A few days ago, I was having a vigorous debate about polenta with a friend of mine. Polenta used to be pretty trendy and far too many restaurants didn't do it very well but priced it as they would price risotto. A few times it was done nicely (in both loose and solid renditions) but most of the time was mediocre even straying into cliche territory in some cases. But the discussion pressed on. What about the creaminess, chided my friend, And the the pleasantly grainy mouthfeel, and the comfort food aspects?
Yeah, yeah...ok, I get that but that kind of creaminess works only if I'm eating breakfast. Polenta seems to be the ticket but then so do grits and at the end of the day, I don't think there is much difference. But my love-hate of polenta goes beyond reasonable and is wrapped in a few memories that remind me the there are a few sides to every story.
Little City
Creamy vs. grilled. If there was any place that did the latter better, it was the late (lamented) Little City restaurant in San Francisco. I'm sure there are several other eateries in San Francisco's traditionally Italian North Beach that do grilled polenta well, but Little City was the genesis for so many eye-opening dishes that their polenta just became one of those "aha" moments that was repeated over and over again. Fat, triangular hunks of nicely dense polenta grilled over open flame to put just the right amount of char to play off both taste and texture: charcoal vs. sweet corn, crispy char vs. creamy denseness. Served with grilled/sauteed vegetables and a bare hint of light tomato sauce, this was simply satisfying. It is really the model for my love of polenta. Grilled, that is.
Romo's Dad
When I worked as a graphic artist, my boss came from an Italian family and we shared many of the same family experiences. Naturally, food was a part of that and when got around to talk polenta, he related a story about his father's original polenta recipe. He said his dad called it "polenta with small birds". It involved going out around the neighborhood and capturing small birds (sparrows, he recalls), cleaning them then threading them onto two skewers so their bodies would be splayed out, spatchcocked style. The skewers (with birds) would be stood up in a moderately deep dish of polenta and baked so that the juices of the birds would drip into and flavor the polenta. If you think about it, it does sound plausably delicious. But even today, part of me is still sort of appalled by the image of those sweetly singing (or frighteningly annoying) birds dripping their essence into a dish of creamy polenta.
Mom
At some point, my mother (bless her 100% Italian kitchen hands) leapt to the conclusion that there was nothing that I loved more than a giant steaming dish of creamy polenta with a nice-sized dollop of homemade spaghetti sauce on top. It might have been one of the constant lively food discussions that I, my mom and my sisters have when we get together. And mom does like to please...
That said, she can certainly whip up an amazing dish of the gooey corn-y goodness and the first time was great. Second time too. But then it became a standard whenever I was invited over for dinner. It took many dinners for her butt-headed but well meaning son to finally say, "um, how about some other starch next time, huh Mom?". It has never appeared since. And I feel bad about it. And I cannot look at a dish of liquidy polenta without thinking of that. Some day, I'll throw myself at the mercy of my mom's killer sideways glance and ask her if she'll make it again. And it'll start all over.
