Yeah, I mean, it’s July 4th for God’s sake. It took you 7 hours to get to Yonkers. The dog had gas. You’re grinding Xanax into Montepulciano, slugging it down in quart jars and snorting the residue. You just made a pass at the lawnmower man in your underwear and he ran off into the knotweed. You’ve locked the kids in an old laundry hamper in the basement and can no longer hear their screams.
Now you’re going to make pie crust?
Spare yourself a lifetime in Attica. We have whole Four & Twenty Blackbirds pies.
Flavors as follows, while stocks last:
• Strawberry Kaffir Lime
• Black-Bottom Spruce
• Salted Caramel Apple
• Matcha Custard
• Strawberry Streusel
• Rhubarb Crumble
$35 for a whole pie. Big enough to feed one fat family of eight or two skinny ones.
The tale begins on the fifth floor of a pre-war building overlooking the Arno with a view of San Miniato al Monte and the steps of Giardino Bardini; the family home of Elisabetta, an actress in her unplaceable 60’s. The rambling apartment inherits the easy grace of a woman who cut her style-chops in the twilight years of Pasolini and Visconti: family photographs in mismatched frames (naked children the colour of hazelnuts and shirtless men who look like Marcello Mastroianni on boats off Stromboli), the 70’s record player, Bill Evans albums, dubious abstract nudes (hung crookedly). And the classic cookbook Il Talismano della Felicità, its pages tanned to parchment, open on the counter to some indecipherable flurry of pictureless Italiano: like the best textbook you ever saw.
In the republic of taste, property is theft; and this was one of those crystalline amalgams of poise, weight and beauty that can drive a person to burglary. But you can’t just run off with somebody’s book: that’d be rude, right? Also, it’s fucking huge. Plan B involved a quick sortie around the internet, a late-50’s edition languishing a few hundred feet away in a Santa Croce antiquarian bookshop. Bit of deft mousework and the deed was done: we’d plucked a magic bean from Elisabetta’s stalk to take home and bury in Bloomville’s flinty soil. With love and water it will germinate into La Dolce Vita on the Delaware.
Once home, Il Talismano succumbed to the fate of stuff that seems an absolute imperative when the amber light is refracting off the Duomo, but slightly less so when somebody locked the cat in the bedroom for four days and your tempurpedic smells like the triage at the Humane Society. It took a few days for our resident half-Italian/half-Scottish Ingrid Bergman – Paola Ambrosi de Magistris (try that on a half-litre of lambrusco) – to stumble upon an old letter whilst thumbing through the pages. On Air Mail vellum, yellowed with age, hand-typed on official Foreign Service letterhead, it’s a recipe from the book – Cinghiale in Agrodolce alla Romana – translated into English with personal annotations from the correspondent: substituting bacon for smoked ham, celery seed for celery.
Sweet and sour wild boar, Roman style. The writer – Mary Jernegan – signs off with a footnote: ‘this is a classic Italian recipe, from people who love to hunt and eat well … wish I were there to help cook and eat it!’. Seems the book was a gift from somebody connected to the US Embassy in Rome, probably around the time of publication (1957). The letter suggests a diplomatic blend of official and personal: wife to wife, maybe? Well … we don’t personally hunt (maybe spear the occasional mushroom) but plenty of good people here do. And we eat well. And while we don’t have wild boars snouting our forests (at least not of that spelling), we have plenty of local, barely domesticated pork. So why not celebrate the appearance of this wormhole to a different dimension; fulfill Mary Jernegan’s wish to help cook and eat the meal by making it, right here, right now, 4300 miles and how ever many years from where the impulse originated? Ride the space-time continuum, squeeze the universe into a ball.
But the question remains; who was Mary Jernegan, our guide to all things agrodolce?
In 1955, John Durnford Jernegan – a career US diplomat – was assigned the post of Minister-Counselor at the American Embassy in Rome, under Clare Boothe Luce (first ever US woman ambassador and author of The Women). Jernegan’s previous service included spells in Mexico, Tunisia and Spain (during the Spanish Civil War); but, most notably, he served in Iran during WWII, where he would have been present at the 1943 Tehran Conference attended by Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin. This meeting – the first ever between Stalin and Roosevelt – initiated tripartite commitment to simultaneous 1944 offensives against Nazi Germany (the Normandy landings) and forged the template for Soviet domination of post-war Eastern Europe; the satellite states of Czechoslovakia, Poland, Hungary, Romania, East Germany. The Cold War and Berlin Wall. Thus Jernegan was quietly – repeatedly – present at meridian of world history. It was whilst serving in Iran that he met Mary Margaret Brownrigg, 11 years his junior, the future Mrs Mary Jernegan and author of our letter.
