Pere al vino rosso

Dessert is our house is normally a piece of fruit, perhaps with some cheese, and, in winter, some mixed nuts in their shells. This is why you will not find very many desserts featured on this blog. But there is at least one prepared dessert that makes its way on to our table in the colder months: pere al vino rosso, or pears poached in mulled red wine. The dish is extremely easy to make, but the result is rather beautiful—and elegant enough for an 'important' dinner.

You peel your pears—one per serving—leaving on the stem if the pear has one. Then place them snugly in a saucepan with just enough room to hold the pears in a single layer. Pour on about half a bottle of red wine (or more, depending on the size of the pan and how many pears you have). Ideally, the wine should cover the pears, but if not, you always turn the pears as they cook. Then add sugar—quite a bit of sugar, as you want to create a syrup: about 100g (one cup) or more for 4 pears. Add, too, a stick of cinnamon and some cloves, and if you like, some lemon or orange zest.

Allow the pears to simmer for about 20 minutes, turning them if need be so that they cook and color evenly, until they are quite tender but not falling apart. (You can use a paring knife to check if they are done.) Remove the pears onto a shallow serving bowl or plate, and continue to simmer the wine until has reduced into a syrupy consistency, then strain and pour over the pears. Allow the pears and their sauce to cool before serving.

NOTES: This is a great solution for pears that may not be particularly flavorful by themselves. Use pears that are just ripe or slightly underripe. Very ripe pears will turn to mush. The choice of wine is yours, but personally I enjoy a full-bodied wine for this purpose. Of course, I would not break out your most expensive vintage. In fact, this is a good way to use some already opened bottle that is no longer quite fit to drink.

Some people like to accompany these pears with a bit of whipped cream or some dried fruits, but personally I think that they are perfect served alone, just as they are.

Ham and lentil casserole

Here's one answer to the perennial post-Christmas question: what to do with the leftover ham? As we all know, pork and legumes have a natural affinity, so why not pair ham and lentils in this rather loose riff on a cassoulet?

First, simmer some lentils—about 100g (4 oz.) per serving—in abundant water (enough to cover the lentils by at least 5 cm/2 inches) together with a clove or two of garlic.

While the lentils are cooking, sauté some onion in olive oil until soft and translucent, then make a roux by adding a bit of flour and allowing it to cook in the oil for a few minutes. Then, off heat, add some nice, rich broth. (Use about one tablespoon of flour and 250ml/one cup of broth per serving.) Put the pot back on the heat and bring it to the boil. It will thicken up as it heats. Once at the boil, immediately lower the heat and allow this sauce to simmer for a few minutes.

Once the lentils are just tender, add them to the sauce and mix well. You should have a rather soupy mixture; if not, add additional broth or water.

Now it is time to assemble your casserole. Rub the casserole (I like often use an enameled cast iron Dutch oven or risotto pot, but a terracotta casserole would also be ideal.) Rub the casserole with a garlic clove, then add in your lentil mixture. Take a few nice thick slices of ham—one or two per serving— and nestle them among the lentils, along with a sprig of fresh thyme and perhaps a bay leaf if you like. Cover with a generous layer of breadcrumbs and drizzle with olive oil.

Place the casserole in a hot oven and bake for 30-45 minutes, or until the top is nicely golden brown and the liquid mostly (but not entirely) absorbed. The breadcrumbs will form a kind of crust as they brown; break the crust at least once during baking to allow the juices to mix with the breadcrumbs—it makes for a much more flavorful and moister crust. Remove the casserole from the oven and allow the casserole to rest for a few minutes to allow the bubbling to subside and serve.

NOTES: As I have mentioned before, lentils are my favorite legume. Angelina's pasta e lenticchie was my favorite pasta when I was growing up. For my money, the lentille du Puy is the ne plus ultra of lentils—it holds up to cooking and retains its shape, texture and flavor beautifully. Ordinary green lentils are easily overcooked, and tend to fall apart, both their texture and flavor become rather stodgy. In Italy, the lentil of choice is the famed lenticchia di Castelluccio di Norcia, grown only in a certain area straddling Umbria and Abruzzo protected by an IGP designation. (Unfortunately, I've not found a source for lenticchie di Castelluccio in the US, but lentilles du Puy are fairly easy to find at better markets.

The only real trick to this dish is to make sure it doesn't dry out too much in the cooking. The lentil mixture should, as mentioned, be rather 'soupy', more than you may think, remembering that the liquid will be absorbed by the lentils and evaporate as it simmers—you need to compensate for both processes. But if you see that the casserole is drying out before it is ready, no worries: just add some simmering water. Of course, like a real cassoulet (which was another favorite dish that I want to blog about very soon) you can nestle other meats into this dish, including sausages or bits of a roast or stew.

This dish is almost a meal in itself—and definitely a piatto unico. Last night we followed it with a green salad, some roquefort cheese, and a dessert of pere al vino rosso.

By the way, if you prefer, you can make a wonderful soup by simply adding more water or broth, and cutting up your ham into bite-sized pieces. Rather than baking, just allow the lentils and ham to simmer together, covered for about 30 minutes and serve, with un filo d'olio on top. (Also a nice way to 'recycle' the casserole if you have any leftover.)

Lentils are closely associated with New Years in Italian cuisine—typically served with a stuffed pig's trotter known as zampone or with a similar sausage called cotechino. But more of that in another post...

«Memorie di Angelina» is six months old!

Dear readers,

As this year draws to a close, and a new year is about to begin, I wanted to take a moment to share with you two important milestones for Memorie di Angelina: this little blog turned six months old yesterday and, almost exactly at the same time, got its 1500th follower! Funny to think that it all started with a few recipes that I wanted to share with friends on Facebook only half a year ago. A real tribute to the enduring allure of old-fashioned home cooking, modern life and its time-robbing pressures notwithstanding.

Let me extend many thanks to all of you who have found these little scribbles of mine worth reading on a regular basis. Here's wishing you the best for the coming year. Do come back soon for more dishes inspired by nonna Angelina! And here's hoping that in 2010 more of us rediscover the joys of real food, cooked at home by loved ones for loved ones. The little bit of extra time it takes to cook at home pays off handsomely in the long run in health and happiness. Just remember, as they say in Italian: A tavola non si invecchia! —you never grow old at the table.

Cheers,
Frank

Mezzelune al brasato

Here's a wonderful way to 'recycle' leftover brasato or other pot roast—as a filling for stuffed pasta:

Prepare the filling by finely chopping the leftover roast in a food processor together with an egg or two, lots of grated parmesan cheese and, if you like, a few spoonfuls of the leftover sugo (gravy) from the roast. Season, if need be, with salt and pepper to taste. (A bit of nutmeg is also nice.) Make sure the mixture is quite smooth and not too dry. If it is a bit too stiff, add another egg.

Meanwhile, you can make fresh pasta dough and cut it into rounds about 5 cm (3 in) in diameter—or do what I did tonight, and use some 'Hong Kong style dumpling wrappers', ready-made round disks of 'pasta' (see  Notes below). Brush them lightly with some water to help them stick together and then place a heaping teaspoon of the filling in the center of each disk, (see photo above).

Fold the pasta disk over and then seal the round edge by pressing down firmly with your fingers, starting at the center and working your way to each end with both hands. (This helps avoid the filling oozing out.)  (See photo at left.) Proceed until you have used up your ingredients.

You can cook your mezzelune right away, or let them dry a bit before using. If, however, they are to wait for more than a half hour or so, cover them with a towel to prevent them from drying out too much.

