Prosciutto e fichi

It seems everyone knows about pairing prosciutto with melon but fewer people know about another, to my mind even more delicious, pairing of prosciutto with figs. Personally, I find that the richer flavor and softer texture of figs marries even better with the saltiness of cured ham.

If you like, you can just lay out halved figs on a bed of prosciutto or alternatively wrap each fig with a slice of prosciutto. But a particularly lovely, if slightly more fiddly, way to serve the pairing is as roselline, or 'little roses': you trim and split the figs vertically into quarters almost, but not quite, all the way to their base, then open them up like so many petals. Inside each open fig, place a thin slice of prosciutto that you will have twirled around so as to resemble a 'little rose'. Et voilà!

NOTES: Of course, a dish this elemental sinks or swims on the quality of its ingredients. But when the figs are perfectly ripe—with that rich and unctuous sweetness that typifies them at the best—and prosciutto 'young' and of best quality, this utterly simple dish is almost transcendental.

I have seen recipes for variations of this dish that call for the additional of cheese, usually gorgonzola, goat cheese or mozzarella. If you like the idea, you could place a dab of cheese on the fig before placing the fig rose on top. But personally, I'd leave well enough alone.

Some people prefer to peel figs but I find the skin too beautiful to throw away. Just rub them very gently with a dish cloth to clean them. Try to get 'young' prosciutto, sliced as thinly as possible, so it will be easy to fold around itself. (The prosciutto in the photo was a bit too old and sliced a bit too thick., giving it a 'leathery' texture that was impossible to fold properly.) But don't worry too much about appearances so long as the products are of good quality, the results will be fabulous.

Pasta e piselli

Here's a when-you-really-don't-feel-like-cooking dish. It's a quick and easy combination of pasta and peas, but really satisfying. This and pasta e lenticchie were my favorite everyday pastas Angelina would make when I was a kid.

Here's the way Angelina made it: You saute a goodly amount of chopped onion--with a little chopped parsley if you like--in olive oil, seasoning with a salt and generous amount of pepper. Let it go, adding a tablespoon or so of water from time to time to soften the onions and avoid their browning, until they are quite soft and their sweetness has developed nicely. Then add a can of peas with its juice. (NB: This is the only time I ever use the juice from a canned product.) Let it simmer gently, just long enough to heat the peas. Separately, boil ditali or another small, stubby pasta (see below) in well salted water and then add to the peas. Allow them to simmer together for just a minute, adding a bit of pasta water if the pasta is too dry for your taste (see below) then leave off heat, covered, for two minutes or so, to allow the flavors to meld. Serve with additional freshly ground pepper, if you like, and un filo d'olio. Et voila!

NOTES: The above is the quick and easy method. For a dish that is more genuino as they say in Italian, use fresh peas. You add the shelled peas to the onion soffritto, saute for a minute or two to allow the peas to absorb the flavor, then add enough broth or water just to cover the peas. Simmer until the peas are tender and proceed as indicated in the main recipe. You can also use frozen peas in the same way, which are convenient but greener and sweeter than the canned variety.

Some variations. The foregoing recipe is the one I grew up with in an Italian-American family. In Italy, it is more common to use either fresh or frozen peas, to which either broth or water is added, rather than canned peas and their canning liquid.

The dish I grew up with had no meat and no tomato--in bianco as they say in Italian. But a lot of people add bits of pancetta (Italian bacon) or cooked ham to saute along with the onions. And some people also like to add a bit of tomato after the onion and/or pancetta and/or parsley have sauteed, for a bit more color and taste. Allow the tomato to reduce before adding your peas, and proceed as indicated in the main recipe. I have also seen recipes calling for you to use shallot (scalogno) instead of onion. You can also vary the amount of onion. I use lots of onion--a whole smallish onion for two people--which adds considerable sweetness. If you are using really fresh, young, sweet peas, you may need less onion. (I have also seen recipes calling for the addition of a pinch of sugar to add sweetness, but personally the idea does not attract me.) Finally, some people like their pasta e piselli dry (in which case, leave out the liquid or use much less). I grew up with a rather wet pasta, almost a soup, and I like it that way. (This is one pasta, btw, that you are better off eating with a spoon.) Some people, in fact, like to squash some of the peas against the side of the pan as they cook, to thicken the broth and make it creamier. And I always ate my pasta e piselli with lots of freshly ground pepper--I really like the contrast between the sweetness of the onion and peas and the spiciness of the pepper--but this is not necessary if you don't care for pepper. I've seen recipes calling for a dusting of parmesan cheese as well, but this stikes me a slightly sacrilegious.

The choice of pasta is important here. The original and--to my taste--by far the best choice are a very small tubular pasta called ditali, ditalini or tubetti. (NB: This is one of the many examples of basically the same shape of pasta having multiple names according to region.) Also a very good choice are the tiny shell-shape pasta called chioccioline or conchigliette which some say is even better because they concave surface catches the peas. Some people even use spaghetti or linguine broken up into short lengths. (That's how my grandmother made pasta e lenticchie, but never this dish.) Why not experiment with different pastas to see which one you like best. As they say, "variety is the spice of life."

Gnocchi ai funghi

The Romans out there will know that Thursdays in Rome (and perhaps in the rest of Italy) is gnocchi day. After ten years in Rome, I've gotten into the habit and in our house we still often eat gnocchi on Thursdays. In the Fall and Winter, I particularly like gnocchi dresses with the mushroom cream sauce that I enjoyed so much during my days in Vienna. There the sauce is usually made with a kind of wild mushroom called Erswamerel (which I think is a kind of morel) and eaten with Knödeln, a bread dumpling known to Italians as canederli. (I actually had the best Knödln /canederli in my life in Alto Adige, not in Vienna, but that's a story for another day.) This sauce is wonderfully versatile. It is also wonderful with fresh egg pasta and, if you've been following this blog, you will have even seen it paired with boiled ox tongue.

