Gypsy Kitchens: Cooking Kolokasi

Cyprus has snow. Even now, in March, people are skiing in the high Troodos. Installed in the small mountain hamlet of Silikou, our breath has been white in the evenings and we have our drinks by a blazing hearth. The cold and altitude have brought our thoughts back to hearty winter-roots and warm food. So, on a rainy day in our stone cottage, we decided to cook up a Kolokasi stew, a filling and simple Cypriot specialty. One thing that worried us: Kolokasi is poisonous.
Kolokasi is a bit of a mystery food. Better known in English as taro (or dasheen), it's extremely rare in Europe - most Taro is cultivated in southeast Asia and Malaysia, where it originated. The course roots were once popular in the Roman empire, after being introduced by way of Egypt, but as Rome declined, so too did Kolokasi. Now, it's only grown in significant quantities in two places on the European continent: the geek island of Ikaria and in Cyprus.

The first time we saw Kolokasi for sale, we actually thought they were some kind of huge mushroom.
High levels of calcium oxalate in taro give the root its toxicity, and make it inedible when raw. There are a few ways to minimize the poisonous effects - soaking the roots in cold water for 24 hours, for example. But nobody would want to eat kolokasi raw anyway, and the best way to get rid of the poison is to thoroughly cook it - just like rhubarb. Some people suggest cooking it with baking soda, but we made a mistake and added baking powder. Not that it mattered. We're still alive.
We bought our kolokasi from a man who sold them on the roadside. He had two varieties - one larger type and these small ones. It wasn't clear what the difference between them was. He was also keen on selling us potatoes instead, maybe because they're not poisonous. Declining the potatoes, we picked up a few carrots and onions.
The cooking process wasn't too difficult, just the basic peel, chop and boil technique. The skin was tough and covered with small hairs. Slime formed on the white flesh as it was cut - a kind of milky, white, slippery stuff that got all over the cutting board and our hands. It's supposedly possible to minimize this sliminess by breaking the kolokasi apart with your hands, but you'd have to be incredibly strong. The roots are denser than potatoes, and hard to get a grip on. Plus, the peel is too unappetizing to leave on.
Though it's been common on the Cyprus roadsides, supermarkets and vegetable stands, we hadn't knowingly eaten any taro on the island. So this isn't really a recipe, it's more of an experiment - the goal was to see if we could cook the kolokasi, eat it and survive. We added garlic and tomato paste to our liquid, but otherwise kept it simple - we were curious about how this stuff tasted, and didn't want to muddy up the flavor.
It took about an hour and a half of cooking to make the cubes fork-tender. Interestingly, the crisp edges of the cut kolokasi dissolved as we boiled it, and the whole stew turned into an orange, chunky mash, which isn't so bad on a cold night in the mountains.

A more traditional Cypriot recipe involves making a kind of soup with pork and celery, which makes sense. It would be a great thickening agent in place of more traditional stew roots, adding starch to the broth while remaining somewhat whole.
So, how did it taste? Pretty bland. The flavor is somewhere between that of potato, yucca and plantain. It wasn't much different than any other root vegetable slurry - except for the nervousness about getting sick. For a few hours after eating, we paid careful attention to our stomachs, watching for some sign (who knows what) of low grade kolokasi poisoning. It wasn't until the next morning, really, that we were completely convinced that we'd made it through okay. Maybe baking powder helps too.

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Gypsy Kitchens: Citrus Season

