Molto Mario offers wit, kitchen wisdom

By Wanda A. Adams
Advertiser Food Editor

•	Mauna Lani Culinary Conversations series Ten participants, five events including two hands-on classes All-inclusive: $3,500 and up Next: Lee Hefter, Spago Beverly Hills, Nov. 7-9 Dates pending: Todd English, Jamie Oliver, Ming Tsai Hotline: (888) 424-1977 Reservations: Susan Bredo, (808) 885-6622

Last weekend, 10 of us spent a couple of days with Batali on the Big Island in the first "Culinary Conversations" class series sponsored by the Mauna Lani Bay Hotel & Bungalows.

An introductory special allowed kama'aina to buy individual tickets for the five events (opening reception, two classes, two dinners), but future series will be all-inclusive only.

Our polyglot group — a military man, the owner of a small café, a caterer, a precocious 14-year-old student and his mother, a physician, a smattering of media people among them — gathered first in a lavish private home and then at Hirabara Farms in Waimean to the star of "Molto Mario" and "Mario Eats Italy" demonstrate two different menus at lightning speed, with help from chefs Edwin Goto and Ben Takahashi of the Mauna Lani. Then we pitched in to prepare the dishes for our own lunches, with Batali seemingly everywhere at once, encouraging, guiding and challenging.

The TV chef's sure hand in the kitchen and his encyclopedic knowledge of Italian regional cooking both are enviable.

The ponytail, the Day-Glo high-tops and the towel tucked nonchalantly into the straining waistband are charming.

Batali's four acclaimed New York restaurants, two James Beard Awards and three best-selling cookbooks all are impressive.

The food, when it reaches the table, elicits groans of pleasure, sparkling eyes and eager conversation.

But what stays with you is Batali's expansive mind and incisive wit.

One minute he's telling you that Hawai'i reminds him of Jimi Hendrix (because of a particular, dreamy instrumental number that the guitar great recorded here). The next, he's arguing that the marriage of Catherine de Medici to a French monarch is the only reason the French know anything at all about cooking. (An outspoken Francophobe despite the fact that he speaks the language and has worked in French kitchens, Batali apologizes every time he is forced to employ a French culinary term; "I have to use the 'F' word.")

His rapid-fire delivery is hypnotizing: A sauce is "the basic holder of love." He compares the annoying grind of a motorized pasta roller to a Philip Glass composition, then quotes "This is Spinal Tap" with an evil grin. Proust, he says, brandishing a handful of chives, "had his little madeleines. I have my onions."

He relishes poking pretension in its self-satisfied belly. He's not afraid, as many chefs would be, to assert that he'd rather eat properly frozen fish than "fresh" that's been languishing on ice too long.

He isn't critical of taking short cuts: "Whatever makes you cook is better than whatever makes you go out to dinner."

He doesn't care much for eating out, he says, because it takes too much time and ends up being about everyone but the dinner: "First the waiter has to tell you his name and then you have to talk about him for a while. How about we talk about my company or what we're going to have for dinner?"

The core of his philosophy is quintessentially Italian: The real work of cooking is in selecting the food you're going to cook — the freshest produce and fish, properly aged meats and cheeses, high-quality pantry staples. But, he says, many chefs who tout this philosophy don't live up to it: All sorts of issues make this a difficult talk to walk — it takes a great deal of commitment and expense to pull it off.

Batali grew up in a Seattle suburb, the son of a third-generation Italian-American Boeing engineer. The food at home, he recalls, was always good, and the family "foraged" for blackberries and mushrooms and kept a garden.

His father was transferred to Spain when Mario was still in school, and so began a love affair with Romance languages, European history and the regional foods of the Mediterranean.

Today, his retired father owns a an 11-seat salumeria (sausage shop and restaurant) in Seattle that's got more Zagat points than Batali's restaurant Babbo in New York City.

His wife is from a family of cheesemakers; they have two children and live in Greenwich Village, but recently bought a 140-acre farm in southwest Tuscany. He calls his flagship restaurant, Babbo, "my spiritual home" and is there five nights a week unless he's traveling.

Despite the press, the awards and the inability to walk through an airport without being recognized, Batali retains a commitment to simplicity: His cooking is characterized by straightforward techniques: sautéeing, braising and roasting.

His favorite ingredient is earthy, fruity, extra-virgin olive oil; he uses no demi-glace, in fact, little stock of any kind. Butter and cream tend to appear in rare excess — or not at all. His sauces are pan juices or quickly composed vinaigrettes.

Although he has a long-lasting love affair with the cured meats of Italy, his signature dishes often rely for flavor more on caramelized vegetables, fresh herbs, bitter greens, bright citrus and other less-rich ingredients. He's unafraid to serve the earthy foods of the farm to the eateratti of New York: calves' brains, pork cheeks, tripe. He prefers his desserts simple and not too sweet. And his fanciest plate treatment is a quick drizzle and splash.

Plopping a homely bowl of thick, fresh noodles into a bowl, he offers a quick but erudite mini-lecture on the Tuscan preference for foods cooked to a homogeneous brown or gray, then smiles and says: "It doesn't look like much, but I gotta say, that's a damned fine bowl of pasta."

And it was.