Slim Man Cooks Angela's Chicken Stew

Angela's Chicken Stew and The Story of AngelaAlmost every Sunday, we’d go to my grandmother’s house and have a big Italian dinner. The usual suspects would be there; my Mom and Dad and us three kids, and my uncle Oscar, his wife and three kids. The kids would play in the backyard, wrestle on the living-room floor, and jump on the beds in the basement. Angela would cook, and when the pasta was ready, she’d serve us kids at the kitchen table and say…“Eat that spaghetti or I’ll shove it down your throat.”Which we kids thought was ridiculously hilarious.Angela was my grandmother. She was an Italian immigrant, who came from Italy to New York City as a child. The family lived in Harlem. As a teenager, Angela and her sister, Marie, started working in a garment sweatshop — like so many other Italian immigrant women--seven days a week, all day long, for next to nothing. Disgusted with the working conditions, she and Marie helped organize the first dressmakers strike for the fledgling International Ladies Garment Workers Union.Their mother, Giuseppina, accompanied her daughters on the strike, brandishing a rolling pin, telling anybody within earshot that if anybody messed with her girls, they’d have to go through her first. Angela and Marie continued to organize, with Giuseppina following them with her rolling pin.Angela was very effective; she was an eloquent, persuasive and fearless organizer. She was eventually offered a chance to organize and manage the Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia area (later known as the Upper South Department of the ILGWU) and she accepted the challenge. So she gathered up her two sons, and moved to Baltimore, Maryland.Angela started by going to small towns on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. She didn’t drive. The ILGWU eventually found her a driver, a one-eyed African-American named Jesse. I can only imagine what it must have been like, going to these tiny towns in the not-so-deep south, an Italian woman and her black driver, trying to convince people to join the union.Organizing was a tough business in those days. Factory owners didn’t want anything to do with unions — it would obviously cost them money to pay a decent wage and provide benefits. A lot of those factory owners ran their towns. They had the politicians and police in their pockets.My grandmother was thrown down a flight of steps when she tried to organize one shop. She was thrown in jail after trying to organize another. She was beaten more than once.But she persisted. Why? Because it pissed her off the way the workers were treated. Women were locked in factories for hours at a time. One hundred and forty six garment workers died in a fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist factory in New York because the owners had locked the doors to keep the workers inside working. Women were sexually abused. They made very little money. They had no rights. Angela wanted to change all that.And she did. She took her region of the Ladies Garment Workers Union from nothing to about 16,000 members when she retired in 1972. She was the first woman vice president of a major union. She substantially raised the standard of living for thousands and thousands of people. And she did it without expecting anything in return. She told me more than once…“When you give, you give with no strings attached.”Everybody loved her, including the bosses she fought with. They respected her.Angela made some tough choices when she started organizing in New York. Her marriage suffered. Her husband, Romollo, was an Italian from Rome; Angela’s father had arranged the marriage. Romollo, who was old-fashioned and older than Angela, didn’t approve of her radicalism, and they filed for divorce. During the divorce, her children — my father Philip and my uncle Oscar – were put in an orphanage while Angela and Romollo, fought for custody.Romollo was a waiter at a fancy hotel. Angela was a radical union organizer who’d been thrown in jail. Romollo used that evidence against Angela and won custody; a crushing blow to Angela. She started using her maiden name, Bambace.Angela stayed close to her kids; she moved to a house in Queens near Romollo’s. She watched over her two boys; she was determined to do whatever she could to help. When she moved the family to Baltimore, she put Oscar through medical school and Philip through law school.Angela was amazing –feisty, strong, and strong-willed. She drank (bourbon Manhattans or chianti), she smoked (Larks), and she cared more about people than anyone I have ever known.Angela used to wait in the alley in her housecoat during Christmas to tip the garbage men. Homeless guys would come to the back door; she’d make them a sandwich, and then pay them to do yard work. All this from a woman who was invited to John F. Kennedy’s inauguration and had U.S. Senators sending her Christmas cards. Mayors and governors would stop by the house during holidays.One day she was in the hospital for a surgery when Hubert Humphrey, the Vice President of the United States called. They were friends. The nurse handed the phone to Angela, but she thought it was her son, Philip, playing a joke. So she hung up, saying she wasn’t in the mood for any of his “crap.”A few moments later the phone rang again. The nurse told Angela it was the Vice President. Again. She took the call.Angela would cuss on occasion. I remember one night she took us kids to a restaurant, and she told the Baltimore City Comptroller, Hyman Pressman, that he was “full of shit” after he recited an impromptu poem about my sister. Everyone laughed, including Hyman, who knew my grandmother well, and loved her.The politicians admired Angela because she was honest, uncompromising; she couldn’t be bought or influenced. She fought for what she believed in. She was a champion to the workers she represented; people who were really struggling to make ends meet.Angela was modest, in every sense of the word. She never bragged about her accomplishments. She lived in a modest house. She didn’t wear diamonds or fancy jewelry. Oscar once bought her a fur coat; she didn’t feel comfortable wearing it, because she thought it would be hypocritical to be fighting for the causes of working people while waltzing around in a mink coat.My family lived with Angela from the time I was born until I was six. I lived with Angela again when I was in my late teens. I used to do her shopping. I’d drive (in the used American Motors Rambler she bought me) to a little store behind the Lexington Market in downtown Baltimore called DiMarco’s. They used to sell Italian meats, cheeses and wines.I used to buy her Chianti – in the small straw bottles — that didn’t cost more than two or three dollars. Angela and I would have dinner, we’d have a glass of Chianti, and she’d tell me stories about her life. I was fascinated. Crazy how some kids get so attached to their grandparents. I was really attached to Angela.One night Oscar, her first son, walked in with a suitcase and a case of wine. He told us he had just left his wife. I guess Oscar’s wife wasn’t too happy about it, because the reason he brought the case of wine was because he didn’t want her pouring his ridiculously expensive vino down the sink after he left.Oscar moved in. The two of us shared my bedroom in Angela’s basement.Angela and I were having dinner one night when Oscar told us he was going out. He left, and we finished our dinner and our glass of Chianti. When she asked me for another glass, I told her there was no more.She asked about Oscar’s wine. I told Angela that all we had was Oscar’s special wine. She looked at me and said.“Who more special than we?”Angela told me to go get a bottle. So I pulled a bottle from Oscar’s case, and poured us each a glass. Angela took a sip and started laughing. The wine was that incredible.After we finished our glass of wine, she wanted to go to sleep. I asked her what to do with the wine. She said to stick a cork in it and put it in the fridge, just like we did with the Chianti. I did, and then went to bed.A little after midnight, I woke up when I heard Oscar yelling my name.   He came into the basement bedroom. He wasn’t too happy about finding his fine wine in the fridge with a cork jammed in it. I told him the story. When I got to the “Who more special than we?” part, he started laughing.Oscar then gave me my first lesson in wine, one of many to come. He explained to me that the bottle I had opened was a 1954 Chateau Mouton Rothschild cabernet. The labels were drawn by famous artists –Salvador Dali, Picasso, and Miro. When he told me the bottle of wine was worth three hundred dollars, I was amazed. It was the early 1970s. At that time, three hundred dollars could buy a car. And a house. With a pool. And a wine cellar.ANGELA’S CHICKEN STEWWe called Angela “Nanny”, which is a screwed up version of “nonni”, which is what most Italian kids call their grandmothers. Angela didn’t seem to love cooking, and who could blame her? She worked long hours, was frequently out of town. We ate out a lot. She loved Chinese food; we used to go to a place on Charles Street in Baltimore called Jimmy Wu’s. She ate lunch almost every workday at a place called Oyster Bay in downtown Baltimore, right around the corner from her office. Pete was her waiter. Angela loved steak tartare, and French onion soup.When Angela cooked, she had a rotation of three dishes for our big Sunday Italian dinners. She almost always made breaded cutlets (veal or chicken) with each dish.Pasta piselli was a spaghetti dish she made with peas and onions. She also made the classic Italian meat sauce—sausages, meatballs, and pork in a tomato sauce that cooked all day long. And she made an Italian chicken stew, which I recently tried to recreate with the few remaining brain cells that I have left. The stew was delizioso!Angela was a champion of the underdog, of the neglected.Most chicken recipes call for chicken breasts. I love chicken breasts. I’m a big fan. Yes, breasts are sexy. A lot of attention gets paid to breasts, and rightfully so. But what about the much overlooked chicken thigh?It’s an underdog. It’s neglected. It needs someone to champion its cause. If Angela were alive today, she’d be singing the praises of the dark meat, fighting for its rightful place in the culinary catalogue.So in Angela’s chicken stew, I use chicken thighs.I admire the thigh. It’s juicy. It starts at the knee and goes all the way up to the hip--which is really close to some sexy stuff. I think thighs are sexy. And I’m bringing sexy back.Notes…When you brown your pancetta pieces, or your chicken thighs, you want the heat high enough to make them brown, but not so high that they burn or stick to the bottom of the pan. Dutch ovens work well for a dish like this. Stoves vary in temperature—on my stove at Slim’s Shady Trailer Park, the temperature varies FROM BURNER TO BURNER! It’s enough to drive you crazy.Well, I was a little crazy to begin with.Angela liked to drink sweet vermouth. Not all day, every day. She’d have the occasional Martini and Rossi sweet vermouth on the rocks, sometimes with bourbon and a maraschino cherry—a bourbon Manhattan.In this recipe, I was going to add some sweet vermouth, but I didn’t have any. I used a medium sherry instead. It added a real nice flavor.If you don't like peas, you can substitute asparagus tips. If you’re using frozen green peas, measure out a cup and a half and let them sit. You don’t have to defrost them. By the time they’re ready to go in the stew, they’ll be defrosted.Finally, when I was at the grocery store, I was waiting in line to buy a whole piece of pancetta, which I was going to chop into small pieces for this stew. But the line at the deli was real long, so I picked up a package of Boar’s Head pancetta, four ounces, thinly sliced. I chopped it up into smaller pieces, and it came to about 1 ¼ cups.It browned really well, and got deliciously flaky and crisp. I’ll probably use it again in the future. It was delizioso!When working with raw chicken, wash your cutting boards, your knives, your hands.Serves six adults, or maybe two teenage boys.INGREDIENTS2 pounds chicken thighs, boneless, skinless (6 thighs)Kosher salt and fresh cracked black pepper4 ounces pancetta cut in small pieces (1 ¼ cups)1 cup each—chopped onions and celery1 ½ cups chopped carrotsCelery tops—those leafy green things? Save 4 or 5 leaves!3 cloves minced garlic (about 1 tablespoon)½ teaspoon dried oregano1 cup white wine4 cups chicken broth3 tablespoons of flour4 small red potatoes, skin on, cut into pieces about the size of a ping-pong ball (you’ll need about 2 ½ cups)2 tablespoons medium sherry (or sweet vermouth, or sweet marsala)1 ½ cups green peas (fresh are best, frozen are OK)Extra virgin olive oil (optional)Here we go…Rinse the chicken and pat dry with paper towels. Salt and pepper both sides, I use kosher salt and fresh cracked black pepper. Rub it in. Rub-a-dub-dub.Heat a large pot, like a Dutch oven, over medium heat for 2 minutes.Add the pancetta, let it cook for 4 minutes, or until brown. Try and turn the pancetta over and let the other side brown for 4 more minutes or so. The objective here is to try and get all sides of the pancetta pieces golden brown.When the pancetta has browned, remove with a slotted spoon to a small bowl.There should be some drippings in the bottom of the pot/Dutch oven. We need just enough to coat the bottom of the pan—about 1 tablespoon.If there is not enough, add a drizzle of olive oil until there is. If there’s too much oil, the chicken won’t brown. If there’s too little oil, the chicken will stick to the bottom of the pot. You’re smart. You can do this.Turn the heat to medium-high for 1 minute.Add chicken and let it brown for 5 minutes. Don’t move it around! Let it brown.When it’s brown, use some tongs and turn each piece over. Let them brown on the other side for 5 minutes, until golden.The chicken is gonna cook in the stew for another 40 minutes. We don’t want to cook it all the way. We just want the outsides to be seared brown.Remove the chicken thighs to a platter, and let ‘em cool, baby.Turn the heat down to medium. There should be enough juicy stuff in the bottom of the pan. We’ll need about 2 tablespoons. If there’s not enough liquid/oil in the bottom of the pan, add a little olive oil.Add the onion, celery--the chopped celery and the tops, carrots, garlic and oregano to the pot. Cook the vegetables for 5-6 minutes, until the onions are translucent. Stir frequently.Put the heat on high. Add the cup of white wine. When it starts to bubble, let it cook off for 1 minute.Reduce the heat to medium, and cook for 5 minutes, stirring often.Add the chicken broth, and turn the heat to high.Whisk in the flour, 1 tablespoon at a time, until it’s smooth and all the lumps are gone. When all 3 tablespoons have been whisked in, and it’s all smoovy-smoov…Add the potatoes. When the broth comes to a boil, let the potatoes cook for 3 minutes, while boiling.Reduce the heat to medium. Add the 2 tablespoons of sherry or sweet vermouth.Cook for 15 minutes.The chicken should be cool by now. Cut each chicken thigh into smaller pieces, about the size of a small egg.Put the chicken in the pot. Reduce the heat to medium-low. Cook for 20 minutes.Don’t stir! This is a stew. Let it sit and stew for a while. You keep stirring this thing and potatoes are gonna break up, and chicken is gonna break down.After 20 minutes, give it a stir. Then cook for another 20 minutes.Add the peas and the cooked pancetta. Cook for 10 minutes.Scrape the sides of the pot, right above the stew-line. Scrape it right into the stew, this is some flavorful stuff! Give the stew a gentle stir, taste for salt and pepper and adjust.Stab a potato with a folk—it should be tender. Take a bite of the chicken—it should be firm and just a bit flaky—like me.Dish it up, and…MANGIAMO!!!! 

