The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

Born of necessity, meaning poverty, many cultures believe in using every part of the animal they are consuming (and sometimes slaughtering themselves) and have, in general, the attitude that nothing edible should be wasted or discarded. In a similar vein, a meal-extender the world over is starch of one sort or another. Bread, rice, root vegetables and noodles are the focus of the meal; a bit of protein a luxury.

For the past four years, I’ve “lived” with a tiny community of people in the century-old handmade pasta and Italian grocery shop in which I work. In the close quarters of the small store, the six of us mingle, bump into each other, and generally closely observe each other. The owner is Italian-American, and the head of the kitchen, his mother, was born in Asolo, Italy, outside of Venice. Two of my coworkers are from the Dominican Republic, another from Venezuela and one from Ecuador.

I’ve observed the frugality of all these people and have come to realize how lucky I was to have been brought up free of the fear of hunger or wanting, though my parents’ and grandparents’ generations certainly experienced hard times and endured the years of the Great Depression. My father, in particular, has memories of overhearing his parents pondering where the next meal would come from to feed their five kids. He was brought up eating offal, the term for the collective organ meats of animals, namely brain, liver, kidneys, tripe,  tongue,  spleen, stomach, thymus and intestines. Luckily for him, his mom was an expert cook and he recalls those dishes fondly.

At my job, the amount of bread consumed by everyone around me is staggering. All through the day a chunk or two of baguette or roll is munched on, sometimes with a smear of butter or a slice of cheese, but more often than not, simply dry and unadorned. My Italian coworkers eat pasta for lunch almost every day, and the Hispanics’ repasts all include rice or mashed tubers.

Speaking of the latter, I had no idea there was such a plethora of root and starchy vegetables available for consumption. A couple of years ago, the young woman with whom I work brought in nearly a vat of the national dish of the Dominican Republic, sancocho.  Considered the ultimate comfort food and often served on special occasions, sancocho is a soupy stew combining all manner of meat and fowl, and consisting mainly of such vegetables as green plantains, yuca (also known as cassava), white yam, Spanish pumpkin (called calabaza), potatoes and yautia (which is similar to taro). Almost sacred in the Dominican culture, sancocho is revered, and it is always prepared in vast quantities.

My co-worker presented me with a large plastic container of her mother’s labor of love. She instructed me to make plenty of white rice to accompany the dish. “Okay, I’ll make a pot,” I promised, wondering if I even had any rice in my larder. After taking a look at the concoction, I couldn’t quite figure out how I’d serve it over rice, as the consistency of the liquid in which the meat and vegetables sat was that of soup broth. I cooked up a small amount of rice that I’d found shoved in the back of a cabinet and heated the sancocho in another pot. I put some steaming rice in a shallow bowl and ladled in some of the solids and a bit of the liquid. It was unlike anything I had eaten before. All the vegetables were tuberous, starchy and dense. They pretty much tasted the same, sharing similar textures, too. I laboriously chewed and chewed the oversized carbohydrate-laden nuggets. It wasn’t easy. The broth, however, was delicious and complex, but I longed for a piece or two more of protein. The ratio of meat to vegetables was disappointing but not surprising when I realized that it was typical of the culture.

More pleasant than the sancocho experience was my introduction to the tremendously hearty and filling typical Dominican breakfast, which consists of fried or scrambled eggs, grilled salami, and slabs of  tangy, slightly salty fried white cheese all served over copious amounts of mangu, which is mashed boiled green plantains topped with thinly sliced pickled red onion. Once again, however, I found myself underwhelmed by the mainstay of the meal, the rather uninteresting, and not particularly tasty, mashed plantain.

I knew plantain could be purchased in different stages of ripeness – green, yellow or black, and that the blacker they are, the sweeter. I’d had maduros (sweet plantain, sliced and pan-fried) in Cuban, Dominican, and Jamaican restaurants and loved the soft, almost creamy texture and sweet flavor. I decided I’d prepare a Dominican breakfast for me and my sister, Janet, and substitute maduros for mangu. It seemed to me that the salty cheese and savory meat and eggs would benefit greatly from the addition of a sweet component.

