My Christmas in Amalfi

On the day before Christmas Eve, I find myself on the Amalfi coast, that sun-drenched stretch of southern Italy between Naples and Salerno, running to keep up with the formidable Rita de Rosa. And counting fish. Or rather, counting fish dishes.

There is no question around here what will be on every family’s table the night before Christmas; a fish feast is as much a part of the celebration as struffoli or panettone. The question is, how many fish in the feast? Is it seven, for the sacraments of the Roman Catholic Church? Ten, for the stations of the cross? Or maybe 13, for the number of apostles, plus Jesus?

Admittedly informal research conducted among Italian-American friends and my own family’s gastronomic lore has not left me with a satisfactory answer. My hope is that Rita, whom I consider the heart and soul of la vera cucina napoletana, will be able to cut through the confusion. But first, there is shopping to be done.

Rita doesn’t shop with a list. Like her relatives and neighbors in Naples, she has an endless capacity for improvisation, should her fortunes (not least being the gifts of the sea, the farm and the forest) suddenly change with the temperature or the rain. If the shrimp are too small, she’ll make a dish more suited to cuttlefish. Is the cauliflower looking tired? Then the De Rosa family shall have none of it.

Our first stop is for mozzarella di bufala. In the Vomero district, where Rita and her family live, and where there are as many mozzarella producers as Joneses in the L.A. phone book, she chooses the exquisite Caseficio delle Rose (no relation) for its bright lactic-acid flavor and incredible pillow-like texture--worlds away from the yellowing pizza shreds of the deli case. This is a mozzarella, she assures me with a small smile, that will change an American’s life.

And now on to the vegetable markets, where farmers have stacked long-stemmed, indigo-blushed artichokes, luminous fennel bulbs and bunches of glistening greens for their customers’ inspection. Rita selects intoxicatingly fragrant marjoram, a handful of squat, sweet cipolline and a bunch of arugula whose spindly roots still carry clumps of soil. We move on.

We stop next for wine, loading up on locally produced Lachryma Christi white (literally, “Tears of Christ”) and Mastro Rosso red, both from the Mastroberardino family, some of whose vineyards are older than Christianity itself. There is a stop for olio nuovo, the season’s newly pressed olive oil from Prezioso in San Lupo, and, although Rita is a master baker, we pick up a dozen mustaccioli, the iced diamond cookies that populate every bakery in and around Naples during the holiday season. We will munch on these as we unpack the groceries and begin to prepare the feast.

And finally, the main event: a stop at the fish market. To shop the market with Rita is to see the power a woman wields over a fishmonger. She knows so specifically the fish and shellfish of her region that the fishmonger has set aside, in what almost appears to be fear, the finest specimens for her discriminating eye.

The eels must be live, and no more than 3 inches across; the mussels from outside Posilipo, with a distinctive ridge in their shells and a healthy complement of barnacles. For Rita, only the vongole verace, or “true clams,” will do--heaven help the foolish purveyor who offers her the nearly identical (but not nearly as tasty) Manila clams that coastal Italians have been harvesting at a lower price for almost 20 years.

Finally Rita chooses several giant local scampi with long fleshy arms and the size of Maine lobsters, and we are off to the kitchen, where, I hope, I’ll get an answer to the question of how many fishes at the feast.

Rita immediately sets to preparing the capitone marinato, or marinated eel. After its initial baptism in hot oil, it is left to soak in a sweet and tart red wine vinegar bath overnight before being served at room temperature, sprinkled with marjoram and drizzled with the season’s best extra-virgin olive oil.

Although she’ll adapt her menus to reflect the best of the market, Rita tells me with pride that there has simply never been a De Rosa Christmas Eve without the eel. It is this juxtaposition of traits, spontaneity versus fidelity to tradition, that makes me fall in love with the Neapolitans on every visit.

With the eel tucked away for its short winter’s nap, it’s on to the lemon- and herb-infused oil with which she’ll anoint the lobster, using a bunch of marjoram like a paintbrush. She combines olive oil, fresh lemon juice, more marjoram and limoncello, the Amalfitano’s digestivo of choice. Based on grain alcohol or vodka and served chilled as an after-dinner drink, limoncello is lemonade all grown up and living a swinging bachelor’s life in Capri, its isle of origin; it lends a deeper lemon note to the scampi’s condiment.