Slim Man Cooks Meatballs

Meatballs and Motown

When I was a kid, fresh out of school, a friend of a friend got me an appointment in New York City with a pretty big publisher.  I had written some songs, which I recorded and produced at a studio in my hometown of Baltimore, Maryland. I had my little demo tape all ready for the Big Time.  In the Big Apple.  With a Big Publisher.I got dressed up in my white, three-piece, Saturday Night Fever suit.  I had the John Travolta hairdo.  I used so much hairspray you could have hit me in the head with a baseball bat and I wouldn’t have felt it.I took the train from Baltimore to Manhattan.  I walked uptown from Penn Station, figured I’d save money on a cab.The building was on 54th Street.  I walked in, gave the doorman my name, and took the elevator to one of the top floors.  I got off the elevator and gave the receptionist my name.  I waited for a while, taking in the views of Manhattan, dreaming about what kind of deal I was gonna be offered. The receptionist led me into the guy’s office.He was probably in his 50s. I shook his hand. He gave me a strange smile and a look-over. He then told me that his friend—the guy who set-up the meeting—mentioned that I was “quite attractive.”Welcome to the music binniz! I was flattered, in an awkward way. But I wasn’t there for a beauty contest; I was just a young man trying to pitch some songs. I sat down on the couch. The guy sat on the edge of his desk, and started leering at me like Pepe LePew. I was getting a very strange vibe.When the guy walked over and started to sit down on my lap, I decided it might be best to just skedaddle out of there. So I stood up, thanked him, and hurdled over the couch. I just wanted someone to listen to my songs, without having to…well, you know. I wasn’t pissed off, just disappointed. He hadn’t listened to one song. I walked outside, onto the streets of Manhattan.It was pouring down rain.  I had a lump in my throat the size of a basketball.  I was supposed to meet my Dad at a French restaurant for a victory lunch.  It’s hard to catch a cab in NYC in the rain.  So I walked the few blocks to the restaurant; Café Brittany, in the upper 50s, on the west side of town.My Dad was a World War II veteran.  He followed Patton’s army across France.  He once rescued a French girl who was behind enemy lines.  So the French women who worked at Café Brittany thought he was a hero.  And he was.  And they treated him like one.  He spoke French and was charming.  They loved him.  No wonder he went there so often.I walked in, all wet.  My white suit was splattered with muddy water that cars had splashed on me as they passed by in the rain.  I was a mess.  I sat down.  I could hardly talk.When my Dad asked how it went, I told him it went OK. I didn’t tell him the whole story. I was kinda embarrassed. I just kept my mouth shut.  Like my Dad used to say, “Nobody gets in trouble by keeping their mouth shut.”  Lunch was quick and quiet.  I left my Dad with his admirers, and went back out into the rain.  I started cold-calling publishers.One of the first calls I made was the Motown office in New York.  Motown had some of my favorite writers — Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, Holland-Dozier-Holland — and they had some of my favorite songs.To my surprise a gal named Roxanna Gordy answered the phone.  I asked for an appointment.  She asked when.  I said hesitating as I mustered up my courage, “How about right now?”About thirty minutes later I was in her office.  It was on 57^th Street, across from Carnegie Hall.  I looked like shit, my suit was soaked and soiled, and my hair at this point looked more like Moe from the Three Stooges than John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.Roxanna Gordy took my tape, and started playing it.  I sat there in silence as we listened.Her office door was open a crack.  A few minutes into the first song, the door cracked open a little more, and a man’s head popped in.  The guy asked Roxanna about the music, and she pointed at me.  The guy didn’t look too impressed with the way I looked.Can’t blame him.But he liked what he heard.  He invited me into his office.  His name was Carl Griffin.  He was VP of Motown publishing in New York.  We hit it off.Carl signed me to a songwriting deal a few weeks later.  I got paid a thousand bucks every month to write a song every two weeks.  I was in heaven.Right after I signed, Carl called and asked me to write a song for a new artist who had a debut CD coming out.  I asked Carl when, and he told me, “Yesterday.”That didn’t leave much time.  I immediately wrote a song, and it sounded pretty good to me — it gave me the tingles, which is always a good omen – but how was I going to record it?I didn’t have time to book a studio.  All I had was an old cassette player with two inputs, and two microphones.  So I hung one mic inside my upright piano, and sang into the other mic.It was the worst recording I’ve ever done.  On the playback, the piano came out of one side, and my voice came out of the other.  I loved the song, but the recording made me want to hide in a cave in Afghanistan.  I sent the tape to Carl.A few weeks later, Carl came down to Baltimore to do a demo session with me.  I’d written some new songs, and we needed to get them recorded.  We went into the studio, which was pretty fancy.  Carl sat me down in front of the speakers, and told me he wanted me to listen to something.He put on a tape and what came out of those speakers was amazing.It was my song, the one I had recorded into the cassette player.  The new version sounded as good as anything I’d ever heard.  Dave Grusin, one of my favorite producers, produced it.  Dave wrote the soundtracks for Tootsie, The Graduate, On Golden Pond and lots of other movies.The players were amazing…all the top session guys.  Francisco Centena on bass, Eric Gale on guitar, Ralph McDonald on percussion, and Dave Grusin himself played electric piano.I was absolutely floored.  I could not believe my ears.  They took that shitty little recording of my song and made it into this amazing record.  With a stunning new singer that had an amazing voice.The singer was Angela Bofill.  Her debut CD was Angie.  My song was "Summer Days."The album went on to get great reviews in the New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times.  It was quite an auspicious debut.  It sold quite a few copies.  It created a big buzz in the Biz.I played the song for my Dad.  He was a rough, tough, and gruff guy that didn’t radiate a lot of warmth, and he didn’t give out compliments.  But I could tell he really liked it.  Especially when he said, “I want you to play that at my funeral.”Keep in mind, my Dad wasn’t old or sick or close to death or anything.  But whenever I’d visit him, he’d remind me to play “Summer Days” at his funeral.That was my Dad’s way of saying he liked it.MEATBALLS To this Italian kid, meatballs are a source of comfort.  They remind me of Sunday at my grandmother Angela’s house, the smell of the sauce, the warmth of the kitchen, the family drinking and screaming and throwing knives at each other.Home sweet home.When I need a little comfort, I make meatballs. A lot of Italians used to put bread soaked in milk in their meatballs. The reason was simple—you could make a lot more meatballs that way. And when you’re poor and starving, you do what you can to extend a meal. I’ve cooked them both ways—with bread and without. And they’re just plain better without the bread soaked in milk.If you’re worried about keeping your balls moist, just don’t overcook them. About 3 or 4 minutes a side is plenty of time. I don’t use lean meats. A lot of that juice makes things…juicy.Traditional meatballs are made with equal amounts of ground beef, ground pork, and ground veal. If you have any objections to any of these meats, you can substitute.I’ve made meatballs from ground turkey, and they were good - I used half dark and half white meat. I’ve made meatballs with just ground beef and pork, and they were good, too. Just make sure you end up with 3 pounds of meat, which should make about 60 or 70 meatballs. Feeds two, if you’re in my family.Freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese is the way to go. The pre-grated stuff in a box is dry and tasteless, and should be avoided if possible.You can eat meatballs plain, but I put my meatballs in a tomato sauce. You will need about 6 cups of tomato sauce—I make my own, it’s quick, simple and easy. My recipe is on page XX.Ingredients6 cups tomato sauce (bottled is OK, homemade is bestest!)1 pound ground beef1 pound ground pork1 pound ground veal3 eggs3 tablespoons onion minced fine3 tablespoons chopped Italian flat leaf parsley (you can use curly parsley in a pinch)1 ½ cups bread crumbs — don’t use any that are heavily flavored — I use plain panko¾ cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheeseSalt (I use 1 teaspoon of kosher salt) and pepperExtra virgin olive oilHere we go…Heat your tomato sauce in a large pot over high heat. When it starts to bubble, lower to a simmer.Get a big bowl. Put the meat in, crack the eggs on top. Add the onion and parsley. Add the breadcrumbs, and the Parmigiano. Add some salt and fresh cracked pepper.Mix ‘em up! I use my hands. Dig in, mix all the ingredients together. When it’s all well-mixed, it’s time to roll our balls! Grab a small amount of the mix, about the size of a golf ball. Roll it into a ball. Put it on a plate, and flatten it a bit. Do this with all the meat mixture.Get a large sauté pan. Add a tablespoon of olive oil. Swirl it around the pan, and then wipe out the excess with a paper towel. Put the heat on medium, heat for 2 minutes.Add as many meatballs as you can without crowding. No bunching! Cook for 4 minutes. Don’t move them around! We want the bottoms of our balls to be brown. Pick up a meatball with some tongs. If the bottom is brown, turn all the meatballs over and cook for another 4 minutes until brown on the other side. Slice one open, take a look. If it’s done, put the meatballs in the tomato sauce. If not, cook for another minute or two, and then place in the sauce when done.Do this with all your meatballs! Drain the sauté pan of excess juices after each batch. When they’ve all cooked, let them simmer in the sauce for 10 minutes.Dish it up! Put it over pasta, or serve as an appetizer with some crusty bread for your crusty friends, and…MANGIAMO!!!!!!!