Here's how you make the mushroom cream sauce: Sauté some sliced or chopped mushrooms in olive oil until well reduced (salt the mushrooms to draw out their water), and when the mushrooms have shed their water and begin to sizzle, mix in a buttuto of finely chopped shallots and parsley and sauté for a further minute or two. Dust with a bit of flour, sauté briefly until lightly browned, then add stock or broth (beef is best for this dish, but chicken or even vegetable would work out fine). Reduce until quite syrupy to concentrate the flavor and then add a generous amount of cream. Let that reduce as well until it reaches a nice "saucy" consistency—not too thick, however, as the gnocchi will absorb quite a bit of liquid and you want this dish to be creamy. (You can adjust later by adding more cream if need be.)

Meanwhile, gently boil your gnocchi in salted water until they rise to the surface—vengono a galla, as they say in Italian—then fish them out of the water with a slotted spoon and add the gnocchi to the sauce. (Don't drain them in a colander, as they are delicate and this may damage them.) Let the gnocchi simmer in the sauce for a few moments—about 15-30 seconds only—mixing them gently with the sauce and serve. Buon appetito!

NOTES: Of course, this dish is at its best if you make your gnocchi from scratch, but packaged gnocchi will do fine with this flavorful sauce, and turn this into a very quick meal. As for the mushrooms, of course wild mushrooms will give the most flavorful results; porcini would be both typical and lovely, but morels, chanterelles or just about any kind will also be very nice. And in a pinch, shiitake are perfectly fine. You can even resort to simple button mushrooms if that's what you have on hand, but you may want to use my 'chef's secret' to give them some more character and flavor.

For a more 'rustic' effect, you can also make this dish without the addition of either broth or cream. Or you can add chopped or canned tomatoes instead for a version in rosso.

Risotto al radicchio

Risotto, as we all know, is an almost infinitely variable dish. You can pair rice with almost any meat, fish, vegetable or even fruit. One of the very finest ways to make risotto is with radicchio, whose mildly bitter flavor makes it a wonderful foil for the bland, almost sweet flavor of rice. It may not be the prettiest risotto, but it is one of the most delicious and satisfying.

You begin with a soffritto of pancetta, onion and/or shallots (I prefer the shallots with radicchio). Be generous with the onion or shallots—their sweetness will balance the bitterness of the radicchio. When the aromatics are well softened and reduced, add very thinly sliced radicchio (a "chiffonade" as it is called in culinary lingo), mix well and allow the radicchio to wilt and absorb the flavor of the soffritto. When the radicchio is well wilted—it will have darkened in color considerably too—add the rice and proceed in the usual manner to finish the risotto—except that you may want to use red wine, rather than the usual white, to moisten the rice after it has been toasted. Beef broth is preferable to chicken broth. And I like to add a nut of sweet butter as well as a generous amount of grated parmesan cheese during the mantecatura. Many recipes call for a five minute 'rest' for the risotto before serving.

NOTES: There are any number of possible variations to this dish. If you want a vegetarian dish, then omit the pancetta from the soffritto and use vegetable broth (or lightly salted water) instead of broth. If, on the other hand, you want an even more substantial dish that could be a one-course meal, you can add pieces of sausage it to the soffritto or, even better, brown them separately in olive oil and fold them into the finished dish. Radicchio marries well with cheese, which is why I like to add extra grated parmesan in the final stages, but you can also take it up a notch and add other, creamy cheeses like taleggio or—a common pairing—gorgonzola. Although not very orthodox, I also sometimes add a bit of cream, either in addition to or instead of cheese, which has the effect of softening the bitterness of the radicchio, as well as providing a smooth, creamy texture.

Lesso di manzo rifatto

Lesso rifatto con le cipolle

Waste not, want not, they old saying goes. There are a myriad of old recipes in the Italian repertoire for making use of boiled beef leftover from beef broth, a brodo classico or a bollito misto. Of course, boiled beef can simply be gently reheated in its broth and served with salsa verde or salsa rossa, but there other, perhaps more imaginative ways to use it. Here are three examples:

Lesso rifatto con le cipolle. This may be my favorite way to use leftover boiled beef, and it has to be one of the simplest: you simply sweat thinly sliced onion in olive oil until it is softened. Season with salt and pepper as it sweats, and add a drop or two of water, if need be, to prevent it from browning. Then lay sliced leftover beef over the onions (slice it cold so it does not fall apart) and then pour in beef broth almost up to the top of the beef. If you have a sprig of sage or rosemary on hand, you can nestle it between the beef slices. Cover and simmer over gentle heat until the beef has been warmed up, then uncover and allow the broth to reduce until you have a nice, unctuous sauce. Do not stir or move the beef slices, or they may break up.) Serve either by itself or with mashed potatoes as a piatto unico, accompanied if you like with a green salad.

NB: This dish is often made in rosso, in the Tuscan tradition, with red onions, a bit of tomato or tomato paste and touch of peperoncino.

Lesso rifatto alla pizzaiola. This is a recipe that I 'invented'—sort of. Fettine di manzo alla pizzaiola (beef slices 'pizza-style') is a well-known dish from Campania, but is made with slices of raw beef. In all honesty I don't much like it when it's made that way; the beef inevitably turns out rather dry. But made with slices of lesso, it is wonderful! Make a sugo di pomodoro with oil, garlic and tomato, then lay the beef slices in the sugo, season with salt and pepper and sprinkle with fresh or dry oregano. Simmer gently until the beef is nicely reheated and the sauce is well reduced and clings to the beef slices. (Not pictured.)

