Twelve Tons of REAL Kit Kats (Not the Cheap Imitations) Go Missing!

A New Take On “The Italian Job”? Gimme a Break!

Wow! According to the AP this morning, “Swiss food giant Nestlé says about 12 tons, or 413,793 candy bars, of its Kit Kat chocolate brand, were stolen after leaving its production site in Italy earlier this week for Poland.”

I weep for the 413,793 Polish consumers who will thus be deprived of their favorite chocolaty ambrosia. Imagine, a truckload of creamy milk chocolate and delicate wafer candy bars made by a world famous Swiss company at a production facility in central Italy (probably in Perugia, where they also know a thing or two about chocolate) just sitting out there waiting for the right buyer.

My phone number is (555) 321-….......oh, never mind. I could never afford the tariffs. But if I could, man, that many Kit Kats would least me at least a month! (Or so.)

KitKats and I go back to about 1960, when some sainted buyer introduced them to the place my dad was working at the time and he bought one for me. It was l-o-v-e at first bite! Oh, don't get me wrong; I still craved my Nestlé's Crunch bars and continued to drool over Peter Paul's Mounds, but after that first encounter, nothing made my dopamine go ding-dong like a Kit Kat bar.

Now, those were the days, my friend, when Kit Kats were still made in England by Rowntree of York. In fact, the word “Rowntree” was emblazoned in script on each of the four “fingers” of confectionery perfection. Tracing its roots back to a worker's recommendation box suggestion for a “chocolate bar that a man could work in his pack up,” Rowntree's Chocolate Crisp, as it was originally known, sold for tuppence when it was introduced in 1935. The “Kit Kat” moniker came along two years later.

Initially marketed in London and southern England, Kit Kat caught on like wildfire and by the end of the next decade had spread throughout the UK and it's commonwealth countries – also making a big splash in its former colony across the Pond.

Alas, but all good things must end, and Kit Kat, sadly, ended up being licensed in 1970 to the Hershey Company, that abominable place in Pennsylvania where once-decent chocolate goes to be transformed into unappealing, sugary brown wax. A little piece of my childhood perished the day I bit into a Hershey's Kit Kat. (Sigh) Oh, I kept buying them – out of habit more than anything else – but neither my heart nor my taste buds were really in it anymore.

And then one blessed day, I happened to be aboard a cruise ship that sold Kit Kat bars in one of the onboard shops. Listlessly, I bought one, unwrapped it, and prepared for the now-familiar sense of disappointment. O. M. G! It was a freakin' real, honest-to-goodness and good chocolate KIT KAT BAR!!

As I repeatedly pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming or hadn't stepped into a DeLorean with Doc Brown at the wheel, I read the label. “Made in England.” Hmmm....

It seems that even though Hershey holds the US license for Kit Kat, Nestlé – who acquired Rowntree in 1988 – still makes them at the old plant in York and in several other European locations, and distributes them worldwide. La mia salvezza è portato di mano! Now all I had to do to get my Kit Kat fix was to take a cruise every couple of weeks! Wait......surely there's a less cost-prohibitive way to enjoy the earthly pleasure of heavenly chocolate.

Knowing and sympathetic friends who took cruises and/or traveled to Europe always made it a point to bring me care packages of as many Kit Kats as they could squeeze into their luggage. I was grateful.

Then, on another fortuitous foray, I stumbled upon a little downtown British import shop that carried lots of Dairy Milk and other Cadbury products, Maltesers, and......and.....yes! English-made Kit Kats! I immediately bought them out and became one of their best regulars.

Unfortunately, my passion for Kit Kats wasn't enough to sustain them in business....but by the time they went under, I had discovered World Market and to this day I am a deliriously happy Kit Kat camper.

Go on. Head over to WM and buy one. You'll immediately understand why somebody heisted twelve tons of them in Europe. See, British milk chocolate requires a higher minimum percentage of cocoa solids and milk fat than American “chocolate.” In other words, there's actually milk in their milk chocolate, not a cheap artificial substitute. This alone makes for a smoother, less waxy texture. And as for the flavor, European chocolate contains higher fat and cocoa content. This creates a much richer, fuller, more rounded and less intensely sweet taste by comparison to American chocolate products.

So....ah.....hey, if you're in the market for some real Kat Kat bars, I know a guy.......who works at World Market. Meet me there when they open tomorrow. I'll be the one with the oversize tote bag.

Food Network Cans “The Kitchen.” But Wait: Does Food Network Really Still Exist?

Food Network Descended Into Obscurity Years Ago

A headline caught my eye this morning: “The Kitchen” Canceled At Food Network After More Than 10 Years.

I think I've watched “The Kitchen” maybe once. It's got a decent panel of hosts. I've especially always liked Geoffrey Zakarian. Jeff Mauro can be a bit tedious and I can take or leave Sunny Anderson and Katie Lee (when did she add “Biegel?”) But the reason I am not mourning the loss of the show is the same reason that I never watched it in the first place. It's on Food Network and for the most part Food Network no longer exists. It descended into obscurity years ago.

Somebody (user-gbidhgb5a8, to be specific) commenting on the impending (December 13) demise of “The Kitchen”, went to great pains to do some pertinent research. He discovered that in a given week – the week of October 20 through 26 – the once vital, exciting, innovative and relevant channel was devoting a scant nine percent of its programming time to actual cooking shows of the type it once pioneered and was noted for.