Slim Man Cooks Linguine with White Clam Sauce

Linguine White Clam Sauce with Gary Puckett and the Union GapThis dish was one of my uncle Oscar’s favorites. He loved to cook this sauce, and his version was about as good as it gets.A few years ago, I was having brunch with Unc. He lived in a big house in this great section of Baltimore, Maryland, called Guilford.As we were sitting on the outdoor patio, drinking Bloody Marys that sunny Sunday afternoon, I commented on the watch he was wearing. It was a Movado, the one with the plain black face and the big diamond at the top of the dial, where the “12” usually is. It was one good-looking watch, and I said so.He took it off his wrist and said, “I want you to have it.” He gave it to me.I told him that I didn’t want it. Unc insisted. I resisted. This went back and forth for a few minutes, then he screamed, “Take the fuckin’ watch!”Oscar cursed a lot. So did my Dad, his brother. Funny, it never sounded really vulgar coming from them. Just seemed kind of natural. They were tough guys, but well-educated and eloquent. They used the “F” word a lot.I took the fucking watch. You don’t say no to a guy like Unc — it could be lethal. I put it on my wrist. Wow. That was one beautiful watch. I figured I’d take the watch and give it back to Oscar the next day, after the Bloody Marys had worn off. It was way too expensive a watch to keep.I had a date that night – a girl I’d had my eye on for quite some time. She worked in a club where my band played, and, for what seemed like years, I’d wanted to ask her out. I had a big crush. I finally got up the nerve to ask her out. I did. She said yes.And I had a new watch to wear on that first date.I wasn’t trying to impress her with the watch. Any woman who is impressed by a watch isn’t the kind of woman who’d want to hang around a guy like me.What I was hoping would be impressive was the fact that my uncle had given me the watch off his wrist.I took this girl to my friend’s restaurant — an elegant fine-dining place with a grand piano and a small dance floor. They had a guy who played piano and sang Sinatra, and you could wine, dine, and dance, Rat Pack style.The food was great, Italian stuff. The bar was cool. The lighting, the decor, the ambiance was really kinda sexy. My uncle Oscar used to go there. So did a lot of successful Baltimore Italian guys who looked like they were in the Mafia.And maybe they were.The waitresses – dressed in black bowties, white shirts, and black vests – would stand inconspicuously in the shadows, hands clasped behind their backs, keeping their eyes on the room. All someone had to do was make a hand gesture, and a waitress would be bounding across the room like an Olympic gymnast doing the floor routine.If you got up to go to the bathroom, or have a dance, when you came back, your napkin would be miraculously folded into some kind of Origami sculpture. That’s the kind of place it was.My date and I sat down at the bar and ordered drinks. We clinked glasses, she saw the watch and said, “That’s a great watch.” I thanked her, and then told her the story about Unc giving me the watch off his wrist.She seemed more impressed by the watch, than by the fact that Oscar gave it to me right off his wrist.Then I asked her what her favorite band was. She didn’t hesitate, “Gary Puckett and the Union Gap.”Gary Puckett and the Union Gap? I knew who they were. I remembered their song, “Young Girl”, whose first line is “Young Girl, get out of my mind, my love for you is way out of line” which is a line that if sung today, might get you thrown in jail, let alone be a big hit.I had an Ex who hated the word “hate.” She’d say “least favorite” instead. She turned out to be my least favorite Ex.Gary Puckett and the Union Gap are one of my least favorite bands. I mean, think of all the bands in the world - Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, the Stones, the Jimi Hendrix Experience, U2, Nirvana, the Who, Queen, Pink Floyd, The Supremes, The Temptations, Sly and the Family Stone, the Ohio Players, Funkadelic--and you’re going with Gary Puckett and the Union Gap?That’s what was going through my mind as I sat there at the bar having a drink with this gorgeous girl who I had such a crush on.“What time is it?” she asked.I smiled and looked down at my watch with the big diamond and told her.She asked me again about five minutes later. I told her. Five minutes later, same thing. It was kind of cute, the first 20 or 30 times she asked me what time it was.I was kinda glad when we finally sat down for dinner. She asked me what time it was. Again. I smiled and looked down at my watch. The glass that covered the face was gone. The two hands were gone—the big one and the little one. The black face with the big diamond was gone. I was staring at a bunch of gears…that weren’t moving.I took the broken watch off my wrist and said, “Let’s not worry about time. Let’s just enjoy this moment.” I put what was left of the watch in my jacket pocket.When my date excused herself to go to the bathroom, I dove underneath the table. The waitresses came bounding over, thinking I was having a seizure, or choking to death.When I told them what happened, they helped me look. There were more lighters underneath that table than during a slow song at an Elton John concert.One of the waitresses alerted us that my date was on her way back from the bathroom, and they jumped back into position, and I got out from under the table.The rest of the evening was nice if uneventful, except that every time my date would go to the bathroom, everyone from the busboys to the hostess was looking on the floor for the missing pieces of my watch.We had dinner, had a drink and a dance, and then I took her home.We never went out again. I mean, she was a nice person, kind of sweet and funny. And gorgeous.I hate to admit it, but the Gary Puckett and the Union Gap thing bothered me.After I dropped her off, I went back to the restaurant. Nobody had found anything. I pulled the broken watch out of my jacket pocket and looked at it again. No glass. No hands. No face. No huge diamond.I wasn’t looking forward to telling my Uncle about the watch. He was a very understanding man, but he also had a temper. One time, Oscar got pissed off at his uncle, who had accused Oscar--who was a doctor--of not taking such great medical care of his wife. Oscar threw a glass at the guy.Lucky he missed. He hit the coffee table instead. Unc threw the glass so hard, that years later, when I was having the table refinished, the shards were so deeply embedded in the table top, that they couldn’t even sand them out.And I was thinking about that glass when I called Oscar that morning. I told Unc that I had broken the incredibly expensive diamond Movado watch he’d so generously given me.He started laughing. Really hard.Then he told me that he’d bought the watch on the streets of New York City for 10 bucks.LINGUINE WITH WHITE CLAM SAUCEThere’s nothing like a little linguine with white clam sauce after your uncle has just played a huge joke on you.Use the smallest clams you can find. Oscar sometimes used vongole veraci, tiny little clams from Italy the size of a thumbnail.I used wild Manila clams, about the size of a quarter. A few months ago, I did a show at a club called Spaghettini in Seal Beach, California. My brother and his wife had come in from Arizona for the concert. The day after the show, my brother wanted me to cook some clam sauce, so I searched and found fresh Manila clams in a wild seafood store deep in the heart of Cambodia Town, a neighborhood a few miles from Seal Beach. The clams were wild and fresh and looked and smelled wonderful.Whatever clams you use, soak them in ice water for a few hours, or overnight. This is to get rid of the grit, to let the clams purge themselves of their sand. The smaller the clam, the less grit and sand.Cleaning the clams can be a pain. But that’s one of the keys to this recipe - you have to clean your clams.  Pour the clams and the ice water they’ve been soaking in into a colander. Rinse them off and scrub each one with a vegetable brush. Repeat.Whenever Oscar made clam sauce, he always mentioned the special ingredient my Mom had told him about. Oscar loved my Mom.It was my Mom who suggested to Oscar that he put two anchovies in the sauce.To some people eating anchovies is like eating a sweaty eyebrow.But when you add two anchovies in the beginning of this sauce, and mash them up, it really lends a great flavor. Just don’t let anybody see you do it, and don’t tell anybody about it. Like my Dad used to say, “Nobody gets in trouble by keeping their mouth shut.”Ingredients6 dozen small clams, the smallest you can find3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil6 cloves garlic, thinly sliced (about 2 tablespoons)Crushed red pepper (I start off with ¼  teaspoon)2 anchovies1 cup clam juice¼ cup white wine2 dozen or so grape tomatoes, yellow or red or both, cut in half, seeds squeezed outA handful of Italian flat leaf parsley, chopped (¼ cup)Kosher saltHere We Go…Rinse the clams one final time in cold water.Start your pasta water boiling on the highest heat.Put the olive oil in a large pan. Put the heat on medium.Add the crushed red pepper and the sliced garlic, and cook until the garlic is pale gold, a few minutes.   Don’t burn the garlic!Add the anchovies and mash them with the back of a wooden spoon ‘til they disintegrate.Add the clam juice and the white wine. Turn the heat on high.When the sauce comes to a boil, reduce it for a minute or so. Turn the heat to medium-low.Add the clams to the sauce.Then add the tomatoes and the parsley. Stir. Cover.After a couple of minutes, take the cover off, stir, put the cover back on.When the clams open up, the sauce is done.Throw out any unopened clams. This is important. Unopened clams are bad clams. No bad clams!When your pasta water has boiled, toss in a few tablespoons of kosher salt, and add a pound of linguine. Cook according to the instructions on the box. Two minutes before it’s supposed to be ready, check the pasta. Take a piece, and bite through it. If it’s chalky in the center it’s not done. Check every 2 minutes, until the pasta is not chalky or chewy. The pasta might take longer than the instructions.When the pasta is al dente (firm to the bite), drain and add it to the sauce. Drizzle with a touch of olive oil, and toss. Add about half of the clam sauce to the pasta and toss gently.Dish it up! Put a small amount of pasta—about a handful—on a plate, and top off with a ladle of the clam sauce. Garnish with parsley, and serve it up.MANGIAMO!!!!!!!!! 