Lesso rifatto alla ciociara

Lesso rifatto alla ciociara. This is a recipes I found on the internet, and liked very much. You sweat onions in olive oil (or lard) until quite soft, then add tomatoes (canned tomatoes are fine) and cubed waxy potatoes. Allow the tomatoes to reduce into a thick sauce, then add boiled beef cut up into pieces, then enough broth to almost cover the beef. Simmer gently until the broth is well reduced (the recipe says 40-50 minutes, but imho 15-20 is quite enough). Season with salt and pepper, then chopped parsley.

NOTES: The word ciociara, by the way, means in the style of the Ciociaria, an area located in the southern part of Lazio, the region of Italy of which Rome is the capital. Whenever I hear the word, I always think of the wonderful neorealist film La Ciociara, directed by Vittorio DeSica. (The English title is Two Women.) The film takes place during World War II and portrays an infamous episode that occurred immediately after the battle of Monte Cassino, from the perspective of a so-called marocchinata, a victim of the mass rape committed by the Gourmiers, Moroccan colonial troops of the French Expeditionary Forces (CEF). The writer Alberto Moravia wrote a novel about the episode called La Ciociara, which de Sica made into the film. It starred in the title role Sophia Loren, who won the Oscar for Best Actress in 1960, at the tender age of 23. It was the first time in the history of the Academy Awards that the Best Actress award had been given for a non-English speaking role. The film made Loren an international star. If you have a chance, I heartily recommend it. The story, as you can well imagine, is not a happy one, but both the film and Loren's performance is wonderfully moving.

Sophia Loren in La Ciociara

Post scriptum: By the way, just realized that this is the 100th post on Memorie di Angelina... I guess this blog is now officially grown up.

Zitoni al forno con le polpettine

If baked pappardelle with radicchio is a good example of a northern Italian baked pasta dish, baked ziti, as this dish is known in English, typifies the southern Italian approach, and more specifically the Neapolitan approach, so much so, in fact, that this dish is sometimes called pasta al forno alla napoletana, although that name is somewhat misleading, since there are any number of Neapolitan baked pasta dishes. Baked ziti is, of course, also one of the signature dishes of Italian immigrant cooking, sometimes taking on some really extravagant variations overseas, like the "four cheese baked ziti" or, even this revolting recipe—the very first 'hit' if you Google 'baked ziti'—calling for jarred 'spaghetti sauce', three different kinds of cheese and, of all things, sour cream! The version you'll find in this post, based loosely on a recipe received from a lady from Naples (see below), is a bit more restrained. It also illustrates one of the many ways in which ragù della domenica can be used.

Step 1: You begin by shallow-frying little meatballs, about the size of a cherry or a hazelnut, called polpettine in Italian, made from the same mixture of meat, cheese, egg, milk-soaked bread, garlic and parsley used for a polpettone. Remove them from the frying pan as soon as they are nicely golden-brown and add more as you go, until you have used up all the mixture.

Step 2: Meanwhile, cook your ziti very al dente in abundant well-salted water. Warm some leftover ragù and slice a large ball of mozzarella into thin slices, breaking them apart into bite-sized pieces.

Step 3: Once these preparatory steps are complete, it is time to assemble the dish. Spoon a bit of the ragù in the bottom of a baking dish, then add a layer of pasta. Nap the ziti with more ragù, arrange the polpettine here and there on top of the pasta and sauce, then pieces of mozzarella, then sprinkle it all with an ample amount of grated pecorino cheese. Add another layer of pasta and repeat until you've used up all your pasta. End with a layer of tomato sauce and ample grated cheese, drizzling a bit of olive oil on top to encourage browning.

Step 4: Bake in a very hot oven (220C, 450F) for about 15-20 minutes, until the sauce is bubbling nicely and the top is lightly browned. Allow the dish to cool off for a few minutes, and serve.

Measurements, you ask? Well, as usual, you should let your eye be your guide. But as a primo for 4 people, about 250g (1/2 lb.) of pasta should be adequate, for which you will need around 5dl (2-3 cups) of ragù, a large ball of mozzarella and about 200g (1/2 lb.) of chopped meat. You may wind up using a bit less of this or that in the end, in which case I recommend that you exercise cook's privilege and enjoy those tidbits with a bit of red wine as the dish bakes in the oven.

NOTES: I based this recipe on one I received from a member of the Gnocchi ai funghi Recipe Exchange Club, named Maria Rosaria Gargiulo. Her recipe, though, calls for making a bolognese-style ragù with half the chopped meat and the polpettine with the other half. This struck me as a bit heavy—not that this dish will ever be light—so I used some leftover Neapolitan ragù, which is, in any event, more typical of this dish. If you don't have any ragù on hand and don't have the time or inclination to make some, then you can always use a simple sugo di pomodoro. The result will be a bit less flavorful, but still good.

The main variation you will see in recipes for baked ziti is whether to add ricotta cheese in addition to the mozzarella. This time, after some equivocation, I opted not to use the ricotta. But if you do, soften the ricotta by adding a bit of hot water and/or ragù and work it into the cheese with a wooden spoon, so that the ricotta becomes almost 'pourable'. Then place dabs of it here and there on top of the pasta along with the meatballs and mozzarella. Some recipes call for sliced hard-boiled egg as well, though this does not appeal terribly much to me. (With these additions, the dish will begin to taste something like lasagne di carnevale.) Sour cream, on the other hand, is definitely not authentic!

Ziti, by the way, traditionally came in long pieces, like giant bucatini, that you need to break up into bite-sized pieces (see photo below). I still like them that way when I can find them, basically just for fun. They are sold as "long ziti" in Italian specialty shops but they can be hard to find. Otherwise, 'regular' ziti—which look a bit like smooth, overgrown penne—are perfectly fine. You can also substitute other similarly shaped pasta like penne or rigatoni.

