Holy Cannoli, Batman: KCRW’s 5th Annual Pie Contest Serves Up Childhood Creativity

I don’t remember when or where I had my first cannoli. It was probably at Giuliano’s, which has been the go-to Italian mercato of the South Bay ever since I was a kid. There was nothing in my previous pastry-eating experience to prepare me for this unusual treat. The plain, yet oddly satisfying cookie-like shell and the vague sweetness of ricotta cheese laced with chocolate and candied fruit, was so unlike American cheesecake from a deli.

And I don’t know how I came to the conclusion that real Italian cannoli must be made by cloistered nuns, toiling in some medieval kitchen with a wood-burning oven. Maybe it was the exoticism of the pastry, which rivaled anything that Dolly Madison or Hostess could churn out in the 1970s. I learned later that cannoli actually originate from Sicily, where the only possible connection to divinity is a “Godfather.” No matter, my saintly image of the pastry has stuck.

Mini cannoli from Amalfitano's Bakery, San Pedro

My love of cannoli is often sullied by the fact that when you bite into one, the shell shatters, spilling sticky ricotta and chocolate filling all over the place. The inconvenience is heightened by the fact that I for some reason am usually blessed with cannoli while in the car. I brake for bakeries, and when I find myself passing Amalfitano’s Bakery on Western Avenue on the way home from the gym, I can’t resist going in.

While brainstorming for my entry to this year’s KCRW Good Food Pie Contest, I thought of the genius solution of flattening out the tube-like cannoli shell to a pie shell.

I envisioned myself clamping two Marie Callender’s pie tins together with a blob of cannoli dough in between them. But the prospect of dunking them in a vat of boiling oil would only amount to a stunt that would earn me the “Most Dangerous Baker” award. Ever health-conscious (and lazy!), I set to work searching out recipes for cannoli shells that could be baked in an oven, hoping to ease my way into a worthy pie shell.

But all the recipes and videos online clearly underscored the fact that a cannoli shell is not a cannoli shell unless it is fried. I puzzled again over how I would achieve a pie or bowl-shaped vessel of deep-fried dough safely. Then I hit upon it: I would get one of those metal baskets used to form and deep fry tostada shells. The cannoli “pie” would be a bit undersized, but that would be all right. 

Gonna fry now: Cannoli dough is formed into
a "pie shell"
with the help of a tostada mold

For me, giving something the “old college try” includes doing what I actually did in college – waited until the absolute last minute. The night before the KCRW contest, I did a test run in my kitchen.

The oil – three bottles of 100% Natural “Wessonality” – took forever to heat. We kept testing it with a meat thermometer, which had to wind itself around the dial nearly twice to meet the required 350 degrees. I periodically dropped tiny wads of cannoli dough into the oil, hoping to see them start sizzling and rising to the top. When one of these finally buoyed its way optimistically to the top of the pot, we cheered.

In the meantime, I had rolled out a disc of the fragrant cannoli shell dough, just big enough to make a prettily fluted bowl, and secured it in the wire baskets. I dunked it in the pot of oil, which bubbled happily with a professional-sounding sizzle, not unlike the sound of onion rings being cooked at your favorite charbroiler.

My excitement was tempered by the need to know how much time was necessary to cook a large cannoli “bowl” thoroughly.  I peered at the darkening color of the shell through the bubbling oil. Having noted the time on my phone – which may or may not have a stopwatch, but I’ll never know – I saw that it took about 3.4 minutes to fry the shell to a nut-brown perfection.

I was way too excited about having created such a large and unwieldy food item, using a potentially hazardous and none-too-calorie-conscious method. When it was sufficiently cool to the touch, I greedily tore a swath of the shell off and ate it. It was amazing, like a cross between a donut and a pie crust. I couldn’t stop eating it. For a moment, I considered the possibility of winning – the pie pundits always say it’s all about the crust, and mine was pretty darn good. And then, due to the late hour and impending panic that the contest was the next day, I worried that the next attempts would not be as successful, but they came out beautifully. 

It's all about the crust: Cannoli dough "pie shell"
is flaky, with complex flavors from cinnamon
and splash of Marsala wine.

I wish I could say the same for my cannoli filling, which although it was very pretty, studded as it was with 60% cacao dark chocolate chips and pistachios, was sadly nondescript in flavor. I followed a recipe that I found online that was promisingly luxe: along with the requisite ricotta cheese, a tub of buttery mascarpone was added to the mix. This resulted in a very creamy filling, but one that was kind of bland. Upon tasting it, I realized it needed the kick of some vanilla extract or something to bring out the richness of the cheese and other flavors.

