Virtual Gourmet

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THIS WEEK
MESSINA IS A SHOWCASE FOR THE
BAROQUE AND GREAT SICILIAN CUISINE
By John Mariani

NEW YORK CORNER
QUATORZE
By John Mariani

THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By John Mariani

NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR
SOME FINE SPARKLING WINES FOR MOTHER'S DAY
By John Mariani

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MESSINA IS A SHOWCASE FOR GREAT
BAROQUE ARCHITECTURE AND SICILIAN CUISINE.
By John Mariani

      Were you to swim the strait between the toe of Italy and the horn of Sicily you would come out of the water at Messina, which you could see from far off as it rises upward from the beaches, with cobbled streets wriggling towards its 12th century cathedral (above). And from those hilly heights you can just about make out the Calabrian coast across the strait.
         Messina was founded by the Greeks in the 8th century BC and was a stop-over for Richard the Lionhearted on his Crusade to the East. Director Michelangelo Antonioni shot scenes for his L’Avventurra here, Bocaccio set a day in his Decameron here, Friedrich Schiller write The Birds of Messina, and Nietzsche Idylls of Messina; and singer Domenico Modugno had a hit song about Messina’s swordfish.
     The city has always been rich in legends of the sea, like that of Colapesce, about a strong young fisherman who holds up one of the columns that supports Sicily, and stories of mermaids and sea gods abound.
         Architecturally, Messina is extraordinary. Once the capital of the island, it drew the best architects and artists of the 16th and 17th centuries to create the Sicilian baroque. Set within the cathedral’s bell tower is the marvelous Astronomical Clock, built in 1933 and the world’s largest, overlooking the splendid piazza, where you can sit and have a Messina specialty, mezza con panna, a coffee granita with a dollop of whipped cream.
         There are two easy hop-on-hop-off bus lines (€20 for both) that begin just north of the harbor. The blue line is better, weaving throughout the city’s principal sights, while the red line runs along the coast with little of real interest to see. While aboard you will have to endure 45 minutes of non-stop tarantella music, I’m afraid.
         Messina has a seafood-based cuisine, and restaurants pride themselves on the freshness and seasonality of their food. One of my favorites spots is the ten-table A Cucchiara (Strada San Giaocomo 19; right), secluded within the 18th century Calapaj D'Alcontres palace, right next to the cathedral. The owner’s name is Peppe, and he changes his menu every three days, even including vegan and gluten-free dishes and offers a weekday business lunch.
         The arched windows and walls are made of stone, and bare tables of wood, with Edison bulbs above you. A young chef works behind a glass panel in the kitchen. The handwritten daily menu arrives with a basket of delicious bread. The wine list is very rich in the best Sicilian labels.
      When my wife and I visited, the menu offered a little tart of pumpkin and ricotta in a moat of salsa verde with crisp onions (€14 euros) as a starter. Then we shared a sumptuous plate of freshly made fettuccine with fresh funghi porcini (€19), and an array of rigatoni with red shrimp and cream (€19). The fish of the day was a grilled amberjack (€27) with spiraled moist flesh and vegetable shards.
      There is an €80 four-course tasting menu, with wine, available as well à la carte.

      Casa & Putia (Via San Camillo 14) was opened by four friends, who collectively feature not only Sicilian dishes but those of the Greeks, Normans and North Africans who at various times occupied the city.
      They are passionately devoted to the best, most sustainable ingredients in making dishes like seppie (cuttlefish) made with Sicilian wheat busiate pasta, cavolo nero (black cabbage) with candied Interdonato lemon zest and sweet confit tomato (€19); Paccheri pasta came with artichokes coated with caciocavallo ragusano cheese (€16), and plump rolls of baccalà cod were stuffed with breadcrumbs, chopped Salina capers, olives, celery and Pachino cherry tomatoes (€18). Highly unusual was Terra & Mare (€18)—surf & turf Italian-style—composed of Nebrodi black pig chuck, black bee honey, crunchy octopus, broad bean cream, sheep’s ricotta and a dusting of wild fennel (left).
         For dessert, the specialty ice cream is Una sera da “Amerigo” (€8), a luxurious gelato with dark chocolate flakes and Marsala Superiore Oro by Marco de Bartoli.
      Otherwise, just around the corner is Pasticceria Irrera (Piazza Cairoli 12), where you’ll find the best cannoli, tri-color cassata and torta Letitzia, to be enjoyed with a sweet dessert wine like Ambar Florio.

