Christmas Eve in Bruculinu : A Feast Grows in Brooklyn

I grew up in the Bushwick Section of Brooklyn, or as we called it, Bruculinu. The Myrtle Avenue El train that passed in front of our flat would eventually cross the Williamsburg Bridge, go underground and end up in Manhattan; New York, as we called it.

You might say we were, “only 45 minutes from Broadway,” but from a different country than the bucolic suburb of the song. In my neighborhood, one imagined that if you could ride the subway a little bit longer, you’d be in Palermo. The Sicilian tradition and culture brought over at the turn of the 20th Century by the immigrants of my grandparents’ generation remained intact in my boyhood neighborhood of the 1950s.

“La ‘Merica” had not as yet diluted it with its interpretation of things Sicilian, ranging from the Mafia to pizza. The hyphenate culture had not as yet formed. In our household, we were Sicilians first, Brooklynites second and Americans only in matters of national allegiance.

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At Christmas time, this Sicilian identity was most in evidence. Its means of expression centered around the table. Food is, after all, edible culture.

In our house, my grandfather, Andrea Coco, did all the cooking. Papa Andrea was a monzu , master chef to the Baron Rampolla of Polizzi Generosa, a small city in Sicily.

The culinary tradition of the monzu began in Sicily at the outset of the 19th Century, when it was the fashion among the houses of the aristocracy to bring chefs from France.

These great masters applied the French method to traditional Sicilian cuisine. The result added to the cuisine a collection of dishes known for their strong yet subtle refinement. Throughout that century, this style of cuisine remained popular and grew by means of a system of apprenticeship, using native-born Sicilians. So, from these original French monsieurs , evolved the Sicilian monzu .

In the old Brooklyn neighborhood, my grandfather’s cooking skills were legend. On one occasion, a restaurant owned by a paesano of his had fallen into financial difficulty. A series of bad chefs and unreliable kitchen staff was the cause. Papa Andrea offered to help. He introduced a new menu and attracted better staff. He spent long days prepping, cooking and training people on the line. Word spread throughout the neighborhood of his wonderful food. Within two weeks, the queue for dinner circled the block, and the restaurant was stabilized. Papa Andrea was 82 at this time. It’s no wonder his cronies called him Maestro Andrea.

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After the Feast Day of Santa Lucia, Dec. 13, the Christmas season officially began. The first order of business was to prepare the traditional Christmas pastry, called cuciaddatu . In the Modonie Mountains, where this pastry originated, the poor prepare its filling with dried figs, the rich with raisins. In these Sicilian mountains, fig trees are plentiful, and one could always find figs to dry. But to have raisins, one must have owned a vineyard.

The raisins are chopped together with a roughly equal combined weight of blanched almonds, filberts or hazelnuts and pine nuts. This is then added to a mixture of honey, sugar, cinnamon, cocoa powder and Cognac, heated to the thread stage. When cooled, the filling is wrapped in a pastry called pasta frolla made with eggs and shortening.

As a boy, it seemed to me that the shelling of nuts for cuciaddatu would never come to an end. Everyone in the household did their part. The “shooting” of warm blanched almonds out of their jackets offered some diversion from the repetitive task, but it seemed as if Christmas would come and go, and we would still be at the kitchen table with the nuts.

Finally, this work completed, the candy part of the filling was prepared. The house filled with the wonderful aroma of boiling sugar and cinnamon. At just the right moment, my grandfather would add the chopped nuts and raisins and the whole pine nuts. He then set about the task of preparing a mountain of pastry dough. He formed cuciaddatu in long logs, short logs and small turnovers. In the Sicilian town of Polizzi Generosa, then as now, the women gather in small groups to bake their cuciaddatu in wood-burning ovens.

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When ours were baked and cooled, the small turnovers were stored in tins, the logs wrapped in dishcloths and stashed in drawers all over the house. For some reason, the drawers of choice were those containing bed or table linens. Anyone who visited in this season left with cuciaddatu in one form or another.

One year, my grandfather noticed my apprehension at this generosity. He led me to some remote hiding place and unwrapped a particularly perfect plump log-shaped pastry. With a twinkle in his eye, he said to me in Sicilian, “This one, my boy, is for you and me.” As a boy of 7, I found the concept of a plentiful universe beyond me, but the lesson was understood, and is remembered.

The week before Christmas, a crate of oranges would arrive. These weren’t ordinary oranges, but giant sugary sweet navels. As we sat after dinner slurping at sections of these beauties, my mother recalled that when she was a little girl, her father, Papa Andrea, was given crates of oranges and bushels of apples and pears by his employer at the wholesale fruit market. These were shared with all the neighbors. She remembered how my grandmother would place a piece of orange peel in the kitchen coal stove, producing a lovely perfume throughout the house. My grandparents and aunts were enraptured by the memory of the simple pleasure, and of a simpler time.

