When I was a kid, there came a point early on when I was completely fascinated by my family’s ethnic background. Not that it was so particularly exotic—my mom was Irish with a little English thrown in there somewhere, and my dad entirely Italian, his parents and sisters emigrating from Calabria in the very early part of the last century. I would sit for hours with the World Atlas open on the floor in the family room and a giant sketch pad in front of me, trying to free-hand maps of these strange, exciting, far-away places that seemed to factor so largely into my parents’ lives growing up. As if drawing them would let me touch them, be a bigger part of them, somehow. So the story goes, my Irish grandmother wouldn’t even let my Italian father in her house, let alone date my mother. They sneaked around like Romeo and Juliet until they finally had the courage to publicly defy them all and marry.
In New York City, we romanticize food a lot, and with good reason. As a port city and an entryway for immigrants the world over, we’ve long been the first stop. For the Irish and the Italians, for the Portuguese and Polish, Africans of myriad countries, Ukrainians, Central and South Americans, Chinese, Korean, Haitian, Cuban, Albanian, Syrian, Pakistani, and on and on and on. Sometimes I notice, though, that our romanticism gets stuck in that last century. Little Italy isn’t so very Italian anymore—certainly, not like it originally was—but tourists still show up in droves to stroll through the shadow of what once was a burgeoning immigrant community. And it sort of still is, just not so much Italian. The great irony of this glowing, warm nostalgia for that particular immigrant community is that they weren’t so warmly embraced when they arrived (see example of stubborn Irish grandma above). But isn’t it always the food that’s such a big part of introduction and understanding? When we can’t speak each other’s languages, everyone seems to understand and translate hunger and hankering. It’s the great equalizer. My high school Spanish is mighty rusty, but when I amble down the street here to the Oaxacan taco spot I love a few blocks from my house, I don’t have any trouble making myself understood. It’s kind of beautiful. It makes me think every nation should have a separate food ambassador at the U.N.
So what’s the point of all this? Well, you know, a book I got in my mailbox a few weeks ago called New American Table, a rich compendium of recipes representing diversity at its best here. It is by the very wonderful chef, Marcus Samuelsson, whose own immigrant story, I believe, has fueled much of his own cooking; a much better version of drawing free-hand maps because instead of colored pencils, he uses herbs and meat and fish and vegetables. Samuelsson was born in Ethiopia and, after his mother died when he was barely a toddler, he and one of his sisters were adopted by a couple from Sweden, where Samuelsson was raised. He trained as a chef in Europe and moved to the States as a very young man in the early 90s and has been pretty unstoppable since, winning Beard Awards, helming and eventually co-owning the venerable Aquavit, opening other restaurants, writing books, and all the while embracing—and, you might even say reinvigorating— the whole romantic notion of the great American melting pot through food. Oh, yeah, and he’s a UNICEF ambassador; and did I mention handsome? Mmm-hmm. Yup. That too.
Samuelsson is all that and a bag o’ chips. I don’t always take the time to read the author’s intro of a cookbook, but it’s worth reading his to be reminded of just how exciting not just New York, but tables across the country as a whole are through the eyes of a man who left one country for another, twice. “For me, talking about food has always been a way to connect with people. Whenever I meet people, I always ask them about what they ate growing up; their towns, cities, countries; and the fruits, vegetables, spices and meats attached to those places. I ask them about mealtimes with their parents and grandparents, the holiday table, what they miss about home, the smells from the kitchen...Our food experiences may be diverse, but they all establish a common ground and give us a reference point from which to share in each other’s life.”
Like my dad, my husband Dan is entirely Italian, his parents immigrants from the south of Italy, too. When Dan’s younger sister began dating a young man, also an immigrant but from Puerto Rico, they did what my Irish grandmother did: Forbade it. Of course, my sister-in-law and her husband Charlie did what my parents did, too—snuck around until there was no denying or refusing the commitment to each other. They are now long, happily married with two great kids, and my Italian mother and father-in-law delight in Charlie’s exceptional cooking skills, eating homemade empanadas, fragrant rice and beans, and—to my Sicilian father-in-law’s great delight—engaging in a mutual adoration of tripe. At the table, their differences become similarities and yet let each of them maintain the spirit of who they are. It is, indeed, the new American table.
Sour Chickpea Soup
Greek and Turkish in nature, this warm, fragrant, hearty soup is a nice change from your same-old chicken noodle.
1 cup dried chickpeas
2 Tbs olive oil
1/2 lb boneless, skinless thighs
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1 white onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, chopped
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp chili powder
1 tsp caraway seeds
2 Tbs white vinegar
1 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup canned diced tomatoes
5 cups chicken stock
1/2 cup Israeli couscous
1 Tbs chopped marjoram
1 cup plain Greek yogurt
Juice of 1 lemon
2 Tbs chopped parsley
Place the chickpeas in a bowl and cover with cold water. Let soak in the refrigerator for 8 hours. Strain and set aside. Or, place the beans in a medium pot and cover with water. Bring to a boil, remove from heat, and let sit, covered, for 1 hour. Strain and set aside.
Season the chicken with salt and pepper. Heat the olive oil in a medium pot over high heat. Add the chickpeas, chicken thighs, onion, garlic, turmeric, cumin, chili powder, and caraway seeds and sauté until the chicken is browned on all sides, about 5 minutes or so. Add the vinegar and white wine and bring to a simmer. Cook for 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes and chicken stock and return to a simmer. Cook for about an hour, or until the chickpeas are tender, stirring occasionally.
While the soup is cooking, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the couscous and cook until al dente, about 5 minutes. Strain and set aside.
Add the marjoram and couscous to the soup and season with salt and pepper. Cook until the couscous is heated through. Stir in yogurt, lemon juice, and parsley, and serve immediately.
What is your family's ethnic background? How has it influenced your cooking and eating traditions?
Amy Zavatto has been writing about wine, spirits, and food for ten years. Her work appears in Imbibe, Gotham, and Every Day with Rachael Ray, among others. She is the author of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Bartending and the co-author of The Renaissance Guide to Wine & Food Pairing.
