Bananas Foster with Roasted Hazelnuts and Raspberries
Our bananas foster is never exactly what you expect. [Photo Credit: Alex Paternostro]
Recipe by Seth Paternostro
Introduction by Alex Paternostro
December 25, 2021 (Christmas Day)
The sun was throwing an orange glow over the shadow-rich, cobblestone square as Nonna Rossa and Benno waited outside one of the many restaurants tucked amidst the sundry shops. There were fewer of these than last year, but the couple was glad to see a familiar sign still swinging. The hand-painted wood announced to passersby of Potter Sommer’s intricate and glazed wares, which now competed with his new, neon neighbors’ products. Hardware, footwear, software gleamed through backlit windows that reflected the thin clouds ringed by the changing pink-now-purple light.
Like those faint but yet floating puffs, families milled about as they enjoyed such a pleasant and warm Saturday. Some of them hoped for the scene to sway like Impressionist paints, but the area was just simpler in style. It offered ice cream cones to walk with, and many of these now disappeared under awnings. Indeed, families began to fill the tables of that restaurant in front of which Nonna Rossa and Benno had now been waiting for over 31 minutes. Each was enjoying the sights, pointing out a funny incident here, a child tugging down parents’ pants there, but the waitresses were starting to feel for these two. They hoped the extra guest would finally arrive and relieve Nonna Rossa and Benno from standing. A sympathetic hostess brought a cookie for them to munch on and offered Negronis “on the house.”
The pair loved the almond crescent’s crunch and could not refuse both drinks, so sipping on one while Benno chewed his share of the peel, Nonna Rossa spotted their son. In a blink, she tossed the tumbler to her husband and raised both arms up to the reddening sky.
“Hello! Hello!” she waved, “We’re so happy to see you!” and she smiled as a big-suited fellow noticed her.
He continued on his path with only a slight alteration of course, keeping his hands low, his face straight. Nonna Rossa, though, kept paddling to the heavens while Benno practically bounced beside her.
“Oh! Hello! Hello!” Benno exclaimed, too, “We’ve been waiting to see you for so long.”
It must have been over a year since a family meal graced his son’s calendar, and Benno was hoping for a memorable experience this time.
“Hi, Pop. Hi, Ma,” said the son as he walked up to them.
Nonna Rossa put her arms down and around him for a hug, but it was a miss. He had barely stopped and was already at the table. He pulled out a wooden chair and took his seat just behind where his parents were. They turned around to join him, and Benno patted him on the shoulder with a free hand.
“Got an apéritif already?” the son said gruffly, unbuttoning his jacket and looking around the patio, “I’ll skip it,” and he undid his belt.
He found the drink menu and continued, “But I’ll take a double vodka while you two start ordering,” and he leaned around to a nearby waiter who was stacked with hot plates.
“Hey, boy!” he shouted to a jitter of ceramics and the clank of a fallen spoon, “We’re ready.”
After the waiter had steadied himself and delivered the neighbors’ dishes, he came over to note the son’s drink, his slapdash entrée, and the parents’ orders. The two felt pressured yet knew exactly what they wanted to eat. The waiter gave them a compassionate glance, filled their waters, appreciated their thanks, and was on his way to the kitchen when Nonna Rossa decided to get the conversation rolling.
“How was the flight?” she asked cheerfully.
“F***. I was wet as a pig. The desk wouldn’t cover the flight, so I downgraded. Terrible. I mean, that’s a compliment to call that a cabin, ‘pen’ more like it. Like the A/C didn’t work worth dirt, so I was sweatin’ on the phone while some lame brain got their baby to choke and cry or whatever. I could barely present on the call. On top of that, the air-head girls turned the lights off while I was still working. Hush me? Really? That wasn’t going to happen. Anyways, after that, nothing good, all cheap movies until landing.”
“O! Okay, ah, life’s full of surprises, ha-ha,” Nonna Rossa replied, keeping the positivity up.
“Did they serve a meal?” Benno chimed in.
“Don’t remember. Probably,” and the son grabbed the vodka on the rocks as the waiter was about to put it down.
After a gulp, he added, “but I didn’t care at that point. People don’t understand what ‘service’ and ‘hospitality’ stand for nowadays,” and he cracked some ice cubes underneath his flat molars.
