Sticks and Stones
A lot of people have been calling out Amanda Hesser lately. Last week's review of Spice Market has foodies and bloggers up in arms. Eurotrash wrote the most scathing rant to date, verging on the personal in her typical holier-than-thou style. Gawker couldn't help but keep the ball rolling. Lockhart Steele weighed in with a somewhat more subtle parody. E-Gullet head honcho Fat Guy tersely trashed the Spice Market review, and other e-Gulleters chimed in accusing Hesser of everything from logrolling for her buddy Jean-Georges Vongerichten to insulting the Spice Market kitchen staff to compromising the credibility of both herself and the Times. Felix of felixsalmon.com tried to defend Hesser, but somehow couldn't help descending into backhanded criticism.
It's entirely likely that another review will come out tonight and that the Hesser-bashing will resume in earnest. And before that happens I figured I'm entitled to add my two cents for anybody who'd bother to take notice. I say: Leave Amanda Hesser alone.
Some have suggested that Hesser is a novelist trying to walk the walk of a critic, and stumbling at just about every step. Obviously there is little agreement on what food writing in general -- and the Times restaurant reviews in particular -- should look like. Ultimately, though, there's enough information out there that Hesser's reviews are not going to be the final word on a new restaurant. So if she wants to set a mood with flowery prose at the expense of providing the nitty-gritty information that many foodies are looking for, I think that's a choice she and her editors are entitled to make. Hesser's reviews smack of travel journalism, which is ideal for people who will probably never set foot in Spice Market or any of the other restaurants the she reviews (presumably the vast majority of the Times' readership falls into this category). The genre has a value in its own right, whether or not it's the most suitable format for a restaurant review.
Most (but, to be fair, not all) of what I've read about Amanda Hesser this past week is transparently rooted in either jealousy of her position at the Times or resentment of the power that comes with that position. I think it's rather petty. Many of Hesser's critics may believe themselves to be superior writers, or to have deeper knowledge of food and the restaurant scene, and they may very well be right. But savaging her reviews on that basis, parsing them in a search for the slightest misstep, comes off as sour grapes. Writing, like dining, is a matter of taste. Disagree if you will, but let's be civil about it.
Case in point: 
I asked the hostess -- who had seen me taking photos and notes and decided I deserved some extra attention -- for a recommendation; she said her favorite dessert was this dried fruit and nut tart. Figs, dates, and prunes float alongside walnuts, almonds, hazelnuts, and pine nuts on a pillow of the gentlest whipped cream I've ever tasted - satiny, scented with vanilla, without any buttery clumps or air pockets. Honey drizzles the plate, smoothing out the unrefined sugars of this earthy closer.
The "Priest's Hat" (also referred to as the "Pope's Hat") is a triangular pork sausage, wrapped in sheets of pork fat to hold its shape, and poached in broth for four hours. When it's done, the fat wrapper is removed and shredded, and served alongside the sliced sausage. Picchi pairs this porcine powerhouse with a little tart of 
Lisa ordered a dish that had a very intricate description, but which was essentially eggplant parmigiana. Lisa loves eggplant parmigiana. She sometimes gets it on a sandwich, for lunch. Now she can never do that again.
Once the amuses are done some slightly larger plates appear: not quite appetizers, but too large to swallow in a single bite. These cold dishes can be nursed until your first course arrives, and provide ample entertainment in the interim. The cold tripe salad, dressed in olive oil and lemon juice with pepper flakes and herbs, was a fortuitous way to introduce Lisa to the world of offal. The tripe has been cooked long enough to remove any offensive organ flavor, and served cold it lacks the squishy texture that reminds you you're eating guts.
Soon after we finished our starters, the first course arrived. Lisa ordered a ricotta flan, which came with a meat ragout similar to a bolognese sauce. The flan was remarkable; I think if it had been cooked even one second less it would collapse. Fortunately the cooking was stopped at precisely the right time, and the custard melted like butter on the tongue. A sprinkling of parmesan and a drizzle of melted butter rounded out the dish, but were used with such moderation that it came across as anything but greasy. It was a simple juxtaposition of intense, rich flavors.