The meatballs are an important part of this dish. There are a few keys to making good meatballs. First, make sure that the mixture is well seasoned and, in particular, don't skim on the salt or the cheese (be it parmesan or pecorino). Second, use enough, but not too much, milk-soaked bread (or breadcrumbs) as 'filler', so that the texture is not too soft or not too hard. (The more filler you use, the softer the meatballs will be.) Third, make sure that you shallow fry the meatballs in light olive oil (or vegetable oil) over moderate heat, so they neither cook too quickly—the bread content will mean they brown quickly and could burn—nor too slowly, giving in a dry, greasy result. The oil should bubble up gently around the meatballs when you place them in the oil. To be sure that your mixture is properly seasoned and has the right texture, it is a good idea to form one meatball, fry it up and taste it. If it passes your taste test, proceed. If not, adjust seasoning or filler content.

This dish is also very good—perhaps even better—reheated the day after (or if you're like me, eaten at room temperature). The texture will be very different, much more 'solid' than when served right out of the oven, but the flavors will be both smoother and more intense.

Pasticcio di pappardelle al radicchio rosso di Treviso

Pappardelle, those extra-wide egg noodles typical of Tuscany, are perhaps my favorite pasta. There's something about wide noodles—I love Chinese ho fun noodles, too—that are especially enticing. Perhaps the most well-known pappardelle dishes are 'sulla lepre' (with braised hare) and al cinghiale (wild boar)—but pappardelle are quite versatile and, I find, go especially well with radicchio rosso. And the slightly bitter taste of radicchio marries very well with creamy sauces, the sweetness of which tend to balance out flavors. Put this all together and you have this elegant but simple dish.

You begin with a simple soffritto of onion in butter and olive oil, into which you add about 200g (8 oz. or 1-1/2 cups) of chopped radicchio (preferably radicchio rosso di Treviso—see below), seasoning with salt and pepper and turning to let the radicchio absorb the flavor of the onion over moderate heat. When the radicchio is well wilted (and it will turn color to a kind of burnt sienna) then adding a splash of red wine and allow it to evaporate, then add water or broth, enough to wet all the ingredients well without covering them. Cover and allow to braise about 15 minutes or longer, until the radicchio is tender and the liquid well reduced. (Some recipes call for a simmering time as long as 45 minutes.)

While the radiccchio is braising, make about 500ml (2 cups) of a rather thin béchamel sauce (recipe coming). Add 250ml (1 cup) of heavy cream, a good 100g (1 cup) of grated parmesan cheese and, when done, the radicchio and its braising liquid. Mix well.

Cook your pappardelle (about 125g or 4 oz.) in abundant salted water and, when they are still a quite underdone, add them to the béchamel, cheese and radicchio mixture. The mixture should be quite soupy—remembering that the sauce will simmer and reduce and get absorbed by the pasta during the next step. Pour the mixture into a oven-proof casserole or gratin dish, top with more grated parmesan cheese, and bake in a very hot oven (450F, 230C) until it is lightly browned on top. Allow to cool off for 5 minutes or so before serving. Makes enough for 4 persons as a primo or 2 very hungry persons as a piatto unico.

NOTES: Radicchio is a variety of chicory, with white-veined burgundy-colored leaves. It comes is two main varieties: radicchio di Chioggia, which comes in round, cabbage-like heads, and radicchio di Treviso, which comes in long, tapered heads. The radicchio di Treviso has a more tender texture and, to my taste, a finer flavor. The latter are harder to find (at least in the US) and more expensive, but well worth seeking out. But if you can't find them, the radicchio di Chioggia will do fine for this dish—however, since their leaves are less tender, it will take longer for them to cook to the right point of doneness. This is not a dish where you want your vegetable to be crunchy.

Pappardelle are widely imported and fairly easy to find commercially, even in supermarkets. But if you can't find them near you—or if you want to—they are relatively easy to make at home. Just make egg pasta dough in the usual way, roll it out rather thinly and cut them into 2-3cm (3/4-1 in.) wide strips. Pasta machines and attachments do not usually come with cutting blades wide enough, so you'll need to roll up the sheets of pasta and cut them with a knife, but it's quite easy to do.

Béchamel sauce, despite its French origins, is commonly used in central and northern Italian cooking, especially for baked pasta dishes. For example, baked lasagne in Rome and points north, more often than not, contain béchamel. (Southern lasagne usually come with a ricotta, egg and cheese mixture instead.) It is called besciamella (or, sometimes, balsamella) in Italian, although you will see recipes that simply use the French term. Some Italian authorities (like Giuliano Bugialli) maintain that béchamel was invented by Italians, derived from the Florentine salsa colla and, like some many things, reputed to have been brought to France by Caterina de' Medici.

Radicchio marries well with pork. You can add bits of pancetta or mild sausage to the soffritto at the beginning if you would like an even more substantial dish. They also go nicely with mushrooms, especially wild ones, which I would recommend you sauté separately and add to the mixture before baking.

The term pasticcio, by the way, comes from the same root as the French (and English) pastiche, meaning a mixture of different pieces or ingredients. In Italian cooking, it often refers to a baked pasta dish like this one, in which the pasta is mixed with béchamel , cheese and some sort of condimento and then gratinéed in a hot oven. But it also refers to a savory pie that can be made with vegetable or meats. Colloquially, the word can mean a 'mess', as in 'Che pasticcio!' (What a mess!) or 'Bel pasticcio!' (A fine mess!). And if you find yourself 'nei pasticci', that means you're 'in a fix'. Perhaps even more common than as a pasticcio, pappardelle and radicchio are also very nice without the final gratinée. Instead of béchamel, simply add ample heavy cream to the braised radicchio and, when your pasta is cooked, add it to the skillet with the radicchio and cream, mixing well with grated parmesan cheese, and serve.

