The 1980s were a time of big hair, leg warmers and, yikes, parachute pants.
It wasn't the best decade for fashion (remember Members Only jackets?). With mullets, high-tops and Jheri curls, it wasn't the best time for hair, either. However, it was a spectacular decade for Erno Rubik, inventor of the Rubik's Cube.
The 1980s was the decade of "Dallas," of "Cheers," of "The Cosby Show" when that notion wasn't so sad. It was the decade of Madonna, Michael Jackson and Prince. It was a time of "E.T. _ the Extra-Terrestrial," of "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and of "Back to the Future."
But culinarily, the decade was all over the map.
The most important figure in the American food world throughout the 1980s was probably Paul Prudhomme, who elevated New Orleans cooking to haute status and singlehandedly created the blackened seafood craze.
Meanwhile, it was frat boys and fern bars that were responsible for potato skins, which scooped out the healthy parts of a baked potato and left behind high-calorie toppings. The big-hair crowd was sipping wine coolers and Fuzzy Navels. And pasta salad, which was as much a part of the decade as VCRs and boom boxes, was never quite as healthful nor as tasty as it seemed.
For my culinary tour of the 1980s, I wanted something better, something bigger. So I began with what may be the decade's quintessential dish, Chicken Marbella. First popularized in "The Silver Palate Cookbook" in 1982, Chicken Marbella became one of those dishes that, for several years, was served at practically every dinner party across the nation.
The idea was revolutionary at the time. An ordinary chicken was made both salty and sweet with plenty of olives and capers (for the salt) and prunes and brown sugar (for the sweet). Actually, the thought of using prunes in a savory dish at all was revolutionary at the time.
When I made it, I remembered why it was so popular. The olives and capers do not fight the prunes and sugar, they join together in mutual understanding, peace and happiness. And along with a healthy dose of oregano and a healthier one of garlic, they turn an ordinary chicken into something sublime.
Next up was one of those dishes that sound perfectly dreadful but actually turn out to be remarkably satisfying: Impossible Cheeseburger Pie.
Another staple of the 1980s potluck circuit, Impossible Cheeseburger Pie is an entree version of those impossible desserts that were popular at the time (and some that still are). Basically, you mix together a bunch of ingredients including Bisquick baking mix, bake it, and the Bisquick, eggs and milk find their way to the bottom and sides to form a crust.
The result is sort of a half-quiche, half-savory-pancake. This particular version _ which was unsurprisingly created by the folks at Bisquick _ also includes ground beef, onions and melted cheese. It doesn't really resemble the cheeseburger of the title, but it wouldn't be as popular if they called it a Beef-and-Cheese Quasi-Quiche.
For an appetizer, I turned to a dish surely found among the appetizers at every fern bar of the '80s, Baked Brie (fern bars themselves were sort of the ultimate expression of the decade's sensibilities).
Baked Brie is an idea that is as simple as it is mouth-watering. Take a wheel of brie, top it with a bit of flavor (cranberry jam, for instance, or the combination of pecans and brown sugar that I used), wrap it in puff pastry, and bake it.
When you cut into the golden-brown pastry, the runny cheese oozes out, along with a bit of the sweet nuts. Just spread it on a cracker or a slice of baguette, and you have one of the best taste sensations of the decade.
But not the very best. That would have to be reserved for tiramisu.
Created in Italy in the 1960s or early 1970s, tiramisu made its way to this country in the late '80s and soon made its way to the dessert menu of most Italian restaurants. When it jumped to the dessert menu of non-Italian restaurants, it had truly arrived.
The secrets to making great tiramisu are to take the time to make it and to use the right ingredients. If you make the quick version or substitute cheaper ingredients you are going to end up with a gloppy mess that is quite unlike tiramisu.
The version I made was divine. It was as light as air _ though air flavored with coffee and brandy _ and it melted seductively on your tongue.
That is because I took the time to make a true zabaglione _ a custard flavored with Marsala wine _ and I folded in the ingredients with care. I flavored it with a fair amount of brandy (I've always thought the best tiramisu is boozy) and used real espresso, heavy cream and plenty of mascarpone cheese.
It wasn't cheap, but it was worth it. And for the decade that gave us "The Bonfire of the Vanities" and the movie "Wall Street," it was absolutely fitting.