I went with an old standby, white polenta with butter and parmesan. The polenta was creamy, faintly grainy, and punctuated here and there with tiny capers and flecks of herbs. But against the bold flavors elsewhere on the menu, this dish didn't really stand up. It's gentle, and comforting in an innocuous kind of way. But I came to Cibrèo to be shaken up, and the mildness of white corn, even augmented with splashes of dairy fireworks, just didn't do the job. It was time to bring on the big guns.
Cibrèo
Once you have placed your order, a parade of amuses begins to arrive. There is a variation on the classic Tuscan crostini with liver paste, on a precious little square of untoasted white bread. An equally precious square of herbed cheese gratin accompanies it, as does a plate of hand-sliced prosciutto. One last crostini arrived a moment later; a toast square topped with melted cheese studded with bits of candied fruits. This is one of Picchi's favorite tricks, to deliver the magical trinity of fat, salt, and sugar in a single bite. When these three elements - each of which we have an instinctive craving for - are combined in perfect balance, you will always be left wanting more. This technique not lost on the best chefs: David Waltuck uses it in his prosciutto, fig, and foie gras pinwheel amuses at 
The market here is smaller than the one in Florence, and not as dependent on local items. But you can still find treasures like these ridiculously long-stemmed artichokes here. It's a lighthearted market with a great sense of humor. On one end a rotund chain-smoker who looks twenty years older than he probably is demonstrates cheap vegetable garnishing tools for German tourists; on another end a playful fishmonger has built an homage to Darwinism out of his wares.
Walking past one of the larger fruit stalls, something in the corner of my vision caught my attention. I did a double-take, then a triple-take, then walked back to the box that had drawn my eye. "This can't be right," I thought. "What is this doing in Rome?" But there I was, holding it in my hand. "Che cosa è?" I asked the vendor, recalling my first lesson of Berlitz's Italian. "Mangosteen," he replied, "da Colombia."
It was true, then. I held in my hand the queen of all fruits, the legendary mangosteen. Mangosteens are native to southeast Asia, and the South American transplants are supposedly of inferior quality. But it is said that Queen Victoria offered a knighthood to anyone who could bring her just one of these fruits, so even a poor example is bound to have something to recommend it. What's more, mangosteens are illegal in the United States (owing to fears of exotic parasites), so this may have been my only chance, ever, to try one. I believe the fruitseller charged me four Euros; I would have given him forty.
Of course, there's more in the butcher stalls of the Mercato Centrale than just severed heads. In fact, most of the flying creatures in the market still have their heads attached. This means the ducks still have their tongues, and the cocks their combs, either one of which could form the foundation for a classic recipe few Americans will ever hear of, let alone taste.
There are also mounds of un-decapitated fish and scampi here. Scampi, not to be confused with a pile of rubbery, garlicky shrimp in a pool of bubbling margarine at the Olive Garden, is the plural of scampo, the Italian word for a certain type of mediterranean shellfish that is something between a shrimp and a langoustine. I can't really find an anaolgy for a head on the baby squid and octopus you'll find here, but I'm sure if there were one, the fishmongers would make a point of leaving it on.
Lest you think the Mercato Centrale is all about gross-out animal parts, it also has magnificent produce stands, salumerie, cheese cases, winesellers, and dried fruit and nut sellers. Some of these items are local, some regional, some come from elsewhere in Italy. Among the most impressive displays: these bouquets of purple artichokes, the crowning jewel of the produce stand.
In the Florentine neighborhood of San Lorenzo, the streets are cluttered with rickety booths where industrious locals peddle everything from kitschy souvenirs to hand-painted porcelain, counterfeit jeans to fine leather, silk scarves to silkscreened t-shirts. Rising above the fray on one side of the bazaar is the Church of San Lorenzo, the parish church of the mighty House of Medici, whose tombs in an 
It is the season of the spring lamb in Italy, when in the run-up to Easter milk-fed lambs of just a few weeks age are slaughtered for their incomparably tender meat. So special are these animals that the Italians have a separate word for them; while lamb is simply agnello, a baby lamb is abbacchio (from abbattere, meaning to butcher). A whole abbacchio is probably only slightly larger in total volume than your Thanksgiving Turkey, and may even have less edible flesh. But they are such a prize, the butchers of Florence display them proudly.
Saint Patrick's Day is upon us. Finally, a day when the pretentious New York bar scene makes room for the city's grungy but lovable Irish pubs. If the snow lets up (and work cooperates), you'll find me tonight at the 
