Order Acqua di Nepi, a naturally sparkling water from a town near Rome, and unless you really want to navigate the wine list, a bottle of the house wine, a functional Frascati that is more than fine with the food. You will be brought a single printed sheet of the day’s specials, which are more or less all fish. There’s also a full trattoria menu of all the Roman classics you can ask to be brought. However, my advice is to stick to fish—after all, it is Friday. The menu changes from day to day but there are some fixtures: for antipasti, the moscardini, for example, or bocconcini di merluzzo (bites of battered cod), and—my favorite—alici fritti (fried anchovies). Pasta is always a safe bet at Torricella, particularly the gnocchi or spaghetti alle vongole, and linguine with astice (male lobster). Two antipasti and two pasta dishes is normally enough for us. If we’re still hungry we share a secondo, usually some grilled fish or the paranza (mixed fried fish) that comes with nothing more than a fat piece of lemon.
While you are eating, the tables will fill steadily with a reassuringly mixed crowd: several older couples, the real regulars; a large family group, who could well be from the block opposite celebrating a birthday or graduation; a group of suits profiting from the fact that their meeting is on Friday; another group of students from the university; next to them a table of tourists who have been given good advice. By two o’clock the place should be quietly lively, and Augusto content.
Generally, we don’t have dessert at La Torricella, preferring to walk up the road to the gelateria. But if we do, it’s usually gelato with tiny wild strawberries, the sweetness of which demands an espresso straight afterward. If I know I can have a doze I might also have a homemade genziana, a shudderingly good, herbal Amaro, which my grandma Roddy would have said puts hair on your chest. The bill was reasonable, you might think to yourself as you walk through the by now quiet streets of Testaccio toward the main piazza, or up onto the Aventine hill, where you find a bench and watch the world go by.
Spaghetti alle vongole
Spaghetti with clams
The best clams for spaghetti alle vongole are vongole veraci, or Manila clams, which look like exquisite fluted stones streaked with white, gray, and brown that have just been lapped by the sea. But you can also use other small clams. To my mind, spaghetti alle vongole cooked well is the most perfect dish, the liquor of the clams like the sweet essence of the sea mixing with the garlic-and-chile-scented olive oil to create a seductive sauce for the pasta, which in turn provides a silky weave to ensnare the fleshy clams. I fell in love over a plate of spaghetti alle vongole. I also realized I quite liked the man I was eating with and we decided to give it a go.
As much as I like spaghetti alle vongole at La Torricella and our favorite beachside place in Fregene (the beach itself is no great shakes, but the trattoria is excellent), I like it most at home. This is because I buy the best vongole and we eat about 2 pounds of clams between two. A friend disagrees with this, saying that too many clams, like too many raisins in the raisin bran, spoils the treat, the proportions being all important. I, however, think that about 2 pounds of clams for 10½ ounces spaghetti are perfectly reasonable proportions.
I am set in my ways about my technique, as I have found a method that really works for me. It’s important to be organized, since although it’s a simple dish there are a couple of moves that require planning, most notably the draining of the broth. Two sets of hands are useful, one to cook the clams, drain, and cook again, the other to pick the flesh out of the shells. Read the instructions carefully before you start, and arrange your pans and sieves accordingly.
Some marinated anchovies to begin, a bottle of Sicilian white, spaghetti alle vongole, and nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon, and I am an extremely happy woman.
serves 2 greedy people who love clams (you could increase the pasta to about a pound to feed 4 people, although I’m not sure why you’d want to do that)
2¼ pounds clams, cleaned
5 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves
10½ ounces spaghetti
1 small red chile or a pinch of red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
Sit the clams in a sink full of salted cold water for at least 2 hours. Drain and rinse them well, discarding any that are open. Bring a large pan of well-salted water to a fast boil.
In a large, deep frying pan or sauté pan with a lid, warm 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over medium-low heat, add a peeled and crushed garlic clove, and cook gently until fragrant. Add the clams and wine, cover the pan, and cook over lively heat, shaking the pan from time to time, until all the clams have opened (discard any that don’t).
Use a slotted spoon to lift the open clams from the pan into a bowl, then drain the clam broth through a very fine sieve and set aside. Rinse and dry the pan. Choose 25 or so of the nicest clams and set them aside in their shells, then pick out the flesh from the rest of the clams and set the meat aside too.
Put the spaghetti in the by now boiling water and check the cooking time on the package; start tasting it 2 minutes earlier. Back in the frying pan, heat 2 more tablespoons of the olive oil and gently cook the second peeled and crushed garlic clove and the chile until fragrant. Add the clam broth and let it bubble and reduce for a few minutes before adding the reserved clams in their shells and cooking for a minute or so more.
Once it is al dente, drain the pasta, reserving a little of the cooking water; add it to the clams and stir well. Add the parsley and remaining tablespoon olive oil, stirring so that each strand of spaghetti is coated with broth. Divide between 4 plates, making sure each one has its fair share of clams.
Fettuccine al ragù
Fettuccine with rich meat sauce
Just the thought of making ragù makes me happy, not least because if you’re adding a glass of wine to the pan, it would be careless not to have one yourself.