Bring abundant well salted water to a soft boil, then add your mezzelune (being careful not to mangle them!) to the boiling water. Adjust the heat so that they boil gently. Do not allow the water to come to rolling boil or they may break apart. Cook for only 2-4 minutes, depending on how long they have been waiting around.

When the mezzelune are done, scoop them out of the water with a large slotted spoon. You can dress them in a number of ways. Here are three possibilities:

Al burro e salvia: Perhaps the most common (and, to my mind, the best) way is to melt a good amount of butter (say 50g/2 oz per serving) in a skillet with some sage, allowing the sage to 'simmer' in the butter but not allowing the butter to color at all. Then add your mezzelune to the skillet, along with a bit of the pasta water and a bit of grated parmesan cheese. Toss together over medium heat very quickly and serve with additional parmesan on top.

Al sugo d'arrosto: If you have any gravy left over from the brasato, you can re-heat a bit of it in a skillet and toss the mezzelune in it. Serve with some grated parmesan on the side for those who want some.

Al sugo di pomodoro: You can also dress the mezzelune with a very simple sugo di pomodoro, known in the English-speaking world as a 'marinara sauce'.

These mezzelune are also very nice served in brodo, in homemade broth.

 Mezzeluna al sugo d'arrosto

NOTES: Those round Hong Kong style dumpling wrappers were quite a discovery! I found them at H Mart, a Korean-owned Asian supermarket with branches all over the US and South Korea. (Besides these useful wrappers, they have excellent meats, fish and produce at very reasonable prices.) Another well known 'short cut' for making stuffed pasta is to use wonton wrappers, but I generally find these to be just a bit too fine for Italian pasta dishes; they tend to get overwhelmed by the stuffing and/or sauce (though I have used eggroll wrappers to make cannelloni with very satisfactory results). These dumpling wrappers, on the other hand, while still a bit too 'translucent' when cooked, are a nice golden yellow and a bit thicker, and have a rather firmer texture—in short, they look and react to cooking much more like real fresh egg pasta. (The looks are, however, partially deceiving: their yellow color actually comes from using Yellow Dyes #3 and 5...)

In Piemonte, where this dish originates, the usual pasta to be stuffed with this brasato filling is actually agnolotti (aka ravioli) a kind of square pasta. But since I had round pasta on hand, I used made them into another common stuffed pasta shape, the mezzaluna, or 'half moon', made by folding the pasta disk in half as described above. You can also make round ravioli by placing one disk on top of another—with the filling in between them, of course.

Crema di zucca

Who doesn't love winter squash soup? It is savory yet sweet, warming yet light. It makes a wonderful first course, to be followed by a roast, or a light supper after too many hearty holiday meals...

My version of this soup is extremely easy. You take the winter squash of your choice, cut  into wedges and seeded, and roast the wedges on a baking sheet in a hot oven for about 30-45 minutes, until perfectly tender. (You can check them the same way you check potatoes: by sticking a paring knife into the flesh; if you can remove the knife and the squash stays put, then it is done.) Don't worry if the edges are a bit browned—that adds flavor and character. Remove from the oven and allow to cool off a bit.

Meanwhile, in a saucepan, make a soffritto by sautéing a finely chopped onion in butter (or butter and a bit of oil) until translucent and quite tender. (Adding a pinch or salt and a spoonful of water helps things along and prevents browning.) Scoop out the squash flesh with a spoon and add to the soffritto. Allow the squash to simmer gently for several minutes to absorb the flavors of the butter and onions, stirring often. The squash should become even softer and basically 'melt' in the pan into a kind of mush. Then add broth to cover and simmer for about 10 minutes or so.

Pass the squash and broth through a food mill, using the finest mesh disk, into a mixing bowl. Leave behind any fibers and bits of skin. You should have a perfectly smooth and even purée. Add that back into the saucepan and bring to a gentle simmer. Add heavy cream (or milk if you're counting calories or cholesterol), enough to thin out the purée into a beautiful, velvety consistency. Simmer for a minute or two more, so that the cream 'melds' with the squash purée, and serve.

You can top your crema with croutons, some finely chopped herbs, grated parmesan cheese and/or a drizzle of olive oil.

NOTES: This method will work with just about any winter squash including, of course, butternut squash. For this dish, I used a winter squash I found at a local Asian market labeled as 'calabaza', which is Spanish for squash but obviously was some rather specific varietal that I had not come across before. It made for lovely eating, I must say.

While the initial roasting of the squash is not absolutely necessary, I find that it concentrates and accents the flavor of the squash. Winter squashes, as I have mentioned before, can be a bit bland and often need a little 'help'.

There are lots of variations you can try here, mostly involving various herbs and spices that one can add to the soup. One variation I especially like is to add a spoonful or so of curry powder to the soffritto. It lends savoriness and just the vaguest hint of spiciness to the dish. Some recipes call for a potato, which is surely meant to smooth out the texture, but I find this unnecessary. Instead of onion, you can substitute leek or shallot.

By the way, the word crema in Italian means a soup of pureed vegetable. It refers to the texture of the soup and not to the presence of cream. (The word for cream in Italian is panna.) In fact, many creme are made without any cream at all, just broth; this one can, too, and can be 'veganized' simply by using vegetable broth. But I find that cream just naturally goes with winter squashes—it adds to their sweetness and lightens their color and smooths out their texture—so I can never resist adding it.

A Neapolitan Christmas: Insalata di rinforzo

This zesty cauliflower salad is a fixture on family tables in Naples during the Christmas season. And it couldn't be simpler to make.

You boil or, even better, steam a head of cauliflower, trimmed and broken up into flowerets, until it has lost all its rawness but is still al dente. Place the flowerets in a large mixing or salad bowl, then add a can of anchovy fillets, a handful each of black and green olives and capers. Possible additions include various vegetables pickled in vinegar, known in Italian as sottaceti: peperoni sott'aceto (pickled peppers, also known as 'pimentos') and cetriolini, those tiny pickled cucumbers known in English as 'gerkins' or by their French name cornichons, or baby onions, carrots or celery, also all sott'aceto. Or, if you like, you can use the mixed vegetable preparation called gardiniera, which is lightly pickled and then cured in oil. You can also add some chopped parsley, if you like, for color and some chopped garlic for savoriness. (Personally, I find the salad plenty savory without the garlic.) Dress the cauliflower and other ingredients with abundant olive oil, a bit of white wine vinegar and salt to taste as you would a regular salad, mixing well but taking care not to break up the flowerets. (A curved rubber spatula is ideal for this operation.)

NOTES: Cauliflower, olives, anchovies and capers are the 'core' ingredients of this salad, but the other ingredients—as well as the proportions of all of the ingredients—can be varied as suits your taste.  (Of course, the one rule is that cauliflower should predominate.) Use white wine vinegar if you can: red wine vinegar will stain the cauliflower. If using pickled vegetables, go especially easy on the vinegar, as they are, of course, already pickled in vinegar. Of course, if you want a vegan version, all you need do is omit the anchovy.

And while the salad can be eaten right away, I find it tastes better the day after it is made, which allows the different flavors to meld. In fact, the reason why this salad is called rinforzo—'reinforcement'—is because it was customary in the old days to make a first batch as an antipasto on Christmas Eve (which is a day of fasting in Catholicism, when meat is not allowed) and to keep on 'reinforcing' it with cauliflower and/or other ingredients over the course of the holiday season, so there would always be some of it on hand up until New Years. And the flavor only gets better as the days go by!