This year, a new category for young bakers was introduced, and kids were invited to enter the contest. Their pies were not judged like the rest, but before the winners were announced, all the junior pastry chefs were called to the stage by “Good Food” host Evan Kleinman, who recognized their efforts and solicited hearty applause for them from the crowds milling about in Hancock Park. 

Pie on Ice: This one went to the judges.

When I was finally installed at the contest site with the other competitors to serve our pies to the public, I realized that I was placed at a table with four adorable little girls and their equally adorable entries. Standing under a canopy that just missed covering the pies on our table, I looked beseechingly at passers-by who overlooked my tiny pile of melting ricotta cheese for more tempting fare. One of the judges, came by, fork in hand, probably wondering how the middle-aged woman ended up in this lineup. He proceeded to taste each pie, and walked away telling the girls to, “Keep baking. I started when I was your age and never stopped.”

The young bakers had done themselves proud, with some classic fruit pies that were quickly disappearing. The girl to my right had created a magazine-worthy concoction of peanut butter, chocolate chips, and bananas in a chocolate crust that she had also labeled as a “cannoli pie.” She asked me without irony if I was entered in the “Kids’” category. Somehow managing a straight face, I said I was not.

Sister Mary Marsala (atop pie) and I greeted the crowds
with one of my Holy Cannoli Pies.

I tasted her pie, and it was amazing, hitting all the umami pleasure centers of the palate as only a classic combination of flavors can. She told me that she had been baking for a while and that next year, she would be able to compete as an “adult,” as she would be past the cut-off age for pint-size bakers of 12 and under. We compared notes on what our favorite things to bake were – she likes to make brownies and I am a cookie monster when I have the time.

As I was coming down off the highs of the brainstorming, worry, and euphoria of preparing for the contest, I felt a happy calm. I survived my third year of the KCRW Pie Contest, which has become a personal tradition. I didn’t win, which is also a personal tradition. But I was able to share the experience with well-wishers who recognize the excitement of competition, my creative and talented fellow contestants, and best of all, a cadre of dear and loyal friends who turned out to cheer me on and taste lots and lots of great pie. 

I am optimistic about another cannoli-fest in the near future. Since I don’t need to turn it into a pie next time, I’ll shape and fry the shells with their traditional cylindrical molds, and dip the edges in melted chocolate. Maybe I’ll add some zip with dried apricots or some candied citron. But the experience took me back to when I was a kid, and willing to try anything.

I once ate raw, unprocessed olives off the tree my Dad had planted in our front yard – big mistake. I tried to make perfume from vanilla extract and gardenia petals – also a disaster. But I learned from both of these trials. I not only never attempted them again, but took away a little more understanding about the chemical elusiveness of achieving taste and texture. And today, I know how to have a wild deep-frying adventure. I’ve got a tostada mold, and I’m not afraid to use it.

I Cover the Waterfront: Back in San Pedro

There is one photo missing from this post that sums it all up better than the pix I have here.

I used to shop at the Albertson’s on Western Avenue, when I lived in San Pedro nearly ten years ago. For the first few weeks I was there, I was greeted upon entering the store by one of those towering stacks of soda cases that grace supermarket floors during times of high beverage consumption like football season. Its structural arrangement did not depict a pixelated Trojan, the name of a high school sports team, or anything of the like. It simply spelled out the words, “San Pedro” in huge and unapologetic red and green letters.

Sheet music for the jazz standard of the same
name as the 1933 film – which ironically, is one
of maybe only two movies in the history
of Hollywood that were
not shot on location in San Pedro.

This image is lost in the vortex of my digital scrapbook of unlabeled photos, carelessly stored without any sense of chronological order, hence its absence from this post. But the idea of it stands out in my mind as what it’s like to live in the former fishing village that is home to the bustling Los Angeles Harbor, the historic USS Iowa, generations of immigrant families who were born and raised in the “Port Town,” and now, once again, myself. It is one of the few – dare I say, only? – places in L.A. County where anyone can feel welcome, can be as enmeshed in local life – or not – as they wish, and most of all, where you can actually breathe.

Ironically, I am usually told to breathe this while crammed in with way too many sweaty bodies like sardines on floor mats at my favorite yoga studio. In San Pedro, you can breathe deeply because there is space, physically and metaphorically, to do so.

Even natives of the South Bay such as myself never know anything about San Pedro and never go there, unless they know someone who lives there. When I moved there in 2004, ignorant but not blind to the town’s charm, I lived near what is arguably its heart, the downtown arts district. I enjoyed freelancing for the local magazine, finding hidden gems of stories in my new hometown with each assignment. Barbers, bakers, giant sculpture makers – each article I researched was a window on what makes a small town like this so special, and the grit it takes to believe in it, 150 percent.