Back in the day, the day being almost any day in the early 2000s, I sat and absolutely absorbed the likes of Emeril Lagasse, Mario Batali, Giada De Laurentiis, Bobby Flay, Michael Chiarello, Ina Garten, the late Anne Burrell and a host of other people who could actually cook and who could show you how to cook like they did. Alton Brown and his often offbeat “Good Eats” was must-see TV. About the only competition-style show aired by the network in those days was a takeoff on the classic Japanese cooking show “Iron Chef” called “Iron Chef America.”

Back then, by the time you watched a week's worth of high-quality, information-laden programming on Food Network, you could almost credit yourself with week's worth of culinary school education.

But now? As user-gbidhgb5a8 notes, out of a total of 168 programming hours, the so-called “Food Network” offers 144 hours of absolute and nearly unwatchable dreck. I'm sure Guy Fieri is a nice guy, but you can only watch “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives” so many times before your eyes begin to bleed and your brain turns to mush. And Chopped, Guy's Grocery Games, Beat Bobby Flay, Halloween Wars, Wizards of Baking, Worst Cooks in America, Alex vs. America, Bobby's Triple Threat, Wildcard Kitchen, Last Chef Standing and others on and on ad nauseam to the tune of 118 mind boggling hours is just insane. And don't forget the nine hours of time featuring early morning and/or overnight paid programming that I would be astounded to find anybody actually watching. That's five percent, by the way, compared to the nine percent they give to cooking shows.

“The Kitchen”, which premiered in 2014, just as the onrushing wave of mindless game shows was taking hold, was the last bastion of the old-style “dump and stir” shows. True, its panel of hosts spent a good deal of time talking about food and cooking, but they also presented recipes and techniques that you could take into your own kitchen. Not quite as hard core as some of the earlier cooking shows, but still – technically, at least – a cooking show in its own right.

And now it's gone. Unnamed sources say that “The Kitchen” has been canceled as a result of Food Network “evaluating resources and its priorities” ahead of the new year. Yeah. Right.

I don't know what they'll replace it with. The creativity well at Food Network has long since gone dry, leaving only a murky wet bottom from which to scrape new lows in quality programming. Maybe something featuring a knock down, drag out fight between the Chick-fil-A cows and a bunch of chickens. That would be compelling viewing by current standards. (And if something like that shows up on the air in the future, let this serve as my notice that I want creative credit for the idea, dammit.)

So addio Geoffrey et.al. I'm sure the fans who followed your show weekly for ten years will deeply miss you. And even though I never really watched you because your show aired after I had relegated your network to the dustbin of relevancy, I'll miss you, too. Or at least I'll miss what you represented: a clear note of a real cooking show amid the blaring, cacophonous brass of dull, boring, repetitive, colorless, insipid, lackluster and uninspiring effluvium currently being foisted off on a diminishing viewership by a once respected source for decent culinary programming.

Is It Marinara Or Is It Tomato Sauce?

Either Way, It's NOT Gravy

It's been another bountiful summer for my small garden plot of Roma tomatoes. Too bountiful if you ask me...or my neighbors and friends. Or my barber. Or my mail carrier. Or total strangers driving by my house who run the risk of having me throw tomatoes through their open car windows. Anyway, it's time to make sauce again! But will it be marinara or tomato sauce? “Wait,” you ask, “there's a difference?” Oh, yeah.

Marinara is what most Americans think of as “spaghetti sauce.” But, for heaven's sake, please learn how to pronounce “marinara.” I don't know when, why, or how Americans started saying “mare-uh-NARE-uh.” I don't remember most people pronouncing it that way when I was a kid, but they do now and it drives me nuts. Sometime over the past fifty or sixty years this offensive mispronunciation has taken hold and it simply makes my skin crawl. It has the same effect on me as nails on a blackboard, especially when I'm assailed by it in so-called “Italian” restaurants. “So you want the mare-uh-NARE-uh with that?” Uffa! Che schifo! PLEASE eschew the flat, nasal and completely incorrect American pronunciation and use instead the rich, round authentic Italian “mah-ree-NAHR-ah.” Grazie mille.

I tend toward marinara because it's a simpler preparation and generally more useful for my purposes. Marinara is a quick-cooked sauce. Because of the shorter cooking time, it retains its bright flavor and vibrant red color. It's also a thinner sauce and it's a little more on the sweet side with just a hint of tartness. It lacks the depth of a longer cooking tomato sauce, but it's my go-to sauce for pizza and for simple dishes like spaghetti al pomodoro.

I said it's “quick-cooked,” and it's just that. I have a recipe here from Italian-Canadian chef David Rocco for a so-called “five minute” marinara sauce, something of a misnomer since the sauce actually takes about fifteen minutes to prepare and cook.

1 medium onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, chopped

4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 (28 oz) can San Marzano tomatoes, pureed

pinch dried red chili flakes

4 or 5 fresh basil leaves, torn

Salt

In a large saucepan, heat olive oil and add onions, garlic, and chili flakes. Sautè for 2 or 3 minutes. Add pureed tomatoes and simmer over low to medium heat for 10 minutes. Salt to season. Add basil in the last minute or two.