Although I have been by Rita’s side for the past two days, we have yet to discuss the specific number of dishes in the feast. I grew up in an Italian-American family in the Northwest, where our Christmas Eve feast, while always heavy on seafood, was dictated less by a Catholic tradition than by what that region’s fantastic seafood markets had to offer in the cold and rainy month of December.

Was it possible that i Napoletani were as beholden to nature, even over the mandates of the Church and tradition? I puzzle over the thought and uncork another bottle of Lachryma Christi to share with Franco, Rita’s son and originally the chef at their brilliant (but short-lived) Manhattan trattoria Pierino. How far back are his memories of the ritual cena della vigilia, and just exactly what are the traditional dishes, and do they change at all from year to year?

The classic mozzarella in carozza could start any meal at any time of the year, explains Bruno, “so it doesn’t really count.” But the crostini with ricotta and marinated anchovies are always the sign of a special celebration and would often start the Christmas Eve festivities.

The sure sign every year was the fridge full of bathing salt cod, he continues. “Mama always likes to soak her own baccala, even though you could buy it presoaked at the mercato del pesce. The smell of it cooking on the 23rd always drove me crazy. It always made the house stink of old shoes.”

As we speak, Rita comes back into the kitchen and begins scrubbing clams and mussels at the deep kitchen sink to remove the barnacles and dirt deposits. She speaks of each of the mollusks in nearly religious [tones.

“You need to get the wild mussels, not the cultivated ones,” she says. “The cultivated ones taste like the fish meal they are fed and have the texture of little bags of sand.

“The wild ones taste like the breeze that blows between the isle of Ischia and the tiny bay of Pozzuoli. These are the mussels of my childhood,” she exclaims, shucking a raw one open and squeezing it with lemon as she offers it to me to eat. It’s cool and briny and tastes just like the breeze at the seaside.

She pulls a dozen or so of the most beautiful baby octopuses out of the fish box. Each one is a mottled gray and pink with exquisite tentacles, each only 1 1/2 inches long and lined with two rows of minuscule suction cups.

“You need to buy these and only these,” as she points to the double rows of suckers. “These come from a shallow pothole near Torre del Greco,” referring to a special fishing area in the shadow of Vesuvius, about 30 kilometers to the east. “They are the only true octopus with the correct flavor”--an intense briny salinity.

She tosses the octopuses whole into the iron pot and crushes a couple of cherry tomatoes in her hand and adds them to the pot. She quickly adds a clove of peeled garlic, two hot peppers, a sprig of parsley, a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and a wine cork and places the top onto the pot and onto the burner.

“What’s up with the wine cork?” I ask.

“Without the wine cork, these might eventually get tender, but with it, they definitely will. It’s something my mother always did and I would never do without,” she says as she begins to measure out some flour with her hands.

As I watch, carefully trying to quantify measurements, she knocks out a quick dough of flour, lemon zest, egg yolk and limoncello to make struffoli, the addictive little fritters served throughout the holiday week. In the two minutes that takes, she describes the nature of the Christmas Eve dinner.

“Even if I could not find these octopuses, Christmas Eve would still go on,” she says. “The menu might change and I might make big octopus from Cuma, or tiny calamari from Procida with just garlic and parsley.”

She deftly cuts the struffoli dough into little nubs and rolls each nub into a tiny ball, each about a quarter of an inch across.

“The pasta dishes are almost always the same; there are always clams and mussels. Neither the sea nor the fisherman would think of denying me these,” she says, motioning toward the colander of cleaned shellfish. “Not if they know what is good for them.”

As she drops the little dough balls into the pot filled with hot oil, she motions for Bruno to light up the grill. “The scampi are always at their sweetest when the water is a little cooler, and we accentuate that with this limoncello mixed with olive oil. Be careful not to put too much on or you will overpower the delicate flavor of their tender flesh.”

She reaches into the pot with a slotted spoon and pulls out some of the little fritters, now deep golden brown. After she drains them quickly on a paper towel, she tosses them into a saucepan with warm honey, stirs to coat them and then removes them to a beautiful bowl.