As we already mentioned, it's citrus season here in Cyprus. Groves cover large stretches of the landscape and are heavy with fruit. Lemons, grapefruits, and especially oranges are impossible to escape. And why try? Costas, our host at Asty Hotel in Nicosia, insisted we take as many oranges from the breakfast room as we could. "I just bought 10 kilos this morning!" he said, inspecting our pickings and deciding they were too slim. Our rental in Agios Athanasios came with a stocked fruit bowl. If we ran out, there was always the daily citrus vendor. Clementines were set out in wicker baskets at outdoor tables in Girne, the healthiest bar snack we'd ever seen.
At first, we kept pace. Two juiced oranges with breakfast, two more for lunch, one in the evening. They are incredibly thick-skinned, which initially fooled us into thinking they were under-ripe. Each orange, once peeled, is about a third of the size it appeared. But, just like great shellfish, any thought about "so much work for so little return" is immediately dashed once the flesh hits your mouth. We have never had oranges like this before. And the mandarins - divine.
Soon, we had to actually buy our own oranges. All of our lovely hand-outs consumed. As soon as the thought came to mind, we only had to look five feet in any direction to find the nearest citrus vendor. With such an abundance absolutely everywhere, it's impossible to buy less than a bundle. The fruit was warm to the touch, sun-soaked, as we placed one after another in our bag. The vendor looked at the amount, gave us a price and then threw a few more in for good measure.
As anyone who has ever gone apple picking knows, there is such a thing as too much of a good fruit. Looking for ways to use all of our perfect Cypriot oranges we created three easy salads, using other ingredients that have been popping up on plates and market stands all around us: beets, chickpeas, local cheese and anchovies. Each salad is designed to utilize one of the orange's great qualities, its sweetness, its sourness and its juiciness.
The first salad is the most traditional, meaning that its base is a leafy green. Complimenting the orange's sweetness, we paired it with bitter rucola, spicy red onion and salty anchovies. Canned fish is a Gypsy Kitchen favorite not just because they keep so well, but because we don't always have a bottle of olive oil available. Use anchovies packed in oil so that you can just drizzle the liquid out of the can right onto your salad. The orange slices provide the acid needed to make it perfectly dressed.
The second salad brings out the orange's tartness and sourness. It's difficult for anything to taste super sweet when put up against a beet. We advise against canned beets, but those pre-cooked whole beets in plastic found in some produce aisles work well if you don't want to cook them yourself. To ground those two vibrant flavors, add cubes of semi-hard mild cheese - cubed so that it will be a third in the trio of ingredients as opposed to glomming on to the other two. We used local dry anari, made from a blend of sheep, cow and goat's milk. Mozzarella would work as well. As would brebis. If you use feta, don't add any extra salt. In Cyprus, parsley is ubiquitous and it's easy to find a big, fresh bunch at any store. As in the other salad, we added red onion, dicing it for some crunch. Dress with olive oil, a little balsamic vinegar and salt.
The third salad plays off of the orange's juiciness. We've been eating a lot of humus in Cyprus so chickpeas seemed only natural. They make a wonderful salad ingredient, but can be a little starchy, even dry. In come the oranges, along with a good amount of parsley to add a little flatness to all the round flavors. We added a little olive oil, red onion and some chili powder, which goes very well with both chickpeas and orange and injects a little Turkish-Cypriot flavor.
The easiest way to add orange to a salad is to cut it into slices, unpeeled. Cut a slit into each slice, unlatching the ring, and pull straight so that the little triangle of orange stick up like teeth from the peel. It's really easy to catch and remove seeds this way and the fruit is easier to work with. Just pull each piece off (working over your salad so that any discarded juice doesn't go to waste). Smaller pieces will mix into your salad more evenly.
Three pieces of fruit remain. If we had the means, we would attempt preserving them, like lemons, as they were served to us a few nights ago at Skourouvinnos Tavern. Chances are, they will be mixed into some sheep yogurt at breakfast tomorrow. And, then, we'll just have to buy some more. Because we can't help ourselves. 'Tis the season.

