza to do it for me so my hands can cool down. Moments later I dive into the oven again to turn the meat and add some fennel to the chicken and caramelized onions to the pork chop. A few quick minutes and the dishes are done and I am out of harms way – at least for tonight!

Plating it - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Careful not to forget the juiciest bits - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

Cavemen were on to something. So is Bellavitae - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

A job well done (Liza helped) - Photo by Sandy Hechtman - sandyhechtman.com

I am convinced I was a cave-woman in a past life because I seem strangely drawn to fire. But I am not alone in acknowledging its effects. With the warmth of our food-filled-fireplace burning in the background, those strangers at the chef’s bar became friends and their quiet conversation turned to laughter. They linger a few hours in the glow of the tapering flames and as the clock nears 11pm they leave the restaurant having completed the quintessential New York night – a perfect 2-hour dinner. Amazing what some flames and some Finocchio al Forno will do.

Even at home, in my new apartment, I don’t feel as if the night is complete without the fireplace raging in the background. With no TV, the fireplace seems to serve as my visual entertainment. I am however no expert in the field of fire-starting. And I do recall my first fire being a bust as I tried unsuccessfully to light a few logs absent of any kindling. Thankfully, Bellavitae has a better handle on this task.

Later that week as my fire was slowly dying out, my night was just getting going. My new neighbor Tim knocked on my door to celebrate the fact that we are the two newest tenants in the building. We both moved in within weeks of each other in January. I suppose that is cause for celebration, no? After scouting a few local places we ended up at a little spot around the corner on Jones Street. Our tapas style meal was met with all the obvious introductions and all the common get-to-know-you games. Tim is pleasant, bright and a true gentleman. A perfect neighbor to have. He’s also a bit rustic and kinda charming. Reminds me a little bit of Bellavitae.

My (fire)place on Cornelia - Photo by Amy Bandolik

If you’d like to meet my neighbor, Tim, you can find him on Cornelia Street. If you are looking for a great Italian meal near a romantic brick oven fireplace, you must go to Bellavitae (http://www.bellavitae.com/) since Tim’s kitchen is currently under construction. And if you want to taste Bellavitae’s Ricotta Cheesecake, you can also find it here on the Foods of New York Central Village Food Tasting Tour: http://www.foodsofny.com/village-soho.php