Gathering recipes for the first edition of Almost Italian, we included over twenty different Italian-American preparations for chicken.

Given European Italians’ relative indifference to their own poultry, we were surprised. As we’ve already written, the chickens the immigrants had known back home were small, sinewy birds, better suited for egg production or the soup pot than for Chicken alla Cacciatora.

But Italians new to America quickly took to an inexpensive source of protein. Back in Calabria in 1910, a man might have eaten chicken once or twice a year, but here in America even on his $10.00 per week wages, he could afford to provide his family with chicken every week.

Assuring a supply of both eggs and meat, the urban immigrants built poultry coops on tenement rooftops, while those who moved to rural areas could raise larger flocks.

The immigrants’ early recipes followed the old treatments they knew for dealing with tough fowl—stewing and braising the whole bird, more for the stock than for the meat. But as Italians settled into America where chicken was meatier, more tender, and much more plentiful, they developed new recipes. Birds were cut into portion-sized pieces as with Chicken alla Cacciatora. With more birds, there were more livers, giblets, and necks to be gathered for those long-simmered sauces Italians enjoyed over pasta.

Veal had never been as popular here as in Italy, and when it was available, it was still expensive. But Italian cooks discovered that less expensive chicken breasts could be pounded and sautéed as cutlets—or rolled around other ingredients like cheese and spinach. Restaurant menus printed after World War II feature Chicken Francese, a breaded chicken breast, sautéed in butter and finished with a sauce of butter, lemon juice, and white wine.

Chicken Francese was so well received that chefs soon began turning out all manner of dishes involving chicken breasts. By the late 1970’s food writers Craig Claiborne and Florence Fabricant were busy informing eager New York Times readers about the latest neighborhood restaurant to offer Chicken Marco Polo, Chicken Saltimbocca, Chicken Margherita, and Chicken Marsala.

Of course it would have been unthinkable to discard the legs, thighs, and wings, and these continued to go into stews and braises, as well as new recipes like Chicken alla Contadina, and Chicken Scarpariello.

For the next few weeks, Almost Italian will focus on chicken recipes. While we’ve already presented a few chicken dishes from the Italian-American repertoire, we still have a lot of ground to cover. From ubiquitous dishes like Chicken Parmesan to regional American favorites like Chicken Vesuvio and relative newcomers like Chicken Fra Diavolo, we’ll be looking at the vast array of Italian-American chicken recipes. Stay tuned and send us your comments.

Chicken Francese

In 1891, Italian cookery writer Pellegrino Artusi published several recipes (including one for gooseberries) served, alla Francese ‘in the style of the French.’ The description refers to dredging an item in beaten eggs and flour before sautéeing.

Ingredients:

4 Skinless, boneless chicken breasts
Salt & freshly ground black pepper
1 Egg, lightly beaten
1 Cup flour
1/4 Cup olive oil
1/2 Cup dry white wine
1 Cup chicken stock
Juice of 1/2 lemon
4 Tbs. flat-leaf Italian Parsley

Preparation:

Place the chicken breasts between two sheets of plastic wrap and pound them with a meat mallet or a rolling pin to a uniform thickness of approximately 3/8 in. Season the breasts on both sides with salt and pepper, and reserve on a plate.

Pour the flour into a shallow-sided dish and season with salt and pepper. Pour the eggs into another shallow-sided dish and season them with salt and pepper as well.

Dip each chicken breast into the eggs, covering both sides. Remove and drain for a moment, then dredge each breast in the flour and reserve on a plate.

Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat, then add the oil. Add the chicken breasts and sauté until the breasts begin to turn white around the edges (Approximately 2 – 3 minutes per side). If necessary, do this step in batches. Don’t crowd the pan.

Remove the breasts and reserve on a plate, covering them loosely with aluminum foil.

Raise the heat to high, and add the wine. Boil for 1 – 2 minutes to evaporate the alcohol, and to reduce, stirring with a wooden spoon to loosen any bits of chicken that have caramelized on the bottom of the pan.

Add the chicken stock, the lemon juice, and the lemon zest, and boil for approximately 5 minutes until the sauce is reduced to approximately 2/3 cup. Turn off the heat, but leave the pan on the burner.

Add the reserved chicken breasts, basting them with the sauce as they reheat.

To Serve:

Place one chicken breast on each of four dinner plates. Spoon the sauce over each one, and garnish with the chopped parsley.

Serves four

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There’s nothing “almost” about Pasta con Broccoli; it really is Italian, long enjoyed in homes throughout southern Italy.

