Menu Highlight: Mortadella is having a moment
One day, I looked up, and mortadella was everywhere.
It's always been on the menu at my go-to sandwich spots — Rocco's Italian Deli and La Pecora Nera — but soon, it was also a topping on local pizza specials. Then it was in a sandwich at the hip new 10-seat wine bar in one of the city's swankiest hotels.
It turned up in other cities. At bakeries and on cheese boards at fancy restaurants.
I became attuned to the deli meat's ubiquity, particularly in a town with a proclivity for corned beef.
The pink sheets of cured pork are fitting for sandwiches. On a spectrum of deli meats, mortadella sits somewhere between bologna and spiced ham. It's salty and sweet, buttery and herbaceous, and spotted with fat, pistachios and various spices.
Its balance in flavors makes mortadella perfect for layering with more pungent meats and bold ingredients, as in the muffaletta. The New Orleans staple sandwiches mortadella with saltier, more umami cured porks like salami and spicier varieties, such as capicola; a sharp tapenade and provolone between a round loaf of bread freckled with sesame seeds.
But no mortadella sandwich of recent memory compares to the Spicy Mortadella at Tall Trees Café, a soup, salad and sandwich shop opened by Mike Finsilver in Ferndale last year. The space is adjacent to the award-winning Secret Bakery, where it often sources from-scratch breads. Finsilver is a master sandwich-maker, having worked at local joints like Mudgie's and the sandwich-focused food truck he co-founded, Satellite.
The Spicy Mortadella allows the meat to shine on its own — no supporting cast, just ruffles of thinly sliced mortadella that eclipse a tough sesame seed semolina roll. Finsilver punches up the flavor with a Calabrian chili spread that stains the surface of the bread a shade of red-orange. Fresh herbs, namely parsley and dill, add depth to a crisp slaw of iceberg lettuce tossed in a creamy buttermilk dressing.
The sandwich is perfect. It's simple yet decadent at once. Paired with a crisp cabbage salad topped with slivers of pear and a coconut chai sweetened with raw carrot juice, it makes for a light but satisfying lunch meal on a warm, spring day.
Though mortadella is everywhere at the moment, the only place I want it is from a corner seat at Tall Trees Café.
817 Livernois Ave., Ferndale.
This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Tall Trees Cafe is the only place I want to eat a mortadella sandwich
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One day, I looked up, and mortadella was everywhere. It's always been on the menu at my go-to sandwich spots — Rocco's Italian Deli and La Pecora Nera — but soon, it was also a topping on local pizza specials. Then it was in a sandwich at the hip new 10-seat wine bar in one of the city's swankiest hotels. It turned up in other cities. At bakeries and on cheese boards at fancy restaurants. I became attuned to the deli meat's ubiquity, particularly in a town with a proclivity for corned beef. The pink sheets of cured pork are fitting for sandwiches. On a spectrum of deli meats, mortadella sits somewhere between bologna and spiced ham. It's salty and sweet, buttery and herbaceous, and spotted with fat, pistachios and various spices. Its balance in flavors makes mortadella perfect for layering with more pungent meats and bold ingredients, as in the muffaletta. The New Orleans staple sandwiches mortadella with saltier, more umami cured porks like salami and spicier varieties, such as capicola; a sharp tapenade and provolone between a round loaf of bread freckled with sesame seeds. But no mortadella sandwich of recent memory compares to the Spicy Mortadella at Tall Trees Café, a soup, salad and sandwich shop opened by Mike Finsilver in Ferndale last year. The space is adjacent to the award-winning Secret Bakery, where it often sources from-scratch breads. Finsilver is a master sandwich-maker, having worked at local joints like Mudgie's and the sandwich-focused food truck he co-founded, Satellite. The Spicy Mortadella allows the meat to shine on its own — no supporting cast, just ruffles of thinly sliced mortadella that eclipse a tough sesame seed semolina roll. Finsilver punches up the flavor with a Calabrian chili spread that stains the surface of the bread a shade of red-orange. Fresh herbs, namely parsley and dill, add depth to a crisp slaw of iceberg lettuce tossed in a creamy buttermilk dressing. The sandwich is perfect. It's simple yet decadent at once. Paired with a crisp cabbage salad topped with slivers of pear and a coconut chai sweetened with raw carrot juice, it makes for a light but satisfying lunch meal on a warm, spring day. Though mortadella is everywhere at the moment, the only place I want it is from a corner seat at Tall Trees Café. 817 Livernois Ave., Ferndale. This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Tall Trees Cafe is the only place I want to eat a mortadella sandwich