Brasato al vino rosso

There's nothing like a good pot roast on a cold winter's day! Though it may come as a surprise to some, Italians also make pot roast, which is known variously as brasato or stracotto, but with a 'continental' twist: the favorite cooking medium for Italian pot roast is red wine.

Although it is not absolutely necessary, I find that the roast has extra depth of flavor if it is allowed to marinate. You place a beef roast into a ceramic bowl or pot into which it will fit snugly, then add the 'holy trinity' of onion, carrots and celery, each cut up into wedges or large chunks, a whole garlic clove or two, some whole peppercorns, a few cloves and a bay leaf or two. Pour over ample robust red wine—usually you'll need a whole bottle. Leave the roast to marinate in its red wine bath overnight or even longer in the fridge. If the liquid does not entirely cover the roast, turn it every so often to ensure even marination. Let the roast come back to room temperature before cooking. (NB: Even if you don't have 24 hours to spare, you can marinate the meat for a few hours, or from the morning to the evening, in which case I'd leave it out of the fridge.

Remove the roast from the marinade and pat dry. Then, in a round or oval Dutch oven, melt about two spoonfuls of lard, add a sprig of rosemary and a garlic clove and brown the roast well on all sides., seasoning well with salt and pepper as you go. (Remove the garlic if it browns too much.) Then straining the marinade liquid through a sieve, pour it slowly over the roast. The liquid should come about 2/3 of the way up the roast. Lower the heat, cover the pot and allow it to simmer slowly until tender, about 2 or 3 hours (depending on the size of the roast), turning the roast every half hour or so to ensure even cooking. (Add some broth or water if it dried out too much, but normally there should be ample liquid without adding more.)

When the roast is done, remove it from the pot to a carving board to cool off a bit. (This will make it easier to slice.) While it is cooling, bind the remaining liquid a bit in the pot either with some beurre manié or with a cornstarch slurry (see below). The resulting sauce should have a nice liaison without actually being thick. Slice the roast on a serving platter and pour over a bit of the sauce. Serve with the remaining sauce in a sauceboat.

NOTES: The cut of beef I like best for pot roast is chuck, but rump roast or the bottom round are also good cuts. Avoid lean cuts, including top or center round, which are 'prettier' but tend to dry out. What you want is a good, rather tough piece of meat with plenty of fat and sinew that will break down during the long simmering, enriching the meat as it cooks. (I have seen some recipes that call for a sirloin pot roast to be served medium rare, but I have never tried it.) The roast should be tied so it does not fall apart during the braising.

The red wine, as mentioned, should be full-bodied. In Piemonte, the traditional choice is Barolo, but at today's prices you may want to opt for something a bit more modest...

Of course, there are numerous variations, mostly having to do with the aromatics or herbs to be included in the marinade or braising liquid. The addition of pancetta to the braising pot along with the garlic and rosemary is a common addition (and one I usually follow, but not today—as we were snowed in!) Some recipes (including many of the most traditional ones) call for larding the roast with pancetta. Some recipes call for chopping up the marinade vegetables and sautéing them as a soffritto. And some also call adding a bit of chopped tomato to the braising liquid. In some versions, you add just a bit of braising liquid at a time, in the manner of an arrosto morto, rather than all at once at the beginning of the braising. Another variation mentioned In Alessandro Molinari Pradelli's La cucina lombarda is the addition of lots of thinly sliced onion to melt into the braising liquid, a variation called brasato alle cipolle.

Brasato is the usual word for pot roast in Lombardy and Piemonte. I understand that stracotto is the more common name in Tuscany. This recipe is more typical of a brasato. A stracotto alla fiorentina usually includes only a cup or so of red wine, which is allowed to evaporate in the usual Italian way, after which a goodly amount of tomato purée is added in which the roast braises, making it somewhat similar to the southern Italian ragù.

By the way, if you don't use the marinade vegetables as a soffritto, you might want to try glazing them and serving with as a rustic contorno, which is what I did: pick out as many of the cloves and peppercorns as you can find. No need to be too fussy about—it does no harm to leave a few behind.) Then place them in a skillet with water enough to come about halfway up their height, along with a few spoonfuls of sugar, a pinch of salt and a nice clump of butter. Turn the heat up to medium-high and let the water boil down until it has completely evaporated. As the water evaporates, the vegetables will begin to caramelize in the butter and melted sugar. Allow them to take on a nice golden color, without burning of course, and you're done. Serving the glazed vegetables around the sliced roast makes for an attractive presentation.

The braising liquid can be served as is, especially if it's already reduced enough to have reached a 'sauce' consistency. Otherwise, as mentioned you can bind the liquid either with a beurre manié, which is simply flour blended with softened butter, or with a cornstarch blended with cold water to make a slurry. The beurre manié will lighten the color of the liquid and render it opaque, while the cornstarch slurry will thicken it without changing its color or transparency. If you've used the marinade vegetables as a soffritto, then you can simply blend the liquid and vegetables together, or pass them through the finest mesh of a food mill, which will emulsify and thicken it 'naturally'.

Lard is not a necessity—you can use olive oil, of course, or a combination of oil and butter if you prefer. But there is nothing like lard for browing meat and, since we were out of pancetta, I thought that it would add a bit more depth of flavor.

Brasato aka stracotto is often served with mashed potatoes, which make a wonderful foil for that rich, unctuous sauce. If so, I would go a bit more lightly on the butter content of the mashed potatoes, as the sauce is already quite rich. Polenta is also a popular choice. Cipolline all'agrodolce or glazed carrots are also great accompaniments, especially if you want to precede the roast with pasta as a first course.

For the fans of French cooking out there, you will no doubt have noticed how similar this recipe for brasato is the beouf à la mode (see also the Larousse Gastronomique, under "Beef" and Escoffier, Le Guide Culinaire, under Piece de Beouf à la Mode, dite aussi à la Bourgeoise"). I am not sure of the exact relationships, but seeing as Piemonte borders on France and Lombardy borders on Piemonte, the resemblance should not surprise us.

Leftover brasato is wonderful as a stuffing for pasta, known as either agnolotti or ravioli al brasato. (Since I have leftovers, I may blog on that dish soon.) And, finally, you can prepare beef cut into large cubes in exactly the same way, in which case your brasato becomes a stufato (similar to a daube in French cuisine).

Côtes d’agneau Champvallon

This dish brings me back to my Paris days, when I took a couple of years off from the law to teach English.  Hearty but easy on the pocketbook, it was just the ticket for a temporary bohemian. These days my pocket are a bit deeper, but I still enjoy it from time to time, when in the mood for something filling and savory. 

You fry some lamb chops (one per person) in olive oil in a skillet until golden brown on each side, and season well with salt and pepper. Remove the chops from the skillet and place in a gratin dish which you will have rubbed well with a garlic clove.

In the same skillet, sauté some finely chopped or thinly sliced onion until translucent, then add peeled and thinly sliced waxy potatoes (one or two per chop should do, depending on the size and your appetite). When the potato slices are just beginning to brown, add to the gratin dish and arrange the slices around and over the lamb chops.

Deglaze the skillet with a bit of white wine and pour over the lamb and potatoes. Add enough broth or water to come up, say, halfway up the potatoes. Nestle a sprig or two of fresh thyme and a couple of bay leaves among the lamb and potatoes. Bring the broth to a simmer on top of the stove (if your gratin dish is flameproof) and then place in a hot oven (200C, 400F) and bake for about 45 minutes or so, until the broth has nearly evaporated and the potatoes are tender and have nicely browned on top.