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Gypsy Kitchens: The Durrell

English writer Lawrence Durrell lived in Cyprus for about three years in the 1950s and remains one if its most talked about residents. It's no surprise, being as Durrell told the world about his time here in a memoir called Bitter Lemons of Cyprus. We'd never heard of it, nor had we heard of him until we began to research the country. His name came up as often and with as much assumed interest as Van Gogh's in Provence. The home he lived in, the school he taught at, the hotel he listed as "the best in town," are all considered historic sights. In his home village of Bellapais, two trees contend for the title of "The Tree of Idleness," an important landmark in Bitter Lemons. The fact that he found Limassol "unsightly" comes up in Lonely Planet's history of the city. In Limassol, we bought the book and created a cocktail in his honor. That way we'd be able to curl up with them both.
The man at the used bookshop told us "not to believe everything - it is just Lawrence's opinion." We doubt this came only from his distaste for Limassol. Three chapters in, he has happily drank Commandaria with Greek-Cypriot friends and Coca Cola with Turkish-Cypriot friends. His life was a blissful convergence of the two cultures that would divide the country in a clash. Durrell left Cyprus after the "enosis" based EOKA resistance movement really heated up. This was the desire of Greek-Cypriots to break from England and become part of Greece. As Lawrence was a Brit, I'm sure his take on the events of 1955 don't mesh with the old book seller's. We're enjoying Bitter Lemons and enjoying The Durrell cocktail even more.
Obviously, we began with Schweppe's Bitter Lemon. Any American traveling to Western Europe will come home with tales of the stuff. A friend of ours shipped a case of it to themselves, not wanting to have to quit cold turkey after two weeks of drinking it in Portugal. Usually, candies and drinks that are going for "lemon" go more for the sweet and sour aspects of its flesh. This leaves you thinking more about its peel. It tastes like a very bitter tonic water, very zesty. Obviously, Bitter Lemon goes well with gin, but we wanted to keep things more local. Ouzo, ours made by the Cypriot company KEO, is the Greek version of France's Pastis or Turkey's Raki - an anise aperitif that turns cloudy when you add water. The third ingredient is, you guessed it, bitters. A local Limassol company, Magousta, has been making "Magic Drops" since the 1930s. However, it was originally called "Cock Drops," a fact made more unfortunate by the label's recommendation to "snip the top" of your Cock Drops bottle to have it dispense correctly. Last ingredient, lemon.
It's citrus season here in Cyprus. The oranges, clementines and mandarins are being harvested. The grapefruit is almost ready and the lemon trees are bare from earlier collection. Lemons in Cyprus are big and sweet. And abundant. Most houses have at least one lemon tree, every meze dinner comes with a plate full of wedges. Greek Cypriot recipes feature lemon prominently, so our Greek Cypriot cocktail does, too. We only needed a quarter of a lemon for each glass because the wedges were incredibly juicy.
You never really know when conceptualizing a cocktail, but somehow we created a truly delicious drink. The Durrell's ingredients go so well together that we now mix one up any evening we have available ice. The ouzo, on its own, is sweet and heavy. Adding the biting, carbonated Bitter Lemon really balances that out. A drop of bitters adds a little complexity, like a single bay leaf does in a big pot of soup. Since Magousta's Magic Drops is bright red, this tints The Durrell pink. Ole Lawrence is a little flushed. A good squeeze of lemon and you've got the final note: fresh, vibrant citrus. Now, go ahead and pick up a guide book about Cyprus. Every time Lawrence Durrell or Bitter Lemons of Cyprus is mentioned, take a sip of The Durrell. We assure you it will be a very educational and dangerous drinking game. Here's the recipe. Serve on the rocks.

2 parts Ouzo
1 part Schweppe's Bitter Lemon
A drop of bitters
1 - 2 quarters lemon, depending on juiciness
Ice 

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Gypsy Kitchens: Mercimek Çorbasi

The first time we had Turkish lentil soup, we didn’t know what it was. It certainly didn’t resemble any kind of lentil soup we were used to. Spicy, smooth and vegetal, this was something familiar that also tasted emphatically like Turkey.

Mercimek çorbasi is served at the beginning of most Turkish meals (it seems), and comes in a variety of different forms. The notable components are red lentils, cumin, red pepper flakes and dried mint. Here’s a recipe that’s really easy, but takes a little while – chicken stock isn’t easy to find in this part of the world, so we did this the old fashioned way.

Much easier to find: spices. At the spice bazaar, one can find all sorts of strange tastes and powders. The air inside – a heady mix of scents – seems to have absorbed some essence of centuries of caravans. It’s actually flavored, it’s so dense and exotic.

Mercimek çorbasi begins with cumin and pepper, the two princes of the bazaar. We added them to the pot first – dry spice in the bottom of a dry pot. Heated for a few minutes, they get fragrant, their richness emerges. Use as much as you feel comfortable with. The amount will depend on how hot your pepper is, of course, and how much spice you like in a soup. We’d say a base amount should be four or five tablespoons. It should be said that these red pepper flakes aren’t chili powder.

