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…