Slim Man Cooks Carrot and Onion Sauce

Carrot and Onion Sauce and The Funky Shack

People use the word “literally” in the wrong way. For instance, my niece once said, “I literally puked my guts out” which is so wrong on so many levels.But way back when, when I was literally a starving musician, this was a sauce I loved to cook. I still do. Why? You can find the ingredients anywhere. It is quick, simple, healthy and delicious.It is cheap to make. Pine nuts (pignoli) are a lot more expensive now than they were back then in 1492, but still, this dish doesn’t cost much to make. This was important back in the early days. We didn’t have much do-re-mi.I was in a band called BootCamp. We started off with a bang, had two of the first 100 videos ever played on MTV, and we were getting a lot of attention from folks in the music biz.Our manager, Carl Griffin, called and asked if we wanted to spend the summer playing at a beach club in the Hamptons. On the beach. Long Island. New York. The Hamptons! It’s where all the rich and famous folk spend their summers.We took the gig.We packed up all our stuff, and headed up the New Jersey Turnpike. We were based out of Baltimore, Maryland; it was a five-hour drive to Long Island.The club had rented a house for us right across the street. We had visions of mansions, and pools, and tennis courts…and as we drove to the club, we saw all of that. Every house we passed was fancier than the one before. Swimming pools. Fancy landscaping. Garages bigger than our houses.But when we pulled up to the club, and saw the house right across the street, our hearts sank. It was a shack. Literally. We walked in…there were spaces between the boards of the walls that you could see through. We called it - the Funky Shack.There were mice camping out, who later became our friends. There were a few really small rooms. The ceiling was maybe a little more than six feet high. I’m 6’ 2” and my head literally almost touched the sagging fiberboard panels that made up the ceiling.There was no heat. There was no air-conditioning. The only water that came out of the faucets, including the shower, was saltwater. The one and only bathroom was the size of a coffin.This would be our home for three months. The glamorous life of show biz.We went across the street to the club. They were still building it. It looked like a half-finished barn. There were construction materials all around. Workers standing around looking confused. It was a mess. Literally.There was no way we were gonna play any music in that place anytime soon. We walked to the beach. It was absolutely gorgeous. To the right was the private beach that belonged to the movie stars that lived on the ocean.To the left was a stretch of public beach, and then a canal. The only commercial zoning they had was this one little stretch of a couple hundred yards, where they had two nightclubs. Ours, the future Neptune Beach Club, was a rock club, and the one next door, Summer’s, was a disco. There was a small bar on the other side of the street next to the Funky Shack. It was called Cat Ballou’s.We went over there and had way too much to drink. Then we stumbled back to the Funky Shack.It got really cold that first night, down to the low thirties. We were freezing. We hadn’t brought any heavy blankets, not thinking we’d need them, and we were close to frostbite. There was no heat in the Funky Shack. Being incredibly resourceful musicians, bolstered by booze, we walked across the street to the club, borrowed a bunch of 2 X 4s, and started a fire in the shack’s small fireplace.The next morning some workers came over and asked us if we saw anybody taking any lumber, and we said, “No” as we were kicking the ends of the 2 X 4s we’d pilfered back into the smoldering fireplace.The Funky Shack was right on the bay. And when I say right on the bay, I mean it was literally on the bay. When the tide was high, the water came onto the back porch. I call it a back porch but it was more like a small rotted wooden raft.It’s not like the shack was on stilts, or had a pier. It sat flat on a marsh, and the bay was right out back. It was not really a bay, more like a big shallow body of swamp water.Billy Joel stayed in that house. So did Leslie West. We heard more than one story about each of those guys living in the Funky Shack.We tried to make it habitable. The guitar player, who was also a carpenter, made a screen door. He made a wooden platform for the shower; because it didn’t drain, and the water would back up to your knees.When you took a shower, which was saltwater, you stood on the platform, and the spray literally hit you in the you-know-whats. I had to crouch over like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, because the ceiling was so low. If you wanted to wash your hair, you had to stand on your head.That was how we showered for a little more than three months.They eventually finished the club after a few weeks. After they did, we played six nights a week, seven hours a night, until 4 AM, with double shifts on Saturday and Sunday.And as crazy as it sounds- we were really happy.And late at night, after the gig, if we wanted a dish of pasta, we’d walk across the street, sneak into the club, and fill our pasta pot with fresh water.Then we’d come back to the Funky Shack and cook. Are you sure Billy Joel started off this way?CARROT AND ONION SAUCEIngredients3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil2 cups minced onionCrushed red pepper (I use about ¼  teaspoon)3 cups grated carrots2 cups chicken broth½ cup dry white wineA handful of Italian flat leaf parsley, chopped (about 2 to 3 tablespoons)A handful (1/2 cup) of pine nuts (if you can’t find pine nuts, you can use sliced almonds, as a substitute)1 pound of pasta — fusilli is my favorite, but you can use farfalle, or spaghettiKosher salt to taste Here we go…Put the olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium-low heat for 2 minutes.Add the onion. Add some crushed red pepper to taste. Cook for 5 to 7 minutes until the onion is translucent.Add the carrots, chicken broth and white wine.Raise the heat to high.When it comes to a boil, let it cook for 2 minutes.Reduce the heat to medium-low. Taste for salt, add some if needed.Simmer for 20 minutes or so, until the broth is nearly absorbed, and the carrots are tender but not mooshy.Just before the sauce is done, add the chopped parsley to the pan and stir.Put the pine nuts in a dry pan over medium heat. Cook and shake for a few minutes until golden brown. Don’t burn your nuts!You can use this sauce over rice or on a bruschetta or flatbread; but I put it over pasta.Put a large pot of cold water on the highest heat, you got. When it comes to a full boil, add a few tablespoons of kosher salt, and the pound of pasta.Follow the cooking directions on the pasta box. Two minutes before the time is up, taste the pasta. You want it to be al dente, which means “firm to the bite.” Bite through a piece of pasta. If it is chalky in the center it is not done. Cook it until it is not chalky or too chewy.I cooked some penne rigate pasta the other night. It took 5 minutes longer than the instructions on the box. So keep on tasting the pasta as it cooks. You’ll know when it’s done.When it is, drain the pasta in a colander and put it in a bowl. Drizzle with a tablespoon of olive oil and mix. Add most of the sauce to the pasta and mix’em up.Dish it up! Put some pasta on a plate. Add a little sauce on top, and some toasted pine nuts. You can also add some grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese or even some Romano-pecorino, which is a little sharper and saltier.MANGIAMO!

Slim Man Cooks Bolognese Sauce