On the other end of the “quick” spectrum, here's a recipe from Rocco DiSpirito for his mama's marinara. This one takes about an hour, so it kind of straddles the line between quick-cooked and long-cooking:

1/2 yellow onion, finely chopped

3 cloves garlic, crushed or minced

3 tbsp olive oil

2 (28 oz) cans San Marzano tomatoes, crushed

1 tbsp tomato paste

1 cup chicken stock

1 cup water

1 tsp sugar

pinch of red pepper flakes

Kosher salt and freshly-ground black pepper, to taste

a few leaves of fresh basil, torn into small pieces

In a sauce pot or Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium-low heat and add onion. Cook for about five minutes before adding garlic. Cook an additional five minutes, or until onions are translucent and garlic is lightly golden. NEVER allow garlic to brown!

Add in the tomato products. Add the chicken stock, water, and sugar. Taste and season with salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Cover and bring to a simmer.

Simmer the sauce for about an hour, adding in the fresh basil during the last ten minutes or so of cooking time. The sauce will be fairly thin. For a thicker sauce, simmer uncovered until the sauce reduces to desired consistency.

Now, on to tomato sauce.

In classic French cooking, Sauce Tomat is one of the five foundational “mother sauces.” The French preparation varies from its Italian cousin in that it is generally thickened with a roux, a mixture of flour and fat (usually butter) and it also includes some kind of roasted or cured meat, like ham or bacon, which is rendered in for additional flavor. The French technique often employs chicken or beef stock to add to the depth, along with the aromatics, which, in French tradition, are called mirepoix rather than soffritto. And, of course, the French use less of those base Italian seasonings like garlic and basil and oregano. Lah-te-dah.

Anyway, this is a simple recipe for good old Italian tomato sauce.

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 stalk celery, finely chopped

1 carrot, finely chopped

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 (14-ounce) can diced tomatoes

1 6 oz can tomato paste

1/2 tsp Italian seasoning

1/2 tsp parsley

2 basil leaves, finely chopped

2 dried bay leaves, whole

1/2 tsp brown sugar

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, optional

In a large stock pot, heat oil over medium high heat. Add onion and sauté until soft and translucent, about 2 minutes. Add garlic and cook for an additional minute. Add celery and carrots and season with salt and pepper. Sauté until all the vegetables are soft, about 5 minutes.

Add juice from canned tomatoes by pouring through a strainer, then crush tomatoes and add pulp. Add tomato paste and seasonings and simmer covered on low heat for at least 1 hour or until thick.

Remove bay leaves and check for seasoning. If sauce still tastes acidic, add unsalted butter, 1 tablespoon at a time to round out the flavors.

If not using all the sauce, allow it to cool completely and pour 1 to 2 cup portions into plastic freezer bags or other freezer-safe containers. This sauce will freeze well for up to 6 months.

As you can see, a little more goes in to creating a tomato sauce. For one thing, you always use a soffritto of onion, celery, and carrot. This adds a depth of flavor and a natural sweetness.

The real secret to this layered, complex flavor, though, is the longer cooking time. A long simmer, usually for at least an hour if not two, will really allow for a deep flavor and a rich texture to develop in a way quick cooked sauces can't match.

While a light marinara is perfect for pizza or quick, simple pasta dishes, the heavier, heartier tomato sauce is great for something like lasagne or cacciatore or bolognese that require longer cooking and a sturdier sauce.

Now....(opening a can of worms) about “gravy.”

I like to attend local Italian street festivals. They're great fun, even though they're not always strictly Italian in nature. For example, the Festa Italiana I went to most recently featured a karate demonstration. Hey, nothing shouts “Italian!” like a good dojo. But, by and large, they really do showcase the heart of Italian-American culture.

You know how I could tell it was Italian-American rather than Italiano vero? I could tell because I saw a nice middle-aged couple walking around wearing matching t-shirts they had just purchased from one of the vendors. The shirts said “It's Not Sauce, It's Gravy.” I smiled, turned to my wife and said, “Solo in America è vero.” (Only in America is this true.) I don't think the couple understood me and they just went smilingly on their way, but it's a fact: only Italian-Americans – and a specific geographically limited group of Italian-Americans at that – ever refer to either marinara or tomato sauce as “gravy.” I don't care what your nonna called it, it is most decidedly not gravy.

By strict definition, a “gravy” – a word that has its origins not in Latin or Italian, but in Middle English – is a preparation made from meat drippings or juices. There's not even an equivalent Italian word for it. In Italy, a condiment that is poured over or mixed in to enhance the flavor of a dish is broadly referred to as a “salsa,” which directly translates to “sauce.” A preparation made by combining tomatoes and meat is sometimes called a “sugo” or a “ragu”. In central and southern Italy, a sugo describes a basic tomato-forward preparation while “ragu” is used in northern areas to describe a slow-cooked meat-based sauce. Northern or southern, nobody calls it “gravy” because the word doesn't exist.

So why do regional pockets of Italian-Americans call it gravy? Here's the most popular theory.

When millions upon millions of Italians began arriving on American shores around the turn of the twentieth century, many, if not most, were met with the traditional American greeting: prejudice. Hostility and bigotry were rampant. Descendants of enslaved Africans had already had their turn as objects of hatred as had the Irish and the Chinese. Americans needed somebody new to dislike and, since the Puerto Ricans and other Hispanics had not yet arrived, Italians bore the brunt. Especially those from southern regions whose darker complexions made them easier targets.