“The sea will always decide our menu, especially on the holy days. That is why we celebrate with such passion. It is our privilege and yet it is our right. You understand that we do live in paradise,” she says with a wink.

She dusts the warm struffoli with powdered sugar and little sprinkles and offers the plate to us, suggesting that we have a couple now but reminding us that dinner will be in less than an hour.

I press her for a confirmation on the number of courses, trying to count aloud all of the fish in the kitchen.

“Worry not so much about the number of courses,” she says. “Have you gotten your children their Christmas presents from Napoli? I’m sure they’re waiting for something really special. Why don’t you go out for a little shopping, and I’ll finish making our dinner.”

When I come back an hour later, dinner is just about ready, and we eat the most delicious meal in recent memory, as Bruno pours different wines for every course, laughing and joking the whole dinner into the late evening.

As we leave her house and go into the clear Neapolitan night, each with a package of struffoli and some biscotti under the arm, I ask if anyone has counted how many fish courses we have eaten and which were the favorites. Everyone responds with a different favorite and a different number. We are, quite obviously, very Italian.

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Marinated Eel (Capitone Marinato)

Active Work and Total Preparation Time: 45 minutes plus 4 hours marinating and 1 hour standing

This dish is a prerequisite for any serious attempt at a traditional Italian Christmas Eve table. Even my most squeamish friends admit to liking this dish once I’ve tricked them into tasting it. If you have a hard time finding eel at your fancy fishmonger, try Asian markets, where eel is considered a delicacy all year long.

3 cups red wine vinegar

6 cloves garlic, slightly crushed but left whole

1 cup sugar

6 cups extra-virgin olive oil, for frying

1 (3-pound) eel, peeled by your fishmonger

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

1 cup flour

3 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano

1/4 cup best-quality extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling

3 tablespoons fresh marjoram leaves

* Bring vinegar, garlic and sugar to a boil in nonaluminum saucepan. Cook until reduced by one-third to about 2 cups, about 20 minutes. Remove from heat and cool.

* Heat oil to 375 degrees in large, deep pot. If oil is not 4 to 5 inches deep, add enough oil to bring it to that level.

* Cut eel into 2x1-inch pieces, season with salt and pepper and dredge in flour.

* Carefully drop 3 or 4 pieces of eel at a time into oil and cook until light golden brown and cooked through, about 5 minutes. Remove with slotted spoon and transfer to paper towels to drain, then place gently in large salad bowl.

* Pour vinegar reduction over fish, sprinkle with oregano, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 4 hours or up to 2 days.

Remove from refrigerator 1 hour before serving. Drizzle with best-quality olive oil, sprinkle with marjoram leaves and serve.

8 servings. Each serving: 200 calories; 61 mg sodium; 57 mg cholesterol; 16 grams fat; 6 grams carbohydrates; 9 grams protein; 0.36 gram fiber.

Grilled Lobster With Limoncello Oil and Arugula (Aragoste alle Brace)

Active Work Time: 10 minutes * Total Preparation Time: 1 hour 10 minutes

Anything tastes good when it’s grilled and drizzled with this fragrant lemon oil. Limoncello is a strong lemon-flavored liqueur from Southern Italy. You can find it at many fine wine stores.

LIMONCELLO OIL

1 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Juice and zest of 3 lemons

1 bunch fresh marjoram, tied tightly at stem end with string

3 tablespoons limoncello or other lemon liqueur

* Bring oil, lemon juice and zest to a near-boil in small saucepan over medium heat. Remove from heat and pour into bowl. Immediately add marjoram and limoncello, cover and steep, like tea, 1 hour. (This oil can be stored in covered jar away from light for up to 1 week.)

GRILLED LOBSTER

4 (2-pound) live spiny or Maine lobsters

2 cups arugula

Coarse salt

2 lemons, quartered lengthwise

* Kill lobsters by piercing shells with sharp point at center of back end of eyes. Place whole lobster on hottest part of grill 3 minutes per side and remove from heat.