“It depends,” said Benno, his hands going up and down like a balance, “Some flight attendants are better than others. I like when they give enough time to eat, though.”
“Ugh. They’re giving too much time here,” and the son rapped his fingers against the table while Nonna Rossa took a quiet sip from the still extant Negroni. She placed its old-fashioned glass between her and her husband.
“I have some good news,” she interjected, “Your father really got into those plumbing problems that started last month. He ended up taking the opportunity to replace our main bathroom’s pipes and fixtures, redo the grout, and even fix up some of the mosaics. Very tasteful job he did, and he kept everything period-appropriate, of course.”
She looked proudly at Benno, who gave a thumbs up and said, “I made it comfortable enough for your mother to read whole chapters at a time,” he said, expecting Nonna Rossa’s gentle swat.
“Shhh,” she smiled, and he laughed.
“Ugh. Why waste your time like that, Pa?”
“It’s a great thing to do, to improve one’s home. If you stop, it never gets better.”
“Hey. I’m just thinking about you, you know,” and he turned towards his mother, “Don’t you agree? Benno shouldn’t stoop like that, especially at his age. Just hire a man,” and his boxy mouth slipped into a spirited grimace, “Or, better yet, how about finally dumping that shit-ass home? Market’s hot. Lots of people are buying without looking too closely under the hood, at any deats."
Benno thought of all the work his hands had given to their home. It was no mansion, but it was cozy, a happy place. For over 50 years, he and Nonna Rossa have lived there, and he stepped through their playful arrangements, which they sometimes changed just for fun. He remembered all of the subtle touches and room additions. He took so much care in planning them, then sawing, painting, replanning, and finishing the details. The last drill, the final sanding, all of that he did with such joy for his family. Even the most complicated project, his son’s old room, was full of love. He had finished it just before Nonna Rossa gave birth and not a moment too soon. It was an octagon with wooden beams, safety-latch windows that let light in during the day, and glow-in-the-dark stars he had painted for night and dreams.
Benno thought of the scaffolding he had built for that fresco, along with the furniture, the pillows he had sewn and stuffed, and all the rest which made the place so special. Bella Rossa had stocked the bookcase, guided their boy’s hand in lessons on art and language, and walked right in when he needed support and kind words. She kissed him goodnight every day until it was goodbye for college, and the room was left empty.
Nonna Rossa and Benno reconfigured the space into a study-studio with benches, reading chairs, and all the supplies their imaginations required. The room stayed alive, and it was from there that they departed for the restaurant, eager to see their son who now lived in a steely knife cutting through a far-off sky.
"It's too much for your age,” the son tore in, breaking Benno’s reverie, "Here, I know what you two should do. This is something you have to see. Trust me. Why don't you take a look at this lovely pamphlet?"
He took out a folded brochure from his suit’s inner pocket and handed it to them.
"Those are some damn well-treated bodies if you ask me," he boasted as Nonna Rossa undid the crease and opened the plastic-inked paper.
"Something looks off about her," she gasped, pointing, "and him," horrified.
"Ah, she's just stretching in the bathroom, and that one in the wheelchair? He's smiling! No, he's laughing so hard that that's why his head's tilted up like that.”
“Whoa,” the son eyed the underside of a passing waitress, "Now seriously,” he slid in, turning his head back towards the table, “You should listen to me. I’m your son, and this is a good deal. I know these people. They are very fine people, and I would never recommend something that I don’t believe is the perfect answer to your situation. Plus, I’ve got shares in Sunny Side Up. They’re owned by the Nursing / Humane Division of Razor Investment Properties, an REIT, not that that term means much to you. For investors with great risk tolerance, like me, they offer an excellent combination of growth potential and income-generation. That interest is guaranteed to be at least 2 and up to 6 percent when annualized according to prior returns, which always determines future performance.”
“You’re not selling us,” said his mother with her eyebrows upraised.
“Sunny Side Up even allows heirs to borrow against the 'pay-in.' I'd earn up to 30%, minus fees, if you pass in the first three months," and he chuckled, nodding, "But that wouldn't happen because you two are healthy. Healthy as pot pies."
He grinned.
They sat in silence.
Nonna Rossa dismissed her son’s efforts, "We're not interested."
"You'll change your minds," and the son spun a finger around his full water glass, which moaned.