These folks quickly found that it was in their best interest to distance themselves from their “Old Country” roots. So, to “fit in” in their new surroundings, they started changing their names, often just dropping the final vowel or making the “e” “silent.” They learned at least some English and forbade the speaking of Italian dialects in their new American homes. And those rich sauces they used in their foods? Far too foreign for “real” Americans, who called the stuff they poured over their meat and potatoes “gravy.” And since we want to be real Americans, it's arrivederci sugo, e ragu, e salsa! Let's call those tomato and meat sauces we love so much “gravy” so our American neighbors will accept us.

And so “Sunday gravy” it became and “Sunday gravy” it remains. Even though it really isn't. Gravy, that is. However, along with the regional massacre of Italian words like “gabbagool” for capocollo, “mootzarell” or “mootzadell” for mozzarella, “rigot” for ricotta, and “prozhoot” for prosciutto, this is a fight on which I have long since given up. Knowledge and reason are ineffective weapons against, “That's the way my nonna said it and that's the way I'm gonna say it, so fugeddaboutit.” Pour on that “gravy,” baby, firm in the knowledge that absolutely nobody in the land that gave birth to your revered ancestors would have the slightest idea what the hell you were talking about.

Okay, so there you have the essential lowdown on Italian sauces, both the light and simple marinara and the more hearty, complex tomato sauce. Now, drive on by my house and roll down your windows.

Knives, Forks And Pizza Etiquette

It's Not “Wrong” Or “Weird” To Use A Knife And Fork

I was dining with family at an Italian American place. I had ordered pizza and was, as per my usual, employing a knife and fork in its consumption. My Gen Z great-niece watched me for awhile and then asked why I was using a knife and fork instead of just picking it up like “everybody else” does. I explained it to her as I'll explain it to you, lettore cara.

First of all, it's a topic of great controversy depending upon where you are. In the vast pizza metropolis that is New York City, eating a slice of pizza any way other than by using your hands to fold it in half is considered heresy, punishable at the least by great mockery. Witness what happened a few years back to erstwhile mayor Bill de Blasio when he took utensils to slice at a place called Goodfellas on Staten Island. He was derided mercilessly and the press even hounded him again a few months later when paparazzi caught him with a knife and fork in a pizzeria in Naples. (The one in Italy, not its counterpart in Florida.) But de Blasio had a defense: he said he was being “authentic” and that he had picked up the cutlery habit while visiting his “ancestral homeland.”

On the other hand – no pun intended – if you try to pick up and fold a slice of the tomato and cheese casserole that passes for pizza in Chicago, you'll wind up with quite a mess.

Anyway, de Blasio was right. Protestation and ridicule from the Italian American contingent aside, the proper Italian way to eat pizza is, indeed, with a knife and fork. At least, according to formal galateo (etiquette.)

You see, in America pizza is always served one way – pre-sliced. You can buy it by the slice, of course, or you can purchase a whole pie. But even then, that pie will come pre-sliced, generally into eight pieces. In America, pizza is the ultimate sharing food, the ultimate party food. But that's not the case in Italy.

Italian food traditions are very particular and very specific. One of the specifications dictates that foods should not be combined. That's one reason why Italians don't mix, say, chicken and pasta. And it's why Italian pizza options are pretty limited by American standards. In Italy, you will seldom see a pizza with more than one or two toppings. The all-out pizza with pepperoni and cheese and mushrooms and green peppers and olives and sliced tomatoes and sausage and whatever else they happen to have in the kitchen would absolutely bewilder an Italian pizzaiola.

Italians are also not very big on sharing food or on leftovers. I'm not talking about family-style sharing, of course, but specifically to people sharing dishes in restaurants and formal settings. It's really not done. Nor is asking for a box or bag for leftovers. In the Italian mind, there aren't supposed to be any leftovers. They bring you what they consider to be reasonable portions of food and you're supposed to consume all of it. That includes pizza.

Although politically unified in 1861, in many ways the Italian peninsula is still twenty different regions. Nowhere is this more evident than in food culture. There's really no such thing as “Italian food.” Instead, there are the foods of the country's twenty regions. Occasionally, there's some overlap. Pizza, for instance.

Just as in the US, where you have Neapolitan-style and Sicilian-style and New York-style and Chicago-style and Detroit-style and St. Louis-style and California-style and seemingly endless other styles of pizza depending upon where you are (Altoona-style pizza, anyone?), there are different types of pizza in different regions of Italy. Obviously, the most popular comes from the generally accepted birthplace of modern pizza, Naples. But pizza Romana is a close second in and out of Rome. Sicily boasts of its own style as do other regions like Puglia, which produces a thick crust pizza topped with tomato sauce, mozzarella, and lots of onions.

Although some form of flatbread “pizza” has been around since ancient times, the “modern” pizza, as mentioned, rose from a simple, modest, affordable street food eaten by the poorer classes of southern Italian society. That all changed, however, after World War II, when a combination of social and economic factors caused the spread of the Neapolitan peasant dish to all parts and regions of the Italian peninsula and across the face of the globe. By the 1960s, pizza was ubiquitous.

“All very interesting,” you say, “but what does it have to do with using a knife and fork?”

Okay. Despite some regional variations, most Italian pizzerias serve a thin-crust pizza that comes in one size. It's a small pie by American standards, about the size of a dinner plate. It does not come pre-sliced and it is not intended to be shared with others, but rather to be eaten by one person as a single course. As such, the use of utensils is required as the individual diner must cut bite-sized morsels from the whole pie, a pie he or she is expected to finish. Don't even think of asking for a box.