Il ragù della domenica

On this Columbus Day, for some reason I started thinking about my childhood. My passion for food began early, and most of my culinary Ur-memories lead me back to Sunday dinners at nonna Angelina's place. About noontime, after Sunday Mass, the family would congregate around the enormous table (or so it seemed to my young eyes) that took up most of the main room of my grandparents' New York apartment. The men and boys would sit around the table, talk, watch TV and play cards—my favorite card game was called scopa (literally, 'broom', but we called it 'sweep' in English)—while we nibbled on fried vegetables, sharp provolone and the ring-shaped, lard-laced 'Ansonia' bread, and sipped a little sweet vermouth. Meanwhile, Angelina and the other womenfolk would be putting the finishing touches on the food in the kitchen.

Then, just as I would be getting really antsy for the 'real' food, out came the pasta—sometimes a large bowl of pastasciutta but more often than not a sprawling baking dish filled with lasagne di carnevale, followed by a leisurely parade of courses: mixed meats from the ragù, then another meat course like chicken roasted with potatoes and onions, then a green salad—served as a separate course after the meats in the Italian-American fashion—then fruit—which usually included a fennel bulb, my personal favorite 'fruit'—and, in the Fall and Winter, a bowl of nuts in their shells. We would drink very rough homemade wine—never knew who made the stuff—which Angelina and the other older ladies would 'cut' with 7-Up. Finally, out came pastries—cannoli, sfogliatelle, babà al rum and that Italian-American favorite, 'rainbow cookies' made with marzipan, raspberry jam and chocolate. Dinner would end around 6 pm with coffee, served both 'black' (espresso) and 'American', along with small cordial glasses of Anisette. More card playing and much gossiping ensued, followed by sandwiches at 8 o'clock for those who might still be a little hungry...


The constant fixture of all of these dinners was ragù della domenica or 'Sunday sauce'—also known as 'Sunday gravy'—the crowning glory of Italian American cooking. If it was not dressing the pasta, it was slathered in between the layers of the lasagne, with more served in a gravy boat for those who wanted to pour some more on top. Just about every Italo-American I know grew up with this sauce or something very much like it. It is a not-so-distant cousin of the ragù alla napoletana. Whereas the Neapolitan version is made with a single large piece of beef, its American cousin is made with various bits of pork and beef: sausages, beef or pork ribs and meatballs were always included, but you'd often find beef braciole, pig's foot and rolled pig's skin, and sometimes pork chops, in the pot as well, all slowly simmered for hours in tomato sauce until it was dark and unctuous and full of deep flavor.

Ragù requires slow, long cooking, but it is not hard to make. Here is the recipe for Angelina's ragù:

In as big a pot or casserole as you have available, begin by lightly browning your sausages and ribs—and, if using, braciole and pork chops—in lard over medium heat. Yes, you read that right: lard. You can use olive oil if you like, but for the real taste of ragù, lard is a must. (And there is no better fat for browning, by the way.) Brown as many pieces at a time as will fit in your pot in a single, well-spaced layer. (If you crowd the pieces of meat, they will steam and not brown.) Do not rush the process; take your time and brown them gently, so they render their fat and don't darken too much. Remove the pieces to a bowl or dish as they brown, replacing them with other pieces. When all the pieces of meat are brown, remove any remaining in the pot and add a generous amount of chopped onion and allow it to sweat until it is quite soft. Then add a clove or two of chopped garlic and, when you can just begin to smell their aroma, add back the browned meat. Turn the meat with the onion and garlic and simmer them together gently to allow the meat to insaporire (absorb the flavor of the aromatics), seasoning with salt and pepper as you turn. (If you have some spare red wine on hand, add a splash at this point and allow it to evaporate completely. If you don't have red wine, not to worry; Angelina actually didn't add wine to her ragù, but many recipes call for it, and it does add a nice additional layer of flavor.)

Then add the best quality canned tomatoes that you can find, passing them through a food mill into the pot, enough to cover the meats entirely. (Some recipes call for tomato paste, but I find this makes the sauce too heavy.) Nestle a sprig or two of fresh parsley among the meats. Lower the heat, partially cover the pot, and let the sauce to simmer very slowly for at least 2-3 hours, until the sauce is thick and dark and very flavorful. Along the way, add your meatballs, which you will have fried separately in oil, and, if using, your pig's foot or rolled pig's skin.



NOTES: Ragù is best made a day ahead, but you can use it immediately if you like. Extremely versatile, you can use it to dress any kind of pastasciutta—at Angelina's place, it was usually spaghetti, linguine or rigatoni—or ravioli or for making lasagne. With pasta, serve pecorino cheese (not parmesan, whose delicate flavor would be overwhelmed by this robust sauce) for those who want it. This Columbus Day, we celebrated with linguine dressed with ragù, then the meats served as a secondo and a green salad, followed by fruits—an abbreviated modern version of the Sunday dinners of my childhood.


Ragù, along with the meat that simmered in it, is also very good served with polenta, which may sound strange, since polenta is a northern dish, while this ragù is very much in the southern Italian tradition. But, in fact, polenta is not entirely unknown in the center and south of Italy. A dish called polenta con spuntature e salsicce, polenta served with spare ribs and sausages simmered in tomatoes, which tastes very much like this ragù without the meatballs, is a popular Roman specialty. And even Angelina, a daughter of the mountains near Benevento, made polenta to please my grandfather Lorenzo, who had fought against the Austrians in the First World War (later receiving a medal for valor in the Battle of the Vittorio Veneto) and acquired a taste for the stuff while up North...but that is a story for another day.


The reader will probably have noticed that the recipe does not come with measurements. Like many traditional home cooks, Angelina never measured. But I find that using one package of around five or six sausages, as many ribs and meatballs, and one or two other meats if you like, plus two medium onions and two cloves or garlic, plus two large cans of tomatoes, will produce good results. But strict measurements are really not important—and the cook can fell free to adjust amounts as he or she likes. After all, that's one of the ways we home cooks can give on our dishes a personal 'touch'.