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In the days before Christmas, reports flowed in from relatives and friends as to the prices of essential items needed for the Yuletide feasts. The news that certain vegetables were unavailable, or that their prices were “outta dis world,” precipitated great discussion and concern. Eventually, the news would brighten. Although some things remained “too high,” we managed. Good news about the prices of baby artichokes or eggplant sent my grandfather and me on special missions to fruit stores throughout the neighborhood. We kept warm by singing Sicilian songs as we walked; we survived the jostling in line from hundreds of woman in black by being gentlemen.

My eldest aunt, Bessie, brought the best news of all. The fruit store at Knickerbocker and Troutman had baccalaru for only “49-a-pound!” Baccalaru , called baccala or stoccafisso in most of Italy, is dried, salted codfish, or salt cod. No Sicilian Christmas Eve dinner would be complete without it. The salting process was taught to the Sicilians by the Normans during their occupation of the island in the Middle Ages. Scandinavians still eat this delicacy they call stockfish.

Baccalaru is dried in two forms, one slightly softer and moister then the other. Both, however, are remarkably stiff. It resembles what one might imagine a petrified fish fillet to be like. The fillets are about 18 inches long, and six inches wide. The word baccalaru is also a vulgar Sicilian name for a part of the male anatomy in a particular state. “Stop standing there like a baccalaru !” or “That guy was a real baccalaru !” are terms we can easily understand. Baccalaru never entered our house without one of the women giggling a reference to this theme. Everyone’s favorite story came from Zia (Aunt) Valentina.

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In her youth, Zia Valentina was a beautiful full-figured woman with a flawless complexion. One year she went to the fruit seller to buy baccalaru for Christmas Eve. It was sold exclusively from outdoor fruit stands, I suspect, because no one wanted the profound fish odor in their shop. Zia asked the fruit seller if his baccalaru was stiff and dry, or soft and moist. He declaimed that his was always stiff and moist. “Stiff and moist?” she innocently inquired, being unfamiliar with the vulgar meaning. He chuckled licentiously. She caught his meaning, turned scarlet and stormed off in indignation. Later in life, she laughed at her youthful naivete, the blush returning to her still-beautiful face.

The codfish needed to be soaked for three days before cooking in order to rehydrate it and remove the salt. This was accomplished in a large-lidded stockpot. Mercifully, the strong aroma filled the house only twice a day, when the water was changed. I remember one year a relative gave us such a large quantity of baccalaru that the only place to soak it was in the bathtub! My mother swore she could smell it from three blocks away. All the strong odors were gone, however, when my grandfather set his lovely, sublime baccalaru a ghiotta (salt cod salad, glutton’s style) on the Christmas Eve dinner table.

The traditional Christmas Eve dinner in much of Southern Italy and Sicily is composed of an assortment of fried fish and vegetables. The tradition has existed since the 16th Century when the sumptuary laws of the Church called for purification before the celebration of great holidays. Rest assured, the meals were spectacular, following the letter of the law, while successfully avoiding its spirit. These historical facts were unknown in our house, though. People came to eat.

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Preparation began early in the morning of the Eve. After the baccalaru was cooked and shredded and its salad composed, attention was turned to the vegetables. The eggplant was peeled, sliced, salted and pressed to remove its bitter liquid. The baby artichokes were cleaned and parboiled as were the cardoons and cauliflower. If asparagus could be found, it too needed preparation. Potatoes were peeled and boiled, and croquettes formed.

The fresh fish included fillet of sole, whole sardines, smelts, or whiting, blowfish, squid and shrimp. These needed cleaning as well, with special attention paid to the blowfish and shrimp.

As a boy, I sat at the far end of the kitchen table and watched. Sometimes I was given a small task, like peeling potatoes or removing the tough outer leaves from artichokes, but mostly I watched.

My grandfather wore a dish towel tucked into his high-waisted trousers, like a great chef’s uniform. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up revealing his long underwear. The thing that kept my attention was his measured, methodical technique. He would form potato croquettes, each one identical to the other, dust them with flour, and line them up in neat rows, like soldiers, on wax paper. He would then take them one at a time, pass them through beaten egg, then bread crumbs, and return them to the ranks. I loved to watch the columns slowly change color from white to beige. As he continued, he treated each tiny artichoke heart or cauliflower floret as if it were a small masterpiece; as if it were the last morsel of food on earth.

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Across this vast country, the Americans were also preparing their Christmas feasts. Great turkeys and huge hams were being roasted, large casseroles were being arranged and baked. It was, perhaps, inconceivable to them to prepare a dinner in practically bite-sized pieces for 20 or more. Then again, in our Brooklyn neighborhood, in our flat under the Myrtle Avenue El, we were not in America.