Thus when de Blasio and other misunderstood knife and fork users say they are honoring their “cultural heritage” or whatever, they're right. By and large, pizza in Italy is eaten with a knife and a fork.

Oh, there are exceptions. Tourist places, for instance, will serve pizza in a more universally recognized form, i.e. whole pies sliced for sharing or individual slices made for folding over and carrying. Actually, the latter is often offered in the form of a calzone – and that's “kal-ZOH-nay,” not “kal-ZOHN,” – which is basically a folded-over pizza, made from the same dough and toppings as a regular pizza, designed to be carried and eaten with one hand.

And one more exception, which may validate all you devotees of the notion of pizza as a finger food: In Italy, unless in a very formal setting, it is permissible and sometimes even common to begin eating your pizza by cutting it with a knife and picking up the bite-sized pieces with a fork, then transitioning to picking up the remainder of the slice and eating it from your hand, often after folding it over. This is especially true of the end of the pizza slice at the cornicione, or the outer edge of the crust.

After a somewhat abbreviated version of this admittedly lengthy explanation – basically I told her, “That's how they do it in Italy” – I was gratified to note that my young great-niece picked up her knife and fork and followed my lead. Would that the rest of America's pizza-eating society do the same, we would have a much better mannered – and probably less messy – Italian dining experience.

But even if you personally choose to continue in the common American or Italian-American method of pizza eating, now, armed with appropriate knowledge of etiquette, would you at least please refrain from disparaging those whom you observe using a knife and fork? Because now you know that they are, indeed, not weird, but quite correct in doing so.

Buon appetito!

Basic Rules For Eating Italian Bread

Italians Love Their Bread, But There Are Rules

You've just been seated at your favorite Italian restaurant. The server has taken your order and the menus have been collected. Moments later – perhaps along with your beverages – the first course arrives: a basket full of delicious, crusty bread. Depending on the eatery, there may be little packets of butter in the basket or, more likely, a shallow dish of olive oil, sometimes containing Italian herbs, accompanies the bread. Or you may have ordered garlic bread: lightly toasted slices of bread slathered with garlic-flavored butter. Of course, you dig in immediately, probably emptying the basket long before the next course comes to the table.

If this scenario sounds familiar, I can assure you of one thing: you are not in an Italian restaurant.

Oh, don't get me wrong. Italians love their bread and it is, indeed, served as a part of every meal. Bread is integral to the Mediterranean diet. Some deeply religious people in the region even consider it to be a sacred food, broken and shared communally at the table. But bread is never – let me back up and run that by again for emphasis – NEVER served as a separate “course” or as a stand alone appetizer prior to other courses. The only exception there would be in the case of some sort of bruschetta – pronounced “broo-SKET-ah” and not “broo-SHET-uh” – which is a preparation unto itself and is usually considered as an antipasto or appetizer. But plain Italian bread with butter or oil or “garlic bread”? Never.

In the first place, “garlic bread” is an American invention non-existent in Italian culture and cuisine. Although it can trace its roots back to the aforementioned bruschetta, “garlic bread,” as served in Italian American restaurants, is strictly an Italian American creation. Early Italian immigrants to the United States often had to adapt their traditional dishes to match the realities of the local ingredients on hand. Olive oil was all but unheard of in America, but there was lots of butter. So, add a little garlic to make it taste more like home and....the birth of “garlic bread,” subsequently introduced to semi-adventurous American palates at those “exotic” Italian restaurants that began springing up by the mid-twentieth century. But back in Italy? Never.

In fact, let's talk about butter for a second. Let's say you're in Italy and have asked your cameriere for a little butter for your bread. He's going to look at you like you've grown a third eye and then he's going to be embarrassed. “Mi dispiace,” he'll say, “ma non abbiamo burro.” Restaurants in the southern parts of Italy are unlikely to even have butter in the building while northern establishments might try to to accommodate your request by slicing chunks off the big blocks of butter kept in the kitchen for use in some dishes. But the cute little foil-wrapped pats you find in Italian American places? Never.

And oil for dipping? Sometimes with balsamic vinegar added? Not generally a thing in Italy, where it would be considered a waste of good olive oil, and why on earth would you want to taint your taste buds with vinegar before the rest of the food arrives? Besides, if you've ever priced real, genuine balsamic vinegar, you'd know that there ain't no way anybody in their right budget-conscious mind would just dump it on a plate and dip cheap bread in it. Except for in touristy places, it just isn't done.

Now, if you were in Tuscany, you might be served fettunta – literally “oily slice” – which is a predecessor of and the base for bruschetta. You take a nice, thick slice of bread and toast it. Not in a toaster but on a grill or a grill pan. You want a nice golden color and maybe some grill marks. While the bread is still hot from grilling, you cut the end off a garlic clove and rub the surface of the bread with the cut clove. Then you drizzle it with a generous amount of good quality olive oil and sprinkle on just a mere touch of coarse salt, like kosher salt. This would be a type of bread that could be served either as an accompaniment or as a course of its own.

And then there's the bread. A lot of Italian American places at least make an attempt at baking their own bread. I know of a number of such places that use the same dough for table bread that they use to make their pizza crust. It's not exactly “authentic” Italian bread, but it's a start. Far too many Italian American eateries serve up “Italian bread” purchased through their commercial food suppliers. The difference is like night and day.