Life took me elsewhere, to marriage, divorce, several relocations, and a new job. For the last four years, I’ve lived in West L.A. with my sister and her family. Although it’s been a convenient homebase with a short commute to work, when it came time to strike out on my own, I tried to contemplate finding an apartment there. But the stress and cost of living on the über-congested Westside was unconducive to homey comfort. I ranted to friends about this, but assured them I would never move any farther south than El Segundo.

Don't let the empty streets fool you: San Pedro is business on
the outside, party on the inside. At least, until the
sidewalks roll up at 9 p.m.

Trolling for apartments on Craigslist, just for fun I decided to peek at places in San Pedro. I realized while looking at photos of whitewashed kitchens and charming old buildings with fire escapes that apartments were a) extremely affordable and b) in what seemed like nicer neighborhoods than my current environment. Then it hit me – why the hell not?

Once I had a clear objective in mind rather than an abstract idea of what I should look for in an apartment, it was so easy. I took the third place I looked at, seduced to view it by an online photo of the aforementioned whitewashed kitchen. My building is in the historic Vinegar Hill District, so named, I assumed, for San Pedro’s history in the once thriving canning industry. I found out later that it was named by wags for its one-time cottage industry: homemade sour wine.

I have also been told that Beacon Street was once the redlight district, which makes sense as it overlooks the Port of Los Angeles, Harbor Drive, and Ports O’Call. Among its places of ill repute was the infamous Shanghai Red, which was located – before being torn down in the 1970s – at 5^th and Beacon. 

The night I went to sign my lease and pick up the keys was propitiously the same night as the monthly 1st Thursday Artwalk on 6^th and 7^th Streets in downtown Pedro. I had not been since last summer, so I decided to check it out. 1^st Thursday is basically one gigantic party, like artwalks all over Los Angeles are. Proprietors lure the locals and tons of visitors from outside Pedro into their shops and galleries with loads of wine, hors d’oeuvres, and sweets. There’s no pressure to buy (although it would be nice if you did!), but there is a tacit agreement among the town’s residents: just have a really good time.

Slummin' Gourmet's menu serves up uptown
ingredients with downtown sass.

In recent years, 1^st Thursday has also become a welcoming venue for the much maligned food truck. A fleet of lobster roll-bearing, ice cream-vending, and grilled cheese-slinging vessels set up camp on the streets like bountiful mama sows, with greedy piglets lining up impatiently to feed.

My friends – understandably puzzled as to why I would leave the Westside for a grotty, semi-industrial outpost of L.A. County – also were concerned about my longer commute to work. When you live in the epicenter of legendary L.A. road rage, every decision in your life is predicated on how long it will take to get anywhere.

While I am still adjusting to a longer drive and a new zip code, it’s been more than worth it. Gazing at the palm trees and cranes from my kitchen window, feeling the embrace of the sea breeze when I walk out the door, and navigating the semi-empty streets of Pedro seven days a week (there are mini-traffic jams at morning and evening rush hours, but they are mere trickles compared to what you experience on the Westside), I think daily that moving back was the best decision I’ve made in years. It has felt like a three-week vacation, occasionally interrupted by shifts at work and loads of laundry.

That night at the Artwalk, the Slummin' Gourmet food truck caught my eye. The tagline, “fancy without the schmancy” is pretty apt for the truck’s delectable wares, which include dishes like lobster “corndogs,” sweet potato tots, and scallop “sliders.” It's also how I see San Pedro: for all it's Palos Verdes-adjacent, oceanside glamour, it's a gritty, hard-working beast of a town, that looks equally as good in an ILWU hoodie as it does in its best Reyn Spooner - the formal wear of choice for the sartorially ambitious Pedro gentleman.

Slummin' Gourmet's sweet potato tots and Kobe beef
hotdog: my favorite works of art at 1st Thursday this month.

I obsessed about the braised lamb shank that was pictured on Slummin' Gourmet's menu page, but it was not available hat night. The next best thing was a Kobe beef hotdog, resplendent with wasabi mayo, teriyaki, nori, bonito, diced tomatoes, and daikon sprouts. Sweet potato tots with maple chipotle drizzle were a no-brainer as a side. One occupational hazard of food truck dining is the seemingly interminable wait for your food, but an icy blackberry mint limeade kept me happy until my food was ready.

I have to wonder if GMS would have ever existed had I never left the safe cocoon of the South Bay, Long Beach, and the other smaller communities that have always been my home. Being in the “big city” forced me to grow and speak out much more than I ordinarily do. And it offered a lot of gastronomic options that were previously unexplored by me while living in the hinterlands.