All at once it seemed, preparation was complete, the food on the sideboard at parade rest in its quiet field and sky of wax paper. Folding tables were set up. Together with the kitchen table, they nearly filled the length and breadth of the room. They were set under the discerning eye of Aunt Mae, who quickly remedied a wrinkled tablecloth, or spotted glass. My grandfather placed the baccalaru in the center, flanked by a large platter of green and black olives, and a giant bowl of mixed green salad. Aunt Jo came into the kitchen dressed in “something Christmasy,” her beautiful spirit shining. My grandfather, my mother and Aunt Bessie tended to the pots of olive oil, heating for the onslaught. Myself and Uncle Duffy, (Aunt Bessie’s husband and not an Irishman), sneaked olives off the platter. Aunt Jo joined us. We giggled as we avoided capture by the real adults. My grandmother watched, quietly praising God for this bounty.

The door bell rang, and in short order, my grandmother’s brother, Ziu Giovanninu (Uncle John), and his family and their families, filled our already full kitchen. Ziu carried an enormous brown bag filled with bread from the Giangrasso bakery. The loaves were covered in sesame seeds, and were still warm.

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The guests unwrapped themselves from their hats and overcoats, and soon all 22 of us were at the table. We started with the baccalaru , everyone marveling at the sweetness and delicacy of Papa Andrea’s recipe. Next from the stove, which was not more than two feet away, came the potato croquettes, creamy and flavorful inside their golden brown coating.

The furious activity of my grandfather and his assistants resulted in a constant flow of fish and vegetables to the table. The slightly vinegary dressing on the salad, was an excellent accompaniment to the fried foods. The wine flowed, but no one ever drank to excess--to become drunk would have shown a lack of respect, self-control and common sense. Wine was viewed as a healthful beverage. We children were offered a splash of wine in a glass full of seltzer water. The perennial presence of siphon bottles from the Good Health Seltzer Co. at our table did seem rather comic to my child’s eye.

The conversation grew livelier and livelier. Gales of laughter filled the house. At times it became difficult to hear one of the cooks announcing the presence of some new dish. “The blowfish is ready!” one of them might scream. My mother might say, “Who’s gonna eat the last piece of cauliflower? It looks so lonely there on the plate.” Understanding her meaning, someone would respond, “Why don’t you eat it? Gaw-head.” At some point during the meal, some of the diners would insist on changing places with the cooks so that they too could have a chance to sit down and eat. In a room full of Sicilians, everybody’s a cook.

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The meal wound down with oranges, cuciaddatu and coffee. My grandfather cut the peel off the oranges for us children in such a way that it made eyeglasses. We all looked very scholarly in our “glasses” eating our giant oranges.

Around this time, a party began to form to go to Midnight Mass. In my memory, it always snowed on Christmas Eve. Aunt Jo and the others in our party would start out for the church at about 10:30 in order to get a good seat. As we neared St. Joseph’s Church on Suydam Street (which was three blocks away), we would encounter the throngs of merry Christmas churchgoers.

The church itself was ablaze with candles, the altar decorated with a multitude of potted poinsettias, in red and white. The creche, which filled an entire side chapel, had life-sized statues. The cradle still lay empty. In the choir loft, the organist played Christmas carols, and the choir prepared. She struck the opening chords of the High Mass, and the service began. It was very grand, filled with the old-style Church’s pomp and spectacle. When the choir sang the “Alleluia,” heaven rocked.

To this accompaniment, the priests and altar boys formed a procession, carrying the statue of the Baby Jesus throughout the church, and resting it in the cradle in the creche. As the congregation grew excited by the high drama, and their breath quickened, the heavily frankincensed air of the church mingled with the rising aroma of baccalaru , fried fish and vegetables.

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As Aunt Jo and I walked home from church on those bitter cold Christmas Eves, our feet crunching on the new snow, the stillness of those nights in our small world, echoed the sincerest wish of the larger world--Peace on Earth.

When we arrived home, my grandmother had hot cocoa and buttered Uneeda biscuits waiting for us. My grandfather was preparing for Christmas Day. Everyone else, having cleaned up the house, was busily wrapping Christmas presents. I tried, in vain, to catch a glimpse of the boxes as they whizzed by.

My mother, noticing the hour, would say to me, “Go to sleep now, honey. Tomorrow is another busy day.” Her motherly tone made me realize the extent of my tiredness. She was certainly right. As I climbed into bed, I knew that Christmas Day would bring my aunts and uncles and cousins and presents; that we would sit down at that same improvised table, renewed with fresh linens, and eat one of Papa Andrea’s meals fit for a baron. I knew that I would wake up to the smell of onions sauteing in olive oil; to the aroma of roasting capons, covered with pancetta and stuffed with chestnuts. There would be the taste of hot milk flavored with coffee and sugar, and buttered toasted Italian bread. My eyes would be filled with the sight of Papa Andrea’s magnificent rice bombe that he called ‘a tumala .