After you can really smell the cumin and pepper, add an unhealthy pour of olive oil and some bony scraps of raw chicken (it’s surprising how hard it is to find stock parts in the US, and how easy it is to find them overseas). Cook for a few minutes on high heat, adding a chopped onion, a few cloves of crushed garlic and about two carrots, finely cubed.
When the onion has softened up and the chicken's begun to brown, incorporate about three tablespoons of dried mint, then pour in enough water to semi-fill the pot. As it’s coming to a boil, chop parsley and stem thyme, adding them as you go. Boil the water, reduce to a simmer and then leave it for a few hours or all day. We also put in fresh mint, though this isn’t quite as traditional.

About an hour before you’re ready to eat, remove the boiled chicken bits and check your water level (add more if you don’t have enough). Peel and chop two tomatoes and throw them into the stock along with a squeeze of tomato paste (we’re hesitant to suggest an amount because tomato pastes vary so much – salt levels are especially important, so it’s best to taste the paste yourself and then decide how much to use). Salt to taste.

If you’ve added additional water, bring the stock to a boil again, then add both a cup of lentils and three-quarters of a cup of bulgur for every estimated gallon of liquid you have. Simmer slowly for about forty five minutes, stirring occasionally. When the lentils are really tender, turn the heat off and let the soup sit for a few minutes before serving. Usually, this soup is served blended – but we didn’t have a blender.

This is a delicious soup for cool weather, and is even better with a dollop of thick yogurt mixed with mint. Not surprisingly, most of these ingredients are also part of our last recipe, for imam biyaldi – we can personally attest that the two dishes go well together.

Making mercimek çorbasi with store-bought stock is about the easiest thing you could do. Just don’t add the chicken and cut down the amount of garlic and onion. The whole process should take only about an hour.

One more note – you should only use red lentils for this recipe – and make sure to pick through them for stones and rinse them well before cooking.

Here’s the recipe!

Mercimek çorbasi

Ingredients:

- 4 tablespoons Turkish red pepper flakes, easily replaced by almost any red pepper flakes

- 2 tablespoons cumin (not curry)

- 3 tablespoons dried mint

- 2 tablespoons fresh thyme

- Half-handful fresh parsley, chopped

- About 10 leaves fresh mint, chopped

- 2 carrots, cubed

- 1 onion, chopped

- 4 cloves garlic, crushed

- 2 tomatoes, peeled and chopped

- 1 or 1 ½ pounds bony chicken, raw

- 1 ½ cups red lentils (maybe more, if there’s a lot of stock)

- 1 cup bulgur

- Olive oil

- Tomato paste, salt and water

Method:

- In a soup pot, heat the cumin and pepper until fragrant, then add oil and chicken. Cook for a minute on high heat, then add onion, garlic and carrot. When the chicken has begun to brown and the onions are soft, add dried mint and fill pot with water.

- Bring water to a boil. As it’s heating, stem and chop the other fresh herbs and add them to the pot. When the water boils, reduce to a good simmer. Cook uncovered for anywhere between two and ten hours.

- Remove the chicken and discard. Try to gauge how much stock you will need for the soup and add water accordingly. Add tomato paste and tomato, taste and add salt. Bring to a boil.

- Rinse and pick through the lentils, then add them to the boiling stock. Add bulgur. Reduce to a hard simmer and cook for 45 minutes to 1 hour, stirring occasionally.

- Blend if you want.

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Gypsy Kitchens: Imam Biyaldi

