|
Toscano & Sons,
Nadia's West African and Muss & Turner's
3/07
|
Americans are in love with Italy. I don’t blame us.
And I think it’s safe to assume that most food enthusiasts
who stop into Toscano & Sons will be taken with it,
even if they don’t make it a routine shopping expedition.
There’s the burrata cheese, the fresh pasta from Via
Elisa down the road, a respectable selection of oils and
vinegars, and a no-nonsense pasta selection that primarily
shuns increasingly popular artisanal brands for utilitarian
De Cecco. |
The Giovanni at Toscano & Sons
|
And then
there are the panini, just six of them, that a sweet but sometimes–frenzied
staff assemble at the back of the shop with a minimum of raw
materials.
Despite their lack of heft, these are some immensely satisfying
sandwiches. They are so utterly simple but want for nothing.
The ciabatta is chewy, crusty and open-crumbed (and courtesy
of Midtown’s Breadgarden), bound together with robust Italian
cheeses and sparingly little else. But it’s that little
bit extra that makes all the difference, and if you know what’s
good for two slices of bread, you’ll be thankful there’s
not much else getting in the way.
The Giovanni is the most austere offering here, and it won me
over at first bite. I’ve become so accustomed to menu descriptions
that rattle off every one of a dish’s primary components
that it’s comforting to eat something that is so unapologetically
bare bones. Its recipe: ciabatta, a generous slice of what I
can only call a slab of taleggio, a more judicious layering of
fontina, and enough white truffle oil that its musky aroma hits
your nose before you even bring it to your lips to taste it.
This is the grilled cheese for lovers—or for eaters in love
with grilled cheese.
If the Giovanni is for lounging under the covers on a damp, rainy
day, the Toscano is for romping around outside on the cusp of
spring. It’s still gooey with nutty fontina, but perked
up with a judicious scattering of peppery arugula and enough
hot soppressata to punch it up without weighing it down.
This is not the place to drop in if you’re famished and
nothing but a two-fister will do. (Besides their compact size,
this fare is better eaten on the run, unless you’re lucky
enough to snag one of the few seats in the tiny space for dine-in.)
Depending on your appetite, these panini might even serve you
better as a snack. But in this age of excessiveness, when there’s
typically either too much food left on your plate or too much
going into your belly, I love these panini for giving many of
us exactly what we need—nothing more, nothing less.
I never thought anything
could top my grandmother’s okra, stewed on top of a heap
of field peas with little more than a smoky ham hock or a few
strips of bacon for seasoning. I’m still not convinced anything
can, but I recently discovered a dish that might at the least
make for a good match. At Nadia’s, a cheery, low-maintenance
spot just down the road from Dominican stalwart Mi Pilon, okra
is roasted, alone or along with eggplant, then mashed and stewed
with spices and oil, a few oxtails and some bone-in chicken.
It’s nutty and buttery, with generous layers of spice that
put okra in an entirely new light. I love okra, but I never knew
it could look this hot.
Dishes here are served from a glassed-in steam table in the
back, where you can take a peek (or a taste, if you ask sweetly)
at the offerings before you order. Everything is served with
rice or fufu, a smooth, pounded mash of cassava root that has
little flavor on its own, but acts like a doughy canvas for
rich gravies.
A warning: If you are all put off by oil pooling in your food,
you may have some trouble here—West African cooking is
liberal in its use of fat, generally in the form of palm or
peanut oil. But if that doesn’t deter you, you’re
in for some seriously delicious, intensely flavored dishes.
The food here is at once unlike anything I’ve ever eaten,
and yet reminiscent of much of what I grew up eating—a
relic of the West African-based slave trade that brought culinary
traditions from that region to the American South, the Caribbean
and elsewhere.
A stew of pounded cassava leaves, with or without oregano and
kidney beans, is earthy, with a fantastic bitter twang; they’re
a great partner with stewed greens (cabbage or collards), silky
and delicately seasoned. Torborgee, which you may be warned
away from, is pungently bitter and chili-hot—and you may
just love it. I wouldn’t be able make it through a bowl
of the stuff, but eaten as condiment, it’s a deliciously
sharp accent to some of the milder, buttery-tasting dishes,
like the golden-hued, onion-rich oxtail and fish stews.
From other stainless steel bins are scooped bowls of pepper
soup, jollof rice, a popular West African pilaf not terribly
unlike Indian biryani, and palava sauce, a marvelously funky
stew of greens made with dried shrimp, pumpkinseeds, smoked
fish and chilis.
It’s that little trace of funkiness I love about this
place; it’s humble food, comfort food, really, but it
pushes the boundaries of what we’re familiar with, one
little step at a time.
During the past few
weeks, I’ve developed a new obsession: Muss & Turner’s
dessert case. Since, I have not succeeded in leaving this little
gastronomic paradise without taking one of pastry chef Michelle
McKenzie marvelous creations home with me. I have yet to be
disappointed, and I am only slightly relieved the shop is not
just around the corner from my home.
There are heavenly-looking oversized cookies, thick, fudgy
brownies, and a devilish chocolate cake that has all the appearance
of solid ganache. Unfortunately, I haven’t made it to
any of those yet because of the more whimsical creations that
never fail to tempt me away from the classics. There was the
sunny olive oil-lemon soufflé cake, the maddeningly
creamy vanilla-bean panna cotta with honey, and the brilliant
Southern take on sticky baklava using my favorite of all nuts,
pecans. Then there was the rosemary-pine nut-caramel tart,
which I’m still dreaming about and wishing I could justify
eating daily. Its flaky pastry shell is perfect, and its filling,
a light, buttery caramel, dense with toasted pine nuts and
a sweet, piney infusion of rosemary, is garnished simply with
a candied rosemary sprig, which tastes just as you might imagine
it would. It’s rich but delicate, purely simple but just
out of the ordinary enough to be inspiring. More, please.
|
ehorton@atlantacuisine.com
|
|