True “Italian” bread – i.e. bread made in Italy or made according to Italian traditions – uses different ingredients and different baking techniques than its American or Italian American counterparts. Real Italian breads are made with different flours – most often grano tenero flours – and are baked at higher temperatures than their commercial cousins. Olive oil is the fat of choice rather than cheaper oils or butter. Slow fermentation processes are used in making Italian bread, no fast-acting yeast. And there are no preservatives in real Italian bread, something that can't be said of the bread-like substances produced in commercial factory bakeries and shipped halfway across the country on trucks. All this results in thick, rustic crusts that you can really sink your teeth into and that contrast beautifully with the soft, airy, chewy yet almost fluffy interiors. Besides flavor and texture, vero pane Italiano is more digestible and has less gluten and a lower glycemic index than your average American bread. Sadly, most store bought “Italian bread” – the stuff your favorite “Italian” place is likely putting in your basket – is pretty much Wonder Bread shaped like an Italian loaf and wrapped in green, white, and red bags. If you ever luck up and find someplace that serves something like pane Toscano or pane di Altamura or some other authentic Italian bread, you'll see what I mean.

So, anyway, back to the restaurant. If they bring out all that delicious-looking and wonderful smelling bread right off the bat, what are you supposed to do with it? Just leave it sitting there in the basket? Yep.

Didn't your Mama ever tell you “don't fill up on bread?” Well, that's also the Italian philosophy. A lot of the more authentic places won't even bring the bread out until the rest of the food is served. The idea is that bread is there to accompany the meal, not to be eaten as an appetizer or as a course unto itself. It is not a pre-meal filler or a snack. And you don't usually eat it with your pasta or risotto as this would be considered eating a starch with a starch. No, bread is typically reserved as something you eat with your soup or salad or meat or vegetable course. The only real exception here is that it is acceptable to break off small pieces of bread to use as sops for any leftover sauce remaining on your pasta plate. The custom is called fare la scarpetta – make a little shoe – and although it's sometimes frowned upon in the high end, high tone places, it's okay pretty much everyplace else. When in doubt, look about. If you see other people doing it, well, when in Rome – or Florence or Milan or Bologna or wherever.....

Whatever you do, don't cut the bread! Big cultural no-no. In Italy, they take the phrase “breaking bread” literally. You break off a piece of bread for your own use from the communal loaf, and then you break that piece into whatever smaller pieces you intend to use for whatever you intend to use them for. Taking a knife to the bread will get you dirty looks at the very least. And so will taking more bread than you can eat. Food waste and leftovers are not Italian things.

Oh, and be aware, while it's not an issue in American Italian places where bread is usually complementary, even in upscale eateries, if you should find yourself in an Italian Italian restaurant, don't be surprised by the coperto. Yes, there's a cover charge for bread in many establishments. Technically, it is a table charge that covers the table setting, the bread and the basket it comes in, and other small incidentals. It's not a “tip” or a service charge and it goes directly to the restaurant and not to the server. It's generally a euro or two per person and you'll usually see it in small print at the bottom of the menu.

So there you have it: the essentials of Italian bread etiquette in a nutshell. Or maybe in a breadbasket, I don't know. In any case buon appetito e mangiare bene!

Does Hot Food Need To Completely Cool Before Being Refrigerated?

It's All About Time and Temperature

Okay, tell me if you've heard this one: “You can't put that in the refrigerator. It's too hot. It has to cool down first.” Of course you have. If you're like me, you've probably heard it from your mother who heard it from her mother, who heard it from.....and so on, all the way back to the days of the “ice box.”

But does hot food really need to “cool down” before you put it in the fridge? The answer is a qualified “no,” with the qualification being the definition of “hot.”

Obviously, you're not going to take a casserole or something right out of a 350° oven and put it directly into the refrigerator. Condensation becomes an immediate issue, to say nothing of the risk of the thermal shock that would most likely occur should you take said 350° dish and place it directly on a 40° glass shelf, which most refrigerators have these days. Bad idea all the way around.

The other concern – that of raising the temperature inside the fridge – goes back to the days of the aforementioned ice box.

Ice boxes were just that: insulated double-walled wooden or metal boxes into which blocks of ice were inserted for the purpose of cooling food and/or beverages. The insulation consisted of straw, sawdust, cork, and sometimes even fur stuffed into hollow spaces between the walls of the boxes. Since pretty much everybody knew even then that warm air rises and cold air falls, large blocks of ice were placed in compartments located at the top of the box. The cold – well, cooler – air would sink downward, thus somewhat cooling whatever was inside the box. Of course, even well-insulated ice eventually reverts to its liquid state, so drip trays were located at the bottom of the box. These trays had to be emptied at least once a day, more often in hot climates or in hot weather.

The first commercially successful electric refrigerator came about in 1927. (An older model, introduced in 1910 and called the “Dumbbell”, failed to catch on largely because it cost $1,000 in a time when Joe Average made less than $500 a year.) Made by General Electric and called the “Monitor-Top,” it was an improvement on the old-fashioned ice box. But just barely.

Based on a concept developed by French inventor Marcel Audiffren, the Monitor-Top employed the same basic design as an ice box, except it had an electric compressor perched on top of the box instead of an ice tray. The compressor distributed coolant through a hermetically sealed system, so no more emptying drip trays. Unfortunately, early units often utilized toxic gases like sulfur dioxide, methyl formate, ammonia, or propane as coolants. And they really weren't all that cool.

