In June, I returned from a week in the south of Italy, during which (do not judge me) I ate pasta every single day, with an indomitable urge henceforth to err on the side of extreme caution when cooking it myself; to serve my orecchiette and cavatelli as I found them in Lecce and Matera, which is to say: on the chewy side. Since then, I’ve knocked a minute, at least, off all my old times, and the result is bravissimo. Restraint at the hob results not only in pasta that’s better to eat (a good thing in its own right as well as vehicle for sauce). It’s so much more satisfying. I find that I want less of it, which aids both the backside and the budget.
Pasta is really coming into its own now, isn’t it? The prospect of the winter ahead is frightening, if not downright terrifying, and pasta is comforting and filling, relatively inexpensive and almost infinitely versatile. In the wakeful small hours, when my brain is humming, I often think of it: a shape, a sauce, a bowl. Regular readers of this column will know that I’ve a thing for the American food writer Jeffrey Steingarten, and once I’ve dealt with supper (right now, penne with garlic, chilli and courgette seems like a plan), I inevitably start fantasising about the sugo d’arrosto he describes in The Man Who Ate Everything – a Piedmontese sauce whose traditional ingredient, beef dripping, he substitutes (of course he does) with a delicate homemade stock. It’s a fantasy because, given the price of gas, no one is going to want to cook anything for two hours this autumn. Two minutes will seem sinful and decadent.
But back to texture. In fact, pasta was not always served al dente. According to Luca Cesari, an Italian food historian, this is a relatively recent development, one born mostly, though not exclusively, of increased gluten (before pasta was made of durum wheat alone, it tended to be soggier whether people wanted it that way, or not). I discovered this fact, and about a thousand others, in Cesari’s new book, A Brief History of Pasta, which, attentive as it is to origin stories, and thus to basics, could not make for more suitable reading right now if it tried. Pasta may well have grown more luxurious in the past 30 years; I like shavings of white truffle as much as the next oligarch. But essentially, it’s a simple thing. A few of the ancient recipes Cesari has gathered – a couple date from the 16th century – are so starkly minimalist, it’s a wonder anyone ever thought to write them down.
In the chapter devoted to spaghetti al pomodoro – pages I practically inhaled – Cesari explains that the “Copernican revolution” in the world of pasta came in 1837, when a Neapolitan chef, Ippolito Cavalcanti, included “vermicelli co le pommadore” in a section on home cooking in his book, Cucina Teorico-pratica. This, he writes, is al pomodoro’s birth certificate: the moment when what had hitherto been tomato soup became a sauce conceived especially for pasta. By the end of the century, the combination was popular across Italy, and made all the faster to prepare thanks to the tinned tomatoes produced by Francesco Cirio, who grasped their immense potential (the Cirio company, still going strong today, was founded in 1856).
A good tomato sauce is so easy to make, and inexpensive even if you use Mutti’s polpa. (I once discussed these with Yotam Ottolenghi and, like me, he believes they’re among the best tinned tomatoes money can buy.) For utmost deliciousness, I think such a sauce requires – stand well back, purists – a tiny bit of sugar, a little chicken or other meat stock (assuming you’re not vegetarian), and a squirt of lemon juice. I don’t want garlic, or even herbs, particularly, but I do want onion – use an un-chopped half, and remove before eating – and a hint of chilli. Also, pepper and salt. Cook up a lot at once, and keep some for later. This way – how I wish I didn’t feel the need to write the following words! – the 40 minutes or so it takes for such a combination to become a thing of alchemical beauty will hardly feel extravagant at all.
