How to avoid a polenta horror film.
On a camping trip in British Columbia several years ago I earned the nickname "cheesy grits" because every morning I'd rise at near dawn, brew some coffee and make polenta on one of our camp stoves, always with a thick layer of melted cheese over top. It was wonderful, like most hot camping food, particularly because the temperature
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was dropping below freezing at night and during the days it often seemed I was surviving on sunflower seeds alone.
Polenta and grits, however, are not the same thing. The coarsely ground yellow cornmeal called polenta comes from Italy (Roman legionnaires subsisted on it, though then it was typically made from wheat or garbanzos). Grits are also made from corn, often more finely ground and without the hull, producing a more delicate texture and flavor.
There's something dominating about polenta. It takes over a dish. You don't make dishes
with
polenta; you just make polenta. Thick, sometimes coarse, polenta, like it or not. It's kind of like tofu in that it needs to take on other flavors in order to be good. Because of this, it's often paired with tomato sauce or stewed tomatoes, something with strong enough flavor; something up for the fight.
Since that camping trip I've loved the stuff. More accurately, I've loved the idea of what it could be-a flavorful, whole grain, stick-to-your-ribs kind of food. But in my kitchen, I've tried to make great polenta dishes; I've topped it with homemade tomato sauce; I've made casseroles layered with sharp cheddar and a ratatouille, but the results have tasted, well, like bad cheesy grits. When you eat my home-cooked polenta, you feel like you're eating a misshapen, uncooked corn muffin without the sweetness.
So I decided to go on an informal quest for some really good stuff, and without trying too hard, I found two fine examples. The first lives up to its grand reputation, as just about everyone I mentioned polenta to said "Andiamo!" Served as an appetizer ($7),
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it's more than just the gorgonzola crème sauce, which is heavenly, that makes this polenta out-of-this-world. The texture is light and creamy, melt-in-your-mouth tender on the inside, and crispy on the outside. Eating this dish is episodic; you don't get just one sensation, but several.
The second is a surprise, because The Old House serves this dish as an accompaniment to the appetizer Guajillo Chili Glazed Mexican Prawns ($16). The Old House version is very creamy, closer to grits in consistency and flavored with smoked bacon (is there anything that bacon doesn't make taste good?), chives and what appears to be as much heavy cream as there is polenta.
It ain't no uncooked "muffinstein" and the result must be 1,000 calories per ounce, but it's worth every one.
