However, it was also a day completely unlike today. There was walking - a LOT of walking. With some crazed/passionate Belgian-cum-Roman archeologist guy named Jan Gadeyne whose legs, I swear, were as long as I was tall (or, at least, he walked that way). The sun was shining all right - and baking us to a crisp. Not a cloud in the sky, and oh how I wished there were a cloud to hide that crisping sun which roasted not just us humans, but the Roman air to about a bajillion degrees. Centigrade. The light breeze was coming through the leaves in the trees all right, but the trees were up on top of a tall mound at Nero's palace, where on Googlemaps they color it green to give you a little bit of hope. And we had just started our walk with Jan at Trajan's market, about a mile and a bit away, downhill of the Domus.
Baby1 was about one and a bit, and every bit as fussy as I felt about the heat. She was riding in her stroller, which gave her something equivalent in cover to a clamshell's cover of its innards, but was difficult to navigate through the bumps and lumps of the Roman sidewalks and stairs through the ancient areas. And we were trying to keep up with Jan and his mile-long legs while he rattled off just a smidgen of trivia from his deep mental database of all the ancient history of the landscape we traversed, some little tidbit to try to drill into our heat-baked heads the depth of every step through some passage of time in the city's extensive history.
Did I forget to mention, how hot as heck it was that day? I think mentally I kept trying to squash Gadeyne's legs to be as short as mine. For, you know, an ounce of empathetic pity.
So at the end of our walk that morning, with all the heat and deer-in-headlights blind headstrong following of Jan and our traveling professors with the UMD abroad crew, Professor Michael Ambrose suggested that perhaps today would be a lovely day for octopus salad. I didn't really care as to what it was - anything that sounded remotely cooling would be great. And if it had some lemon to really help with the cooling down process, hey, all the better. I was totally game.
Hubby and the teaching crew headed to Pizza Re, just off Sant Andrea della Valle. I needed to go change to be somewhat decent for lunch, as I think I was a drenching pile of sweat at that point leaving puddles like a trail of breadcrumbs on the Roman sidewalk as I walked. Post-change, Baby1 and I headed back down Corso Vittoro Emmanuele towards the restaurant, which, thankfully, was in the shade. Oh cover, how I loved you that particular day.
The guys had already ordered one insalata di polpo to start while they were waiting for us, and I followed suit. What I had was simply amazing, and illustrated this balance of cold for the hot in the city. As my body caught up with the joy of the moment, I promised myself I would enjoy this salad as much as I could here in Italy, as I knew somewhat that I would not be able to find something like this back home. And as Hubby and my endless pursuit of finding this salad stateside ever since, prepared just the way we remembered, has attested: my assumption was correct.As with most items I find I can not find stateside, flavors that can somehow just not be duplicated, I've taken the matter into my own hands. A couple of items that have been on my target list: the hot/sweet sauce served on oyster pancakes in the night markets of Taipei that I can practically taste on my tongue, but I've yet to find a duplicate for it in endless jars of single-spoon-tried and discarded self-described "Taiwanese" sweet/spicy sauces this side of the Pacific; and the Roman Insalata di Polpo. The latter has actually proven to be a little easier than the former.
First was my pursuit of being able to cook octopus to just the texture I had in Italy (or at numerous restaurants stateside, which, despite their inability to duplicate my beloved insalata, still cooked octopus to just the right texture. most of the time, restaurants grilled the octopus, which did a quick-cook to be able to keep the texture right.). A couple of my first attempts were visibly protested by live octopus, who poo-pooed my kitchen attempts as laughable (I believe they may even have made some video-gone-viral on CephaTube of how tough my first octopi were). But I think I've gotten the process down now, and the octopus are now draining of color when they see me at the market. And guess what: it's so EASY.
Screw all those techniques I've tried online about dunking the octopus this way or that, whacking the benoggins out of the cephalopod, cooking with some crazy-ass bobbing cork, or what magic some dinky bay leaf will do to tenderize this creature. Keep in mind - its suckers and meat will soak up water around it, just as they are made also of water. It's, I guess, the way octopi live in the ocean, and like many true-to-roots dishes involving meat, if prepared in complement with the way it lived, the result will taste just right (think ducks with fruits and nuts, wild game with nuts and wild greens, beef with whole grains and field greens, simply salted fish, sashimi).
Polpo(ctopus) Preparation
Ingredients
Octopus, whole
Pot, with nary a shade of water at the bottom
Salt, generous helping (think, equate to the ocean's proportions)
Lemon, sliced or wedged (just for flavor)
Directions
1. Lightly rinse off the whole octopus (quick spray of water will do, just to wash any grime from the market off).2. Mix salt with the water in the pot. Keep in mind - this should be just enough to STEAM the octopus. Usually I have no more than about 1/2" of water in the pot.
3. Add lemon to the saltwater mixture.
4. Place rinsed octopus in the pot. Turn to drench a bit with the salted water.
5. Bring water to a boil, and keep at boil until most, if not all, of the octopus is no-longer slimy looking and non-translucent.
6. Reduce water to lowest heat, and let steam covered for 45 minutes+ (last night, whole octopus, I fell asleep and didn't turn off the octopus at this lowest steam setting for 2 hours). You'd be amazed how much water the octopus gives up.
7. Turn off the steaming water, and let the pot cool COVERED to room temperature. It's now ready to cut/serve/eat.
At this point, some people keep the fat on the outside of the octopus on. I prefer not to eat this layer, so I take the octopus to the sink, give it another quick rinse, and clean off the layer with my hands. Granted, you'll lose the suckers off the legs, but it also makes eating a little smoother without the gelatinous mass on the meat. Word of caution: if you're queasy about touching something slimy like gelatin, this may not be the best process for your bare hands and your psyche (not to mention your stomach). For the sake of your esophagus, use some disposable gloves.
Of last night's cooking expedition, I've sliced mine into 1" slices, mixed with lemon/olive oil/salt/pepper, and the mixture is marinating a bit in the fridge. The octopus, sans dressing, could taste a bit bland. Like chicken. To try to mimic what I had in Rome, I plan to mix the octopus with sliced cherry tomatoes, mozzarella, celery, and fresh parsley. At this point, I at least have the texture of the octopus down - the flavor of the salad will no doubt take some tweeking - but I will eventually get it right.
Rome, you're on my dinner plate tonight.
No comments:
Post a Comment