You know a dish is special when you think about it days, weeks, months, even decades after that first bite entered your mouth.
A number of years ago, I tasted a killer open-faced rabbit raviolo. The rabbit filling was perfect. The pasta, made in-house, was just the right thickness and texture — present without trying to beat the hare for attention. Curiously, it’s the silky, meaty richness of the small pool of broth in which it so luxuriously rested that rules my mind these eight years later. I could drink that broth by the gallon. The restaurant, Larry Forgione’s An American Place in St. Louis, is now defunct and has been for some time. Sigh.
During my first week in Atlanta, I ventured to a lot of restaurants and ordered a lot of food. Many dishes were worthy of a repeat order, yet one connected with me more personally than the others: long bean “carbonara” at the Cockentrice.
It’s a simple, rustic dish of flash-fried long beans, pickled red onions, shallots, garlic, Calabrian pancetta and shaved Parmesan, all topped with a sunny-side-up egg from a happy chicken at White Oak Pastures.
But, oh, what happens when the flavors unite! The tangle of blistered beans; briny onions; shallots and garlic, mellow and sweet from heat; salty pancetta; Parmesan lending all-important umami (apologies for falling back on an overused 21st century taste term, barely better than the laziest food writer’s phrase of all: “je ne sais quoi.”); and the egg, whose wobbly yolk spreads over everything with the pierce of a fork. Divine.
The long bean carbonara was one of a number of plates I shared that night with a colleague at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Yvonne Zusel. We were amicably chatting about Atlanta’s dining scene when she asked how my move to this city was going. That brought a lump to my throat. I miss my husband, my high school-aged son and my college kiddo, who studies out of state and tells me that moving here is fine since Atlanta won’t be his home base except between semesters. I’m counting the days until they join me.
“It’s all good,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”
I took a bite of the long beans that I’d split between our two plates, careful to make sure we both got a fair share of the now oozing egg yolk.
I’m a vegetable fanatic. I ordered that menu item, as opposed to something like a build-your-own charcuterie plate, because I wanted to see how the Cockentrice used product from its sister operation, Spotted Trotter, in a composed veg-centric dish.
It wasn’t just the beans that made me smile. It was this playful carbonara, where the yolk covered everything. It felt like a crying toddler’s worn blankey that makes him feel safe enough to go to bed alone. How does food do that to us?
As luck would have it, the very next day I eyed long beans at Grant Park Farmers Market. Sunday supper was decided. I had eggs and Parm in the fridge, yellow onions and garlic on the counter and Spotted Trotter finocciona I’d purchased days earlier.
I warmed olive oil on the skillet, tossed in minced garlic, onions, long beans — all homey looking in their uncut state — and the cured meat.
I sipped a glass of Rioja as I waited. Patience, I told myself. Let the beans go to near burning. From bright green to a muted olive color to brown and black in spots they went, all the while releasing moisture.
Ah, but there has to be some sauciness, I thought, remembering that there was a little puddle of jus in the restaurant’s version. I grabbed a ladleful of chicken broth I’d made earlier that day. Sizzle. Smoke. Good smells. Amazing taste. A crank of the pepper mill was all it needed.
Next up, the egg. A chef recently told me that the egg on top wasn’t a trend. It just was. Heck, yes. It’s the perfect protein for people with precious little time to eat. It’s also a fine form of protein for people who take the time to savor it.
To plate, I transferred the beans to a china bowl usually reserved for special guests, stayed steady with the spatula as I slid the egg on top, then added generous shards of cheese wherever the dish needed good looks. I topped my glass with more scorched-earth Rioja and grabbed a linen napkin, because fancy is always just one step away and we all deserve it.
A plebeian pound of beans became a five-star meal for one. My rendition is not made the way chef Kevin Outz and his culinary team do it at the Cockentrice, but it was close enough, and it made me smile. “It’ll be fine,” I said to no one but the wall.
And, now, I’m curious to hear about your love affair with memorable dishes in and around Atlanta. Which ones are so delicious they have inspired you to re-create them at home? Send me an email at foodeditor@ajc.com or, better yet, share your favorites with everyone in the comments section of this column.
About the Author