But here, in America, the combination Pasta con Broccoli e Pollo became popular in the 1970′s–just when Italian-American chefs were beginning to delve into northern Italian cuisines. With the addition of sautéed chicken breasts, Chicken Ziti Broccoli (as it came to be known) was an example of an Italian dish prepared without tomato sauce, and thus, it passed muster for inclusion on “Northern” Italian-American menus.

Today, neighborhood Italian restaurants serve Pasta with Broccoli—along with chicken, hickory-smoked chicken, turkey, Rock Cornish game hen, and even mesquite-grilled chicken.

Fusion notwithstanding, it’s pretty good stuff; and I have to admit, it’s a delicious interpretation of a southern Italian stand-by. The following recipe includes all the flavor notes of the Italian original, adjusted for the inclusion of the ultimate American convenience protein: boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Even with garlic, this dish is subtle. In pairings like this, you’ll be rewarded for using the best ingredients, because, without a long-simmered sauce, each ingredient must stand on its own.

Americans are used to seeing supermarket broccoli year ’round. However, it’s a crop that likes cool, though not freezing, weather. Depending on where it’s grown, American broccoli is at its best between September and late May.

Ingredients:

2 Skinless, boneless chicken breasts (approximately 1 Lb., trimmed of any fat)
Salt & freshly ground black pepper
1 Head broccoli (approximately 1 1/4 Lbs.) cut into florets, stems peeled and cut into 1 in. chunks
Salt & freshly ground black pepper
1 Lb. Ziti or Penne
2 Tbs. Extra virgin olive oil
2 Cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped
2 Tbs. Capers, rinsed and drained—or 1/4 Tsp. freshly grated nutmeg (see Note)
1/2 tsp. Red pepper flakes
Grated rind of 1/2 lemon
4 Tbs. Flat-leaf Italian parsley chopped
Additional olive oil
Freshly grated Parmesan

Preparation:

Cut the breasts in half, then lengthwise into strips about 1 in. wide. Season the strips with salt and pepper.

Bring at least 6 quarts of salted water to a boil, then add the broccoli pieces. Cook for approximately 3 minutes. Scoop out the broccoli with a slotted spoon or small strainer and drain, reserving the cooking liquid.

Bring the reserved cooking liquid back to a boil, then add the pasta. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the pasta has reached the al dente state. Drain in a colander, reserving approximately 1 cup of the cooking liquid.

Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat, then add the oil. Add the chicken breasts, and cook, stirring, for 2 — 3 minutes, or until the pieces begin to turn white at the edges. Add the garlic; stir and cook briefly, perhaps another minute. Don’t let the garlic brown. Add the pepperoncino flakes and capers. Stir over heat for 1 minute.

Add the broccoli, lemon rind, and pasta to the pan; season with salt and pepper. Reduce the heat to medium-low; add the parsley and toss well to combine. Cook the mixture for 1 — 2 minutes. Add a few tablespoons of the pasta-cooking water, if needed.

Off the heat, drizzle with additional olive oil.

To Serve:

Divide the mixture equally among four dinner plates and serve with the Parmesan passed separately.

Serves four.

Photograph by Skip Lombardi

It was in Providence, Rhode Island, sometime in the mid-1980′s, that I first encountered cherry pepper shooters. These provocatively named antipasti are Italian-American concoctions: the classic is a cube of aged provolone cheese wrapped in a slice of prosciutto and stuffed into a pickled cherry pepper.

As American as the Sopranos, these two-bite treats are not without antecedents in the cuisine of Italy’s Mezzogiorno. Abruzzese, Pugliese, Campagnese, and Calabrese grew cherry peppers, pickled them, and stuffed them with a mixture of preserved tuna, anchovies, and breadcrumbs before submerging them in olive oil—a treatment still prevalent today. I’ve found several references to il pranzo della contadina, the farmer’s lunch, that include peperoncini ripieni, stuffed cherry peppers.

Until recently, how the Italian-American stuffed peppers had come to be called shooters was a mystery to me. Like Jello-shots, oyster shooters, and jalapeño poppers, a cherry pepper stuffed with both provolone and prosciutto—two seductively salty, rich, and pricey ingredients—projects a certain gastronomic swagger, especially if the pepper itself packs any heat. So, by association, anyone downing something like this in a couple of fast bites also radiates the same bravado. It’s a little bit like lighting a cigar with a five-dollar bill…

In fact, if I had to think of the archetypical consumer of anything called “a shooter,” it would be that loud guy who crashed my last Superbowl party, or one of the bachelorettes with whom you go to Vegas every year.