To make the meatballs, you use the same mixture of meats, bread, cheese, egg and aromatics that you will find described in the recipe for Angelina's polpettone (meatloaf). But instead of forming a 'loaf' and stuffing it, use the mixture to make round balls and fry them gently in oil. They are wonderful eaten as is, but perhaps even better after simmering for an hour or so in the ragù.

Besides the use of lard, the secrets of a really good ragù are taking your time for gentle, unrushed browning and simmering—this is old-fashioned comfort food that can't be rushed—and using the best canned tomatoes you can find. In the US, and perhaps elsewhere, the latter subject poses a special challenge, important enough to deserve its own post.

There is a raging debate among Italian-Americans about the proper way to translate ragù into English. As mentioned, some people call it 'Sunday sauce', others 'gravy'. Each side holds fervently to its position. The problem is that the two languages do not use coinciding terms. In Italian, what you might generically call a 'sauce' in English can be translated as salsa, sugo, condimento or ragù—the last of which is a special word traditionally only used for this kind of slowly simmering meat-and-tomato sauce (although modern chefs have also come up with fish-based ragù). English, on the other hand, has the terms 'sauce' and 'gravy'. 'Sauce' is a generic term that can be used to describe ragù, while gravy is a special word used to describe the kind of sauce that is made from the drippings of a roast. So, strictly speaking, ragù is not a gravy, but since both gravies and ragù are special kinds of sauces noted for their meatiness, you can see the logic of using one for the other. Personally, I stay out of this debate and just say ragù.

Buying canned tomatoes

Here's a special note for readers in the US, where buying canned tomatoes can be tricky thing.

When I first moved back from Italy, I ran into all sorts of trouble trying to find a brand of canned tomatoes that 'behaved' properly. The main problem being that, for some reason I could not fathom, no matter how much I cooked the canned tomatoes, they never seemed to 'melt' as they should into a sauce. My Italian friends all had the same problem and didn't understand why American tomatoes were so different. I then found out that Americans apparently prefer their canned tomatoes that way, so manufacturers actually add a chemical called calcium chloride to canned tomatoes to prevent them from melting! Of course, when you are using canned tomatoes to make a sauce, firmness (especially artificially induced firmness) is not a positive quality.

The other problem is that canned tomatoes made in the US often have an 'off' taste, which I would describe as sort of 'stewy'. So you need to pick and choose carefully if you want your tomato sauces and other tomato-based dishes to taste as they should.

After much trial and error, I now stick to certain brands of imported Italian canned tomatoes. The best brand I have found here in the US so far is Cento Organic DOP Certified San Marzano tomatoes. As you might know, San Marzano tomatoes, grown in a defined area close to Naples, are considered the finest in Italy, if not the world, particularly for making sauces. (Never mind that the little red farmhouse on the label looks like it belongs in Pennsylvania!) Also quite good are the brands called "Rosa" and "La Valle" which both sell imported San Marzano peeled tomatoes, though neither is 'DOP' ceritified. Bionaturae's Organic Whole Peeled Tomatoes from Tuscany are also quite acceptable.

But even buying imported Italian canned tomatoes is not a panacea. For reasons apparently having to do with US tariffs, Italian canned tomatoes imported into the US come packed in purée rather than simple juice as they are in Italy, so what you get is rather too thick to cook with and needs to be diluted with a bit of water when cooking. Their taste is, unfortunately, not quite as pure as it should be because of the purée, but it is better than having chunks of raw canned tomato in your sauce! (I realize that some people actually like chunky tomato sauce, but that is not what you want in Italian cooking.) Here is where the Cento brand stands out, because its flavor is just as sweet and 'clean' as I remember the pelati in Italy being.

If you either can't find or don't want to spend extra on imported tomatoes—the good ones are not cheap—look either for canned tomatoes without calcium chloride added, just salt, basil and juice, usually called "Italian style". Or look for crushed tomatoes, which gets around the 'melting' issue. Among the US brands, "Redpack" crushed tomatoes, which is the kind that Angelina used—are pretty good, especially for robust sauces like ragù. I recently tried some US made "Colavita" crushed tomatoes and found them not bad. And be careful about tomatoes marked as "San Marzano": some sold here in the US are actually not from Italy at all but are simply the San Marzano varietal of tomato grown here. Somehow, they don't taste the same.

One brand that I unfortunately would not recommend, at least for Italian dishes, is Glen Muir. I had high hopes for their easy-to-find line of organic products but, alas, notwithstanding Cook Illustrated's endorsement, the sample I tried suffered from that funny 'stewy' taste. I have heard good things about their roasted tomatoes, but they are not really appropriate for everyday Italian cooking.

Post scriptum: Some readers have wrote in with some of their favorite brands: a 'Foodbuzz' friend from Italy recommends DOP San Marzano tomatoes from Gerardo di Nola, the renowned pasta-maker. I have not seen them myself here in the US, but a quick internet search shows that there is at least one store in New York that sells them (not sure they ship). Some readers from the US recommend the "Nina" and "Pastene" brands, both imported San Marzano from Italy. ("Nina" brand is available from Costco. I have not seen Pastene where I live, but it is available from various purveyors online.

Seared sea scallops over potato «risotto»

This blog is dedicated to simple home cooking, mostly because that's the kind of cooking—and eating—I like best. But every once and while, the urge to make something 'fancy' strikes. So when a friend from Rome visited last night, I decided to put on the ritz and serve this elegant 'restaurant' dish of seared sea scallops on a bed on potatoes cut into small cubes and simmered with broth to resemble risotto and surrounded by a heavenly cream sauce.

