The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,91
pepper to taste
salt to taste
kitchen string
A hardy blend of olive oil for frying
Grate the cheese slowly. Enjoy how easily the cheese slides over the grater and fills the room with its tender fragrance. Cut off a slice and try it with a drizzle of honey. It’s divine! Set aside the grated cheese. Pit and chop the olives, tasting as you go. Have a bite of cheese and an olive. A truly great combination. Whisk the oil, garlic, parsley and cheese until thick. Add the olives and gently whisk a few more times. Place the meat on a flat surface and spread each slice with 1/8 of the mixture. Sprinkle on some hot pepper flakes, and cracked pepper to fit your taste. Tightly roll each one and fasten with kitchen string.
Add an olive oil blend (the kind you can buy in a grocery store) to a large frying pan over a medium heat. When the oil is hot, carefully add the rolls and quickly brown them on all sides. At this point, if you’re secure in your resolve not to drink, you can add 1/2 cup of dry white wine to the pan and cook down. If you can’t have wine in the house, then skip this step and remove the rolls from the pan and drain on a paper towel.
Sauce:
5 or 6 chopped ripe tomatoes that have been peeled (drop the tomatoes in boiling water for no more than a half-minute. Remove with a slotted spoon and tear the skin away from the flesh).
1/4 cup chopped Italian parsley
3 chopped basil leaves
2 tbs. chopped onion
1 to 2 small garlic cloves, chopped
3 tbs. tomato paste
Cook the onion and garlic in any EVOO until tender, but not brown. Add the tomato paste and let fry for about a minute. Add the chopped tomatoes and stir adding one half cup water if sauce looks too thick. Add salt and pepper to taste. Add rolls and let simmer on a back burner, turning every so often for about 1 1/2 hours. Serve over pasta or by itself with crusty Italian bread and a glass of sparkling water. Makes 4 hearty servings, so add a salad and invite some non-drinking friends over. Enjoy!
“I like to have a martini, two at the very most. After three I’m under the table,
after four I’m under the host.”—Dorothy Parker
SEVENTEEN
Who’s Gaming Who?
Nine o’clock that same night, after all the pickers and guests had gone home, my two aunts and I pulled into the parking lot of Cougar’s Bar and Restaurant on Arnold Road where the third annual Martini Madness Ball, not to be confused with the Martini Madness competition that was held sometime in January, was in full swing. This event was a sort of prelim to the competition and a more formal affair, though the drinks were still poured in those baby plasticware martini glasses somebody designed to keep everyone fairly sober, and still able to taste an assortment of concoctions.
Personally, I never found that “fairly sober” concept even remotely possible.
Leo had phoned me earlier to let me know that he and Nick would be late. Like at this point I even wanted to see Nick ever again. The man was a problem, and if I didn’t figure out who the killer was soon, Spia’s Olive Press would be a fond memory. For each day we were closed down, we collectively lost approximately thirty thousand dollars between the income of the shops, our olive oil store, electricity, upkeep and countless other things. We just couldn’t sustain that loss for very long. I had to figure this thing out, and fast. Too many lives depended on it.
Lisa, true to her code, was glammed up in two shades of gold, ready for a night of some serious partying. No doubt she’d found the designer dress she wore at My Roommate’s Closet on Filmore Street in San Francisco, her favorite boutique, and one that I no longer could afford. Even Lisa’s hospital-issued sling was adorned with gold bling, courtesy of her mom who collected jewelry like coastal kids collect sea shells. I guessed her brother, Henry, had driven her in, and was probably already inside sampling martinis, when I arrived with my mom, Aunt Hetty and Aunt Babe.
We took my mom’s car, a sporty new white Mercedes C350, which she barely drove, but had to own because she thought it made her look taller when she stood next to it. Something about its “squat little body” . . . the car’s body, not