"The priest fainted!" Don't worry, it's just the name of the dish. Imam biyaldi translates literally to this phrase - though, what it really means is braised eggplants stuffed with tomato, onion and garlic. It's the most popular eggplant dish in Turkey, which means that it's one of the most famous dishes in general, as eggplants are a sort of culinary king here. Perhaps it's because religious fasting has historically placed an emphasis on vegetarian dishes that the eggplant is featured as often and with as much variety as it is here. No matter, the imam fainted over this dish and you will, too - both because it is as foolproof as it is delicious. And it is very, very delicious.
The ingredients are simple and classically Turkish: small eggplants, tomato, red chili flakes (which are present on every table top beside the salt and pepper shakers), onion, garlic, thyme and a whole lot of parsley. And olive oil. Explanations for why the priest actually fainted tend to be along the lines of "he found out how much olive oil was used in the dish" or "after asking his wife to make it four days in a row, he discovered their entire stock of olive oil was finished." Most morbid is a theory that it was the fatty oil itself that just knocked the poor man out. The truth is that there's actually no need for an excessive amount in your preparation. We were all set with a full, new bottle and wound up using about a quarter cup in all.
"Stuffed" is a little bit of a loose term. The eggplant isn't scooped out to make room for the filling. Simply split your eggplant in half and cut a slit down the middle of each half. This way, all of the great flavors you'll be piling on top can seep in a little more. If the eggplants you've bought are too round to sit flat and work with, go ahead and cut a slice out of the bottom, flattening its bulbous side.
Something we've noticed a lot here is the skinning of tomatoes. This dish calls for exactly that. Remove the skin, slice and discard the seeds and liquid. Since tomato is going to be the bulk of your filling, one small fruit per half of a small eggplant should work well. Heat up a healthy dose of olive oil in a deep pan or shallow pot (something with a lid) and soften chopped yellow onion and minced garlic. When they're done, add them to your sliced tomatoes. This is the base of your mix. In goes as much chopped, fresh parsley as you can stand, lemon juice, a pinch of fresh thyme (de-stemmed), salt and red pepper flakes. The spicier the better.
After combining the ingredients, strain the mixture. The most efficient way of doing this is to initially mix it up in a colander set in a bowl. Then, you can simply lift the colander, shake and drain the excess liquid out. We decided to separate the juices in order to uses them in the braising later. This way, you don't lose an ounce of the flavor you're working with. Speaking of utilizing every last drop...
That pan you sauteed the onions and garlic in should still be nice and oily. Rub your eggplant halves face down to give them a coating of olive oil. Then, flip them over and fit them snugly, side by side, in the pan. - flat side up. Spoon your mixture on top. Having the eggplant all lined up makes an even smothering simple. When you're all "filled" up, pour the liquid you set aside down into the bottom of the pan, along with about a cup of water. Bring to a simmer, cover and lower heat. After an hour, uncover and cook some more. The eggplant will already be meltingly soft, but it's nice to try to cook off as much remaining liquid as possible. We wound up spooning some out and then cooking for ten minutes "dry." A thin coating of nice brown molasses had formed at the bottom of the pan.
Half of the eggplant dishes we've had in Turkey have come smothered in yogurt. The two flavors work so well together. We decided that the perfect "cooling agent" for our spicy imam biyaldi would be a mint yogurt. All we did was chop up fresh mint and mix it into plain yogurt, resisting the urge to salt. Our first helping of eggplant was served warm, and the cold yogurt melted beautifully onto it. Our second was, more traditionally, served cold. The yogurt was a vibrant new layer on the chilled dish. Either way, it was an ideal complement. Not to be skipped.
The flesh of the eggplant was so tender and pillowy that it made us wonder if that's why the imam really fainted. Here's the recipe. Ingredients aren't measured out because a lot of it should be chosen by personal preference. That's part of the fun and ease of this amazing dish!

Imam Bayildi

Ingredients:

small eggplants (a lot less seedy than their bigger relatives)

small tomatoes (one for each half you are making)

garlic

yellow onion

fresh parsley (a healthy bunch)

fresh thyme

red pepper flakes

lemon (or unsweetened lemon juice)

water

fresh mint

plain yogurt (milk, sheep or goat - just not flavored)

Process:

- remove stems and halve your small eggplants. cut a slit down the flat side of each half.

- peel, slice and remove seeds from your tomatoes. place in a colander, set in a bowl, and add lemon juice, chopped parsley, red pepper flakes, fresh thyme and salt.
-soften your chopped yellow onion and minced garlic in olive oil. add these to your mixture. combine and strain, but lifting and shaking colander over the bowl.
-set aside liquid.
-rub the flat side of your eggplant on the bottom of your oil-coated pan (previously used for onion and garlic), then place them skin side down, snugly side by side.
-spoon filling over the lined up eggplant.
-add about a cup of water to your liquid and pour into the bottom of your pan.
-bring to simmer, cover, lower heat and cook gently for one hour.
-uncover and cook for a half hour more. at about the halfway mark, spoon out any excess liquid. a thin brown coating should form at the bottom of your pan. you're done!

- Serve cold or hot, but definitely with a mixture of yogurt and chopped mint spooned on top.

It's next to impossible to over or under cook your imam biyaldi. So, just relax and enjoy!


