Sunday, July 31, 2011.
Chicken With Artichokes, Mushrooms, And Spinach.
Last night's big dinner at Assunta's made Mary Ann determine that we will eat at home today. I keep telling her, there is nothing light about eating at home. You have unlimited portions, and you cook what you want. In restaurants, you get only what they give you.
I didn't fight her, though, because a virtual flavor was tickling my brain: chicken with artichokes. This is something I've loved since the first time I tasted it. Which, I think, was from the hand of Joe Segreto when he was running the old Red Onion in Metairie.
The original dish made with artichokes, mushrooms, and a light, slightly winy butter sauce is veal Kottwitz at Brennan's on Royal Street. They also make it with trout. It's one of the best dishes there, and I'd get it more often were it not for the well-known disaffinity between artichokes and wine. And you can't go to Brennan's and not drink a great wine.
The place I eat this and that with artichokes and mushrooms is Impastato's, where the sauce is equally fine on veal, chicken, fish, and soft-shell crabs.
So why don't I ever make it at home. I don't know, but I haven't since I worked up the recipe for my cookbook. Tonight was the night.
The ultimate form of this dish would include fresh baby artichokes. Either the season is past, or the produce managers on the North Shore are even more laggard than usual. Had to go with the canned.
Canned artichokes come in a different kind of can than almost anything else. It has been thus for a long time. I remember when I worked at the Time Saver in the 1960s that while most vegetables came in the standard #303 can, artichokes were packed in the slightly slenderer, primitive-looking #300 can. (Why do I remember minutiae like this?)
The wine I used to glaze the pan was interesting. I have a couple of bottles of the Chardonnay we served at our wedding reception. California, vintage 1986. It was in the back of a pile and I lost track of it. Now it's far over the edge, and noticeably brown. But oxidized wine is what sherry is, and I thought this stuff would add the perfect flavor. It did. And we drank some of it, too.
My preference for the chicken is to broil it with skin and bones still in place, but the Marys don't like that. Pounded some skinless breasts (tenders removed) instead. Made a seasoned flour with tarragon, chervil, marjoram, salt and pepper. Dusted the chicken with it. Heated what proved to be a bit too much olive oil until small waves formed on the surface. (I wonder what causes that? I'll ask Alton Brown next time he comes on the show.)
Seared the chicken on both sides for a few minutes, then moved them to the barely-on oven to stay warm. Into the pan went the drained and rinsed artichoke hearts and sliced portobello mushrooms. Mary Ann said she had extra fresh spinach and that I should add it. It didn't occur to me until later that we were edging in the direction of spinach-artichoke dip, the marker dish of chain restaurants. I didn't put in as much as she thought, but what were the chances of that?
I added lemon juice and a little Worcestershire. When the mushrooms were soft, the pan came off the burner and I flicked in a few tablespoons of butter until the sauce got creamy looking. Tasted: ah. A little too much lemon juice. This is no problem for Mary Ann, who likes lemony dishes. I will reduce the squeeze pressure on the lemon next time.
Except for that minor matter, this was exactly what I had in mind for dinner. Mary Ann cooked some brown rice and made a salad, and there we were, around the kitchen counter, eating it up.