      Ristorante Piero (via Ghibellina 19) is very proudly Sicilian and very much tied to the sea for its bounty. It’s a handsome ristorante with pleasant lighting, marine artwork, flowers on every table and walls of wine.
      The menu is long and substantial, beginning with antipasti like fish tartare (€14), crudi (€22), mussels gratin (€10), and a vegetable and shrimp tempura (€15). There are sixteen pastas, including trenette with Mediterranean lobster (€60 for two people); spaghetti “old women” style, with vongole clams (€15), and five risottos, including one with shrimp, zucchini and almonds (€15).
      Main courses number more than 20, from simply prepared scampi to filets of the day’s catch, including the swordfish for which northern Sicily is known (€18). There are a dozen Sicilian desserts, and a good list of grappas.
    The outdoor tables under big white umbrellas go fast in warm weather.
    Clearly the people of Messina like to eat well and at remarkably modest prices for seafood. You will, too, and you do so in quiet ristorantes and trattorias where you don’t have to listen to tarantellas in the background.

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NEW YORK CORNER

QUATORZE

1578 First Avenue

212-535-1414

By John Mariani

       Before Café Chelsea and Le Rock, before Frenchette and Balthazar, there was Quatorze. Back in 1984 Mark Di Giulio and Peter Meltzer opened this beloved Upper East Side bistro to serve what they called “cooking in primary colors.”
     Quatorze was not the first Parisian-style bistro to open in the city, having been preceded by old Theater District standbys like Chez Josephine, Mont d’Or, Biarritz and Du Midi. But, after a few years on 14th Street in the Village (“quatorze” means fourteen, but the name was adopted after Louis XIV), the restaurant moved uptown to East 79th Street as Quatorze Bis. That location’s building was razed, so, like Hemingway’s famous description of Paris as a “moveable feast,” Quatorze moved again, basically three blocks away, with a new partner, former general manager Alex McNiece.
      So, Quatorze found its niche with a regular clientele that has kept it busy for forty years now. The deep red façade remains the same, and the interior evokes everything people love about French bistros—the splendid posters, cherry red banquettes, white double linens, flowers, and wooden floors, as well as an evergreen menu, appended each night with about a dozen blackboard specials. My quandary was choosing my old favorites or going for the specials. Largely, I opted for the latter, all within sacrosanct bistro traditions.
    You are received as a welcome guest—new or old—the bartender is a true pro and waiters are amiable and brisk, though they may slack off after nine o’clock.
      The clientele, according to my Upper East Side friend who brunches here several times a month, is very much local, the women well coiffed, the men in blazers or crew neck sweaters. The crowd seems to enjoy a jovial atmosphere that can get a bit loud, but the jazz music in the background stays there.
      So, what to order? In the past I’ve always loved the juicy seafood sausage, the sweet onion tart and the sole meunière, but there were interesting specials I wanted to try, sure that my readers would readily encounter them on other nights.
      And so we dug in with good bread and butter, sipped our Pomerol, and ordered a silky, smooth-textured pâté de foie gras with a sweet chutney and toasted bread ($25), and a delightful light starter of tender rock shrimp within feuilleté pastry ($26). Piping hot onion soup gratinée ($18) was very good, its stock strong, its caramelized onions sweet, though the Gruyère on top might have been better browned. More Gruyère was involved with an old-time favorite here in a tart with soft, buttery leeks and bacon ($17.50), well worth sharing. Other options include seafood sausage ($18.50) and sautéed chicken liver
      What could be more of a bistro dish than coq au vin, often made in a thin white wine sauce, but here in a sumptuously reduced, wine-dark sauce that gave the flesh of the chicken tremendous flavor ($42) in a portion big enough for two? Equally generous was a classic boeuf bourguignonne ($42), bathed in a mahogany gloss from an impeccable reduction whose steamy aroma was a mix of tomato, sweet onions and beef fat, accompanied by buttered noodles. Just as hearty was a big slab of calf’s liver, cooked pink, with a delicate shallot sauce ($37) and perfect French fries.
      I think I may have gotten the last of the season’s cassoulet on special ($55), which served three of us, and I took some home for the next day. The three fat Alsatian wursts were crisp skinned, the tangy sauerkraut a fine foil, but, oddly enough, a nice slab of pork wasn’t at all warm on the plate.
      For dessert there is, of course, old-fashioned chocolate mousse with hazelnuts ($17); rich crème caramel ($14); poire Belle Hélène ($19) and irresistible ice cream-filled profiteroles of puff pastry lavished with dark chocolate sauce ($19). A hot apple tart ($18) was lukewarm and not at all crisp or well caramelized.
      Quatorze’s wine list is not long but quite appropriate for a bistro, with 50 references, 13 wines by the glass ($16-$25), two half-bottles ($78-$92) but few red bottles under $100.
      As Prices have risen at Quatorze—the choucroute used to be $32, now it’s $55—but, as noted, you could share tonight’s meal and make tomorrow’s from what you bring home.
As the saying goes, plus ça change, le plus de mȇme choses, and nothing (but the prices) changes at Quatorze, making it as much a haven as an evening of great bonhomie. Once through the door, you’ll feel that all will go well for the rest of the night.