As I lay there in my bed, dreaming of all these things, wondering whether or not the snow had stuck, wondering if it was snowing all over the world, even in Sicily . . . where exactly is Sicily? . . . my mother’s words returned, “Go to sleep now, honey. Go to sleep. Merry Christmas.”

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This Sicilian Christmas Eve dinner is to be served in parts, rather than courses. As each dish is cooked, it is brought to the table. Consequently, it is best served in a casual familial setting. The addition of crisp apples and buttery pears to the cooking liquid is a very old custom that gives baccalaru a subtle sweetness that is most complementary. Be aware the salt cod must be soaked three days in advance.

SALT COD SALAD, GLUTTON’S-STYLE (Baccalaru a Ghiotta) 2 pounds salt cod 4 pears 4 apples 1 to 2 red onions, halved and sliced 6 green Roma tomatoes, cut into sixths 1/2 cup green olives in large pieces 1/2 cup black olives in large pieces 2 ribs celery, thinly sliced 3 tablespoons red wine vinegar 1/2 pound boiling potatoes peeled, cut and boiled as for potato salad. Sea salt 3/4 to 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil Pepper

Soak salt cod in large bowl with in plenty of cold water 3 days. Change water twice daily. Refrigeration is not necessary, but cod but must be kept covered in cool place. Soaking will reconstitute fish, and wash away salt. When soaking is completed, remove salt cod, rinse under cold water and place on platter to drain.

Peel, core and halve pears and apples. Place in large pot of fresh water and bring slowly to boil. When water comes to boil, slip in cod and cook 5 minutes. Remove from pot and when fish is cool enough to handle, shred, removing skin and bones. Toss with onions, tomatoes, olives and celery. Add vinegar and toss. Add potatoes, salt to taste and olive oil. Carefully toss together. Season to taste with pepper. Serve slightly chilled. Makes 8 servings.

Each serving contains about: 544 calories; 1,416 mg sodium; 116 mg cholesterol; 26 grams fat; 30 grams carbohydrates; 50 grams protein; 2.17 grams fiber.

CHRISTMAS PASTRY (Cuciaddatu) 1/2 pound shelled filberts or hazelnuts 1/2 pound blanched almonds 1 pound, 2 ounces raisins 3/4 cup honey 1/4 cup granulated sugar 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon 2 teaspoons unsweetened cocoa powder 5 tablespoons Cognac 1/4 cup water 1/2 cup pine nuts 2 pounds unbleached flour 1 cup powdered sugar 1/4 teaspoon salt 2 cups shortening 8 whole eggs plus 2 egg yolks, both beaten together 2 beaten egg whites Nonpareils

On baking sheet toast filberts in 350-degree oven about 5 minutes. Be sure nuts do not burn. When cool enough to handle, rub nuts together to remove as much of inner husk as possible. Chop together filberts, almonds and raisins.

Heat honey, granulated sugar, cinnamon, cocoa, 2 tablespoons Cognac and water together, bringing mixture slowly to boil. Let boil 5 minutes. Add chopped nuts, raisins and whole pine nuts. When well coated, remove pot from heat. Let cool.

Meanwhile, prepare dough. Sift together flour, sugar and salt. Cut in shortening, then cut in beaten eggs and egg yolks. Mix in remaining 3 tablespoons Cognac. Knead just until dough becomes elastic. Form into ball. Lightly dust with flour and cover with cloth. Let stand 15 minutes.

If shaping into logs, divide dough in half and roll into 2 (1/4-inch-thick) rectangles. Spread half of filling down long side of each, roll into log shape, seal seam very well, close ends and place seamside down on baking sheet. Brush with egg white. Decorate with nonpareils. Bake at 350 degrees 1 hour or until pale golden. Cool completely. Wrap in plastic wrap to ensure freshness.

If making turnovers, roll out dough, fairly thin, about 1/16 inch. Cut out 4-inch circles. Place small mound of filling on half of each circle, about 1/4 inch from edge. Brush edge with beaten egg white. Fold over other half. Pinch seam together to form tight seal. Place on baking sheet and brush top of each turnover with egg white. Decorate with nonpareils. Bake at 350 degrees about 20 minutes, or until barely golden on top. When completely cooled, store in closed cookie tin to ensure freshness. Makes 2 logs or about 5 dozen turnovers.

Each turnover contains about: 200 calories; 19 mg sodium; 32 mg cholesterol; 11 grams fat; 22 grams carbohydrates; 4 grams protein; 0.34 gram fiber.