longer and the breasts not so long. Don’t try this with factory-raised chickens. They will be dry and tasteless.
Sal Iacono, in his white apron and farmer’s rubber boots, was an East Hampton institution; he died in 2008 at seventy-nine. His widow and son now carry on the business. Long before the term “free range” was invented, Sal’s chickens were running this way and that outdoors in good weather in a half-acre pen, and when it rains they file two by two into their spacious henhouse. Since the 1950s, when he inherited the farm from his father, he had raised his chickens on a simple diet of corn without chemicals, hormones, antibiotics, or anything else in a clean henhouse, and he sold them the day after they were killed. The chickens are the widely grown Cornish Cross, so what gives them their intense flavor and delicate texture must be their diet of unadulterated grain, their freedom to wander outdoors in search of food, their freshness, and perhaps the clean East Hampton air—in other words, their freedom to live like other birds. Whatever the reason, they are unlike any other chickens I have ever tasted, including the celebrated blue-legged
poulets de Bresse
of France. Sal himself was as cheerful and easygoing as his chickens musthave been to produce such flavor and texture, an honorable and humorous man, without pretense, who made a fine product, gave good value, enjoyed his work and his customers, and in his humble shop played tapes of the music to which he (and I) came of age many years ago.
Lately, Peconic Bay scallops, which used to grow in our bays like weeds, have been severely depleted by an invasion of algae. Now they seem to be returning, not yet in their former great numbers but enough to inspire hope that the worst is over, though another “brown tide” is moving ominously through the bays. These scallops are so sweet and tender that I like to eat them raw, lightly marinated in lime juice, with a few shreds of raw onion and some finely diced chilis. Most people, however, prefer them sautéed or fried.
FRIED SCALLOPS AND FRIED CALAMARI
To fry them I heat a half-inch of extra-virgin olive oil in a ten-inch cast-iron skillet until the oil begins to shimmer. Then I dredge a handful of scallops at a time in corn flour and discard any excess by tossing the scallops, a few at a time, in a colander, batting the colander firmly with my hand, and with tongs or a slotted spoon I lower the scallops carefully into the oil, so that the oil doesn’t splash and the scallops don’t gang up. They will brown quickly, and as soon as they do you must remove them from the oil and drain them on paper towels. Offer these to guests with drinks before dinner, three to a serving, with a wooden toothpick and a touch of cold mayonnaise thinned with lemon juice. Or serve themas a first course with andouille or chorizo sausage in small chunks warmed through in the same pan.
Sometimes I accompany fried scallops with fried calamari. I use the smaller ones, which I cut in quarter-inch rings, trimming the heads by cutting off the eyes. I dip them in milk and then in a mixture of Wondra flour and corn flour. After shaking off the excess, I fry them in olive oil at about 350 degrees for a minute or two, until they brown slightly. Then I drain them on paper towels, salt them, and serve them at once, while they are still crisp. They are much more delicate than the heavily breaded restaurant versions, but the delicate batter won’t stay dry for long, so don’t fry more at a time than your guests can eat in five minutes. Most fish markets sell squid already cleaned. If yours doesn’t, simply separate the head and tentacles from the bodies, then remove the transparent cartilage from the body, remove the pinkish skin, rinse out the body, and proceed as above. Do not leave the calamari in the oil for more than a minute or two or they will become mushy. The aroma of squid frying in olive oil reminds me of seaside lunches at Amalfi.
Sal Iacono, in his white apron and farmer’s rubber boots, was an East Hampton institution; he died in 2008 at seventy-nine. His widow and son now carry on the business. Long before the term “free range” was invented, Sal’s chickens were running this way and that outdoors in good weather in a half-acre pen, and when it rains they file two by two into their spacious henhouse. Since the 1950s, when he inherited the farm from his father, he had raised his chickens on a simple diet of corn without chemicals, hormones, antibiotics, or anything else in a clean henhouse, and he sold them the day after they were killed. The chickens are the widely grown Cornish Cross, so what gives them their intense flavor and delicate texture must be their diet of unadulterated grain, their freedom to wander outdoors in search of food, their freshness, and perhaps the clean East Hampton air—in other words, their freedom to live like other birds. Whatever the reason, they are unlike any other chickens I have ever tasted, including the celebrated blue-legged
poulets de Bresse
of France. Sal himself was as cheerful and easygoing as his chickens musthave been to produce such flavor and texture, an honorable and humorous man, without pretense, who made a fine product, gave good value, enjoyed his work and his customers, and in his humble shop played tapes of the music to which he (and I) came of age many years ago.
Lately, Peconic Bay scallops, which used to grow in our bays like weeds, have been severely depleted by an invasion of algae. Now they seem to be returning, not yet in their former great numbers but enough to inspire hope that the worst is over, though another “brown tide” is moving ominously through the bays. These scallops are so sweet and tender that I like to eat them raw, lightly marinated in lime juice, with a few shreds of raw onion and some finely diced chilis. Most people, however, prefer them sautéed or fried.
FRIED SCALLOPS AND FRIED CALAMARI
To fry them I heat a half-inch of extra-virgin olive oil in a ten-inch cast-iron skillet until the oil begins to shimmer. Then I dredge a handful of scallops at a time in corn flour and discard any excess by tossing the scallops, a few at a time, in a colander, batting the colander firmly with my hand, and with tongs or a slotted spoon I lower the scallops carefully into the oil, so that the oil doesn’t splash and the scallops don’t gang up. They will brown quickly, and as soon as they do you must remove them from the oil and drain them on paper towels. Offer these to guests with drinks before dinner, three to a serving, with a wooden toothpick and a touch of cold mayonnaise thinned with lemon juice. Or serve themas a first course with andouille or chorizo sausage in small chunks warmed through in the same pan.
Sometimes I accompany fried scallops with fried calamari. I use the smaller ones, which I cut in quarter-inch rings, trimming the heads by cutting off the eyes. I dip them in milk and then in a mixture of Wondra flour and corn flour. After shaking off the excess, I fry them in olive oil at about 350 degrees for a minute or two, until they brown slightly. Then I drain them on paper towels, salt them, and serve them at once, while they are still crisp. They are much more delicate than the heavily breaded restaurant versions, but the delicate batter won’t stay dry for long, so don’t fry more at a time than your guests can eat in five minutes. Most fish markets sell squid already cleaned. If yours doesn’t, simply separate the head and tentacles from the bodies, then remove the transparent cartilage from the body, remove the pinkish skin, rinse out the body, and proceed as above. Do not leave the calamari in the oil for more than a minute or two or they will become mushy. The aroma of squid frying in olive oil reminds me of seaside lunches at Amalfi.
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