Open for dinner nightly and for brunch Thurs.-Sun.

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THE MAGDALENE LAUNDRIES
By John Mariani

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      There were once scores of Irish pubs in the Bronx, places with names like The Quiet Man in Bedford Park, The Rising of the Moon in Norwood and The Golden Harp in Throgs Neck. In most of them there was a jar on the bar labeled “FOR THE IRA,” filled with donations by locals that included cops who supported the revolutionary Irish Republican Army against the British.
         Despite that militia’s reputation for violence and assassination, most of the Irish cops felt an alliance with the IRA as close as they did to the Catholic Church, and they would no sooner betray either than they would their brothers on the police force. David figured some of those he still knew might have information as to how to work with the Dublin police.

He arranged to meet with four ex-cops, two of whom had actually infiltrated the Westies in the 1980s, when many of the mob’s members had only recently come over from Ireland. It was at a pub named Róisín Dubh, in the Castle Hill section of the Bronx, an old hang-out that looked pretty much like every other of its vintage. The room was hung with both American and Irish flags, there were photos of James Joyce and Brendan Behan on the wall, a signed book jacket of The Ginger Man by J.P.Donleavey, who grew up nearby in Woodlawn, a color movie glossy of Maureen O’Hara, a jukebox with songs by the Clancy Brothers, The Dubliners, the Coors and The Chieftains, with at least two versions of “Danny Boy,” the IRA jar, and the TV above the bar was always turned to a soccer channel. Copies of The Irish Echo newspaper hung on brass rods against the wall. The draft spigots dripped Guinness, Harp, Smithwick’s and Kilkenny.
         David had gotten used to walking into such pubs and being greeted as “our wop friend” or “the greaser among us,” and he’d fire back an insult about how hanging out at a “mick bar” always made him feel like the smartest guy in the room. Then someone would always buy him the first drink.
         It took two rounds at Róisín Dubh before David, looking around the room and sounding falsely sinister, said, “I’m here on a mission,” to which the reactions were slightly off-color jokes about his relationship with that young Italian girl Katie Cavuto. David let them pass.
         “Actually, it does involve Katie and me,” he said. “And Ireland.”