Bolognese with Naked Old PeopleA few years ago, I did a New Year’s Eve gig in Austria. It was organized by Michael van Droff. Michael and his business partner, Christian Chaleat, run a record company in Germany called Wave Music. They’ve used a lot of my songs on their compilation CDs.Michael, Christian and I have become great friends over the years.Michael asked me to do a New Year’s Eve gig at a mountaintop resort outside of Salzburg. It’s called Hotel Vollererhof, and it is one wonderful place. There is a small hut in the woods behind the hotel where they have parties. I was scheduled to do a New Year’s Eve concert in the party hut. I flew in a couple of days before and left a couple days after.Michael drove from Germany with his very pregnant wife, Daniela. Christian drove in with his French wife, Fleur, and their infant son, Petite Louis. We all stayed in a private villa next to the hotel. The villa was unbelievable – too many bedrooms, each with its own fireplace, bath and balcony, overlooking the Alps. The floors were marble. All the fixtures were brass. The rooms were huge.It was luxurious and the views were breath-taking. They treated us like rock stars, brought us special desserts--the kind where they use blow torches and pyrotechnics to create impressive, jaw-dropping, heart-stopping sweets. Incredible.The hotel was also incredible. They had an indoor-outdoor saltwater pool. You started swimming inside, and you could dive down and swim through a tunnel to the outdoor side. When you surfaced, the pool was steaming, and surrounded by a few feet of snow. I’d get out of the pool, jump in the snow, and jump back into the warm salt water.The hotel also had a salt cave, a eucalyptus shower room, a steam room, and a sauna. And everybody went in naked. Men and women, naked together - no clothes. When you hear “Men and women, naked together” you get visions of Playboy Bunnies and rock stars, and you think, “Wow. That’s sexy.”But in reality, this hotel is what is known as a “Wellness” hotel in Europe. It’s a place where people of a certain age go to eat healthy food, and do healthy things, and get lots of sleep and rest and relaxation.All I can say is this, when you see a 90 year-old woman naked in a sauna, it makes you think. And those thoughts are, well, not sexy thoughts. And when you see a 90 year-old naked man, you want to kill yourself. I have nothing against 90 year-olds. Some of my best friends are nonagenarians. It just disturbed me to see them naked.They should have a word for people who are afraid of being caught naked in public. Because whatever it’s called, that’s what I have. Noclothesaphobia. Nuderitis.   So whenever I went into the sauna or steamroom, I kept my towel around my waist, and my eyes at my feet.One day we wanted to go sledding. The hotel had a huge tractor take us all to the top of the mountain, and we went back down the slopes on old wooden sleds. Everybody went – Christian and his wife Fleur, and their infant son, Petite Louis. Michael’s wife Daniela, pregnant as could be, even went down the slopes. It was an amazing sleigh ride — it felt like we had stepped back in time. Old wooden sleds going down the ancient Alps.One frigid afternoon, we took a trip into the town of Salzburg and saw the house where Mozart was born; a small townhouse, painted yellow. Salzburg was freezing cold that day; we walked down narrow cobblestone streets and drank warm booze-spiked cider that we bought from street side stands.People were having fun — Christmas had just been celebrated and it was the party week that happens right before New Year’s Eve. On New Year’s Eve, we all had a quiet dinner in the hotel, and then walked through the woods in the snow to the small party hut.I sang and played piano for the guests — about 50 folks. I’d seen some of these people naked in the spa; and it was a bit unsettling looking at them while I sang and played.Nobody threw anything at me, and nobody died, so I’m calling it a success.After I finished my set, Michael van Droff came on, and started spinning records. Most of the old folks had gone to bed.The only people left were The Villa Crew (Daniela, Christian and Fleur) and the help — waitresses, waiters, and busboys — and we had a blast. The young Germans and Austrians know how to party. We danced until the sun came up.And then, we all went back to the Killa Villa and I cooked in the incredible kitchen. What did I cook? Well, the Germans and Austrians have a thing for pasta Bolognese. You see it on the menus in all the restaurants. It’s everywhere. So the first thing I cooked, on the first day of the New Year? Pasta Bolognese. Happy New Year!BOLOGNESE SAUCEMy Dad sent me a newspaper interview with a restaurant owner in New York. The guy told the story about his Bolognese sauce; it was an old family recipe, and he served it at his restaurant, but didn’t have it on the menu.He didn’t put it on the menu because the recipe was all wrong. There was too much red wine; there were too many tomatoes. He was afraid that critics might beat him up over it. So he left it off the menu. But people LOVED it.I tried to recreate the recipe from the article. I’ve cooked this recipe dozens of times. I tried using less red wine, and fewer tomatoes, but it wasn’t as good. A couple weeks ago, I made two batches, one with the normal amount of wine and tomatoes, and one with half the amount.I had my family and friends taste both batches, blind taste-tests. The sauce with more wine and more tomatoes won. Hands down. Even though it’s all wrong, according to the experts.Here is the recipe, with lots of wine and tomatoes. You can cut the wine and tomato amounts in half, if you like.You’ll need to smoosh your tomatoes first. Open the cans of Italian tomatoes and put them in a large bowl. Roll up your shirtsleeves, and start smooshing and squeezing them by hand, one by one. Remove the bitter yellow core in the center. Remove any skin — they should already have the skin removed, but sometimes there is a little left over.Finally, I used imported Italian pancetta, and it was really good, not a lot of fat, and had beautiful color. You can use Boar’s Head, or a similar brand of American pancetta, if you can’t find imported pancetta.In the video, I use a little more butter than I do now. These days, I need to stay...Slim.INGREDIENTS½ pound of pancetta, chopped into small cubes, excess fat removed3 tablespoons butter3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil1 cup each–chopped onions, celery, carrots3 cloves garlic, minced, about 2 large tablespoons½ cup dry white wine1 pound of ground beef1 pound ground pork or pork sausage meat1 small can (6 ounces) tomato paste2 cups dry red wine2 twenty-eight ounce cans of whole, peeled Italian tomatoes (about 7 cups), San Marzano are best4 cups stock (I use organic beef stock)1 pound pasta (I use rigatoni)Kosher salt and fresh cracked pepperHere we go…Put a large pot — a Dutch oven or similar — over medium heat for 2 minutes.Add the pancetta and let it brown for about 4 or 5 minutes.Give it a stir and cook for another 4 or 5 minutes. Think of pancetta as bacon—you wanna try and cook it one side until it’s a little crispy, and then flip it over, and cook it on the other side.When the pancetta has browned, drain off most of the fat, if there is any.Add the butter and olive oil, heat until the butter melts.Add the onions, celery, carrot and garlic.Cook for about 5 minutes. Stir occasionally.Add the white wine, and cook for another 5 or 10 minutes until the vegetables are soft. Stir occasionally.Add the ground beef and ground pork. Break it up with a spoon. Add a little salt and fresh cracked black pepper.Think of the ground beef and pork as a hamburger. Cook it on one side until it’s golden brown, about 5 minutes, then stir it up and cook it for another 5 minutes.Stir in the tomato paste.Cook for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. It should look like Sloppy Joes. Italian Sloppy Joes.Add the red white wine and let it reduce for about 10 minutes. Stir occasionally.Add the tomatoes including all their juices.Add the stock, and turn up the heat to high.When the tomatoes and stock come to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook for 2 to 3 HOURS!Stir occasionally.When done, skim off the fat, if there is any.Let’s cook our pasta.Put some cold water in a large pot over high heat.When it boils, add a couple tablespoons of kosher salt.Add the pasta and follow the directions on the box. Two minutes before it’s supposed to be done, start checking the pasta. Grab a piece and bite through it. If it’s chalky in the center, it is not done. Keep checking the pasta every 2 minutes until it is not chalky or chewy. It might take longer than the instructions say.When the pasta is al dente (firm to the bite), drain it in a colander and transfer to a warm bowl.Add a tablespoon or so of olive oil, and stir.Add some sauce, three or four ladles, and mix it up.Dish it up! Add a dollop of sauce on top of each plate, and then, if you want, add some grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese and…MANGIAMO!!!!!!!