If you put a fifty pound block of ice in the top compartment of an ice box, the upper portions of the box would cool to around 52 to 54 degrees, while the lowest part might get down as low as 42 to 44 degrees. The new-fangled electric models maintained about the same temperature levels. They were just more consistent about it since there wasn't any melting of the primary coolant involved. Basically, they were just big electric coolers. Freezer compartments were still a few years in the future.

And so it began: “don't put anything hot in the ice box,” as my grandmother still called it well into the 1960s, “because you'll warm up the inside of the box and everything in it will spoil.” That was true in 1925. Not so much a hundred years later.

Modern refrigerators are light years ahead of their predecessors in terms of overall design, construction, materials, compressor power, coolant, insulation …everything...and they can pretty much handle it when you stick a dish of warm leftovers inside without dramatically raising the interior temperature. Some of the newer units even have sensors built in to compensate for such changes in temperature. So go ahead and put your leftovers in the fridge while they're still a little warm. Really. It's okay.

The real issue is this: The first thing you learn in culinary school or when you open a restaurant is the “time and temperature” mantra. Boy, do they drill that one into your head! Ya gotta keep your food outta the “food danger zone.” That's the temperature range between 40°F and 140°F (some sources say 41°F to 135°F) where bacteria grow rapidly.

The FDA Food Code recommends a two-stage food cooling process. Cooked food has to be cooled from 140℉ down to 70℉ within two hours, then cooled down to 40℉ or lower in the next four hours. If the food has not reached 70℉ within two hours, you've either got to throw it out or reheat it and then cool it again. The total cooling time can't be longer than six hours or it's all just trash can fodder.

This is all especially true of what the experts and pros call “TCS Foods.” That means “time/temperature controlled for safety” food. TCS foods include meat and poultry; fish and shellfish; milk and dairy; eggs; leafy greens, and potato, rice, pasta, bean or vegetable dishes.

So don't take chances when cooling your food before you put it in the refrigerator. Basically, you've got two hours to bring the food temperature down from cooking temperature (above 140°F) to room temperature, (70°F) in order to eliminate the risk of pathogen growth. Then you've got another four hours to get it from room temperature down to 40℉ or less. The FDA also says that if you get the temp down to 70°F in less than two hours, you've still got the rest of the allotted time to get it down to 40℉.

Now, I don't think the peas are going to rise up and give you food poisoning if you leave them on the counter for a half-hour. The problem is it's really, really easy to get busy and/or distracted and forget about the stuff that you've left out to cool. And a half-hour becomes an hour and then two hours.....and that's when those innocuous little pisum sativum become little green monsters bent on wreaking digestive havoc. It's all fun and games until somebody loses track of the time.

The best thing to do is this; as soon as your peas, carrots, beans, potatoes, rice, meatloaf, baked chicken, fried fish or whatever stop being hot dishes on the table, stick 'em in the fridge. After sitting out on the table (or on the counter) while you're eating – say a half-hour to forty-five minutes – your food has probably cooled to pretty near that 70° mark. Stick a thermometer in it; you'll see. And if you really think that your refrigerator can't handle 70° food, (and it can), the USDA says you can rapidly cool it in a cold water bath before you refrigerate it.

But the best, most effective and most recommended way to rapidly cool hot food is to reduce its size. If you've got a big pot of soup or stew or a big hunk of meat or a large pile of mashed potatoes or something to deal with, portion it out into smaller containers. Spreading it out in shallow bowls or pans will help the heat dissipate more quickly. While you're working, leave the containers uncovered to reduce condensation and facilitate heat transfer. Then seal 'em up and refrigerate 'em.

Here's another cooling tip: while your food is sitting out on the counter awaiting its trip to the fridge, have it elevated on a cooling rack. The air flow all around the container will dissipate the heat faster than if you leave the bottom of the container in direct contact with the table or countertop.

And make sure your refrigerator is set no higher than 40F°. A couple of degrees cooler is even better. Better still is a refrigerator that has separate temperature zones. One of mine, for instance, has controls that allow me to set the meat drawer to a lower temperature than the main body of the fridge and to adjust the humidity in the vegetable drawer. If your fridge is warmer than 40°F, then it's really not much better than an old-fashioned ice box and all bets for food safety are off. Numbered dials inside the fridge are good but your best friend for accurate temperature control is a refrigerator thermometer. Five bucks at Walmart. C'mon! Splurge!

One more thing: try not to stack stuff in the fridge. I do it all the time until I think about it, but doing so can mess with the air flow in there and make your poor old chill-chest work harder to do its thing.

Bottom line: as long as you do it the right way, it's okay to refrigerate your leftovers while they're still a little warm. It's better than “leaving them out to cool” while you go binge watch four or five episodes of something, (“Oh! I lost track of time. I hope this stone-cold rice is still good”). And its easier than sitting there monitoring the cooling process with a thermometer, (“Nope. The mashed potatoes are still registering seventy-four-point-five degrees.”) It's easy-peasy.....or easy-rice-y or potato-y or whatever.

To refrigerate or not to refrigerate; that is the question. And now you have the answer.

Air Is Your Enemy!