         That piqued his friends’ interest, and David began to tell them about their new project—he wouldn’t call it “a case” —and he asked if anyone had heard about the murder of two Sisters of Charity in Dublin that week. Only one had, Billy Connolly, who said, “I just read about that today in the Echo. Pretty grisly stuff. What’s that got to do with you?”
         David bought the next round and told them how Katie and he had started looking into the widespread instances of pedophile priests and what he’d learned about such crimes in the New York precincts from Maria Colón.
         “Whaddaya want to look into that filth for, David?” asked one of the men, who David remembered was an avid member of the Knights of Columbus. “The Church always takes care of those bastards. Ships them out. Sends them to shrinks.”
         David figured he’d meet skepticism like that, so he said the abuse was something Katie was outraged by and wanted to expose but that his main interest was in the Dublin double murders, which just so happened to be connected with sisters who had worked at the Magdalene Laundries.
         Only one of his four friends knew what the Magdalene Laundries were, and he said he’d only heard about them from the Joni Mitchell song on The Chieftains album. “It’s not a song they’d have on the jukebox here.”
         David went into further explanation until Jack Keaton, who was one of the ex-cops who had infiltrated the Westies, said, “Well, if you’re going to investigate this thing, David, you’re going to need some help on the other side.”
         “That’s just what I’d hope you’d say, Jack. Where do I start?”

    “In the first place,” said Keaton, “the Dublin and national police in Ireland are always walking a tightrope because of the ever-changing politics over there. There are still so many splinter groups within the IRA operating in the South and so much sympathy for the Northern cause that they’re not always as helpful as you might think, even when it came to the Westies. The police are called the Gardaí for short, and there’s always been a lot of corruption and charges of collusion with the IRA. And, when it comes to the Catholic Church, they’re no better than the Irish cops in NYPD. There were widespread reports in ’87 of abuse cases covered up by the police, who advised the diocese to take out insurance against such cases being brought. I doubt much has changed.”
         “Not exactly promising news,” said David.
         “Not all bad. I worked with some good Dublin cops who helped us nail some of the Westies, and we helped them with the influx of drug traffic. Some of that was started by the IRA to make money, even working with some from the British mobs, for the same reason. But one guy I worked with was as honest as they come. Never gave in to political pressure or Church sentiment. Name was Max Finger.”
         David and the rest all looked at Keaton as if he’d uttered something outrageous.
         “Max Finger doesn’t sound much like an Irish name,” said Billy Connolly. “Sounds like a Jewboy.”
         “He is,” said Keaton, “one of a very few. I guess they let him in to get some ‘diversity’ on the force. Anyway, Max was first-rate, a damn good detective, never let up. Never took a dime from anyone. And because he’s not Irish, he doesn’t give a fuck about the IRA or the Catholic Church. If two people were murdered, nuns or not, he’d want to be on that case like a bulldog.”
         “And he’s still on the Dublin Police Force?” asked David.
         “Far as I know. I still have his number.”
         Keaton took a well worn notebook out of his jacket pocket and paged through it. Finding Finger’s number, he wrote it down for David.
         “Tell Finger his New York friend Jack Keaton gives him the thumbs up. It’s a joke between us.”
         “Anyone else?”
         The rest of the friends said they’d check their own notes. Connolly said, “My mother came over from Ireland and has always been in touch with some of the priests in Dublin whom she’d send money to. Maybe the Knights of Columbus can help out.”
         It wasn’t much to go on but enough to get started.

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Katie sat at the end of a wooden pier on Long Island Sound, just blocks from her apartment. To her right stretched both the Throgs Neck (left) and Whitestone bridges, two nearly identical suspensions spans that connected the Bronx to Queens and Long Island. To her left was Villa Maria Academy, where she’d gone to grammar school and was taught French by the sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame. Katie loved it there, spread over eight acres and three buildings. She loved the smell of burning bees’ wax candles in the chapel and Mary’s Walk, a shady path lined with benches where the nuns would sometimes sit and read their missals in the sunshine.
         The discipline at Villa Maria was strict but the atmosphere was caring, and Katie had never experienced the kind of cracking of knuckles with a ruler or vicious slaps in the face that would become routine in high school. She had her favorite teachers, both nuns and lay teachers, and sometimes went back to Villa Maria to see them after she graduated.
         They were such fine memories, none of them about sexual abuse, so it pained her to now be following a story that was both horrifying and depressing for someone who had once loved the Catholic Church, the incense-scented Masses, the changing colors of the vestments, the pageantry of First Holy Communion and Confirmation, and the singing of hymns in French to Notre Dame before a statue of Mary clothed in blue and white, an infant Jesus in her arms, her foot on the head of a serpent.
         Katie now wondered if all the magic of her Catholic upbringing had been just that—sleight of hand, misdirection, conjuring—shrouded in secrets not to be revealed or questioned, with dire consequences if they were. For that’s what seemed to buoy and sustain what Shakespeare had called “Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”

The prices for sparkling wines these days make drinking them on a regular basis an easy decision, and for those grander moments, there are grander Champagnes. Here are a several various styles and prices that evoke romance in springtime.