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Gypsy Kitchens: The Yerevan

Here's a cocktail for a strange city and a wonderful liquor. Ararat brandy deserves to be drunk more. Yerevan deserves a cocktail. This one is pretty simple.

Yerevan is the thirteenth capital of Armenia, only recently becoming important at all. In soviet times the population boomed, growing from thirty thousand in 1900 to about a million people in 1991, the year Armenia became independent.

It's a funny place - as gritty and sleazy as one would imagine, with crumbling USSR facades and dozens of strip clubs. At the same time, though, it's probably the most cosmopolitan capital in the Caucasus, with influences from all over the world. We had decent sushi one afternoon, upscale lebanese at one dinner, french-influenced trout another night.

The Yerevan skyline with the double peaks of Mount Ararat in the distance.

But the thing that struck us about Yerevan was the cocktail culture.

For Americans, Europe can feel shockingly devoid of good drinks. Sure, there's great wine some places, delicious beer, local spirits. And there are plenty of places with a cocktail menu on hand. But bartenders here aren't used to mixing anything. Outside of a few bars in a few big capitals, Europe's mixed drinks are terrible. Take it from us. We've pretty much given up.

But in Yerevan, that's not the case. We halfheartedly went to a mexican restaurant (called "Cactus" - how unpromising!) that was supposed to have a good bar. We expected margaritas, of course, but didn't expect the bartender to carefully stir a Beefeater martini. It would be hard to count how many times we've ordered a gin martini and received a glass of Martini & Rossi.

In New York, maybe this drink wouldn't have been all that special. But considering where we are, it was magical. Think of this: the last good, European martini of the trip was in another surprising place, Košice Slovakia. That's deep in Eastern Europe - and about one thousand five hundred miles west of Yerevan.
So, what to mix to create a drink for Yerevan? The obvious base was Ararat brandy (let's not call it cognac), which has a lot of oak but also a nice balance. The second ingredient could have been a number of things, but we have a very limited home bar at the moment (we have to carry it), and something local seemed appropriate.

Armenia's two great fruit contributions to the world are the cherry and the apricot - both originated here. There's even cherry Oghee, a homemade vodka - but that tends to run at about 60 to 70% alcohol, which would have singed the brandy's flavor.

Even though it's foreign, the pomegranate is probably more popular, and the locals produce a liquor from it that's a better compliment for brandy. Pomegranate wine is bracingly tart, dry and almost without sweetness. A small measure goes a long way.
We found a tiny, souvenir-sized bottle of it (no point in buying more). After an initial trial, adding sweet vermouth in addition seemed like a good idea, to bolster the sugar and mellowness. It was barely heated in our room - ice wasn't necessary.

Our version was good, with an almost smoky note and lots of complex herb flavors. It's tart and refreshing, not overly sweet, a great winter drink. We settled on two parts brandy, one part pomegranate wine, one part sweet vermouth, stirred in a glass. Very similar to a brandy perfect manhattan.

In America, where pomegranate wine is difficult to find, consider making a normal brandy manhattan, adding a few drops of that syrupy "Pom" stuff, looking out the window and thinking about an arid, distant land on the south slopes of the Caucasus.

(Also - and we didn't think of this until too late - garnish with an apricot)

Gypsy Kitchens: Tortilla de Patatas

Tortillas are, in the opinion of many, the most beloved of all Spanish foods. They are served everywhere from high-class restaurants to dive bars. They sit on kitchen counters and under napkins in bodegas, eaten as snacks or full meals, fresh, cold or reheated.