But I am now confident that I have found the actual origin of the term. During my research, I phoned Daniele Foods, a Rhode Island producer of fine Italian deli products. (They cure their own prosciutto and make stuffed cherry pepper shooters carried by salumerie across North America.) Daniele’s Director of Marketing was personable, though apologetic, when she said they had absolutely no idea where the term ‘cherry pepper shooters’ had originated.

Disappointed, I continued to scrutinize myriad Italian and American websites, eventually returning to Daniele’s own pages. And right there, hiding in plain sight on their Corporate History page, was the story of Daniele’s founder who, back in 1977, discovered that

And there I had it. It wasn’t a linguistic leap to get to ‘pro-SHOOT,’ the pronunciation favored by Americans of southern Italian heritage who often drop the final syllable of a word in their dialects. ‘Pro-shoot’ fits the same profile as ‘mooza-REL,’ ‘provo-LOHN’ and ‘min-e-STROHN.’

I’ll wager that it didn’t take long for ‘proshoot’ to become ‘shooter.’ Once again, se non è vero, è ben trovato.

Nothing about cherry pepper shooters is subtle, and perhaps that explains their tremendous popularity. Invented here, they are a legitimate component of any antipasto platter, as welcome at your next party as your (or my) Cousin Vinnie.

Cherry Pepper Shooters

Ingredients:

12 – 16 Marinated cherry peppers
1/2 Lb. Sharp Provolone cheese
4 – 6 Slices prosciutto (approximately 1/8 Lb.)
Olive Oil
1 Large clove garlic, peeled and sliced

Preparation:

Rinse the cherry peppers under running water. With a paring knife, remove the stems. Using a melon-baller, or grapefruit knife, remove the seeds and ribs.

Cut the provolone into cubes small enough to fit into the cherry peppers. Wrap each piece of cheese with a thin ribbon of prosciutto. Stuff one into each pepper.

Place the peppers in a clean glass jar, distributing the garlic as you go. Fill the jar with enough olive oil to cover the peppers. Let sit, refrigerated, overnight before serving.

Use the shooters within one week. The remaining oil will be a delicious addition to any salad.

Serve shooters at room temperature with lemon wedges.

Photo courtesy of Beelama

Sometime in the 1940′s or ’50′s, garlic bread became one of the signature components of an Italian-American restaurant meal. Unfortunately, the version I remember most vividly was a hapless mixture of margarine and garlic powder slathered on a French baguette.

That lackluster example aside, non-Italians reminiscing about the period confirm that it was not only spaghetti with meatballs that drew them into the neighborhood restaurants; it was the prospect of garlic bread.

American GIs who had served in Europe came home with a taste for artisanal bread unlike the mass-market products of the US. The closest approximation of what they’d come to enjoy was to be found in Little Italy restaurants. In addition, first and second generation Italian-Americans who’d been posted to Italy had encountered the bread of their forebears—toasted as crostini or grilled as bruschetta, both flavored with olive oil and garlic.

While it would have been too labor-intensive for the typical family-run restaurant to offer freshly toasted slices of bread to every diner, one mid-century technological innovation—aluminum foil—made it practical to prepare multiple loaves of seasoned bread and to warm them as needed. It may put aluminum foil in perspective to note that when it debuted, the Swanson TV dinner, sold and served in molded aluminum foil, created as much buzz as tail-fins on Cadillacs.

By 1949, aluminum foil had become a popular method for wrapping food that would be refrigerated or frozen until it was cooked (or reheated). Italian-American restaurant cooks quickly put this new material to good use, enclosing a long loaf of dense Italian bread, that had been split lengthwise so the cut surface could be brushed with garlic and olive oil and then heated in the oven. The seductive fragrance, rising from the “garlic bread” as it was delivered from kitchen to hungry patrons in the dining room, made it an instant success. Furthermore, in most establishments, this treat was served without additional charge. Here was yet another delicious element of “foreign intrigue” that was of entirely American-Italian invention.

Even if they have a track-record of having been produced with less-than-the-best-ingredients, many Almost-Italian standards have honest origins and deserve to be made with the best ingredients available.

Garlic Bread

Use a large, crusty loaf of bread. (We prefer those with denser textures.)

This would be a time to splurge a bit by treating yourself to the same extra virgin olive oil you’ve been using for your salad dressings.