But all the things that I missed while living in L.A. proper – small town friendliness, laughing with friends at the gym rather than staying out of the way of strangers, fresh air, and best of all, space to stretch out and create rather than to merely react – are now within my grasp.

I do miss living with my nephews – it was a gift to watch them grow in such close proximity. I feel the lack of a good Jewish deli nearby. But it’s been great coming back to a place like Pedro, especially at this stage in life, where I aspire more to a quiet confidence about who I am, what I love, and where I want to go. Which is something that you can only find in a tower of soda cases that spell out h-o-m-e.

Porto's: Cuban Bakery-Cafe is Everyone's Fantasy Island

What is it about Porto’s that makes the name a magic word in households throughout Southern California? Is it the efficient elegance of their spacious stores? The baked goods and café offerings, which despite their exotic origins, are made up of ingredients that are easily accessible even to the most finicky or jaded of palates?

Forget Tiffany's window: The cases at Porto's
hold jewels of the pastry chef's art.

Porto's is one of those places in my orbit that deserves the GMS Award for Truly Drawing the World Together. The Cuban bakery-cafe attracts a microcosm of L.A.’s melting pot (can I still say that?). Women in hijabs, Asians from throughout the Pacific Rim. A myriad of Chicana/o, Latina/o, and Hispanic folks from around the world, and everyone else flock to Porto’s to stand in line, waiting to feast on the legendary potato balls, tres leches cake, or rellenitos – sweet plantains stuffed with black beans.

Carbo-loading at Porto's: Chorizo empanada, plaintain
rellenito, and the legendary potato ball.

If you aren’t that hungry when you get to Porto’s, that will change within seconds of standing in line and gazing at the pastry cases. Limited access to Porto’s from most parts of L.A. is also part of the bakery’s mystique. There are only three stores, located in Downey, Burbank, and Glendale. Even on a Wednesday afternoon, there are long lines of hungry customers.

The stores’ interiors are all more or less the same: spacious but efficiently furnished with rows of indoor and patio seating. A couple of extra-long glass cases reign over the space, like pastry-bearing Arks of the Covenant. But instead of stone tablets, they are filled with fanciful interpretations of Hispanic and European pastries. Where else can you get coconut strudel and mango mousse? Red velvet cupcakes are topped with rose petals, and mini-pina colada mousse desserts are graced with orchids. Even the humble blueberry muffin gets the Porto's treatment, split in half and filled with cream and fresh berries, taking it from commuter cup sidekick to an elegant dessert.

The airy interiors, with their immaculate tiled floors make you feel like you are in Batista’s Presidential Palace. The enervating rhythm of salsa keeps the staff and customers moving along at a steady pace. Angelenos, who are not known for their patience in most situations, seem to think nothing of standing in a line of 75+ people for cranberry walnut bread, empanadas, and guava and cream cheese-filled refugiados.

The ordinary blueberry muffin gets a little
Porto’s swagger.

Porto’s is the only restaurant where customers head for their tables laden with bags and boxes of food to go before they enjoy their meals. After a taiko drum event that my nephews' school participated in at a hotel in Burbank, all the El Marino families converged upon Porto’s. We tag-teamed one another and gave up our seats to members of our party who arrived later as we each finished eating. It took a while for everyone to get through the lines because they were buying up loads of baked goods to take home for people who didn’t join us that day. It is one of those rare places that when visited, requires that one check in with all family members and friends to see if they want anything. And yes, they always do.

I have a physical therapy appointment, which my insurance plan, in its institutional lack of intelligence, has decided should take place at a clinic in Downey, miles away from the Westside. But no matter. When life gives you lemons, head for Porto's.

Dinner is hours away, but I can't resist taking a little merienda. Although I want to ask for the whole tray of chorizo empanadas, I attempt restraint and order only one of the piquant pies. And a potato ball – the love child of shepherd's pie and Tater Tots. And a rellenito.

A typical visit to Porto's takes place during the weekend, in the company of hundreds of other fans and as many family members or friends as you can get to accompany you. Enjoying the relative calm of a Wednesday afternoon sitting on the bakery's patio, I notice that while the customers aren't lingering to eat, they still file in and out of the place in a steady, bakery box-laden stream.

I tuck into my chorizo empanada and rellenito greedily, but it seems strange to be there without a crowd of friends. I feel almost guilty at indulging in such a rare treat by myself. But no worry - you're never really alone at Porto's, because you've got to remember to pick up dulce de leche kisses and pastels de guayaba for everyone at home.