Slim Man Cooks Chicken Milanese

Chicken Milanese and The Toilet TransporterI was in a hotshot, up-and-coming rock band called BootCamp. We had two of the first 100 videos on MTV. Record companies were calling. Managers were courting us. We got an offer from a club on the beach in the Hamptons (Long Island, New York), an offer to play all summer long. We didn’t have to think too long. We took the gig.It was the summer of 1980. It was the wildest summer of our lives. We lived in a funky little shack right across the road from the club, a place called Neptune Beach Club. BootCamp did really well that first summer. So well, in fact, that they asked us back to play the following summer--the whole summer, six nights a week, and twice on Saturdays and Sundays.I told my Dad about it.He called me the next day. Get this – he wanted me to go to my uncle’s house (his brother, Oscar), pick up a toilet, and take it to my Dad’s girlfriend’s house in Long Island. Why? I don’t know. It’s not that toilets are expensive or rare. You can find them just about anywhere.And just why am I taking this toilet to my Dad’s girlfriend’s house anyway? Was my Dad trying to impress her? “Hey, honey, I’m getting you a new toilet for your birthday. My kid’s gonna hand deliver it.”I thought at first my Dad was screwing with me. But when I called Oscar, he confirmed the story. He told me he had the toilet – a new one he had left over from his new house – and I was supposed to pick up this toilet at Oscar’s house in Baltimore, Maryland, drive it up the New Jersey Turnpike, and drop it off in Long Island at my Dad’s girlfriend’s house on the way to my big gig in the Hamptons.And the kicker? My Dad wasn’t going to be there. Neither was his girlfriend. His girlfriend’s Turkish father was supposed be there. And? Her father didn’t speak English. Not a word.The BootCamp Boys packed up the old Chrysler station wagon that belonged to our keyboard player’s Dad. We packed for the whole summer. We had a ton of suitcases, keyboards, and guitars —everything we’d need for three months away from home. After we packed, we went to my uncle’s house, and picked up the toilet.We put it on top of all our stuff. Four rock stars with a toilet in the back of an old beat-up station wagon, and the toilet was clearly visible for all passing motorists to see. We headed up the New Jersey Turnpike.We decided to have some fun.Whenever we’d stop at a rest area, we’d take the toilet out of the car and carry it into the men’s room. And then carry it back out to the car. Like it was the normal thing to do. It was the beginning of summer. The rest areas were crowded with folks heading to the beaches.And these folks were staring at us. Four wannabe rock stars, with 1980s hairdos that looked like several small animals had perched on top of our heads, carrying a toilet in and out of the men’s room; then packing it into an old Chrysler, and driving off.When we got to my Dad’s girlfriend’s house in Long Island, I took the toilet out of the car, and carried it to the house, and rang the bell. A short man with wavy hair opened the door. He took a look at me, and then at the toilet. He obviously had no idea who I was, or why I was there.So, I’m standing there with a toilet in my arms, trying to explain who I was and why I was there. The guy understood nothing. Not a word. I kept saying, “Toilet! Toilet for you!” I started yelling, as if by saying it louder, maybe he’d understand what I was saying. "TOILET! TOILET FOR YOU!"He looked at me like I was from another planet. I finally just left the toilet on the porch and walked away. I waved goodbye as we pulled out of the driveway.Come to think of it, I hope I had the right house.CHICKEN MILANESEAfter hauling toilets up and down the east coast, there’s nothing like a nice dish of chicken Milanese.Chicken Milanese is pretty much the same as chicken cutlets, except you slice your breasts thinner, and you put them in flour first; then you dip them in the egg, then the breadcrumbs. You don’t usually add any sauce or cheese to chicken Milanese. They are molto delicato. You eat them plain.They’re that good! Some folks pound their breasts to make them really thin. I just slice them into ¼ inch cutlets.I cook the cutlets in equal amounts of olive oil and butter. Some folks use just butter, but I had to Slimmify it a bit.Always be careful when handling raw chicken; clean every surface and utensil, and clean your hands while you're at it.My favorite breadcrumbs these days are Progresso Panko Italian Style. I don’t get any money from Progresso, but if they offer, I’m taking.INGREDIENTS6 thin chicken breast cutlets (1/4 inch thick), boneless, skinless½ cup flour2 eggsSalt and fresh cracked black pepperBreadcrumbs (2 cups--you might not use them all)2 tablespoons butter2 tablespoons olive oilHere we go…Rinse off your breasts and pat them dry with paper towels. Do the same with the chicken breasts.Put your flour on a flat plate.Put 2 eggs in a bowl, add salt and fresh cracked black pepper, and beat ‘em!Put your breadcrumbs on another plate.Take a chicken cutlet, press it into the flour, turn it over, do the same on the other side.Dip it in the egg, both sides.Put the cutlet on the breadcrumbs, and press. Do the same with the other side of the cutlet.Put the breaded cutlet on a plate.Do this with all 6 breasts.Get a large sauté pan. Put it on medium-high heat. Add the butter and the olive oil.When the butter starts to brown, add the breasts to the pan. Cook for 3 minutes until golden brown.Turn over, and do the same on the other side.Remove to a warm platter.Garnish with a few sprigs of Italian flat leaf parsley, maybe a couple of circular lemon slices and…MANGIAMO!!!!!  

