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Pete's Pizza Kitchen
Former Seattle City Council member Peter Steinbrueck has been making pizza since he was ten—which, by my rough count, means he's spent nearly four decades perfecting his pizza technique. Recently, Steinbrueck invited FoodNerd over to his house—a modest rambler near Northgate with an envy-inducing backyard garden—to make and share a few pies.
Although I am an inveterate home cook, there are a few irrational, ingredient-specific phobias I have yet to conquer. I hate making pasta. I shrink from deep-frying. And I am terrified of yeast, which pretty much precludes me from baking bread... or pizza, of which the dough is the most crucial part.
"There's no reason to be scared of yeast!" Steinbrueck bellows, his arms wrist-deep in a perfectly spherical mound of twice-risen dough. Easy for him to say. To me, baking with yeast is like inviting a temperamental, erratic drunk over for dinner—they may charm everyone, but they may also ruin everything. For baking, yeast has to be mixed into lukewarm water, between about 80 and 90 degrees. Too cold, and it dies. Too warm, and it dies. In my mind, this basically means it always dies. And I'm far from alone in this; in fact, just this February, NPR did a feature story titled "Conquering a Baker's Fear of Yeast."
[caption id="attachment_7873" align="alignleft" width="275" caption="Kneading: Not so Scary!"]
[/caption]
"Yeast is actually pretty hard to kill. The only thing you have to do is get the water warm," Steinbrueck says, explaining his procedure to me over the phone a few days later. His "recipe," such as it is, is charmingly DIY. "My basic procedure is: Take two cups of warm water with a half teaspoon of sugar dissolved in it. Add about a heaping tablespoon of dry active yeast per cup of water—usually, that's about a packet and a half. Dissolve that into the water, let it sit for five minutes or so, so it gets frothy and the water gets murky. If it doesn't, the yeast is dead."
Assuming your yeast is alive (whew!), the rest is (relatively) simple. First, pour the yeasty water into a stand mixer (or onto a counter, if you don't have one) and start adding flour (white, along with about half a cup of whole wheat) about a cupful at a time, cutting back to half-cups once "it starts getting thick and sticky." ("No oil, ever!" Steinbrueck insists.) Once it forms a single mass, flour your hands, dump the whole thing onto a floured counter (Steinbrueck has a marble slab), and knead with the heels of your hands until it's "as soft as a baby's bottom."
Oil the inside of a metal bowl and put the dough inside, rolling it around to get every surface coated with the oil. Cover the top of the dough with Saran Wrap. "Then put a wet towel over the top—and I mean a wet towel—and put it wherever. You can put it in the refrigerator, outside—the dough doesn't care. And then you can go about your day." Take it out and punch it down with your fist a couple of times throughout the day—every couple of hours, more or less—and put it back in the bowl.
[caption id="attachment_7869" align="alignleft" width="275" caption="In the kitchen with Steinbrueck"]
[/caption]
From here, things are really simple. When you're ready to cook, get your toppings ready and preheat the oven to its highest setting. Steinbrueck likes to assemble a mise en place and let guests put together their own pies—when I was there, the toppings included garlic-infused olive oil, several types of meat, bulk mozzarella (grated in Steinbrueck's KitchenAid), bottled marinara sauce, bell peppers, olives, and much more. Take a rolling pin (Steinbrueck has a flat Italian-style pin, but a regular rolling pin or even a bottle will work in a pinch) and start rolling it out from the center, lifting and turning periodically, until it's about the same size as your pizza pan, flouring it periodically. Dust your pan with cornmeal and slap the dough on top.
The final step before adding toppings, Steinbrueck says, is to slather the dough with a layer of olive oil, "so it won't get soggy." Top to taste—a thin layer of marinara is good ("You don't want it to turn into soup"), some cheese, and whatever else you like. Bake for 6 to 8 minutes, top with fresh herbs and Parmesan to taste, and serve.