Ingredients:

1 large loaf Italian bread (at least 1 pound)
2 Cloves garlic, peeled and minced
2 Tbs. Extra-virgin olive oil
2 Tbs. Freshly grated Parmesan
2 tsp. dried oregano
2 Tbs. Flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped

Preparation:

Preheat the oven to 350° F.

Mix the garlic with the olive oil and allow the mixture to macerate for 1/2 hour at room temperature. In a separate bowl, combine the Parmesan, oregano, and parsley.

Split the bread lengthwise, and brush the cut surfaces with the garlic/oil mixture. Sprinkle both surfaces with the herbs.

Put the two halves back together, wrap the loaf in aluminum foil, and place it on a sheet pan. Bake for around 10 minutes.

To Serve:

Carefully unwrap the loaf and, using a serrated knife, cut into thick slices. Serve at once.

Serves six

Sharing Pasta in Naples.

In 1912, three Sicilian immigrants—Michele Cantella, Gaetano LaMarca, and Giuseppe Seminara—recognized the growing demand for semolina pasta and founded the Prince Macaroni Company, naming it not for deposed Sicilian nobility, but for their location on Prince Street, in the very heart of Boston’s North End. Three years later, Emanuele Ronzoni started the Ronzoni Macaroni Company in New York.

Another Sicilian, Vincente Taormina, who had begun importing foods to New Orleans in 1905, moved to New York in 1927 to join forces with his cousin and fellow importer, Giuseppe Uddo. They called their new enterprise Progresso Foods. After the company had relocated to Vineland, N.J., the cousins changed their focus from importing Italian ingredients to producing the foods that Italian-Americans had grown accustomed to eating.

Meanwhile, other Italian entrepreneurs were filling niche markets in nearly all food-related areas of the new Italian-American culture. Commercial prosciutto-curing operations, as well as sausage and cheese-making companies, flourished in New York and New Jersey. Small Italian businesses grew into large-scale importers, bringing Parmesan, olive oil, and wine in straw-covered bottles from Italy to eager buyers in the numerous Little Italy communities.

Before long, there was an alimentaria, Italian grocery store, on nearly every block of every street in every Little Italy. For example, in the small industrial city of Middletown, Connecticut, my great-grandparents, Antonio and Sebastiana Amenta from Melilli, Sicily, opened a grocery store in their house. Patronized by fellow Melillese from all parts of town, the shop thrived and served Middletown and surrounding areas for decades.

Despite having come to America from impoverished agricultural areas, where most had not even been able to own the land they had cultivated, the new immigrants were skilled farmers. They were quick to plant a variety of vegetables and herbs in every arable space—from window boxes to back yards, community plots, and even on tenement rooftops. Along with their beloved tomatoes, basil, and chili peppers, they introduced new vegetables like arugula, zucchini, fennel, broccoli, and escarole.

Pioneers of the American wine industry, Italians had found their way to northern California’s Napa and Sonoma valleys by the 1880′s. Genoa-born Andrea Sbarbaro started the Italian Swiss Colony in 1881, and in 1894, Anton Nichelini from Ticino founded what has become the oldest family-owned winery in the United States. In the Sonoma Valley, Samuele Sebastiani began his winery in 1904.

Ironically, the passage of the Volstead Act and the establishment of Prohibition in 1919 actually fostered the production of wine. It is testimony to the strength of wine-drinking immigrant communities that the Volstead Act allowed a head of household to produce up to 200 gallons of wine for home consumption annually.

Having secured a source of California grapes, Cesare Mondavi began shipping the fruit back to his Italian community in Minnesota in 1919. Finding northern California reminiscent of his old home in Italy’s province of Le Marche, he moved his family from Minnesota to Lodi, California, in 1923.

Following the repeal of Prohibition in 1933, Ernesto and Julio Gallo started their commercial operations. A decade later, Cesare Mondavi bought the Charles Krug winery for his children.¹

The demise of Prohibition encouraged Italians to open restaurants in their neighborhoods, although the majority of patrons were non-Italians. Much of the appeal of those first eateries was that Italian restaurateurs treated diners like members of their extended families, serving them the same food ordinarily prepared for a Sunday meal at home. Meanwhile, Italians who lived in the neighborhood saw no reason whatsoever to leave their own homes to pay for food they could prepare for themselves.

…continued

¹ The Mondavi family’s rise from grape shippers and produce wholesalers to their position as the driving force for American wine-making is as gripping a drama as any Italian opera. We recommend The House of Mondavi: The Rise and Fall of an American Wine Dynasty by Julia Flynn Siler; Gotham Books, 2007.