Completely different from their Mexican cousins, Spanish tortillas are essentially thick cakes of egg cooked with some kind of vegetable or starch - zucchini or broccoli, for example. The most popular type, by far, is tortilla de patatas, or potato tortilla, which we recently made and ate for breakfast with a big group. It's simple, tasty and cheap - the perfect Spanish dish for autumn.
Perhaps the best thing about making tortillas is that they require only three ingredients: potatoes, eggs and onion. One could definitely throw in garlic, herbs, peppers - anything, really - but those are add ons. To make a good sized tortilla, use about a dozen eggs and half a dozen medium sized potatoes.
Wash and eye the potatoes, scrubbing the skin well with a brush under cold water. Peeling is optional, and pretty unnecessary. The slices should be between one-eighth and one-quarter inch thick, and semi-uniform to ensure that they cook evenly. To get them down into the pan easier, cut the pieces in half. Dice the onion.
In a medium skillet, saute the onion and potatoes in about a quarter cup of oil, cooking slowly enough that they don't brown much. When the potatoes are tender and done, remove the mixture and discard the oil. Clean up any sticky leftover crumbs, re-oil the pan and begin heating again over low heat.
In a large bowl, combine the potato and onion with all of the eggs and a few pinches of salt. When the pan is fairly hot - enough to sizzle a drop of water - pour in the mixture. Cook slowly, over low heat, until the egg has firmed all the way to the top, but not until it is hard. There should be a fair amount of jiggle when the pan is shaken.
The most difficult part is the flip - it requires a lot of nerve and a steady hand. We carefully loosened the edges and bottom of the tortilla, then slid it out onto a large plate. Then, after oiling a final time, we inverted the pan over the plate and completed a kind of twist move that landed the tortilla with minimal damage. Unfortunately, this is a process that can't easily be described or taught, as there are a lot of variables.
We cooked the tortilla - as many people do - the night before and had it for breakfast. It's good cold, served with "pan con tomate," which is essentially toast with olive oil and tomato rubbed on top.

Here's the recipe:

Tortilla de Patatas

Ingredients:

1 dozen eggs

5-7 medium boiling potatoes, scrubbed and eyed

1 medium onion

Olive oil

Salt

Process:

- Halve the potatoes and slice into 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick pieces. Dice the onion well.

- In a medium to large skillet, saute the onions and potatoes in 1/4 cup oil until the potatoes are soft and fork-tender. Remove the onions and potatoes from the pan and discard the oil. Rid the pan of all crumbs and stuck-on stuff, and re-coat with oil (use a more moderate amount this time).

- In a large bowl, mix the potato, onion, eggs and a few pinches of salt.

- Heat the pan until drops of water will sizzle, add the egg mixture and reduce to low heat.

- Cook the mixture slowly until almost firm on top, but with a good bit of jiggle - this should take between twenty and forty minutes. Use your imagination to figure out a way to flip the tortilla, then cook for about five minutes, raising the heat to medium. Remove from the pan.

- Serve cold or hot.

Gypsy Kitchens: Indian Summer Cocktail

It looks like Autumn and feels like Summer here in Portugal - an unusual heat has lingered into mid-October. This is to the time of year that one usually switches from gin and tonics to something like port, from a refreshing cocktail to an earthier sip. We enjoyed a combination of the two, while watching the mist set in over the river Douro at our campsite and eating some deliciously salty Serpa cheese. This port and tonic cocktail is not our invention, only the name is, but we felt the need to share.
The drink was on offer at Quinta do Panascal, a beautiful prized vineyard we visited in the Tavora Valley. It was created to showcase their white port's crispness and complexity. We didn't order the drink, opting to have a traditional tasting. However, once we tried the Fonseca Siroco, we could immediately see how the tonic and mint would work splendidly. We purchased a bottle after a gorgeous walkabout the grounds, accompanied by a particularly informative audio guide. A few bunches of wrinkled grapes hung around post-harvest; copper toned leaves crunched beneath our feet, but the sun beat down like it was August. Two small bottles of Indian Tonic water, a bunch of fresh mint and some ice were acquired on the drive home.
I suppose Indian Summers would work with any white port, but being as Fonseca Siroco is pretty widely available and it was their idea, you might as well use it if you can get your hands on some. It's crisper and dryer than a lot of other ports like it, which works better with the sweet, carbonated tonic water. Muddle some fresh mint at the bottom of a glass. Unlike a mojito, there's no sugar added to this drink, so go ahead and throw a little crushed ice in with the mint to add texture to your muddling. Add your port, then your tonic, more ice, a sprig of mint for the look of it and you're ready to enjoy the cocktail. It would make an excellent pitcher drink at a lunch party.

Here's the recipe:

Indian Summer

Ingredients:

Fonseca Siroco or a white port (chilled)
Tonic Water (chilled)
Fresh Mint
Ice

Process:

- Muddle fresh mint in the bottom of your glass, use some ice from traction
-Pour in a good helping of port
-Add tonic water (the proportions can be played with)
-Top off with a little more ice
-Stir, sprig and serve.