NOTES: For this dish, I like to use shoulder lamb chops, which are very economical and stand up well to the long cooking. For the potatoes, you want firm, waxy, yellow-fleshed ones like Yukon gold, not too large or too small. And for the broth, the light taste of chicken is best but a light beef broth would do as well.

The cooking times varies considerably among recipes. Some call for a much longer cooking period (an hour to an hour and a half) at a somewhat lower temperature (180C, 350F), most of which tell you to cover the dish with aluminum foil to avoid the broth evaporating too quickly and the potatoes from over-browning. For these recipes, I'd add a bit more broth as well. These recipes generally have you add the potatoes raw into the gratin dish, as the extra cooking time is more than sufficient to cook them without the initial browning.

But I like to save time, which you can accomplish by two 'tricks' mentioned in the above recipe: sautéing the potatoes before adding them to the gratin pan and bringing the broth in the gratin dish to a simmer on top of the stove before putting it in the oven. Just make sure you have a gratin dish that will not crack when exposed to heat in this way—like the ones made of enameled cast iron, stainless steel or copper.

The dish makes a lovely piatto unico. Last night we followed it with a green salad, a  delicious creamy cheese named Chaource and nice ripe pear. All washed down, of course, with a few glasses of red wine.

According to the Larousse Gastronomique, this classic dish dates from the reign of Louis XIV. It was supposedly invented by one of his mistresses, who supplanted the Maquise de Maintenon for a time in his affections by indulging the gluttony of the king. But why the name? Perhaps this dish was named after the archbishop of Paris during Louis XIV's time, François de Harlay de Champvallon? It seems like the most logical explanation but, if so, it is rather ironic, since the good prelate witnessed Louis' secret marriage to the marquise. Or did the mistress herself carry the name? Not impossible—it is said that the archbishop's life was filled with scandal. Champvallon is also the name of a town (pop. under 500) in the region of Bourgogne, but why this tiny town should have given its name to this way of making lamb chops, I have no idea. Perhaps some gentle reader could enlighten us...

Stracciatella alla romana

One usually associates Roman cooking with hearty and robustly flavored dishes and, by and large, the image holds true. But there are some exceptions like today's offering: stracciatella, a light 'egg drop soup', perfect for a light first course or supper. It's a great choice for those occasions when you may not be very hungry—perhaps you've had a big lunch or midday dinner—but don't feel like actually skipping a meal. If you have broth on hand, it is also very quick and can be made quite literally on the spur of the moment.

To make stracciatella, bring some broth to a fairly brisk simmer (but not a rolling boil). While the broth is coming up to heat, in a mixing bowl scramble (per serving) an egg together with a spoonful each of semolina and grated parmesan cheese, a pinch of salt, a good grind of pepper and, if you like, a bit of nutmeg. Mix well to make a perfectly homogenous mixture. When the broth is at the simmer, slowly pour the egg mixture into the broth, all the time whisking (or stirring vigorously with a wooden spoon) in a single direction. The egg mixture will form little curds that are said to look like 'little rags' (hence the name stracciatella is derived from stracetti, which means little rags). Allow to simmer for just a couple of minutes more and serve, with additional grated cheese on the side for those who care for it.

NOTES: As usual, even with a soup this simple, variations abound. The semolina is original and is featured in all the most traditional recipes, including the one in the authoritative Talismano della Felicità. But modern recipes often omit it, which makes for an even lighter dish, or substitute bread crumbs, which make the 'lilttle rags' taste rather like passatelli from Emilia-Romagna. The recipe proposed by the Accademia della Cucina Italiana in La cucina del Bel Paese calls for a bit of grated lemon zest. Some recipes call for a bit of chopped parsley for color and add a bit of finely chopped carrot and celery.

The choice of broth is yours—chicken, beef or a brodo classico all go well. Chicken is my personal favorite. The important thing is that the broth be homemade and flavorful.

This dish is not to be confused, of course, with the gelato of the same name. Another Roman dish called straccetti, is made with thinly sliced and shredded beef sautéed with arugula, but that is a recipe for another post.

Pollo fritto per Chanukà

Continuing with our Italian Hannukah dinner, after the first course of riso coll'uvetta, proceed to the second course of chicken which is, of course, fried in olive oil. This dish is popular in Rome and all over Italy for Hannukah.

The day before, cut up your chicken into ten pieces (two wings, two drumsticks, two thighs, and the breast cut into four pieces, in half along the breastbone and then in half again across). Place in a large bowl and marinate with the juice of a whole freshly squeezed lemon, salt, pepper, a finely minced garlic clove or two, a generous grating of nutmeg (very unusual!) and a good pour of olive oil. Let it marinate in the fridge overnight. Mix at least once during this period to ensure even marination.

The next day, when you are ready to cook, let the chicken come back to room temperature by removing it from the fridge about an hour ahead of time. In a large, heavy skillet, heat enough olive oil to come at least 2cm (3/4 inch) up the sides until it is quite hot (but not smoking). Then take each piece of chicken (tongs are very useful here) and dredge it successively in flour and then in beaten egg, and then immediately into the hot oil. Fry over moderate heat until the chicken is golden brown on all sides. This should take about 15-20 minutes. If you are not ready to eat the chicken right away, you can keep the pieces warm, on a baking rack set over a cookie sheet in the oven.

Serve hot, sprinkled with additional salt (preferably some fine sea salt) with some lemon wedges on the side, and accompanied by a nice green salad.

NOTES: The dish is not at all difficult to make and, aside from the overnight marination, is quite quick. For the really impatient, some recipes say that one hour's marination is enough. The main 'trick' of this dish is to regulate the heat of the oil so that the chicken pieces cook at the right pace—not too slow, or the result will be greasy, but not too fast, either, or the outside will brown before the inside is cooked. If the oil bubbles up gently around the edges of the chicken pieces as you are frying, but does not 'boil', then you are on the right track:

It also helps to use a small chicken, so that no piece is too large and will cook through in a shorter period of time. If you are serving a crowd, you may want to buy more than one small chicken rather than one big one. If, for whatever reason, it seems that the chicken is done on the outside but not yet cooked through on the inside, a brief spell in a moderately hot oven will help.

I have to say, this dish was quite a revelation. The taste was hard to describe—both familiar as an Italian dish yet somehow... different. Among other things, the nutmeg gave it an usual, almost 'oriental' taste. But it was very good. In fact, even after a primo of riso coll'uvetta, two of us managed to polish off a whole chicken...! Dessert, on the other hand, was just a few pieces of fresh fruit.

By the way, I wanted to include a third recipe this week, one for what is probably the most famous Italian Jewish, and more specifically Roman Jewish, dish—carciofi alla giudia, or Jewish-style artichokes. It is one of the signature dishes of Roman cuisine. But the artichokes in the market looked pretty sad, so I gave up for now. But perhaps later on this week or, if not, in the Spring when artichokes will be back in season.

An Italian Hannukah: Riso coll'uvetta

It may come as a surprise to some, but Italy has a Jewish tradition going back not just centuries, but millennia. A Jewish community existed in Rome dating from during the Roman Republic, even before the Empire, in the first centuries BCE. That presence grew during the late Middle Ages, when Italy presented a relatively tolerant environment (with emphasis on the 'relatively') as compared with other European countries. A great number of Jews settled in Italy after the mass exiles from Spanish in the wake of the Reconquista in the late 15th Century. The complicated ups and down of Jewish life in Italy over the years are ably outlined in this article, but, to make a long story short, by the 20th Century the principal Jewish communities in Italy were to be found in Rome, Venice and Tuscany. Then came the Holocaust, which resulted in the extermination of about 15% of Italy's Jewish population and the end of many Jewish communities like the one that had been found in the village of Pitigliano, known as "the Little Jerusalem". About 45,000 Jews live in Italy today.