Slim Man Cooks Risotto with Shrimp and Peas

Risotto with Shrimp and Peas and Jungle Boy

Risotto is like a woman.  It needs a lot of attention.  You have to be gentle with it.  You’ve got to be patient.  You can’t neglect it. Risotto needs love and affection!My brother was into risotto before anybody else.  He’s patient.  He has to be — he teaches grade school kids.  It’s criminal how much he gets paid.  Here’s a guy, works like crazy, spends a lot of his free time helping kids, and they pay him less than the garbage man.  No disrespect for garbage men.  Some of my best friends are garbage men.My brother is an incredible athlete, always has been.  He played football; he once scored seven touchdowns in one game.  He played baseball; he was almost always MVP.  He took a lot of his teams to multiple championships.  I was on a lot of these teams.  I loved playing, but I wasn’t nearly as good as my brother.  He had the gift.  He was a born athlete.So when it came time for someone to take a ride on the new horse we had just bought, we all looked to my brother.The family had just moved to Puerto Rico.  My Dad had been asked to help start two new Peace Corps training centers.  The centers were a couple miles apart, on top of a mountain in the middle of the rainforest.  It was a jungle. Literally. The nearest town was miles away.The training camps were for volunteers who were going to remote rural areas of Central America.  What better place to train them than the jungles of Puerto Rico? The language, the culture, the climate were very similar. So we moved from Rosebank Avenue in Baltimore, Maryland, USA, to the isolated rainforests of Puerto Rico. I was a young teenager.We were like the Swiss Family Robinson, except we didn’t live in tree houses, but that would have been nicer than the house we had.  Our house was made of sheets of plywood, set on top of cinderblocks.  There weren’t any windows, just a green plastic screen that stretched around the whole house.  The roof was made of corrugated orange plastic.Outside our door was a long concrete stairway that ran down to the road.  And when I say road, I mean a little, narrow, beat-up stretch of old asphalt that ran through the jungle. There were a few other houses for staff and teachers, some bunkhouses for the volunteers, and some classrooms. There was also a comedor—a large cafeteria where everybody ate.Our small compound was carved out of the middle of the jungle. It rained just about every day, not for long, but really hard.  Everything was damp and moldy.  Heard of the movie Some Like It Hot?  This was Some Like It Moist.Tarzan and Jane would have been at home there.  I think Apocalypse Now was filmed nearby.Vice President Hubert Humphrey and his wife Muriel visited the camps when we first got there.  Guess they needed to check up on my Dad, make sure he was doing a good job with this new Peace Corps thing.One day our Dad suggested to us kids that we get a horse.  My guess is we weren’t going to be plowing fields or herding cattle. My Dad probably wanted to make up for dragging us out of civilization and into the rainforest. Having a horse to ride through the jungle sounded exciting. We borrowed a pickup truck, and drove down the side of the mountain on a tiny stretch of road that was so narrow, everyone approaching honked their horns to warn you they were about to crash into you.On one side was a wall of rock.  And on the other side there was a sheer cliff that fell off for a couple thousand feet, straight into a river called Dos Bocas.  The River with Two Mouths.We drove this old beat-up pickup truck down the side of the mountain, and we ended up in a small village where we bought a small horse.  It was a Paso Fino, meaning fine walk in English, which describes the horse’s gait – very smooth.My Dad named the horse Rocinante, after Don Quixote’s horse.We somehow got the horse into the back of the pickup truck, and drove back.  What a trip.  My Dad, us three kids in front, and a horse in the back.  We drove up the side of the mountain, honking the horn to make sure we all didn’t die a fiery death rolling off the side of the cliff.  That little horse must have been scared to death.  I know I was.We made it back to our house.  Miraculously.  Rocinante was remarkably calm.  We got her out of the truck, no problem.  When my Dad asked who’d like to be first to give her a ride, we looked at my brother the athlete.Only thing was, we had forgotten to get a saddle.  So my brother got on the horse bareback.  She was very relaxed.  For about two seconds.  Then Rocinante took off like a rocket.  She bolted down the small road, my brother clinging to her neck for dear life.So much for the Paso Fino.  Rocinante’s gait was more like Secretariat breaking out of the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby.  They disappeared around a curve.  We couldn’t see them through the jungle, but we could hear my brother screaming –“WHOOOAAA!”My Dad, my sister and I stood in the small road at the bottom of the steps listening as the screams in the jungle got quieter.  For a minute, it was dead-quiet.And then we heard the faint pounding of hooves, getting louder and louder…and suddenly Rocinante appeared, heading straight for us, my brother with his arms around her neck, hanging on for dear life, a look of terror in his eyes.My dad, my sister and I froze.  We should have been leaping into the bushes, but we stood still.  That’s when Rocinante took a sharp left turn to avoid us, and she ran all the way up the concrete staircase, with my brother clinging to her neck.Rocinante made it all the way to the top without killing herself or my brother; then she slowed down.  My brother sat up straight, and that’s when a tree branch smacked him right in the puss and knocked him off.We found out soon after that Rocinante was pregnant. My Dad had bought a pregnant horse.RISOTTO WITH SHRIMP AND PEASI love risotto.  The key to risotto is to make sure you stir constantly, slowly, and gently. You will need to monitor the temperature on your stove; you want it warm enough so the broth absorbs, but not so hot that the rice burns. Keep an eye on your risotto!Keep in mind, cooking times are approximate. I’ve made risotto that was done in 20 minutes, and I’ve made risotto that has taken twice that long. When it tastes done, it’s done.One of the many great things about this Italian rice?  Use the leftovers to make arancini, which are rice balls stuffed with mozzarella cheese.So always make a lot. Serves 4.Ingredients1 quart of chicken stock (you can use vegetable or seafood stock as well)Saffron, about a dozen threads (it’s expensive but adds such a delightful flavor)1 pound of shrimp (about 2 cups chopped), de-shelled, de-veined, and chopped into small pieces – save the shells for later!2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil2 tablespoons butter1 cup chopped onion1 ½ cups Arborio rice¼ cup dry white wine1 cup peas, fresh are best, frozen are fineSalt and fresh cracked black pepper to tasteHere we goPut the chicken stock in a saucepan, on medium-low.  Take the shrimp shells and put them in the stock – they add a nice flavor.  But don’t use them in the risotto — they’re just there to flavor the broth.I know a gorgeous, smart and lovely gal who hates it when I even suggest putting shrimp shells in the broth.  Why?Who the hell knows?  So I leave them out when I cook risotto for her.  To All My Manly Man Friends - if you’re cooking, and your Girly-Girl wants you to leave something out, save yourself some trouble and just shut up and do it.  Don’t even ask why.Put the saffron threads in a small bowl. Pour a cup of warm stock over them, and set aside.Put the olive oil and butter in a large sturdy pot (like a Dutch oven) over medium heat.When the butter melts, add the cup of chopped onion, and cook for 5 minutes or so, until soft. Stir often.Add the rice, and stir slowly for about 2 or 3 minutes.Add the vino, and stir for 2 minutes.That’s a lot of stirring.  Get used to it – risotto is all about the stir.Turn the heat down to medium-low.Add a ladle (about 1/2 cup) of warm stock (don’t add the shrimp shells!) and stir slowly and gently until it is absorbed.Legend has it that the rice will be done 18 minutes from the first ladle of broth.Mine always seems to take longer, about 24 minutes, but who's counting?Make sure your heat is not too high!  It needs to be just high enough to let the rice absorb the broth. The heat needs constant monitoring and adjusting.Stir your rice.  When the bottom of the pan is fairly dry, and most of the broth has been absorbed, add another ladle of warm broth.  Stir slowly until the broth is absorbed.  It should take about 2 or 3 minutes for the broth to be absorbed. If it takes less time, lower the heat.Repeat for about 15 minutes – add a ladle of broth, stir slowly and gently until absorbed.Add the peas.Then add your shrimp, and some salt and fresh cracked black pepper.Now add the stock that the saffron has been soaking in (add the saffron, too), stir until absorbed, about 4 or 5 minutes.Taste the risotto. It needs to be al dente.  That means “firm to the bite.” Take a grain of rice, and bite through the middle. If the center appears chalky, it is not done. If it's not done, add another ladle of broth, and stir slowly until it is absorbed. Check the rice, then take a bite of shrimp. Both the rice and the shrimp should be firm, not tough.If all goes according to The Slim Plan, when the last ladle of broth is absorbed, the risotto will be done, and the shrimp will be ready, all at the same time. Pronto!If you run out of stock and the rice is still not done, just add a little water.Dish it up!  Some folks like to grate Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese over top of the risotto.  I’m not crazy about combining cheese and seafood.Except for the fish sandwich at McDonald’s, of course.MANGIAMO!

