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.