CHESTNUT HONEY

I am not the only one celebrating a birthday. Recently, contributor Charles Seluzicki had a milestone birthday. There was dinner, sausage and my brother was somehow involved in this. Anyway, since this seems to be the week of birthday dinners, enjoy the journey Charlie's birthday dinner took him on.

My birthday lunch at SALUMI in Seattle offered one delight after another. But it was when the last course was served- pears poached in red wine with sweetened ricotta- that my taste buds went off the Richter scale. This was no ordinary sweetness. I was completely unaccustomed with the riotous range of flavors that our chef Brian informed me originated from chestnut honey.  
Those of you who are familiar with SALUMI know that owner Armandino Batali is the father of the acclaimed chef Mario Batali.  I mention this because Gina DePalma, pastry chef at Mario’s New York City restaurant BABBO, has captured in words what I would find difficult to equal.  “Dark and spicy,” she writes, “with touches of smoke and leather, chestnut honey is complex, mysterious, and nuanced.”  This honey is not for the faint of heart.  Absent are the familiar floral notes, the lingering softness of clover, the delicate hints of citrus.
I purchased a jar from a little specialty shop here in town shortly after my return. It is rather dark and Tuscan in origin. DePalma writes that, like so many foods, chestnut honey varies greatly from region to region. She explains that if the summer is dry and the bees do not collect as much nectar from competing flowers, the honey will be darker and stronger. I tasted a spoonful from my jar straight and was not prepared for the rush of smoky spice and contrasting sweetness.  A genuine drama. Little had I realized how the ricotta had tempered the big flavors of SALUMI’s private stock.  DeCarlo urges caution while introducing these flavors and recommends a thick slice of semolina bread, slathered with sweet butter and drizzled with chestnut honey as the perfect starting place.

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In his great AMERICAN COOKERY (1972), James Beard mourns the loss of the American chestnut to the blight that came to America in 1904, one year after his birth. By 1940, they were virtually extinct. As in Italy today (the European strains are immune), chestnuts were everywhere in 19th century America, a staple, free for the gathering.  They could be roasted, boiled on dried.  They could be ground, the poor man’s flour.  Now they are an expensive import food and holiday fare. The jars of ‘marron’ from France now cost 12 to 16 dollars each.
While a few stands of American chestnuts have survived, they are the province of chestnut hunters.  Those who know declare that the native American chestnut is far better than newer introduced and crossbred varieties.  This writer looks forward to the day when he might try the original.  

Charles Seluzicki