The verdict? Steinbrueck's pizza is awesome—thin, crispy, and subtle—and his recipe is so easy it may even help me, an avowed nonbaker, conquer my lifelong fear of yeast.
Although I am an inveterate home cook, there are a few irrational, ingredient-specific phobias I have yet to conquer. I hate making pasta. I shrink from deep-frying. And I am terrified of yeast, which pretty much precludes me from baking bread... or pizza, of which the dough is the most crucial part.
"There's no reason to be scared of yeast!" Steinbrueck bellows, his arms wrist-deep in a perfectly spherical mound of twice-risen dough. Easy for him to say. To me, baking with yeast is like inviting a temperamental, erratic drunk over for dinner—they may charm everyone, but they may also ruin everything. For baking, yeast has to be mixed into lukewarm water, between about 80 and 90 degrees. Too cold, and it dies. Too warm, and it dies. In my mind, this basically means it always dies. And I'm far from alone in this; in fact, just this February, NPR did a feature story titled "Conquering a Baker's Fear of Yeast."
[caption id="attachment_7873" align="alignleft" width="275" caption="Kneading: Not so Scary!"]
[/caption]"Yeast is actually pretty hard to kill. The only thing you have to do is get the water warm," Steinbrueck says, explaining his procedure to me over the phone a few days later. His "recipe," such as it is, is charmingly DIY. "My basic procedure is: Take two cups of warm water with a half teaspoon of sugar dissolved in it. Add about a heaping tablespoon of dry active yeast per cup of water—usually, that's about a packet and a half. Dissolve that into the water, let it sit for five minutes or so, so it gets frothy and the water gets murky. If it doesn't, the yeast is dead."
Assuming your yeast is alive (whew!), the rest is (relatively) simple. First, pour the yeasty water into a stand mixer (or onto a counter, if you don't have one) and start adding flour (white, along with about half a cup of whole wheat) about a cupful at a time, cutting back to half-cups once "it starts getting thick and sticky." ("No oil, ever!" Steinbrueck insists.) Once it forms a single mass, flour your hands, dump the whole thing onto a floured counter (Steinbrueck has a marble slab), and knead with the heels of your hands until it's "as soft as a baby's bottom."
Oil the inside of a metal bowl and put the dough inside, rolling it around to get every surface coated with the oil. Cover the top of the dough with Saran Wrap. "Then put a wet towel over the top—and I mean a wet towel—and put it wherever. You can put it in the refrigerator, outside—the dough doesn't care. And then you can go about your day." Take it out and punch it down with your fist a couple of times throughout the day—every couple of hours, more or less—and put it back in the bowl.
[caption id="attachment_7869" align="alignleft" width="275" caption="In the kitchen with Steinbrueck"]
[/caption]From here, things are really simple. When you're ready to cook, get your toppings ready and preheat the oven to its highest setting. Steinbrueck likes to assemble a mise en place and let guests put together their own pies—when I was there, the toppings included garlic-infused olive oil, several types of meat, bulk mozzarella (grated in Steinbrueck's KitchenAid), bottled marinara sauce, bell peppers, olives, and much more. Take a rolling pin (Steinbrueck has a flat Italian-style pin, but a regular rolling pin or even a bottle will work in a pinch) and start rolling it out from the center, lifting and turning periodically, until it's about the same size as your pizza pan, flouring it periodically. Dust your pan with cornmeal and slap the dough on top.
The final step before adding toppings, Steinbrueck says, is to slather the dough with a layer of olive oil, "so it won't get soggy." Top to taste—a thin layer of marinara is good ("You don't want it to turn into soup"), some cheese, and whatever else you like. Bake for 6 to 8 minutes, top with fresh herbs and Parmesan to taste, and serve.
The verdict? Steinbrueck's pizza is awesome—thin, crispy, and subtle—and his recipe is so easy it may even help me, an avowed nonbaker, conquer my lifelong fear of yeast.
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