* Cut lobsters in half lengthwise and, careful not to lose a drop of tomalley or roe, gently anoint them on flesh side with scented oil, using marjoram bunch from Lomincello oil like a brush. Gently place shell side down on grill and cook until nearly done, 6 to 7 minutes. Turn flesh side down and cook 1 minute and remove to platter.

* Dress arugula with 1/4 cup Limoncello Oil and some salt and pile in center of platter with lobster. Serve warm or at room temperature with any remaining oil and lemon wedges on side.

8 servings. Each serving: 152 calories; 324 mg sodium; 61 mg cholesterol; 7 grams fat; 3 grams carbohydrates; 17 grams protein; 0.05 gram fiber.

Fresh Ricotta, Anchovy and Oregano Toasts (Crostini Napoletani) Active Work and Total Preparation Time: 20 minutes

Look for marinated anchovies in Italian or Latino markets, where they are called alici marinati or boquerones, respectively. Failing that, you can use canned sardines in oil.

1 baguette, cut into 16 slices, or 8 slices country bread

3 cloves garlic

2 cups fresh ricotta

1 1/2 tablespoons freshly ground pepper

3 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano

16 anchovy filets, preferably marinated fresh filets

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

* Place bread slices on baking sheet and toast under broiler until light golden brown on both sides. While still hot, rub each slice with garlic clove to impart delicate flavor.

* Mix ricotta, pepper and oregano in a bowl and smear casually over each bread slice. Top each with anchovy filet and return to baking sheet. Broil until cheese just oozes, about 1 minute. Arrange on serving platter, drizzle with olive oil and serve.

8 servings. Each serving: 376 calories; 688 mg sodium; 37 mg cholesterol; 15 grams fat; 45 grams carbohydrates; 16 grams protein; 2.82 grams fiber.

Tiny Honey-Covered Fritters (Struffoli)

Active Work Time: 30 minutes * Total Preparation Time: 1 hour

These little fritters are the most beloved item on the Christmas table. Traditionally, they are made several days before Christmas Eve and given to guests throughout the week, often presented in a golden horn of plenty made of bread dough. We had a difficult time getting this right in the Times Test Kitchen. After more than a half-dozen tries, we wound up with this recipe, which tastes delicious, but pops open like popcorn rather than staying in a ball. We did find that the smaller the ball, the less of a problem this splitting was.

1 3/4 cups flour

4 egg yolks

3 eggs

Grated zest of 1 lemon and 1 orange

Coarse salt

1 1/2 tablespoons limoncello

4 cups oil, for frying

2 cups honey

Juice and zest of 1 lemon

Powdered sugar, for dusting

Candied orange or lemon peel or sprinkles, for garnish, optional

* Beat together flour, egg yolks, eggs, zest, dash salt and limoncello in mixer to form firm dough, 8 to 10 minutes. Refrigerate 30 minutes. When dough has rested, remove from refrigerator and cut into golf ball-size pieces. Roll each golf ball into 1/4-inch-thick snake and cut each snake into 1/4-inch pieces. Roll each piece between palms into a ball. Repeat with remaining dough.

* Heat oil to 375 degrees in 12- to 14-inch skillet with at least 3-inch sides. Drop balls in to cover about half of surface of oil and cook until dark golden brown, 3 to 4 minutes. Turn regularly with slotted spoon; they will puff up during cooking. When cooked, remove to tray covered with paper towels and drain well. This should make at least 5 batches, so be patient.

* When all struffoli are cooked, heat honey, lemon juice and zest in wide 6- to 8-quart saucepan over medium-low heat until quite warm and substantially thinner. Add struffoli and stir carefully until well coated. Remove from heat and cool 5 minutes in pan, stirring regularly. Pour out onto large serving tray in form of either pyramid or ring. Sprinkle with powdered sugar and any other garnish. Struffoli should last at least 1 week, or as long as your guests allow.

50 to 60 struffoli. Each of 60 stuffoli: 64 calories; 24 mg sodium; 26 mg cholesterol; 1 grams fat; 12 grams carbohydrates; 1 grams protein; 0.14 gram fiber.

Batali is author of “Holiday Food” (Clarkson Potter, $22.95).