Slim Man Cooks Crab Cakes

Crab Cakes and My Motown AlbumI always wanted to be a songwriter. There was a time when I thought I wanted to be an artist, to be in the spotlight; but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to be behind the curtain, not in front of it. I wanted to write songs and have other people record them.I figured if you’re a songwriter, you could lose your teeth, lose your hair, gain 100 pounds and nobody would care. Most people know the latest smash hit single. But chances are they don’t know who wrote it.You could be a hit songwriter and walk into the 7-11 in your bathrobe with no drawers on and nobody would even know who you are.That’s who I wanted to be – not the guy in the 7-11 in his bathrobe with no drawers on – the guy who wrote the songs. The behind-the-scenes guy.So I studied. I learned. My Dad got me the Cole Porter songbook. I bought the Motown songbook. I analyzed all those songs. I learned every hit song I could get my hands on.Stevie Wonder was one of my favorite songwriters. Talking Book, Innervisions, Songs in the Key of Life - those were the albums that inspired me. I loved that style of songwriting. It was jazz. It was pop. It was soul. I wanted to write songs like those.I wrote and recorded some of my own songs at a studio in Baltimore, Maryland, named Flite III. I started shopping them around. After a dismal meeting in New York with a big publisher, I knocked on Motown’s door on 57th Street in Manhattan, right across the street from Carnegie Hall. The VP of Motown at the time was a guy named Carl Griffin. He liked my songs and signed me as a songwriter.I had been writing songs for years. And now, all of a sudden, I was writing songs for Motown.One of the first songs I wrote for Motown was included on Angela Bofill’s debut CD, Angie. The CD did much better than expected. It got rave reviews in the New York Times and the LA Times. It was selling like crazy.That’s when Motown offered me a recording contract. I was a little bit conflicted. On the one hand, I was having a blast writing songs. Who needs to be an artist? But, on the other hand - how many times in your life are you going to get offered a recording contract with Motown?So I signed with Motown as a recording artist. They gave me a small advance. What did this Baltimore Boy spend his first advance on?Tickets to see the Baltimore Orioles play the Pittsburgh Pirates in the World Series.It was the only extravagance I afforded myself all year. The rest of the time I was working on my Big Debut CD. I did most of my writing and recording in Baltimore.I was living at my Mom’s. I’d still be living there now if she hadn’t kicked me out when I was 40. We were sitting around the dinner table one night, and the phone rang. My sister answered it, and told me it was for me.I talked for a while, and then came back to the table. My sister asked me who it was.“Stevie Wonder.”I was working on a song for my Motown album and needed to know the name of a percussion instrument Stevie had used on one of his songs.   Stevie called me and told me. It was a “cuica.”My sister freaked out. She couldn’t believe it was Stevie. I had asked Carl to see if he could find out what the instrument was, but I wasn’t expecting Stevie Wonder to call me. But it was nice of him to do so.It took me a year to finish the Motown album. I wrote string charts. I wrote horn charts and chord charts. I practiced bass and piano until I couldn’t practice anymore. I worked as hard as I’ve ever worked. I hired some guys from the Baltimore Symphony to play strings. I hired the percussionist from the O’Jays to play bongos. Hit Man Howie Z played drums.It took me a while, but I finally got the music to the point where it sounded just right. I was finished. Finally!Carl and I mixed the album in Baltimore. Motown chose two songs to be the first singles, and they flew me out to LA to mix them in their brand new state-of-the-art recording studio. They put me up in Hollywood at the legendary Chateau Marmont in a private bungalow. Not too shabby. It was so big, I could have played Frisbee in the living room.When we finished mixing the singles, Motown flew me back to the east coast.I was waiting for a release date for my Big Debut when I got invited to a party in Manhattan at the Bronx Botanical Gardens.   Stevie Wonder was having a release party for his Secret Life of Plants album. His label was distributed by Motown and they threw him a lavish fiesta.The party was amazing. The food, the wine, the flowers, the music, and the decorations - I’d never seen anything like that. I was hanging out at this wonderful party, with Stevie and other Motowners, and having a blast. I was in heaven.I went to the bathroom, and one of the Motown executives was washing his hands, looking at me in the mirror, and said,“Sorry to hear about your album.”I asked him what he meant.That’s when he told me that my album had been put on the shelf. The VP in charge of my record had been fired, and all the projects he’d been working on had been put on ice, including mine. That’s the way I found out about it.It wasn’t the happiest day of my life.My album is still sitting in a vault somewhere at Motown. It never saw the light of day. I don’t even have a copy.And here’s the thing - Motown didn’t want to release the CD, but they also didn’t want to release me from my contract. They didn’t want anybody else picking me up and possibly making them look bad. I was handcuffed.I was doing the same kind of music at Motown as I’m doing now, a combination of pop, soul and jazz. It was like early Slim Man. Slim Boy, if you will.I started writing really loud and angry rock songs, songs with titles like “Gimme a Break” and “I’m a Victim.” Instead of singing in my normal range, I was screaming at the top of my lungs. I was trying to do anything to get out of my Motown contract. It worked. Motown eventually released me.The guy downstairs from the Motown office in New York heard these rock songs I wrote. He loved them. He had a punk rock record company called STIFF Records. Their motto – which was on their T-shirts, merchandise, and their front door – was,”If It Ain’t STIFF, It Ain’t Worth A F**K.”They had Ian Dury and the Blockheads, Lena Lovitch, Elvis Costello. I loved the music they put out. Ian Dury is still one of my favorites. Reasons to Be Cheerful, Part Three!The guy at STIFF Records suggested the name BootCamp. A band was born. One door closes, another one opens.CRAB CAKESWhen you’re feeling crabby after getting dropped from your record label, do what I did. Make crab cakes.Crab cakes are to Baltimore what barbecue is to Kansas City and what gumbo is to New Orleans. Ask a thousand people in Baltimore how they make crab cakes and you’ll get a thousand different recipes.The thing to remember when making crab cakes, is that the crabmeat is the King. You don’t want too much other stuff going on in there. Also, keep in mind that the crabmeat has already been cooked. You’re just heating it up, basically. So you don’t want to cook them too long, they’ll dry out.The most expensive and delicious kind of crabmeat is jumbo lump, which comes from a section of the crab that’s right above the back leg. There is also lump crabmeat – from the tops of the other legs - which is less expensive and still pretty good. Then there’s the claw meat – which is a lot less expensive, and not nearly as good.Some people fry their crab cakes. Some people broil them. Broiling is my favorite; it’s quick, healthy and delizioso. Hit Man Howie Z is the Crab Cake King. He doesn’t always eat crab cakes, but when he does, he prefers them broiled.Ingredients:1 pound jumbo lump crabmeat1 egg¼ cup plain bread crumbs, or plain panko bread crumbs2 tablespoons of mayonnaise1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning (it has a lot of salt and pepper in it, so you don’t need to add any)1 teaspoon dry mustard1 tablespoon chopped Italian flat leaf parsleyExtra virgin olive oil1 tablespoon butter (if frying)Here we go...Put your crabmeat in a bowl, check it for shells, but be gentle! You don’t want to break up the lumps. Add all the ingredients except the olive oil and butter. Moosh gently until it looks and feels right--not too dry and not too soggy. If it’s too soggy, add a bit more breadcrumbs. If it’s too dry, add a little more mayonnaise.Take some crabmeat mixture in the palm of your hand – about the size of a tangerine--and roll it into a ball. Then flatten it a bit. Repeat the procedure until you have about 6 crab cakes.Turn on your broiler. Get a baking pan, rub just a little olive oil on the bottom. Put the crab cakes on the pan, make sure they’re not all crowded together.When the broiler gets hot, broil for 3 to 5 minutes until golden brown on top, then flip them over and broil on the other side for 3 to 5 minutes, until the tops are golden.Keep in mind every oven, every stove is different, cooking times may vary. Wildly!If you’re frying, put a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Put just enough olive oil in the pan to cover the bottom, about a tablespoon, then add a tablespoon of butter. When the butter melts, fry the crab cakes for 3 to 5 minutes. Flip ‘em over. Fry for 3 to 5 minutes on the other side. You want the tops to be golden brown.However you cook your crab cakes, make ‘em look nice! Dish ‘em up. Garnish with a sprig of parsley, maybe a slice of lemon. You can eat ‘em plain. Or you can serve them with cocktail sauce, tartar sauce, or wet mustard. You can make a sandwich, maybe add a little lettuce, tomato and mayo and…MANGIAMO!!!!!!