Posts Tagged ‘food writing’

Bread of the Week, Ciabatta (Italian Slipper Bread)

There’s nothing I like better than slicing into a great big freshly cooked ciabatta and creating a great big dagwood sandwich before stuffing it into my great big mouth. With protruding cheeks stuffed with this Italian slipper bread, I mumble thanks to the guy who made this happen, Arnaldo Cavallari.

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In 1982, Arnaldo retired from car racing to work at his family’s flour mill in Adria, in the Veneto. He probably wasn’t the first to start making ciabatta. Similar breads are made around Lake Como (ciabatta di como) but Arnaldo was the first to set up the methodology and authentication of the Ciabatta Italia.

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Ciabatta warming.

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Smaller ciabatta for sale.

Traditional ciabatta is made with tipo 1 italia, a soft flour. This flour is like a strong all-purpose flour or American bread flour, but a tad darker and a bit less refined than the famous “tipo 00” flour used for authentic Italian wood- fired pizza. The protein content of tipo 1 is 10 percent.

My “scaletta” or ladder sticks made with ciabatta dough and baked with pressed green and black Cerignola olives

These days there are (so-called) ciabatta everywhere. The grocery store has small hockey pucks that taste of chalk and chemicals (watch out for that  “TBHQ added for freshness”*) but these can easily pass through the gullet with a bucket of water. I’ve even had “Eye-talian” slipper bread in West Virginia that was used to make “house special” garlic bread. Unfortunately, the shape and the way it was cut belied the fact that it was just a hot dog bun.

Making ciabatta is great fun and most rewarding. After 4 days nurturing starters, old dough pre-ferments, a poolish, then mixing the heavily-hydrated mass perfectly, performing due-dillegence in proofing, (rising) and standing by my Impinger pizza ovens, spritzing, peeking and turning, the final product is amazing.  Making and cooking ciabatta is like having a kid…that you can eat. Sometimes I vary the way I cook this dough and make variations on the ciabatta theme. Below are two more examples.

Mr. Stipey, Manchego and nettle pizzas (left). Small schiacciata (right); Romagna (above) and local aged cheddar (below)

Sometimes making caprese sandwiches is like laying railroad tracks.

It’s usually 6 a.m. when I finish the ciabatta. The sun is starting to peek through my pizzeria window and Garrison Keeler is performing “Guy Noir- Private Detective” on the radio. I can cook 5 ciabatta at a time. I usually eye one that I save just for me. After slicing some room temperature Brie, Genoa salami, prosciutto di Parma, arugula and fresh tomato, I am in heaven.

If you want my recipe for ciabatta, just send $1000 dollars (Canadian) to me. Or if you want a really great recipe, just go to Peter Reinhart’s blog.

*TBHQ is a by product of butane. It is banned in Europe and Japan because of its proven relationship with ADHD and hyperactivity in children. Its use has grown since large food corporations have stopped using trans-fats in their foods. This means that they have to use real oils instead. To store these oils in massive quantities, they spike them with TBHQ. Unfortunately for us, because of lobbying efforts by large corporations, if a chemical is less than 5% of the product, the food companies do not have to put it on the label.

Shoes of a Pizza Man

In 2003, I attended a  pizza competition at NAPICS, (the North American Pizza and Ice Cream Show) in the sprawling convention center in Columbus, Ohio. There were pizza guys from all over the country representing thier pizzerias and pitting their knowledge, experience and pizza prowess against all comers. My manager Al and I headed up into the bleacher seats to wait for the final results and sit down after the grueling day.

“That’s something we don’t have at Avalanche. Look at that old guy, wouldja?” Al pointed with his chin. Over to our left and up one row was an older guy sitting and hunched over in his chair as if playing craps.

“Him?” I pointed.

“Yeah, what a sad case for the pizza business right there.” Al shook his head and snickered. “He looks like he’s been pounding dough his whole damn life.” Al took in the guy like a kid watching lions at the zoo. “Check out those deck burns on his arms, wouldja?”

I looked this guy up and down. His eyes were bloodshot, he needed a shave, and his legs were bent with knees in a constant scissor-like motion. But the most telltale sign of a pizza lifer were the shoes: black springy rubber soled shoes, coated with a white film, splotches of solid white dough blobs, and droplet hits of red sauce. They were misshapen from years of neglect, with the toes formed upward from fast walking. He looked like he had given up taking care of those shoes.

I stared straight ahead and thought about that guy. Maybe the shoes were a metaphor for his life. He stopped caring about something that was just gonna get dirty over and over again. I figured he was alot like me or like every pizza guy in every pizza place doing the same thing. Repetition, followed by more repetition, followed by a new day and more pizza repetition stamps its mark on your soul like a pizza tattoo.  Then all of a sudden, you realize that you are old, worn out and all of your shoes look like shit.

“That dude’s been in this biz way too long. They should just go shoot him now, like they do at racetracks, ya know, like a horse who has a broken….”

“Okay, all right Al, your’ve made your point,” I said in annoyance. “He’s probably one of these guys who owns his own place in Beantown, Ohio, population 57.” I grinned. “I didn’t see him competing.”

Just then a  20-year old girl came up and handed the old man a soda. I had seen her making a pizza in the competition. It looked like a plain sausage, onion and green pepper. The man smiled in a tired sort of way and the girl, obviously nervous about the outcome of her pizza, chewed at her nails as they both looked away onto the convention floor.

“Must be his kid.” Al huddled closer to me, looking straight ahead. “John, if you don’t look out, you’ll end up like that guy. This business will eat you up. It’s no good if you aren’t growing your company and expanding, them chains’ll always be there and they’ll wait you out till you get tired and burnt out. You’ve gotta be a shark and take out all competitors. If you don’t…” Al thumbed to the old guy. ‘You’ll be a shaggy-shoed oldie like him.”

“Naw, I’ll never be like that.” I said.

I came in third place that year, and never looked back until I broke my foot four weeks ago. My doctor told me that I was on my feet too much and that I wore crappy shoes.

Today, I brought all my shoes out from every place they had been tossed: at work, the car, the porch, the closet, under my bed. I lined them up and…

…all of a sudden, I realized I am that guy.