The Jews of Italy developed their own, very distinct but yet very Italian cuisine. The best book I know on the subject is The Classic Cuisine of the Italian Jews by Edda Servi Machlin. Today I would like to present two lovely recipes from that book, for dishes traditionally served at Hannukah: riso coll'uvetta, rice with raisins, an unusual but delicious risotto dish from Venice which I will describe in this post, and pollo fritto per Chanukà, fried chicken for Hannukah which will be featured in the next one.

Riso coll'uvetta—called risi coll'ua in Venetian dialect—is an ancient recipe from the Jewish community in Venice. To make it, you begin with a soffritto of garlic and parsley sautéed in abundant olive oil. As soon as the garlic begins to brown, add your rice and toast that until it turns an opaque white, then add a handful per serving of raisins which you will have softened in warm water for a few minutes, mixing well and then adding broth, a ladleful at a time, in the usual manner for making risotto, until the rice is tender but still al dente. There is no mantecatura for this dish, but I mixed in a bit more chopped parsley for color at the end, and seasoned with salt and pepper as needed, to taste. That's all there is too it. Machlin says the dish can be served warm or at room temperature.

NOTES: The combination of sweet and savory in this risotto is quite unusual in modern Italian cookery—a sign, perhaps, of the recipe's ancient origin—but I really liked it. The addition of raisins in Italian cooking, however, is not all that uncommon, particularly in Venetian and Sicilian cuisines, usually being a sign of Moorish or Middle Eastern influence.

There are a few variations to the dish. Some recipes will have you add a bit of white wine as for a typical risotto, some recipes call for water rather than broth, some call for the addition of some apple juice at the end (something it seems to me that would unbalance the flavors too far in favor of the sweet side). Not all recipes call for softening the raisins (although I recommend it heartily) and some recipes call for adding the raisins at the very end of the cooking time. If you want to make this a dairy dish, then you can omit the broth and use butter instead of oil. In the dairy version, you can also add parmesan at the end as with a regular risotto.

Some readers may know that our word 'ghetto' comes from Venice—the gh and double t give the word away as Italian—and more specifically it refers to that part of the city where Jews were obliged to live during the Middle Ages all the way up to the end of the Venetian Republic. It was Napoleon who, in 1797, decreed the end of Jewish segregation. Nevertheless, the Venetian ghetto is still the center of Jewish life in Venice, home to about 1000 Jews and several synagogues, a yeshiva and other centers of Jewish life including a kosher restaurant where, however, I was disappointed to find, this dish is not on the menu...

Lasagne alla bolognese

There are many types of lasagna dishes in Italian cookery, and in each is wonderful in its own way. But to my mind there are two "Ur-lasagne", each typifying the northern and southern poles of Italian cuisine: lasagne di carnevale from Campania—the lasagne that nonna Angelina made—and lasagne alla bolognese, from Emilia-Romagna or, more precisely, Bologna. Both combine creamy and savory layers between large sheets of pasta, but the results, both delicious, are very different.

Today let's look at lasagne alla bolognese. At its most essential, it is actually a rather simple dish: ragù, béchamel, parmesan cheese and pasta are layered in a baking dish and baked until a light crust forms on top. But, of course, the reality is not quite that quick and easy, as each component (other than the cheese) requires its own preparation before the dish is assembled and baked. In fact, it is best to budget several hours, over two days, to make this classic dish.

Step 1: Make the ragù: This is the real 'heart' of the dish that gives the dish its savor. Since it takes several hours to make, and benefits from an overnight 'rest', better to make your ragù the day before. The recipe is posted below.

Step 2: Make the pasta: Make fresh egg pasta dough and roll it out into thin sheets following the usual method. Then cut the sheets into lengths about as long (or wide) as the baking dish in which you plan to bake your lasagne. Take care, as the pasta will expand when it is cooked, so cut them just a bit shorter than the actual length or breadth of the pan. Since the pasta is not cut into strips as for fettuccine or taglierini, you need not dry the pasta if you're ready to make the lasagne right away. (NB: The true 'doc' version of lasagne alla bolognese is made with spinach pasta. Will post on this soon.)

Step 3: Make the béchamel: You want to make a rather loose béchamel sauce as follows: melt a stick of butter (100g, 4 oz.) in a saucepan, then add six spoonfuls (50g, 2 oz.) of flour and simmer the resulting roux over medium low heat for a few minutes, taking care not to allow the roux to darken, and remove from the heat. In a separate saucepan, bring a liter (one quart) of milk just barely to a boil, then immediately pour the milk into the pan with the roux. Taking a whisk, whip the roux and milk together vigorously, then put the saucepan back on the heat and bring it up to the boil. It will thicken considerably when it gets to the boiling point. Immediately lower the heat to low and simmer for about 5-10 minutes, seasoning well with salt and a bit of nutmeg to taste. Remember that the sauce will cook and reduce further in the oven, and will be absorbed by the pasta, so you want a rather loose consistency, just a bit thicken than heavy cream. If the sauce thickens too much, whisk in a bit more milk. The sauce will also thicken up as it cools, so bring it back up to heat and/or add more milk to thin it out. (NB: You may not need this much bechamel, but better to have too much than too little. There are lots of uses for leftovers.)

Step 4: Cook the pasta and assemble the dish: Take your pasta sheets and simmer them, only one or two at a time, in well-salted water for just a minute or two, depending on just how thinly you've rolled out your pasta, and how long the pasta has been drying.

As each pasta sheet is done, fish it out of the water with a slotted spoon (the larger the better) and place it on a towel. With another towel, pat it dry. Then place the pasta sheets at the bottom of a greased baking dish, covering the entire bottom of the dish. It's OK to overlap the sheets a bit, but if there's too much overlap or the sheets are too big for the dish, you can always trim the cooked sheets to size.

Then add a thin layer of béchamel over the pasta, making sure to cover the entire surface of the pasta with a spatula. Lay over some of the ragù, then a generous dusting of grated parmesan cheese. (NB: Since all the components—pasta, ragu and béchamel—should be well seasoned, there should normally be no reason to season the dish as you assemble it.)

Repeat until you have run out of ingredients, or the baking dish is nearly full, or you've reached about four layers, ending with a layer of béchamel, sprinkled with parmesan cheese and dotted with butter. (More than that and the lasagne will not cook properly.)

Step 5: Baking the lasagne: Bake in a moderate oven (180°C, 350°F) for about 30 minutes, or until the top is just slightly browned on top (see top photo). Allow to rest for at least 15 minutes before serving.

NOTES: Although strictly speaking lasagne alla bolognese is a primo, or first course to be followed by a meat dish, from reading the recipe you will readily realize that a healthy portion is a meal unto itself, perfect as a piatto unico for all but the heartiest appetites.

You will see this dish made with a deep, golden brown crust on the top. I cannot say which method is more authentic, but personally I find that the crust takes away from the delicate flavor of the béchamel and cheese, and makes the dish a bit awkward to eat. The lasagne tends to spread apart when you press down with your fork and the top crust 'resists' the pressure. But anyway, different strokes and all that...