At Least Where Freshness Is Concerned

I had to wince the other day as I watched a friend “reseal” a resealable plastic bag containing shredded cheese. She took out a handful of cheese and then just zipped the bag closed and stuck it back in the refrigerator. “But isn't that what you're supposed to do with a resealable bag,” you ask? The answer is an emphatic “no!” When that bag went back in the fridge, it looked like a little plastic pillow. It was absolutely full of air.

I thought everybody knew better, but apparently I was mistaken. There is nothing that will render food stale or spoiled faster than prolonged exposure to air. Why do you think they make “resealable” bags in the first place? It's so you can seal in the freshness by sealing out the air. And my friend just sealed a whole bagful of air in with her shredded cheese.

Air, or more precisely the oxygen in it, causes all manner of nasty things to happen to stored food. “Oxidation” is what the scientific types call it, and it can make fatty foods go rancid and promote changes in color, texture and flavor in many other foods.

Biting into a limp, rancid-tasting potato chip is bad enough, but even worse things can occur in the presence of air. A sealed plastic bag full of air is a marvelous growth environment for airborne microorganisms like bacteria, molds and yeasts. And, since air usually brings moisture to the party, it's like a trip to the beach for those little critters that cause microbial spoilage. Which is, by the way, the number one cause of good food going bad.

Let's take that air-filled bag of cheese, for example. If my friend were to just leave that cheese out in the open air, it could start to spoil within a few hours. By sealing the air in with the cheese, she's pretty much guaranteeing a rapid decline in quality, to say nothing of safety. Refrigerating it is not the answer. All though it helps, some agents of spoilage aren't impressed by temperature until it gets down to sub-freezing levels. No, they'll just chill out and start covering the cheese with green and white mold. Next time she opens that bag...oooh, surprise!

Speaking, as we were, of potato chips, I'm sure you've noticed that they come packed full of air right from the factory. As a matter of fact, a common complaint is that there's more air in the bag than there is product.

But, it's not really regular ol' air that's taking up all that slack space, as they call it in the snack food industry. It's actually nitrogen gas. Seems that back around 1994, researchers discovered that exposing chips and such to nitrogen made them taste better for longer. So the industry started sealing chips in a nitrogen-infused environment to keep them crisp and tasty as opposed to soggy and nasty. Which is what you get when you open a bag of snacks and put it back in the cupboard or pantry without expelling all the air you let in when you opened the bag. No, you can't replace the nitrogen, but at least if you expel the excess air before you seal the bag with a chip clip or whatever, you'll preserve the taste and texture for far longer than if you trap air inside the bag. Same thing applies to cookies and crackers and snack cakes. They probably won't “go bad” as in “kill you deader than a hammer” bad or even make you sick as a dog bad, but they sure won't be as appealing after a few days in an air-filled environment.

And how about those leftovers you put in the zip-top bag? Did you just fill the bag with food and then top it off with a nice layer of air? Might as well have not bothered with zipping up the bag.

Same thing, by the way, if you're using plastic or glass storage containers with lids. Don't just snap the lid on after you fill the container. The makers of Tupperware used to highlight a little feature on the lids of their products that allowed you to “burp” them to get rid of any air inside before you sealed the container. You don't have to have a special “burp” button, just press down on the lid a little before you seal the bowl.

Whether it be cheese or chips or cookies or leftover veggies, it only takes a second to squeeze the air out of the bag – or bowl – before you seal it up. You have to develop the habit of doing it until it becomes instinctive. Muscle memory. Expel the air then seal the container. I've been doing so long that I don't even have to think about.

Now, I'm not saying you have to be a real fanatic about it. Just press or roll the bag until you get as much air out as possible. You're never going to get all the air out; just aim for doing the best you can.

Some folks swear by the water displacement method, whereby you partially seal your seal-able bag and then lower it into a pot of water, allowing the water pressure to push out any air in the bag before you finish sealing it. This is a tried and true method that works well with zip-top bags and such, but I wouldn't recommend it for sealing up an open bag of Doritos.

Then there are questionable tips like leaving an open corner and using a straw to suck the air out of the bag. Meh. That one's been around for a while. No less a resource than the venerable Good Housekeeping magazine actually recommended it at one time. But, I don't care if you just rinsed your mouth with a quart of Listerine, there's gonna be a few germs left in your oral orifice and do you really want to give them a free ride down into your leftovers? Just sayin'.

You could go off the deep end and buy a vacuum sealer. Greatest thing since sliced bread if you're into sous vide cooking (which I am) or if you buy in bulk and want to put stuff up for freezing (which I do.) As you might have guessed, I have one. But even I'm not dedicated enough to the cause of freshness to use it for day-to-day things. Besides the cost of endless vacuum sealer bags, I'm not sure how well the process would work with potato chips. I'm sure whatever crumbs would be left after the sealer got through with the chips would be undeniably fresh, but.....you know. (Actually, I saw a gadget online the other day – a mini bag sealer – that does nothing but seal the kind of bags that chips and snacks come in, but....really?)

No, just stick with pressing the air out and then sealing the bag/container as quickly as you can. As I said, you're not gonna get all the air out, but you'll do a helluva lot better of keeping your food nominally fresh than if you just chunk little air-filled plastic pillows into the refrigerator or pantry.

Remember, when it comes to food freshness and safety, it's far better to expel than to leave an air cell. (I know; it's a stretch but it's the best I could do.)