My Dominican friend at work was nice enough to stop at her local market to buy me the softest, blackest plantains she could find and a package of queso de freir (or fry cheese). I’d forgotten to ask her to procure me some of the salami typically used, so I bought some thinly sliced Italian bacon, pancetta, which is not smoked but has a wonderful savory, salty flavor and crisps up nicely when placed in a hot skillet.

The resulting breakfast was a real departure for us, in a good way. We fell in love with the contrasting flavors and textures. The fry cheese does not actually melt, but becomes soft and chewy; the fried sunny-side-up eggs with their gooey, runny yolks are a perfect foil for the soft slices of sweet plantain; as are the brittle rounds of crispy pancetta. Hooked, I made the breakfast two more consecutive weekends before feeling oddly guilty that I’d never attempted to make it traditionally, with green plantains. Once they were obtained, I made them as instructed: boiling them until tender, then mashing them with some olive oil and butter, and seasoning with salt and pepper. I even went so far as to make my own pickled red onions.

 

And guess what? I found my homemade mangu as uncompelling as every other version I’ve ever had and went back to my sweet black plantains. What can I say? My family never ate bread with meals, and we liked noodles, rice or potatoes only now and then, as an accompaniment to the vegetables on the plate, or a bed for the main attraction of baked chicken, chops, steak or stew. So, each to their own, but for me it’s all about holding the starch at bay and digging in to every other delight with gusto.

Maduros (sautéed sweet plantains)

Serves 2 – 4 as a side dish

3 very ripe (black-skinned) plantains

3 – 4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/8 teaspoon each ground nutmeg and cinnamon (optional)

Gently peel the plantain by cutting off the tips and making a light incision down the center with a sharp paring knife and prying the skin back and off. Diagonally cut the plantains into ½-inch slices. Melt the butter over medium-low heat in a large skillet until just bubbling. Add the sliced plantains in one layer. You may have to work in batches. Sauté approximately 1 – 2 minutes, then gently flip the pieces and saute an additional minute or so. The texture should be slightly crisp outside and soft inside. Sprinkle with spices, if desired, and serve immediately.

 

Mangu (boiled and mashed green plantains)

Serves 4 – 6

3 green plantains (see below for instructions on peeling and preparing green plantains for cooking)

1 teaspoon kosher or sea salt

4 – 5 tablespoons unsalted butter or olive oil (or a mixture of both)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Cut peeled plantains into 2 to 3” chunks. Put all the portions into a large pot of water and add salt. Place pot over high heat and bring to a boil. Lower heat to medium and simmer the plantain chunks until tender, approximately 20 to 25 minutes. When done the plantain will change to a golden color. Test for tenderness with a tip of a knife; it should slide in with little or no effort. Drain the plantain, reserving the cooking water. Put the plantain in a bowl and mash well, using a potato masher, working in some of the cooking water until the mixture is creamy. With a wooden spoon, blend in the butter or oil and season with salt and freshly ground pepper. Serve immediately.

Basic steps for peeling a green plantain:

Cut the tips off of both ends of the plantain, then holding the plantain in the left hand, insert the tip of a paring knife to pierce the skin approximately 1/8-inch deep. Carefully, slide the tip of the knife down to make an incision from end to end. Rotate the plantain and make another incision. Repeat the action one more time. To separate the outer skin, pry the skin open with the paring knife until the skin becomes detached from the flesh and pull downward. Once the plantain is peeled, carefully scrape off the green fibers that may still cling to the flesh. Use the plantains immediately or do as some cooks do:

Place the plantains in a bowl, cover with water, and add a teaspoon of salt. The salt water solution will neutralize the resin and heavy starch content, and will render a lighter cooked product. Refrigerate until ready to use. The plantains can stay in water for a couple of days.