A brief glimpse into the lives of John and Mary Jernegan constitutes a peek behind the curtain of mid-century Graham Greene-style diplomacy. The balance of world power was undergoing seismic changes and these people were at the eye of the hurricane, struggling to retain discreet good manners and politesse against a background of chaos and blood-letting. Kingdoms were vanishing, dynasties crumbling, empires collapsing. The Middle East in particular was a shitstorm of lurid immolation: republican coups d’état in Egypt and Syria, civil war in Jordan and Lebanon, a CIA-backed coup in Iran. And then in 1958, a particularly grisly revolution in Iraq, involving the execution of the Royal Family and the Crown Prince’s mutilated body being dragged through the streets of Baghdad and strung up outside the Ministry of Defence. The Prime Minister escaped dressed as a woman. This was the Theatre of Blood into which John and Mary Jernegan were inserted, first US Ambassadorial family to Abd al-Karim Qasim’s fledgling Republic of Iraq. The descriptions of crafts bazaars and people falling into the ponds at parties in the embassy gardens are in stark contrast to the harsh realities of history being enacted beyond the compound walls. The Jernegans remained in Baghdad until their expulsion in 1962, when the Kennedy Administration objected to Qasim claiming the Sheikhdom of Kuwait as de facto territory of Iraq – a gesture eerily similar to the one three decades later that precipitated the first Bush-era Iraq War. A US-backed coup (involving poisoned handkerchiefs and other Kennedy-era goofiness) endorsed Qasim’s assassination, installing the Ba’athist regime which ultimately sanctioned the twenty-seven year reign of Saddam Hussein. Two wars, eight years of US occupation and the rise of the Islamic State brings us to the present. But Mary Jernegan was right there in the crucible of the past.
And though her husband died in 1980, Mary Jernegan may still be alive, in her 90’s, living in California. More than half a century of febrile history has elapsed since she sat at a typewriter in Rome and translated the recipe which now sits on our kitchen table in upstate New York. The same table that will soon be set for Cinghiale in Agrodolce alla Romana,along with friends, gelato alla nocciola and (at the letter’s suggestion) several bottles of good red wine.
Table Spritz will be officially launched this Sunday, May 25th; the bare-breasted figurehead at the prow of Pasta on Sunday. We’ll track down some gin-soaked English Queen to smash a bottle on its haunches. And not just any bottle. In a nod (once again) to small producers, we’ve thumbed our noses at mouth-puckering Campari and tugged the beard of sodapop Aperol. Like Goldilocks, we were seeking something more nuanced; not too bitter, not too sweet. We found Cappelletti. This venerable aperitivo has been produced in small batches by four generations of happy Italian villagers, all laughing, singing and wearing traditional clothing at the base of the Dolomites beyond Trento. It gleans its lurid crimson colour from natural cochineal* and its bitter citrus herbiness from heaven knows where. The apocryphal tipple of choice for Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, it might in some way be responsible for World War I. Or maybe if he’d knocked back a few more and been slumped lower in his carriage, the bullet would have whizzed past his head and we’d all be eating schnitzel now and yodeling. In 21st century Bloomville, we’re going with one-third Cappelletti, two-thirds prosecco, over ice with a plump Castelvetrano olive and a slice of orange. So tasty you’ll be hallucinating gondolas. The perfect springboard into the full-twisting piked two-and-a-half somersaults of …
PASTA ON SUNDAY
Sunday, 25th May from 6 till 9
‘Ai Luigi, che cosa hai fatto con i miei pantaloni’
Menu will launch with:
• The Table Spritz
followed hard upon by a choice of:
• fresh asparagus soup with lemon-zest, toasted almonds, olive oil
• pure spring microgreens with fresh herbs
• shredded lacinato kale salad with red quinoa, smoked almonds, ricotta salata
• summery Lambrusco from Emilia Romagna, Prosecco from Veneto
• white, rosé, red
Forecast calls for foggy mornings before and after. But if the sun extends its warm embrace into the evening, sashay over to the loggia and go alfresco beneath the ancient olive tree (you might need more than one Spritz to get there). If it doesn’t, promenade downstairs into our freshly-minted ground-floor sala da pranzo, where Luchino Visconti played the bongos and seduced Claudia Cardinale into taking the lead in Sandra.
Kitchen fires up at 6, cools down at 9. Lambrusco lingers a little longer.
buon appetito, tutti!
* no beetles were harmed in the writing of this post