BOLLINGER LA GRANDE ANNÉE ROSÉ 2015 ($310). Rosés are tricky to make and have a chameleon-like character, even in vintage years like 2015. The years since have only added to the full body of this lovely wine, with the scent of pear and citrus to create harmony. The name means “a great year” and Bollinger started using it in 1976, “La” Grande Année,” to distinguish it from others and appearing (not by accident) in the James Bond film “Casino Royale.” The fruit is sourced from 11 different Crus: 79% from Grand Crus and 21% from Prémier Crus, with 60% Pinot Noir and 40% Chardonnay, blended by Cellar Master Denis Bunner, with fermentation in small, old- oak barrels (average 20 years old), then cellar-aged for more than twice the time required by the appellation, then the second fermentation takes place after nine years on the lees in bottles. The dosage is 7g/l; the alcohol 12%

MOËT & CHANDON ROSÉ IMPERIAL ($63). This is a very good price for aquite special wine, not least because you can buy it in special gift boxes with sayings like, “Happy Birthday to You,” “To Your Future,” “You Are Going Places” and “To Your Next Milestone.” There is a pleasant, mild sweetness, but it’s good as an aperitif or with dessert, and its color is very festive. It’s a blend of 40-50% Pinot Noir, 30-40% Pinot Meunier and just 10-20% Chardonnay, so you get a lot of bright fruit with a touch of rose flower. It is 12% alcohol.

LAURENT-PERRIER CUVÉE ROSÉ ($99.99). A dozen Grand Crus of 100% Pinot Noir gives this superb Champagne intense color and vibrant flavor, and the label is done in a Miró-like pattern of pinks. The grapes are manually sorted, then de-stemmed to retain only the berries before they go into the maceration tanks. Maceration lasts 48-72 hours, giving the juice a deep salmon pink color. After bottling, the wine is aged a minimum of five years in bottle before release. Despite its being a mono-grape wine, there is fine complexity here, with a long finish on the palate, and the price is very reasonable for a Champagne of this quality.

CHANDON 50TH ANNIVERSARY WINEMAKERS’ BLEND ($79). This is a limited edition honoring four of the pioneering wine makers—Dawnine Dyer (who created the winery’s L’Étoile), Wayne Donaldson (who made the Icon Red Demi-Sec), Tom Tiburzi, and Pauline Lhote in honor of the winery’s 50th anniversary in Napa Valley, culled from three estate vineyards, from the bay in Los Carneros, the rocky top of Mt. Veeder and the valley floor of Yountville, where the winery is located. Chandon’s Rosé ($23) is always available, and is well known for its integrated fruit and acid, always refreshing and at this price a sparkler you can drink all summer long.

VEUVE CLICQUOT LA GRANDE DAME ROSÉ 2015 ($320). Madame Veuve Clicquot is the mother of rosé Champagne, which she made in 1818. This new vintage has a label by Italian artist Paola Paronetto. It is a blend of 90% Pinot Noir and 10% Chardonnay, with 12.5% alcohol. It has luscious fruit but is very close to bone dry, with good minerality and spice. At this price it's a wine to be considered when your guests share your impeccable taste. 

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SAGE ADVICE

"When the waiter arrives to take your order should not be the first time you realise that there is a menu. You do not need ‘another minute' because if you send them away they will not come back for another 15 minutes and I will be forced to leap across the table and start ravenously eating your face. Have the chicken! Or the veggie thing! It doesn’t matter, just order." —Esther Walker, London Times.

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MARIANI'S VIRTUAL GOURMET NEWSLETTER is published weekly. Publisher: John Mariani. Editor: Walter Bagley. Contributing Writers: Christopher Mariani, Misha Mariani, John A. Curtas, Gerry Dawes, Geoff Kalish. Contributing Photographer: Galina Dargery. Technical Advisor: Gerry McLoughlin.