Similarly, these lasagne is best when it can rest for a while before eating. Right out of the oven, the béchamel and ragù are still very loose and the lasagne will tend to fall apart as you cut into it, depending on how much sauce you have layered in. I usually let it rest 15 or even 30 minutes, which gives it time to compose itself and firm up enough to cut it. In fact, if you allow the lasagne (or any baked pasta dish, for that mattter) to cool off, and then reheat it gently, it will have an entirely different, solid texture, almost like a cake. Many people like it better that way.

The thickness of the pasta will also influence the ultimate outcome. For this kind of lasagne, I tend to like to roll the pasta out quite thinly, which produces a more delicate dish, at setting "5" or  thinner on my KitchenAid pasta roller.

There are various ways to cut down on the work involved in making this dish, the most common being buying the pasta rather than making it yourself, which you can certainly do. Just be careful since much of the so-called lasagne available commercially, even the 'fresh' kind (in the US at least) is not really fit for making this kind of lasagne. Look for thin sheets, not made from durum wheat flour, if you can find it. There also exist 'no-cook' lasagne, which supposedly don't need pre-simmering and can be placed raw into the baking dish. Personally, I have never been satisfied with the resulting texture. But one short-cut is, to my mind, inexcusable: jarred, commercially made ragù, or 'bolognese sauce' as it is sometimes called in English. It's a travesty to be avoided at all costs. As mentioned above, the ragù is the heart of this dish, and frankly if you need to cut corners there, you might as well just make something else that requires less time to make. And in Italy, you can even buy pre-made béchamel, but this, too, should be avoided. It tastes like glue!

Measurements: The outcome of the lasagne will very much depend on how much ragù and especially béchamel you layer in between the pasta sheets. Too little and the dish will come out rather dry and not very savory, too much and the dish will be 'slippery' and rather stodgy at the same time. But between these two extremes, I've had lasagne made all different ways, each has its fine points. I would experiment with different ratios until you find the consistency you like best. Any easy to remember rule of thumb: Marcella Hazan recommends using about 2 cups each of ragù and béchamel for pasta made from 2 eggs. As for myself, I usually make more than enough of both sauces and then use my eye and instinct. The leftover sauces can be used various ways, including mixing them with rigatoni to make a simple pasta al forno during the week.

Although this dish is from Bologna, it (or some variation) typifies the lasagne that will be found on tables more or less all over central and northern Italy. Although Rome is, in many ways, a southern city, it is this version of lasagne that you will most likely find in restaurants and on home tables. there Further south, béchamel sauce gives way to ricotta mixed with eggs and cheese, and ragù alla napoletana replaces ragù alla bolognese, and bits of sausage and tiny meatballs, sometimes even slices of hard boiled egg, elaborate the dish. It was this southern version, known as lasagne di carnevale, that nonna Angelina would make on Sundays. But that is a story for another day...

Ragù alla bolognese

One of the most famous sauces in all of Italian cookery, ragù alla bolognese—known in English as 'Bolognese sauce'—is one of those archetypical sauces simmering for hours and hours on the back of the stove that so many people associate with Italian cooking. It is the northern equivalent of that other famous ragù from Naples that became the 'Sunday sauce' of Italian-Americans.

The recipe is time-consuming but not really all that difficult: you begin, as with so many sauces, with a soffritto of finely chopped onion, celery, carrot (one each) and pancetta (a small piece, perhaps 100g) sautéed very gently in olive oil and butter until soft and sweet. Take your time as this step as developing the full flavor of the soffritto is critically important to the ulitmate success of the dish.

Once your soffritto is done, add 1 kilo (2 lbs.) of chopped beef, or (my preference) a mixture of equal parts chopped beef and chopped pork, and allow the meat(s) to slowly insaporire (absorb the flavor of the soffritto) as you constantly stir so that the meat(s) and the soffritto are throughly mixed and the chopped meat does not 'clump' together.

As soon as the meat loses its raw color—it should not caramelize at all—add a bit of milk and allow it to evaporate. Then add a splash of wine (some recipes call for white, others for red—personally I prefer white) and allow it to evaporate as well.

Then add tomato purée (many recipes call for tomato paste diluted in water or broth), mix well and allow the sauce to simmer, partially covered, over very gently heat (a small bubble should appear at the surface of the sauce every so often) for at least 2 hours. I actually find that 2 hours is not nearly enough to fully develop flavor: 4 or even 6 hours is more like it. But other than giving the sauce a stir every once and a while, you can more or less forget about the sauce and go about your business. And you can turn the heat off and resume simmering at any time. Personally, I find that the sauce is best when made the evening before you want to use it—something about the overnight 'rest' that really gives a ragù (like a lot of slow simmered dishes) incredible depth of flavor.

NOTES: The best cooking vessel by far for a ragù is a terracotta pot. But if you don't have one, then an enameled cast iron Dutch oven will do quite well. Although I don't own one, I have to imagine that this sauce was just made for a slow-cooker or crock pot. Whichever pot you use, it should preferably be rather taller than it is wide, to avoid excess evaporation during the long simmering. If need be, you can always add a bit or water or light broth to thin out the sauce if it reduces too much.

The recipe above is my personal favorite version (not my invention, but my personal choice among the various authentic recipes I've studied). The 'official' version—to the extent there is one—would probably be the one registered with the Accademia della Cucina Italiana in 1982 by the Bolognese delegation of the Academy and featured in the Cucina del Bel Paese. It includes the same soffritto as indicated above, and uses only chopped beef (no pork), red wine (not white) and tomato paste (not puréed tomatoes). The use of milk or cream is optional.

Some recipes call for finishing off the sauce with an enrichment of milk or cream, but I find that this tends to mask the meaty flavor that I personally think is the 'essence' of this sauce. Other recipes will have you add some reconstituted dried mushrooms or chopped chicken liver—either of which would make an appealing occasional variant but not one that I would recommend as standard practice. Some recipes call for a ladleful of stock or broth to simmer along with the tomatoes, which I like (so long as it is not too strong, or it will unbalance the flavors). And some recipes call for a bit of nutmeg.

The amount of tomato you should add to the meat base seems to vary from recipe to recipe. Some call for adding a whole large can for a very tomato-y end product. Personally, however, I find that just enough tomato to tinge the sauce a bit red (say half a large can or a small can) is quite enough. This is a meat sauce, after all, not a meat-flavored tomato sauce. If using canned whole tomatoes, pass them through a food mill to ensure a smooth consistency.

The meat(s) you use for the sauce should not be too lean. The beef cut known as 'chuck' in North America is probably your best choice and shoulder your best choice for the pork if you're using it. Lean meats do not stand up to slow simmering and generally lack taste. And you need to fat to add a certain unctuousness to the sauce. Some recipes will call for veal, and I also like to include veal sometimes—it gives the sauce a slightly 'lighter' flavor.

Please avoid the many inauthentic variations you can find floating around the internet: some call for oregano (why do some people think every Italian dish needs oregano in it!?!?) or hot peppers, neither of which are at all characteristic of this sauce or the cooking of Bologna more generally. Ditto for bell peppers, fresh mushrooms, cooked ham, garlic, basil, thyme or any of the other myriad superfluous ingredients that detract rather than add to the result.

Ragù alla bolognese has many uses: it is essential for making 'northern style' lasagne or pasta al forno, and it is wonderful simply served with tagliatelle or tortellini. One thing that you will never see, however, in Italian cooking: is ragù alla bolognese on top of spaghetti. It's a combination to avoid, not only because it is inauthentic, but it just doesn't 'work'. The spaghetti does not 'hold' a chunky sauce like this very well, so you wind up with lots of sauce at the bottom of your bowl instead of in your mouth!