Step 1: Begin by making the sauce: Sweat half a fennel, a leek and 2 shallots, all fined chopped, in some butter until tender. Add a splash of white wine and let that reduce by half. Then add a pint of cream and a few fronds pulled from the fennel stalk. Bring to a boil and simmer until the cream has thickened a bit. Transfer the mixture to a blender and blend at the highest setting (usually 'liquify') until the sauce is completely smooth. Return the sauce to the pan. (If you really want to get fancy, strain the purée through a sieve—but I skipped this step.) If too thick, add a bit more cream or milk until you have the consistency you want. Just before you need it, warm it up again and add another bit butter and minced chives.

Step 2: Then make the mock risotto: Sweat a shallot and a pint of mushrooms in butter until tender. Then add one or two diced potato and a fresh bay leaf. Begin to add chicken stock (or broth) a ladleful at a time and allow to thicken before adding more, just as if you were making an actual risotto. Continue to cook until the potatoes are tender but not mushy—depending on how finely you've cubed your potatoes, this should only take 5 minutes or so. Adjust the seasoning if needed.

Step 3: Finally, just before you are ready to eat, sear your scallops (about 2 per person) in a lightly greased non-stick pan over high heat. About 2 minutes per side should do.

Step 4: Assemble the dish by spooning a portion of the mock risotto in the center of each plate, then surround with the cream sauce and top the risotto with the scallops. Serve immediately.

NOTES: The whole dish, while it involved three separate elements and a final assembly, is actually fairly quick and easy to make. You can make things even easier by making the sauce and risotto ahead and heating them up gently just before you need them.

The original recipe (see below) calls for diver scallops, but last night I used regular sea scallops, which were perfectly delicious. (The centers of the scallops will still be quite 'rare' after this short cooking period. If you are squeamish about semi-raw seafood, then you can let it cook a bit more in a hot oven for, say, 5 minutes—but the scallops will be less sweet when cooked entirely through. Or you can slice each scallop in half across its mid-drift so they cook more quickly.)

The potatoes should be waxy, not mealy, the kind that you would use for potato salad or a gratin, like Yukon Golds. Since the potato is meant to mimic a risotto, it is best to cube it just as finely as you can manage, no more than a millimeter/1/8 inch wide. And, for that special touch, warm the plates before serving.

This recipe comes from Restaurant Eve in Old Town Alexandria, via fellow blogger and Foodbuzzer, "Kiss My Spatula". I have made some adjustments, however, to give this dish a personal touch. The tips and tricks noted above are my own.

Quick Note: Salade frisée à l'anchoiade

One of my favorite cold weather salads back in Rome were puntarelle, a kind of chicory typically dressed with a kind of garlic and anchovy vinaigrette. Fond memories...! This salad is a more refined French cousin, fit for elegant dinners but rustic enough for an everyday dinner. It makes a fine light entrée, a bed for fish or even a contorno for a seafood dish.

There are various ways to make anchoiade. For this vinaigrette-like version, melt some anchovy fillets in just a little bit of olive oil (you can also just melt them in a dry pan) over very low heat, taking care not to actually cook them. Then blend the fillets with a small spoonful of white wine vinegar, salt, freshly ground black pepper and a good pour of olive oil. Taste for balance and adjust the ingredients to your liking. Pour into a bowl or container and add a whole clove of garlic. Let the garlic steep for about an hour or so, remove it before spooning the anchoiade over the frisée. Serve with crusty bread and a crisp white wine.

NOTES: As always, whole anchovies packed in salt will give the best flavor, but fillets packed in olive oil will do fine. If you want a really assertive garlic flavor, you could add the garlic clove to the blender, but this would tend to overwhelm the frisée, which has a fairly delicate taste. I will post some time soon my more rustic mock 'puntarelle', which I use to console myself when I'm feeling nostalgic for that Roman classic.

Gratinéed Ox Tongue in Mushroom Cream Sauce

As mentioned recently, veal tongue is a common part of a bollito misto, but tongue is also a wonderful dish all on its own. Although classified as an organ meat, tongue doesn't taste 'organ-y' at all. Rather it tastes like a richest, most unctuous cut of beef you have ever had. If you haven't tried tongue, you owe it to yourself to do so, at least once.

Ox tongue (also known as beef tongue) is actually tastier than veal tongue, so when made on its own, you might prefer it--provided you have a healthy appetite, since ox tongues are quite large, generally weighing 1.5-2 kilos (3-4 lbs.) or even more. They also take quite a bit longer to cook, 3 hours or more, as opposed to 1-1/2 to 2 hours for the typical veal tongue. You need to pre-boil tongue with the usual odori for that length of time. You then let it cool a bit (you can run it under cold water) and peel off the skin.After boiling, it should come off rather easily. Some recipes tell you to peel the tongue after 20-30 minutes of cooking, which (I suppose) allows the tongue to better absorb the aromatics and possibly cook a bit faster. Allow the tongue to cool completely and then slice horizontally as much as of it as you plan to use for your dish. (Unless you're having dinner for 8, you probably won't be eating the whole thing in one sitting!)

Once pre-boiled, the tongue can be eaten as is--it is marvellous with salsa verde--or simmered in a variety of sauces. In Italian cooking, tomato sauce is an obvious and common choice. But this being Fall and all, I was in the mood for something warming and woodsy, so I made my favorite mushroom cream sauce: thinly slice mushrooms (I used 'baby bellas' but, of course, chanterelles or some other wild mushrooms would make it even better) and saute them quickly in a mixture of olive and butter, season with a bit of salt to encourage them to render their juices. When the liquid has evaporated and the mushrooms have much reduced and are just beginning to brown (as wet heat turns to dry, you will hear the mushrooms start to sizzle) add a buttuto of shallots and parsley, mix well, and sauté for just a minute or two more. (The mushroom cooked this way are wonderful as a side dish, by the way.) Add a ladleful of rich beef broth (or stock) and let it reduce until quite syrupy, then pour in an ample amount of cream (a good cupful, at least) and allow that to reduce as well, but only until it reaches a sauce-like consistency--and a fairly thin one, too, as the sauce will reduce a bit more in the oven. Taste and adjust for seasoning.

