Issue Two

If I wasn’t eating fried bologna, every Monday after school, I had a tuna melt with mayo on white bread with American cheese. I sat on a stool at our kitchen counter in my uniform jumper, red turtleneck and blue knee socks, unloading my books and waiting for the cheese to bubble up and brown just a little in the toaster oven. My mother knew exactly how I liked it and always had the tuna ready to go as soon as I walked in the door, home from what we called a half-day-Monday. The public school kids were bussed to our school for religious education after we left so that our nuns could instill some of the fear of Jesus in them. It didn’t always take. On Tuesday mornings we took an inventory of our Hello Kitty pencils and smelly stickers and erased the writing on the desks.

Though my mother could never stand the smell of tuna fish, she was happy to make it. Considering I drank nothing but Tang for at least three straight years, and since the closest I got to fruit was Starbursts, tuna melts represented the most balanced meals of my childhood. It never occurred to me that I should want more than one drink, eat real fruit when I could have fruit-flavored candy, or try another type of sandwich when the tuna melt satisfied me just fine. I lived happily and ignorantly like this for some time and then finally and inexplicably grew out of the Tang phase and discovered nectarines.

The tuna thing still hasn’t gone away. My love for tuna has taken several turns and seen its ups and downs, but remained a constant in my travels, in my homes and on my tables. Occasional but minor low points were marked by a brief and ill-advised foray into the "lite" mayos, my difficult search to find a new brand after Empress went dolphin-safe and never tasted the same again, and at its nadir, my college career down south where I was hard-pressed to get tuna that wasn’t spiked with relish. Oh, how I longed for a half-day-Monday.

When I was twenty and travelling with friends in Europe for the first time, I stepped off a train, hot and hungry, in Marseille. There, I proceeded to luxuriate in the most memorable tuna of my life. I descended the steps from the station, stopped at the first vendor I saw, pointed at what I wanted, and several francs later was on my way to culinary bliss. I did not know then what I know now. I was eating a pan bagnat, a succulent tuna sandwich, rich with olive oil and anchovy, balanced perfectly with sweet summer tomatoes and glowing sections of hard-boiled egg on a crusty but tender baguette. I wanted to eat one for lunch every day for the rest of my trip, but alas, with all of Europe spread out before us my companions did not want to stay in Marseille for the next six weeks. I savored that one sandwich and have never succeeded at creating a version of my own nearly as pleasing.

When I moved to New York City just out of college, I stocked up on cans of tuna from cheap grocery stores in New Jersey. Usually in sandwiches on bakery bread, but occasionally paired with green beans, vidalia onions and a mustard vinaigrette, or tossed with pasta, parsley and capers, tuna inhabited a predictable and dependable niche in my cooking repertoire. That was until I was exposed to Eric Ripert. Master Chef of Le Bernardin, Ripert raises tuna to new levels, Argentinean style, seared, sliced and paired with succulent marrow. That flawless rendering of what I thought an ordinary fish impressed my taste buds such that I left New Jersey to commuters and began a journey through haute cuisine in New York City, where tuna remains dependable, but no longer predictable.

Now I enjoy restaurant offerings that range from preserved fatty tuna belly to spicy tuna rolls, always inside-out, and the Union Square Café’s famous tuna burger with aioli, as often as I throw the fish together with some mayo for lunch on a Saturday.

Always yearning for the comforts of home, I even travel with my tuna fish. A simple tuna sandwich on a kaiser roll that I packed last minute before getting on a plane to Spain saved me from the balanced meal other passengers ate that looked straight out of a 1970’s health textbook. On the return trip I packed two slices of a tuna empanada flecked with red bell pepper. Not until my next trip to Europe was I inspired to try my hand at another inventive, and again French, tuna recipe.

I actually made grocery lists on the plane trip home from my honeymoon, furiously writing next to my snoozing husband. Returning from another gastronomic adventure, ideas poured forth about what I would try to make first when I got home. Deviled quail eggs? Scallops with truffles? Authentic pesto? Lemon souffle? On the list was, of course, tuna fish. One of the recipes I would try to recreate, and with which I have at last found success, was a bit more upscale than that perfect pan bagnat in Marseille. This time the fish would be matched with puff pastry, crème fraîche, basil and tomatoes. Funny, though, that it begins with that dependable half-day-Monday tuna in a can.

Below I share my recipe for a tuna and tomato tart inspired by a dish at la Table d’Yves, a small but serious restaurant in haut de Cagnes, one of the quieter perched villages outside of Nice. Yves Merville heads up the kitchen, but the restaurant is most assuredly run by his wife, Isabelle. When she is busy, Yves emerges from the kitchen to deliver hot dishes himself. On one delightful evening, the chef brought to me a tuna tart, a tender pastry baked with sliced tomato, tuna and a surprising basil crème fraîche hidden under a salty mix of baby greens. My humble rendition follows.

Tuna and Tomato Tart

One sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed

1 cup packed basil leaves, cleaned and dried

1/3 cup olive oil

1 cup crème fraîche

2, 6 oz. can tuna packed in olive oil

2-3 ripe tomatoes, sliced thinly

4 cups mesclun, cleaned and dried

5 T. olive oil

2 T. balsamic vinegar

Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400°F. Roll out puff pastry on a lightly floured surface to a 12" by 12" square. With a sharp knife cut pastry to fit the bottoms of 4 6" tart pans with removable bottoms.* Place a round of pastry in each pan and bake in the oven for 15 minutes or until golden. Let cool. (Pastry can be baked up to eight hours in advance and kept uncovered at room temperature.)

While pastry bakes, chop basil leaves extremely finely and whisk with 1/3 cup olive oil. In a separate bowl, mix crème fraîche with half of the basil and olive oil mixture, reserving the rest for later. Slice tomatoes and set aside on paper towels.

Retain oven temperature. When pastry has cooled, layer sliced tomatoes evenly on each pastry to within 1/2" of the edges. Using half of the crème fraîche mixture, spoon small dollops on the tomatoes. Break up tuna with a fork and distribute evenly on each tart. Spoon remaining crème fraîche over the tuna in the same manner as before. Bake in the oven for ten minutes.

Toss mesclun with remaining olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Season with salt and pepper. Remove the sides of each tart pan and carefully slide each tart onto individual plates. Mound 1 cup of mesclun on each tart and drizzle remaining basil oil around the pastry. Serve immediately. Serves four as a first course.

*Individual tart pans can be substituted with any other size or shape tart pan with a removable bottom.