Buseca alla milanese

As we've mentioned before on this blog, Saturday is tripe day in Rome... sabato trippa, as the saying goes. The tripe served in our house is usually alla romana, but today I made something a bit different: buseca (which is Milanese dialect for tripe). While Roman-style tripe is quite assertive, this version is mild and almost creamy, perfumed with the gentle savoriness of sage, perfect for a cold late Autumn day.

You begin, as usual, with a soffritto of onion, carrot and celery—adding to the typical trio pancetta and a few sage leaves—sautéed in butter in a terracotta pot or Dutch oven. As for a minestrone, you should cut the aromatics rather larger than you would for a normal soffritto—into smallish cubes rather than minced. You don't want them to 'melt' but rather to retain their individual identities in the final dish. Season with salt and pepper as the vegetables cook gently.

When the vegetables are nice and soft, add pre-cooked tripe (see below) cut into strips and mix well. Allow the tripe to insaporire (absorb the flavors of the soffritto) for a few minutes, then add a splash of white wine and allow it to evaporate. Next, add broth to nearly cover the tripe, along with just a few spoonfuls of tomato purée.

Partially cover and allow to simmer over gentle heat for at least two hours, or until the tripe is tender. (The total time will depend on how well pre-cooked is tripe is.) About 30 minutes or so before the tripe is done, add boiled or canned borlotti beans or, if you can find them, fagioli di Spagna (Italian butter beans).

Serve with grated parmesan cheese on the side and crusty bread to soak up the rich sauce.

NOTES: The tricky thing about tripe is that you never know just how cooked it is when you buy it. In the US, it usually needs pre-boiling, after which you can cut it into bite-size strips. You are then ready to use them in this and many other recipes. (See the post on trippa alla romana for details.)

The traditional bean for buseca is, as mentioned, fagioli di Spagna. They are not easy to find (at least in the US) but are available online (see amazon.com). Borlotti beans will also do fine or, if you can't find either, cranberry beans or so-called "Roman" beans will also do, as will good old cannellini beans. I've even seen one recipe calling for ceci (garbanzo beans) but I find that a bit dubious...

The recipe comes, as with so many traditional dishes, with a few variations. One is the amount of tomato. Some recipes (I suspect the oldest ones) call for no tomato at all. Some call for lots of tomato, for a dish that is truly in rosso. Personally, I like the variation set out above: just a few spoonfuls of tomato purée to add a slight tinge of color and just a hint of tomato flavor. Some recipes call for adding minced lardo (cured pork fat) to the butter (a bit of lard will give a similar, if not identical, effect.) Some recipes call for adding garlic to the soffritto. Not all recipes call for wine. Other variations include potato, leeks and/or cabbage along with the beans, for a heartier dish. And finally, many recipes call for mixing a gremolata of chopped parsley, garlic, sage and rosemary into the dish just before serving, in the manner of ossobuco (although here the gremolata has slightly different ingredients).

Although in Rome Saturday is tripe day, in Milan buseca is a traditional Christmas dish, eaten after returning home from midnight Mass. But that should not keep you from enjoying it any time you're in the mood for a hearty, warming stew...

Mock «puntarelle» alla romana

One of the dishes I miss most from my Roman days is the winter salad known as le puntarelle. Puntarelle are a kind of chicory native to the countryside around Rome. In fact, the vegetable is sometimes called "Roman chicory" in English. The shoots are rather thick but tender, white at the base and green at their tips. The taste is pleasantly bitter and peppery. When used in salads, puntarelle are typically peeled and cut into thin strips, then soaked in cold water until they curl up. They are then dressed in an anchovy vinaigrette.

So far as I know, puntarelle are not widely grown outside Italy. This source says that they are grown locally in California, but, in any event, I have never found them in the markets where I now live. But I can approximate the experience by using the tender white hearts of curly endive (which also a kind of chicory). Cut the stalks into short lengths, and dressing them with the same anchovy vinaigrette you would use for real puntarelle.

To make the vinaigrette, finely chopped a clove of garlic or pass it through a garlic press (one of the few good uses for that gadget, in my opinion) and place in a mortar (or a mixing bowl). Then add chopped anchovy fillets (either salted or canned will do fine), and grind them together into a paste. (If using a mixing bowl, you can just crush them as best you can with the back of a wooden spoon.)  The paste need not be perfectly uniform; in fact, I prefer little bits of anchovy, which is more interesting to the eye and taste. Thin this paste out with a bit of either white or red vinegar (not too much, remember...) and then add a healthy pour of olive oil. Mix well with a fork or a whisk until well blended but not emulsified. Then season with a bit of salt (not too much as the anchovies, of course, are already salty) and freshly ground pepper. Pour over your greens and mix well. Adjust for seasoning and, if a bit dry, you can add a bit more olive oil. Serve with crusty bread so you can sop up the delicious dressing.

NOTES: You will find some non-Italian recipes calling for a bit of mustard to the anchovy vinaigrette, something that is not authentic and, in any event, does not appeal to me. On the other hand, I do like to add lots of freshly ground pepper, something that is not necessary 100% doc. As you may remember from an earlier post on making salads the Italian way, this is one of the only (perhaps the only) example in traditional Italian cooking of making salad dressing separately from the salad itself.

As an alternative to curly endive, some sources recommend radicchio which, though I've never tried it, would no doubt be nice. On occasion, I've used belgian endive with fine results.

By the way, don't disgard the green outer leaves of the curly endive. While they are too bitter raw to be eaten as a salad, when cooked they lose their bitterness and develop a wonderful, mild flavor in soups such as  minestra di riso e cicoria or blanched and then sauteed with garlic and olive oil, a technique known as ripassare in padella.

Real puntarelle

Tubetti cacio e uova

Here's a great spur-of-the-moment Neapolitan pasta dish for a quick weeknight dinner or perhaps a midnight snack:

Boil some tubetti (the small tube-like pasta also known as ditali or ditalini) in well-salted water. When the pasta is done, drain (not too well) and add back to the pot. Mix in a heaping tablespoon of butter or lard per serving of pasta (100g, 4 oz.) and stir until the fat has completely melted. Then add a mixture of egg (1 per serving) beaten with grated parmesan and pecorino cheese (1 spoonful each per serving), a handful of chopped parsley, and salt and pepper to taste. Stir briefly over low heat until the egg has solidified and serve immediately with some additional grated cheese (of either kind) for those who would like it.

NOTES: The mixture of egg, cheese and parsley is a common one in Neapolitan (and other Italian) cooking. It is mixed with ricotta as a stuffing for ravioli or lasagne di carnevale, and it is used as a kind of  condiment or vegetables like zucchini, chicory or peas. It is also added, as a final florish, to lamb or capretto (baby goat) stew. Here it 'stars' on its own as the condiment for pasta.

The use of lard (called strutto in Italian) in this dish may surprise and even dismay some readers, but in fact lard, not olive oil, was the predominant traditional cooking medium in much of Campanian cooking, including many of its most famous dishes. It is the traditional fat for making ragù alla napoletana and for making pastry dough, making 'lard bread' known as casatiello, for sartù di riso. In the old days, even pizza was traditionally slathered with a bit of liquified lard. It is also excellent for deep frying. Olive oil is used in seafood dishes and, of course, in salads, and these days lard is giving way to olive and other oils for health reasons even in these traditional dishes.