"O! That’s it,” Benno said, “Your pitch reminds me of a movie. I can't remember which one, though…" he nearly concluded, searching for the name.
"Did I tell you?,” jumped the son, “They’ve got memory games, medical perks, and all sorts of mind-honer activities at Sunny Side Up facilities. They’d help you a…"
"Gran Torino!” Benno interrupted with the snap of a thumb, “Ha-ha! That’s the one. Clint Eastwood directed it, starred, too, as Kowalski, and he was not the type to slow down in a…” and Benno airquoted, “‘facility.’ I feel the same way.”
Benno waved his hand to cut off any more discussion.
“What about you, Ma?” probed the son, whipping his broad shoulders at her followed just after by his head, “You’d find many fun women to shoot shit with. New friends, forever.”
“No. Stop this!”
“Seriously, son,” Benno followed, “This is not the kind of conversation that we all came here for. Let’s be civilized. Let’s enjoy each other’s company and calm down, talk of nicer things.”
He took hold of Nonna Rossa’s hand, and silence echoed around them again. The couple sat in front of their only offspring, and he stared at them, clenching his jaw every few moments until Nonna Rossa ventured to change the topic.
"So, how have you been?" she asked.
“Yeah.”
He instinctively took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a strong drag. He blew it onto the food that was just arriving.
“Sir, the restaurant is no smoking. Please put that out,” said the waiter.
“We’re outside,” he fumed.
“Yes, but it is our policy to keep all of our dining spaces smoke-free.”
The son did not budge.
“You should respect the other customers.”
“I’m a customer. Respect me.”
“It’s the law,” the waiter proffered with a rise in tone at the end, unsure of what else he could say. The son kept smoking while other guests started looking over their shoulders, coughing loudly.
“Sir!”
The son took one last, big suck. With his eyes focused on the waiter’s, he tossed the cigarette at the struggling man’s shoes and exhaled into his downcast eyes.
“Done,” the son declared and took up his utensils.
As attention shifted to the food, Benno furrowed his brow at what his son had ordered. Piled like boards were two well-done steaks atop a white plate. They were not how Benno would have liked them, but his son slashed off a chunk, dunked the meat in ketchup, and popped it into his mouth.
Nonna Rossa poured herself a small glass of wine and swirled the ruby depths. She took a sip and nudged Benno, who leaned towards their son.
“You should try the pasta,” he suggested, “It’s hand-made, really special. You can’t get it like this anyplace else.”
“I don’t care.”
“Are you certain? It’s really impressive, and I’m sure it’d mean a lot to someone if you tasted it.”
“Nah. I don’t like carbs.”
“You should really take a bite,” Nonna Rossa urged, “You used to love homemade pasta.”
“Not anymore. I look at metrics: calorie count, grams of protein, nutrients. Those numbers matter, especially for gains, and pasta never makes the cut. It’s just some overpriced ball of dough,” the son said, flicking his fork, launching a speck of char onto the table, “that I bet some greasy kid just slapped together in the back.”
His parents looked at each other and decided to leave it at that.
“Okay,” Nonna Rossa sighed, “So, what else is going on in life?”
“The new firm’s working my ass like a woman.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Nonna Rossa and Benno, and they crossed themselves.
“Yeah, that’s what I say on a hard night. Anyways, the old firm used to be something, a real name, but the leadership sucked, so I hopped across the street. Glad I did. Those idiots collapsed with the other banks. Meanwhile, I got oversight of the Exotic Derivatives Trading Desk at the new place, management of the dispersion business, and other prominent responsibilities that drive revenue.”
“Sounds like a lot of,” and Nonna Rossa paused, “spreadsheets.”
“It’ll wreck you.”
“Sure,” and Benno tried to enjoy the meal. A wonderful bite of pasta helped a good deal.
“And don’t get me started on office politics…”
He got started on them while Nonna Rossa traveled to a different time. She wished her son was a boy again, still small, when he wasn’t too big to fail. He would come home and tell her all about his schoolyard friends, enemies, and worries. He used to be so curious about the world.
“...but the marbles have landed, and that’s made a lot of the day-to-day worth it, like…”
And Nonna Rossa laughed to herself. She found it amusing that he gets paid in “marbles.” Even if they just stand for some allotment of money nowadays, the game used to be one of his favorites. He would set railroad tracks along his funny-sided room, and in the streaming sunshine push ball bearings with his little thumb. Imaginary knights, quests, and kingdoms rolled across the carpet as the game became much more complicated throughout the day.