This is the recipe I began making long before I came to Italy, and it has resisted all the fist-thumping Roman and southern Italian influences in my cooking life. It takes inspiration from Elizabeth David and her interpretation of a traditional Bolognese ragù: that is, a rich, slowly cooked meat sauce made with olive oil and butter, given a blush of color from just a tablespoon of tomato puree, depth from red wine, and soft edges from the milk. Its rich, creamy, yet crumbly consistency can come as a bit of a surprise if you’re used to redder, tomato-rich ragùs. Rest assured, it’s glorious, irresistible stuff. Like most braises, it’s infinitely better the next day. I almost always make a double quantity, half to eat with fettuccine (fresh if I am in the mood) and a dusting of Parmesan, the other half in rather more English style.
I have adopted the Bolognese habit of sprinkling the grated Parmesan over the pasta before adding the sauce; the cheese, which melts in the warmth, seasons the pasta deeply and helps the sauce cling to it beautifully. This mixing is best done in a serving bowl, which you can then bring proudly to the table along with a bottle of good Soave.
serves 4 generously
1 white onion
1 carrot
1 celery stalk
2 ounces pancetta or unsmoked bacon
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
4 tablespoons butter
1 bay leaf
14 ounces ground beef
10½ ounces ground pork
¾ cup red or white wine
1 tablespoon tomato paste dissolved in 6 tablespoons warm water
salt and freshly ground black pepper
⅔ cup whole milk
1 pound egg fettuccine, tagliatelle, or farfalle, ideally fresh (here), but best-quality dried if not
5 tablespoons grated Parmesan
Finely chop the onion and carrot along with the celery and pancetta. Some people like to do this in a food processor. In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan or deep frying pan with a lid, heat the olive oil and butter, add the vegetables and pancetta with the bay leaf and cook over low heat until they are soft and fragrant and the pancetta has rendered much of its fat and is starting to color. This will take about 8 minutes.
Increase the heat slightly, then crumble the ground meat into the pan and cook, stirring pretty continuously, until the meat has lost all its pink color and has browned evenly. Add the wine, turn up the heat, and let it evaporate for a couple of minutes before adding the tomato. Simmer, covered, over low heat for 30 minutes, by which time the sauce should have deepened in color and have very little liquid. Add a teaspoon of salt, lots of black pepper, and a little of the milk. Cook slowly, covered, for another hour over low heat, every so often lifting the lid and adding a little of the milk until it is used up. The sauce should be rich and thick with no liquid, but not dry either, so keep a careful eye on it.
When you’re ready to eat, bring a large pot of water to a fast boil and, if it isn’t already hot, gently reheat the ragù. Warm a serving bowl. Once the water has come to a fast boil, add salt, stir, gently drop in the pasta, and cook, stirring every now and then, until it is al dente. For fresh fettuccine or tagliatelle this will only take a few minutes, but farfalle will take slightly longer. For dried pasta, check the timing on the package and start tasting 2 minutes earlier. Drain the pasta and turn it into the serving bowl (reserving a little pasta-cooking water), sprinkle over the cheese, then add the sauce. Stir carefully, lifting the pasta from below with two wooden spoons, so it is well coated with sauce. If it seems a bit dry, cautiously add a little of the reserved pasta-cooking water and toss again. Serve.
Shepherd’s pie (of sorts)
This is a dish in which my two food worlds collide, and one that may well make purists in Italy and England shake their heads. It consists of a good inch of my Bolognese ragù in the bottom of an ovenproof dish, topped with 2 inches of very buttery mashed potatoes. The combination of deeply flavored meat sauce, which is thick enough to behave, topped with mashed potatoes forked into peaks and then baked until golden, is superb. I should note that this is the only occasion on which Luca, who is always an enthusiast at the table, has actually banged his fork down and shouted, “More!”A few buttered peas are nice, as is a glass of Soave.
Making fresh pasta
When I was little, I was often given flour and water to play with while my mum cooked. At first I was happy simply to combine the two ad hoc and make an unctuous, sticky mess on the burgundy plastic cloth that protected the kitchen table from three boisterous kids. But I soon realized that real satisfaction was to be gained by mixing just enough of each, then patiently working and kneading them into a soft, pliable dough. I would then roll or simply pinch and twist the dough into shapes. I was making pasta.
As an adult, I avoided making pasta for years, fearful of something I imagined to be mysterious and difficult, especially for someone without even a drop of Italian blood or Latin sway to the hips. It took lessons with my friend Paola to remind me that making pasta is essentially simple, that it’s about mixing enough flour and liquid, be it water or egg, to make a rough dough, neither too sticky nor dry, then practicing, finding your own moves and kneading rhythm to transform the rough dough into a soft, elastic one—exactly what I had done so instinctively as a child.
When it comes to fresh pasta, there are two basic doughs: flour and water and flour and egg. The principle is the same for both: the ingredients are combined, kneaded rigorously, and then left to rest (which is important) before being rolled by hand or machine, cut, folded, filled, twisted, or twirled into shapes. Everyone will tell you that you begin with a mountain of flour, then use the back of a fist to swirl the mountain into a deep crater or volcano into which you break the eggs or pour the water. Most people will tell you to swirl the water or break the eggs with a fork and begin incorporating the flour into the liquid before using your hands to bring the two into a crude mass. As for kneading, beyond the guidance for pushing, folding, and rotating the dough that I will describe shortly, the advice is mostly to practice: making pasta is all about feel and experience. Kneading it requires strength and persistence, but once you find the steady, rocking rhythm of pushes and folds, the sway of the hips, and start to feel the transformation from rough, crude dough into a smooth, silky one, your effort is repaid richly.