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When I heard that 'Strega Nona' is turning 50, I did what any self-respecting book lover would do: I heated up a bowl of pasta and paid the signora a visit. I remembered Tomie dePaola's Caldecott Honor-winning picture book for the same reasons you might: oodles of noodles pouring out of a cauldron, threatening to overtake a Calabrian village rendered in soothing earth tones; panicked locals; the titular grandmother sorceress who saves the town. These are the ingredients that made 'Strega Nona' a classic, and the reasons it's the toast of classroom parties today. (Hello, parent boiling pasta before work and shoving it, still steaming, into a Ziploc bag. I see you!) As for Strega Nona herself, she remains a timeless style icon. Show me a woman who doesn't covet well-knotted scarves and toasty capes and I'll show you Miranda Priestly. But the character who caught my eye on my anniversary reading hasn't inspired a postage stamp, a TikTok trend or a D.I.Y. Halloween costume. 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When I was in my orange Toughskins jeans era, this sounded like bliss; the only thing better than all-you-can-eat spaghetti was a bottomless ice cream I was in my please-go-to-sleep-so-I-can-have-a-moment's-peace era, it sounded like just deserts: a 'consequence,' if you will, for not listening. Now I see the hellishness of the punishment, and its excess. Poor Big Anthony! He made a mistake and, hand to heart, he regrets it. Maybe Strega Nona could have imparted a more valuable lesson with public forgiveness. After all, what did her charge take away from punitive pasta consumption except a too-full stomach? (Here dePaola the artist fumbles, unless he intended for Big Anthony to look pregnant.) I'm aware that 'Strega Nona' is a fable — equal parts 'Sweet Porridge' by the Brothers Grimm and 'The Sorcerer's Apprentice' by too many contributors to count (and most famously starring Mickey Mouse). But, really, did this sincere young man deserve to be scorned and humiliated? The first thing we learn about Big Anthony — he 'didn't pay attention' — lands now in a way it didn't when I was listening to 'Strega Nona' on the floor of my school library, or while turning the pages for my own children. This time, dePaola strikes a match of compassion across my formerly flinty soul. I won't go so far as to suggest that Big Anthony might have had A.D.D.; far be it from me to diagnose a fictional character (or anyone, for that matter). At the very least, he could have used some understanding. In 'Big Anthony and the Magic Ring' (1979), we once again catch wind of our friend's lackluster attention span: He nabs a gold ring that transforms him into Handsome Big Anthony, able to dance the tarantella all night long. Disaster strikes (or does it?) when a mob of desperate ladies — Maria, Concetta, Clorinda, Rosanna, Theresa, Francesca and Clotilda — chase him up a tree. Readers can draw their own conclusions about the moral of the story. Almost 20 years later, dePaola gave us 'Big Anthony: His Story,' a prequel of sorts following the town's scapegoat from babyhood until the day he walks through Strega Nona's door. From that moment on, Big Anthony is a reliable foil. And Strega Nona can be depended upon to rescue him from whatever scrape he finds himself in, even if she does so with the air of someone who would resurface a half-empty glass of milk leftover from dinner. Next month, dePaola fans can look forward to 'Where Are You, Brontë?,' the maestro's final completed book, written before he died in 2020. Charmingly illustrated by Barbara McClintock (whose oeuvre includes the 'Adèle & Simon' books), this weeper features the ultimate sidekick: a loyal dog. It's hard to imagine 'Where Are You, Brontë?' in the regular bedtime rotation, focusing as it does on the death of dePaola's beloved Airedale terrier. Nonetheless, it's a worthy, sensitive resource for a family coping with the loss of a pet. For me, staring down my youngest child's high school graduation, with our family dog's collar now in a shadow box in the living room, it was a lot to take. But, like 'Strega Nona,' the book is a reminder of the joys of companionship, even if the aftermath is bittersweet. Which brings me back to Big Anthony, who is a gatherer of people in addition to being a guy who can't pay attention. He pays dearly for his swagger, having disobeyed an elder and thrown an unsanctioned party. But look how happy everyone is before it all goes wrong — neighbors and nuns, peasants and royalty bumping elbows as they twirl their spaghetti. Had I been among the masses, I'd like to think I'd have appreciated Big Anthony's impulse to bring people together. Maybe this is his magic song, imperfect but important. And maybe, 50 years from now, we'll have learned how to come to the table (or the pasta pot) without rancor or recrimination. We can only hope.
