Just finished reading Jay Rayner's book, Eating Crow and there was an
excerpt that had a recipe that looked good enough to cook for dinner this
week, so I OCR'd it and thought I'd share.

BTW, the book was pretty entertaining humor about a surly London food critic
who gets fired and then hired by the U.N. to become their Chief Apologist.
Weird, but entertaining. Not worth buying, but definitely worth my time at
the library.

Hasta,
Curt Nelson

__________________________________________________ ________

Chapter Fourteen

The old Manjari wasn't going to do it tonight. I needed substantial comfort
food, a dish that would fully engage me. Naturally, being British, this
meant cooking something Italian.

I heated a little olive oil in a heavy-bottomed iron skillet and, when the
first wisps of smoke escaped the surface, sprinkled the pan with flakes of
dried chili that fizzed and bubbled in the liquid. I imagined my father
standing behind me, watching me as I cooked, as he had done so many times. I
could feel the sound of his voice in my chest, a deep and sonorous echo from
the past.

"Step back, little one, or the fumes from the chili will choke you."

I turned away from the skillet for a moment. "I know, Dad. I've done this
before."

"Everything takes practice, Marcel."

"So you always told me."

"And I'm telling you again:'

"Pancetta now?"

"Yes, now."

I dropped the fingertip-sized chunks of smoky bacon, with their lush,
marshmallow white ribbons of fat, into the pan and spread them around with a
wooden spoon. They turned in on themselves as the heat sucked the moisture
from the fat and began to brown. On a chopping board I crushed a clove of
garlic with the flat of my knife and then I chopped it up.

"Not too soon with the garlic."

"I know, Dad. I'm just getting it ready"

"It will scotch if you put it in too soon."

"I said I'm only getting it ready. And the word's 'scorch.'"

"Such a big boy now. He knows so much. What wine are you using?"

"An Australian sauvignon blanc."

"Australian? Things so bad you couldn't afford French?"

"You get more for your money with Australian."

"So spend more money and get French."

"Dad, things have changed a lot since you were about. Australia makes great
wines."

"If you say so. If you say so. Now with the garlic, Marcel. Now!"

"Don't bark. I'm onto it."

I gave the fragments of garlic only thirty seconds in the bubbling oil
before adding a third of the bottle of wine, scraping away at the
caramelized lumps of bacon and chili on the base of the pan as the liquor
went in. I put down the bottle and tipped the spitting, boiling pan of
liquid up a few degrees to gain more purchase on a few particularly sticky
lumps of pork. Suddenly a sheet of flame, tinged blue at the edges, leapt
from the skillet.

"It's on fire, Dad, it's on fire!"

"Calmness, little one. The flame is your friend. It is just the alcohol
burning away. Let it do its job. . . there, it has gone."

"Thanks, Dad. It's good to have you here." I threw some coils of butter
yellow tagliatelle into a pan of bubbling water.

"What is the fish you bought?"

"Clams. Lovely big ones."

"Good. You spent money."

"With seafood anything else is a false economy. Unlike with the wine."

"Marcel, I believe you on the wine"

I tipped the shellfish into the skillet, where they tumbled and rolled
against each other like so many rounded pebbles in the surf. Immediately
they began to open. I shoved a saucepan lid over the lid so that they would
steam.

"Now we wait."

"Yes, Marcel. But there's time to chop the parsley and the . . . what are
you doing?"

"Grating a little Parmigiano."

"Parmesan? With shellfish?"

"They work brilliantly together. The Parmesan is a natural source of
monosodium glutamate which emphasizes the meatiness of the

seafood."

"What is this monosodium gluty-"

"Glutamate, Dad. It's a flavor enhancer. A manufactured form is used in
Chinese cooking, and with seafood it-"

"Stop, stop. My head is spinning with all this. . . this. . . chemistry.
When did cooking become such a science? Have I been gone so long?"

"Yes, you have. You've been gone far too long."

It was time. I drained the pasta, retaining just a little of the starchy
cooking liquid for the serving dish to keep the ribbons of tagliatelle
moving. Then I poured the entire contents of the skillet- crisp shards of
pancetta, clams, and the dense, rust-colored cooking liquor-over it all.
Next, the green flakes of parsley and the shavings of cheese. Carefully I
began to turn the ingredients together so that the pasta became coated with
the sauce and the shells became caked with the cheese and over everything
were the little flakes of chili that I had started out with.

"It looks beautiful, little one."

"Thanks, Dad."

"You haven't forgotten what I taught you, then."

"How could I forget?"

I lifted a shell and sucked the soft little mollusk from its hiding place.
It tasted of the sea and of the cheese and the wine and at the end came the
sudden lift of chili heat.

"It's good?"