Tubetti are usually considered a kind of 'soup pasta', and are commonly used for dishes with legumes, such as pasta e fagioli, pasta e ceci, pasta e lenticchie and pasta e piselli—all of which are either soups or 'soupy' dishes. (The exact demarcation between a thick soup and a soupy pasta dish is always a bit hazy). It's use here as a true pastasciutta is fairly unusual. Besides tubetti, I would venture that this dish would work well with just about any short, stubby pasta. If using a 'soup pasta' like tubetti, the dish is best eaten with a spoon rather than a fork.

This recipe is based on one found in La cucina napoletana by Jeanne Carola Francesconi (recipe no. 114).

Pan-roasted Quail with Chanterelles

This deceptively easy dish makes for an elegant yet rustic presentation, perfect for a winter evening, preferably beside a nice roaring fire...

First prepare your quails (one or two person will suffice) by stuffing their cavities with a mixture of cubed pancetta, chopped sage leaves, salt and pepper. It is best to tie their little legs together with some kitchen twine. (Otherwise, the legs will tend to 'spread eagle' as they braise and the stuffing will tend to spill out of the cavity.) Season well with salt and pepper.

Then sear the birds well on all sides in olive oil, in a saute pan or braiser just big enough to hold them, snugly along with a crushed clove of garlic and a few more sage leaves and a sprig of rosemary. (Remove the garlic as soon as it begins to brown.) Pour over some white wine and allow to evaporate almost completely. Then cover and allow the birds to braise very gently for about an hour. Add water or broth from time to time to prevent them from drying out.

Meanwhile, towards the end of the braising time, sauté some roughly chopped chanterelle mushrooms in olive oil, seasoning them as they cook with salt and pepper. Add the sautéed mushrooms to the quails about 15 minutes before they are done.

Serve the quails and mushrooms over a bed of soft polenta (as pictured), mashed potatoes or, for a more elegant effect, risotto in bianco. Deglaze the pan with a bit of white wine or broth and nap the birds with the resulting sauce.

NOTES: Served with polenta or risotto, this makes for a great piatto unico or one-dish meal. You can precede the dish with a rustic appetizer (a plate of affettati, for example) and follow with a winter green salad of escarole or curly endive hearts. With some cheese and pears for dessert you'll be in heaven. But if you'd like a separate primo, you can always serve the quails on their own, perhaps with some steamed baby potatoes to go with.

This dish is reminiscent of polenta e osei, a famous Lombardian dish of polenta with small song birds, not a dish you are likely to find outside northern Italy. (The same name is also given to a marzipan dessert that is said to resemble the dish.)

Quails have fabulous flavor but can be a bit fussy to eat with a knife and fork. Semi-boned quails (which have their breast bones removed) are more expensive but make for much easier eating. Otherwise, unless I'm in public, I usually succumb to hunger and pick them up with my hands!

Spaghetti alle vongole

A Friday night favorite at our place is spaghetti with clam sauce, one of the signature dishes of Neapolitan cuisine. It is surprisingly easy to make, fun (if a bit messy) to eat and—if you have some good, fresh clams on hand—really, really tasty.

The only real bother, if you want to call it that, to the dish is purging the clams of their sand. Even a bit of sand will render the dish inedible. These days clams (like mussels) often come with little or no sand in them, but you can never be entirely sure, so it is best to soak the clams in very well salted water (I add a whole fistful of salt) for at least an hour before cooking. (Some recipes recommend several hours and several changes of water, but I don't find this necessary these days.) Mixing in a bit of cornmeal is said to encourage the clams to purge their sand.

Rinse off your clams and put them in a saucepan large enough to hold them all with lots of room to spare. Splash in some dry white wine, cover and turn the heat to high. After a minute or two, uncover and mix the clams with a slotted spoon to see if they have opened. Once all of them have, then remove the saucepan from the heat and keep the clams and their juice warm. (Check out the juices; if you see a fair amount of sediment, you may want to strain the juices through a cheesecloth.)

In the meanwhile, being to cook your spaghetti in well salted water. While the spaghetti is cooking, gently sauté some crushed garlic cloves (I like to use 2 cloves per person for this dish) and a peperoncino in a generous amount of fruity olive oil and when the garlic is just beginning to turn color, add a few pomodorini (cherry or grape tomatoes), sliced in half lengthwise, to the oil. Allow them to sauté for just a minute or so, then using a slotted spoon, transfer the clams (still in their shells) into the skillet. Then gently pour over the clam juices, leaving any sediment behind in the saucepan.

Allow the clam juices to reduce a bit, mix well to season and reheat the clams. Add a handful of chopped parsley. At this point, your pasta should be ready; if not, turn off the heat so that the clams do not overcook. When the spaghetti is cooked but still very al dente, add them to the skillet and mix well, simmering the spaghetti for a minute or two to allow them to absorb some of the juice without allowing the dish to dry out. Serve immediately.

NOTES: As for many Italian dishes, the quality of the ingredients that go into the dish are critical to the quality of the dish itself. Use best quality, imported spaghetti—nothing ruins this dish like mushy pasta! The oil should be the deep green, fruity kind. The garlic should be absolutely fresh. And the clams should preferably be the small, sweet variety. In Italy, the clams known as vongole veraci are the most common variety for this dish, although the tiny clams called lupini (not to be confused with lupini beans) are especially prized for their tiny size and sweetness. Elsewhere, I find Manila or 'short neck' clams (the latter are pictured above) are excellent; both have the small, thin shells and sweet flesh that you are looking for. In a pinch, littlenecks—although a bit too large—will also do. If you can't find small clams, you may want to use the clams out of the shell and cut them into pieces. Some very large, hard-shelled clams, however, like the Quahog, are simply too tough to be palatable in this dish. If you don't have peperoncino on hand, you can used crushed red pepper flakes, but add them only just before adding your claim juice to avoid them burning and turning bitter. Some versions call for black pepper instead.

Besides the right ingredients, there are two key points of technique to bear in mind: Don't skimp on the olive oil, which should be very abundant to ensure that the pasta has the right 'slippery' consistency. And don't overcook the pasta. Of course, you should never overcook the pasta, but it is absolutely critical for this dish. In fact, as indicated above, you should slightly undercook the pasta as it needs to simmer for a minute or two in the sauce.

In Naples, where this dish originated, the typical pasta is vermicelli, a spaghetti-like long pasta. Spaghetti are probably the most common pasta elsewhere in Italy. And linguine also make for a fine choice.

There are three principal variations of this dish. The 'mother' recipe follows the method above but is entire in bianco, leaving out the pomodorini. The second version is in rosso, calls for the addition of tomato to the garlic and oil base to make a kind of sugo di pomodoro. The above version, which adds a few pomodorini, represents a kind of middle ground and is my personal favorite, while I find that an actual tomato sauce covers up the delicate taste of the clams. The same technique can be used with just about any mollusk, including mussels. Many Italian recipes call for steaming open the clams directly in the skillet with the garlic and oil, but I find steaming them open separately is a 'safer' choice if you have any doubts about lingering sand in the clams.

You can find some rather horrendous versions (I'd call them perversions) of this dish online. One common variant among Italian-American sources is the addition of oregano to clam sauce, something to avoid since the assertive taste of oregano completely throws off the balance of flavors. You may be tempted to use bottled minced clams and clam juice, a common 'shortcut' often found in online recipes, but frankly, you'll lose all the charm of the dish. Commercially available minced clams tend to come from larger, tougher clams and lack flavor. And I've even seen some recipes that call for using a roux of butter and flour to thicken the sauce—the very thought of it makes me cringe.

One final note: unless you want to commit culinary heresy—and ruin a lovely dish in the process—do not under any circumstances add grated cheese to your clam sauce! Mi raccomando…