“...I could not imagine working under Ken for twenty years. I’d kill myself…”
When did her son change?
“...A friend of mine went to school with the Chair of the Federal Reserve’s daughter, and oh my God, what I would do to just know what that man says at the dinner table. It directly affects my desk…”
Benno wasn’t listening anymore either, but he heard the word “desk” and thought about what he would create later that night, sitting at his own. He imagined Nonna Rossa in his lap and decided to continue the stained glass that he had been shaping for the bathroom.
“...You guys are covering this one, right? Family meal, haha. I’m really strapped for cash,” and their son downed the remnants of wine.
“I got to make a flight out of here. You know, business. I’ll try to come through next Christmas, but you know how it is.”
The son slapped Benno on the back and patted his mother on the head before getting up. He fastened his belt, closed his suit, and strutted out. On the way, he knocked into a waitress, who dropped a steaming plate. It cracked into shards and creamy coils of spaghetti.
“Watch it, bitch,” he yelled behind him. He stopped in the street for a light then disappeared into the fall of darkness. Only a bobbing, uneven glow limned his final direction.
Nonna Rossa and Benno looked at each other and shook their heads just as dessert arrived. It was “Bananas Foster with Roasted Filberts and Raspberries.” They watched a waiter run out the restaurant doors with sizzling butter and seared bananas, plus a towel, some tools, vanilla ice cream, and a hot plate. Once at their table, he flipped the gas on, poured a shot of rum into the pan, and towering flames soon licked the air with a tilt. Zazzle! Show food, true, but no gimmick. The restaurant was just a rustic joint with fresh fare, some classic techniques, and a cute accordionist, who was closing for the night.
To the waving tunes of those winding keys, Nonna Rossa and Benno shared the warm banana. They had always ordered it for their son.
Serves 2
Total time
5 minutes
Equipment:
cutting board, chef’s knife or cleaver, small sauté pan, measuring cups and spoons, silicone spatula
Tableware:
chilled bowls and spoons
Ingredients
1 tbsp unsalted butter
½ tbsp virgin coconut oil
1 tbsp palm sugar
1 firm banana
2 tbsps 5-year aged rum
12 raw shelled hazelnuts
12 raspberries
4 scoops vanilla ice cream
Kosher salt, as needed
Instructions
Set out all equipment, tableware, and ingredients.
Scoop the ice cream into chilled bowls, and keep cool.
Pour 2 tbsps of the rum into a small measuring cup, and place away from the burner but within easy reach.
Add the butter, coconut oil, palm sugar, hazelnuts, and a pinch of salt to the pan, then heat over medium-low, stirring occasionally.
Peel, and slice the banana on a sharp bias into bite-size pieces.
When the butter is nutty and foaming, and the sugar is just beginning to caramelize, add the banana slices.
Gently swirl the pan for a few seconds, taking care to only slightly cook the bananas on one side.
Turn the heat up to high, remove the skillet from over the stove, pour in the rum, then tilt the pan over the burner to ignite.
When the flames have died down, turn off the heat.
Spoon the bananas, nuts, and sauce on and around the ice cream, then garnish with fresh raspberries.
Note: For an induction stovetop, follow the directions above but use a match or lighter to ignite the alcohol.
NUTRITION FACTS:
Calories 575 Total Fat 28.6g (37%) Saturated Fat 16.3g (82%) Cholesterol 73mg (24%) Sodium 162mg (7%) Total Carbohydrate 68.4g (25%) Dietary Fiber 10.9g (39%) Total Sugars 46.2g Protein 7.8g Vitamin D 4mcg (20%) Calcium 202mg (16%) Iron 1mg (7%) Potassium 733mg (16%) - Note: Please read our Nutrition Disclaimer.
Seth Paternostro is a writer and recipe developer based in Chicago. He is a co-founder of Our American Cuisine and graduated summa cum laude from Princeton University with an A.B. in East Asian Studies. You can learn more about him here.
Alex Paternostro is a writer and food photographer based in Chicago. He is a co-founder of Our American Cuisine and graduated with honors in English from Princeton University. You can learn more about him here.
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