Assemble your dish by lay out the tongue slices in a greased gratin dish, overlapping them slightly like so many roof tiles. Spoon over the mushroom cream sauce, making sure that the mushrooms are well distributed, then top with lots of grated parmesan cheese and dot with butter. Bake in a hot oven (200C, 400F) for about 15 minutes, until the sauce is bubbling and a nice golden crust has formed on top. You can help the crust along by browning the dish under a broiler for a few minutes at the end. (Make sure you don't reduce the sauce too much--if you're like me, you'll want enough to sop up with bread later on...!)


Allow the gratin to 'settle down' for a few minutes (while you're enjoying your entrée) and serve in its gratin dish. And make sure you have plenty of crusty bread to sop up that exquisite sauce.

NOTE: I use the mushroom cream sauce described above for all sorts of things: as a topping for ham steaks (which can be made in exactly the same way as this tongue dish), to dress egg pasta or potato gnocchi--it's my favorite sauce for gnocchi ai funghi--or, in the Austrian manner, served with the wonderful bread dumplings called knoedel or, in Italian, canederli.

Pasta al tonno

Here's a quick note on another staple weeknight dinner: pasta al tonno. Very fast and almost as easy as opening a can.

Put your pasta on the boil. The sauce will take no more time than it takes for the water to come to the boil and the pasta to cook.

Begin making your sauce, as for many tomato and other sauces, by frying a clove or two of slightly crushed garlic (and a peperoncino, if you like a little 'heat') in some olive oil over gentle heat. As soon as the garlic begins to give off its aroma and very slightly brown, add some crushed canned tomatoes and simmer them until they are well reduced. Then add a few anchovy fillets, a handful of capers, a few pitted black olives, some chopped parsley and a can of tunafish packed in olive oil. (A small can will do for two people.) Simmer only for a minute or so and turn off the heat.

When the pasta is cooked very al dente, add it to the tomato and tuna sauce, along with a ladleful of the pasta water. Allow the pasta to simmer in the sauce for a minute or two until it is well coated with the sauce. Serve immediately. Do not serve with grated cheese.

NOTES: Like so many other Italian dishes, the success of this dish will depend largely on the quality of your ingredients. So find the best imported canned tomatoes you can find. (One day I'm going to do a post on choosing canned tomatoes--it's absolutely crucial and, in the US at least, tricky business.)

The tuna is, of course, key. At a minimum, use tunafish packed in olive oil. "Light" tuna packed in spring water and the like will result in a mundane, rather insipid dish. If you can find it (and afford it) there are some excellent premium brands of imported tuna from Sicily. The 'Ortiz' brand, from Spain, is also very good. The belly of the tuna, known as ventresca, is the tastiest part. If you can find imported anchovies and capers packed in salt, all to the good--otherwise, anchovy fillets in olive oil and capers in vinegar are acceptable substitutes. Anchovies packed in salt come whole and will need to be filleted and rinsed; the fillets in olive oil can be used as is. Capers. whether packed in salt or vinegar, should be rinsed and squeezed dry.

Finally, try to find small black olives, packed in brine or oil, preferably Gaeta or nicoise. Avoid canned olives--their taste is not characteristic of Italian cooking. If that's all you can find, feel free to simply omit them. In fact, many recipes, such as the one given by Ada Boni in Il Talismano della Felicita', calls only for tuna and anchovies. Boni tells you to add the anchovies to the oil with the garlic. She also calls for a pinch of oregano, not chopped parsley. Personally, I find that this version provides a more delicate taste--however paradoxical that may sound when talking about these assertive ingredients.

Pasta al tonno can also be made in bianco, or without tomatoes. Just add the tuna and other flavorings directly to the garlic and oil soffritto, and saute for a few minutes. You can also make an entirely raw tuna sauce, in which case you should either omit the garlic (which would be a bit too strong raw) or rub the inside of the bowl in which you are mixing the ingredients with a half clove, to give the dish just a hint of garlic flavor. A more elegant version of this dish can be made with fresh tuna and cherry tomatoes. Here's the recipe.

Perhaps the most common pasta to dress with this tuna sauce is spaghetti. But short pastas like penne, as well as concave ones like conchiglie, are also nice. Tonight I used--a bit unusually--some orecchiette that were lying around. This was the first time I had tried this combination and found it quite nice, actually.

Frittata ai peperoni

A frittata is a great solution to those nights when you want something savory but don't have much time (or desire) to make anything elaborate. The basic technique for making a frittata has appeared on this blog before, but a particularly tasty frittata is one made with peppers and onions--a classic combination of very assertively flavorful vegetables that, in another guise, goes into the summer side dish known as peperonata. Well, just add eggs and you have a great light dinner.

For 4 people, you gently stew two medium-sized red peppers (or green if you like) and an onion, each thinly sliced from top to bottom, in some olive oil until they are quite soft. This will take anywhere between 20 and 30 minutes (or even more, if you want them very soft). Regulate the heat so that the vegetables only slightly brown, if at all. Season with salt and pepper, and allow them to cool, covered, for a few minutes. (This rest under cover will further soften the vegetables and, for some mysterious reason, tends to enhance their flavor.) Then mix the vegetables with six eggs, some grated cheese and a pinch of salt, and proceed as for any frittata.

NOTES: As with peperonata, you can convert this into a more substantial dish by frying some sausage along with the peppers and onions, either sliced or crumbled. Some cubed pancetta might also be nice, though I haven't tried it. And if you want a really substantial dish, add some cubed potatoes to the mix.

You should slice both peppers and onions vertically, from top to bottom. The onions, in particular, need to be sliced in this way in order to retain their shape; sliced horizontally, onions will simply 'melt' away, something you don't necessarily want for this dish.