Buen Provecho

With a little help from my Spanish-speaking friends, I was able to decode the message Mario Batali scrawled in my autographed copy of Spain... A Culinary Road Trip.

Although there is no equivalent saying in the English language, "Buen Provecho" is in Spanish what "Buon Appetito" is in Italian and "Bon Appetit" is in French.

No matter the language a good appetite is always a good thing!

At Last: A Meeting with Greatness

I made my way further uptown earlier this evening to visit the infamous Barneys New York for a book signing event. As I stood beneath the red awning before entering, I felt my heart skip a beat. I couldn't believe that I was so close to meeting my food idol.

Taking a deep breath, I walked in and made my way to the men's department. Before I could wonder if I was in the right place a server with a tray of champagne in flute glasses strode by. I quickly assessed the area and found the stack of the spotlighted cookbook.

Laying my hand on the hardcover, taking in the bright imagery and flipping through the pages to feel the luxuriousness of the paper (I absolutely love books), I lifted my head and there, but a few meters away, stood Mr. Mario Batali, promoting his newest production: Spain...A Culinary Road Trip.

I've been a fan of his before I knew I was a foodie. I remember looking through his cookbook my mother kept on her shelf and I found myself watching his show during my days off in university. Shortly after coming to New York, I was swept up into the foodie world and became a follower. But, my fascination, nay obsession, really set in after my first meal at Babbo.

Babbo is my ultimate favourite restaurant and Batali's flagship restaurant located in the West Village. Akin to a religious experience, I remember walking into the small, bustling, casual dining room and thinking "this is going be to really good".

And (oh my goodness! oh my goodness!) was it! I still remember my first taste of the black spaghetti with rock shrimp, spicy salami calabrese and green chiles. Truly gastronomically orgasmic. So much so, that the several times we've revisited, I've order the dish as an appetizer - just so I can relive the experience.

Ever since that first meal, I've wanted to meet Batali. Now, let me tell you, I'm not usually impressed with celebrity and less so with the social elite (yet, here I was at a book signing in the middle of Barneys! Where, I might add, I was shi-shi'd and poo-poo'd by all the plastic pretty people wearing too-big-for-their-faces glasses (at night and indoors!) as they sipped their free drink and munched on the free food like common folk like me!).

I wasn't here to simply say I met Batali and am now only two degrees of separation from Gwyneth, and more importantly, three degrees away from Coldplay frontman, Chris Martin. No, I simply wanted to meet the talent who could bring together ingredients so artistically, so sensually. And, I wanted to thank him for delighting my palate like no one else has.

Finally, today was my chance. And, I can't tell you how nervous I was! Looking over at him chatting with another fan, I felt my usual feisty-ness wash away. Timid and shy, I didn't know what to do with myself. What would I say? How would I say it?

So, instead of figuring it out, I decided to find that tray of champagne.

With flute in hand, I energetically sipped what I was told was champagne (stupidly, I asked the server what kind of champagne I was drinking and pausing so the drama of his deadpan, I'm-so-much-better-than-you look could take effect, he said, "champagne", rolled his eyes and walked away. I had an urge to remind him that he was serving me drinks, but I held my tongue.)

I then found a server carrying empanadas with chorizo, pancetta and peppers - an appetizer from the cookbook. They were yummy, but a little too salty. But, this only gave me an excuse for a second flute of the bubbly.

Feeling a little more confident, I made my way to Batali's altar to say hello. Shaking his hand, I introduced myself, handed him my newly purchased book and geekily told him I was a fan of his food. He scrawled my name, a note I can't decipher and his signature as we chatted. Finally, I asked if he had a moment for a picture. His reply: "Well, only if you join me." We chatted for a few more minutes, I thanked him for his time and then it was the next person's turn.

I left the store elated!

Must I Say Goodbye?

It just may be time to say goodbye to my Mario Batali Cast Iron Grill and Pressini-maker (my Mario, as I affectionately call him). He was a gift given to us several years back and I love it. He's stylish - square in shape, red in colour and solid like its namesake. And, at least in the beginning, he grilled like no other, infusing my meals with a smokey and sultry flavour.

Usually, when using my Mario it gets a little smokey indoors. But, the past several times I've grilled, the apartment has filled with such billows of smoke that I feared the fire alarm would sound.

But it was the other night's smoke-fest that nearly reduced me to tears. I truly felt betrayed by my Mario.

So, here's what happened. When I was last at the market, I selected the most delectable-looking zucchinis, eggplants, peppers and tomatoes, as well as softened goat cheese, pocket-less whole-wheat pita bread and fresh thyme. The ingredients were going to make grilled veggie pressinis.

These sandwiches were going to prove my Mario had every right to remain in my kitchen (lately Mr. Oh has been unhappy with the smoke-effect and has been chiding me to get rid of the pan for good).

So, after getting home from work the other night, I got to work on my pressinis. I cut up the veggies, tossed them with olive oil, salt, pepper and thyme, and slid them into the oven. I was going to use the grill, but with the amount of veggies I had prepared I needed a much larger medium to bake them (thank goodness I did). Within 20 minutes my home was filled with the aromas of summer.

Upon pulling out the cookie sheet with my wilted medley, I sampled a few of each. They were cooked through perfectly, well-seasoned if I don't say so myself. Good start, right?

So, I turn the heat up on my grill (medium as per usual) and begin assembling my sandwiches. I place the first onto the flame and begin working on the second.

Within seconds - SECONDS!!! - an intense smell insults my nostrils, the pan is releasing piles of smoke, quickly filling my kitchen and apartment with a thick white fog. I pull the pan off the flame, do a mad dash to the window (damn window only opens a palm-width wide), then the door to release the smoke into the hallway (yes, my neighbours love me!) and back to the stove where the pan continued to puff.

I made the rest of the sammies and used the trustworthy oven to warm them through. They were very tasty, but the pita wasn't as crispy as I wanted, it didn't have the smokey taste I so desired and the grill marks were nowhere to be seen.

As I ate, I replayed the sequence of events. And, listened to Mr. Oh bemoan my Mario, telling me it was time to get rid of him.

My heart sank, not my Mario! I know, he failed me. But they say cast iron pans only get better with age. That they last lifetimes (note the plural here), are a great way to cook healthfully (as they require little oil) and safely (as it cooks food through evenly).

I was - I am - heartbroken. But can I just give up on my Mario? Maybe he's just going through a rough patch. I'm sure he'll do better next time.