Polpette al sugo
Meatballs in tomato sauce
I like making meatballs nearly as much as I like eating them. The forgiving proportions, the easy squish and squash of it all, the fact that mixing and molding the balls requires only half of your attention, allowing the rest to wander off somewhere else, a kitchen conversation or another episode of Desert Island Discs, perhaps.
I like a mixture of pork and beef, half and half ideally, but any proportions will do. I also like the addition of bread crumbs soaked in milk for precisely the reason that some people don’t like the addition of bread crumbs soaked in milk: they give the meatballs a slightly bready plumpness. I sometimes add an onion cooked gently in olive oil, which lends a nice savory dimension, but it is a step easily omitted and one pan less to wash if so. Parmesan, in my opinion, is crucial, as is finely chopped parsley, mint if I have some, and a grating of nutmeg.
Baking the meatballs in the oven for 10 minutes is a fairly recent habit to which I am now pretty devoted. The meatballs cook more evenly and don’t break up, are leaner, and poach better in the sauce, although I’m not sure Vincenzo’s nonna, who makes the best polpette in the village, would agree. You can fry them if you wish. I make small meatballs to serve with spaghetti, a gastronomic sin to some Italians, although not the ones I have dinner with. I serve larger ones alone with bread or alongside mashed potatoes or rice, ideally with a glass of Sicilian red wine. I usually double this recipe and freeze half the meatballs on a baking sheet and then, once solid, freeze them in bags of six.
makes 12–15
1⅓ cups fresh bread crumbs, preferably from stale bread
¼ cup milk
14 ounces ground beef
7 ounces ground pork, or a fat sausage
1 egg
⅓ cup grated Parmesan
a grating of nutmeg
2 tablespoons finely chopped flat-leaf parsley and mint
salt and freshly ground black pepper
for the sauce:
2 (14.5-ounce) cans plum tomatoes
1 garlic clove
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 bay leaves
Preheat the oven to 425°F and grease a baking sheet. Put the bread crumbs in a small bowl with the milk and leave it for 10 minutes, or until the bread absorbs the milk. Mix together all the ingredients for the meatballs and season with salt and pepper. Using your hands, mold the mixture into roughly 1½-ounce balls if you are eating them alone or with mash or rice, or ¾-ounce balls for eating with pasta (you could weigh the first one to get an idea). Put the balls on the prepared baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes for big ones or 8 minutes for small ones, turning them once, until they are just starting to brown. Alternatively, fry the polpette in a sauté pan in a little olive oil, turning them carefully until evenly browned.
Meanwhile, make the tomato sauce. Coarsely chop the tomatoes or pass them through a food mill. Crush the garlic with the back of a knife. Heat the oil in a large, deep frying pan, add the garlic, and cook gently over low heat until the scent rises up from the pan. Add the tomato and bay leaves and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring and breaking the tomatoes up further with the back of a wooden spoon, until the sauce is thick. Season with salt and pepper, then add the meatballs and cook them in the sauce for a further 15 minutes.
Serve alone with bread on the side, or with mashed potatoes or rice. If you are serving them with pasta, transfer the meatballs from the sauce with a slotted spoon to a warm plate. Mix the sauce with cooked drained spaghetti in a wide bowl, then dot with the meatballs and serve.
Involtini al sugo
Beef rolls in tomato sauce
The word involtino comes from the verb avvolgere (to wrap) and the suffix -ino means little, so literally translated it means “little packet or parcel.” The technique is not dissimilar from swaddling a baby: roll, tuck, roll (if your baby is willing, that is, which mine wasn’t—while the other babies in the maternity ward were wrapped into contented little parcels, Luca assumed a star position and bleated until he was bright red and the wrapping stopped).
Involtini can be made with slices of meat, fish, or vegetables. Regional variations are infinite, as are the dialect terms to describe them. In Rome, involtini are usually made with beef, and most trattorias have involtini al sugo on the menu. For years I overlooked them dismissively, until on a friend’s recommendation I ordered them at Cesare, a trattoria I’d also walked past dismissively until it was recommended by the same friend, and has since become a favorite. At Cesare the involtini are classic: slices of beef and possibly prosciutto wrapped around a tidy bundle of carrot and celery batons, secured with a toothpick and simmered until tender in tomato sauce. They are small, so you are served three. At another favorite trattoria, La Torricella, you are brought one large solitary involtino, which also has a layer of prosciutto. In both places they are quietly delicious. I generally make small rolls at home, as they seem easier to simmer to the point of extreme tenderness that’s so desirable.
Sometimes, in keeping with the one-preparation-two-courses principle, I use the mahogany-red, meaty sauce to dress some pasta, then we have an involtino or two as a separate second course. Other times we have involtini with mashed potatoes, which provide a bolstering and buttery foil to the tender beef, savory bundle, and richly flavored sauce. Like most braises, involtini are better after having sat for a few hours, and better still the next day.
serves 4 (2 each, with 2 extra to argue over)
1 large celery stalk
10 (⅛-inch or so) slices of beef (rump or chuck are ideal)
salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 (14.5-ounce) cans plum tomatoes
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
½ cup white wine or red wine
Cut the carrot and celery into extremely thin batons that are roughly the same length as the beef slices are wide. Take a slice of beef, lay it flat on your work surface, and season it with salt and pepper. Place a bundle of carrot and celery at the bottom of each beef slice and roll the beef around the batons, tucking the sides in if you can, until you have a neat cylinder. Secure the roll with a toothpick along its length.
Coarsely chop the tomatoes or pass them through a food mill. Warm the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed frying or sauté pan. Add the beef rolls and cook them, turning as needed, until browned on all sides, which will take about 6 minutes. Add the wine to the pan and increase the heat until the wine sizzles and evaporates. Add the tomatoes and stir and nudge the rolls so that they are evenly spaced and well coated. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook the rolls, partly covered, stirring gently and turning them a couple of times, until the meat is cooked through and tender. This will take 1½–2 hours. Add a little more wine or water if the sauce seems to be drying out too much during the cooking. Let the rolls rest for at least 15 minutes before serving with a spoonful of sauce.
Sausage and cabbage cake
We call this the “majestic oak-tree cabbage and sausage cake” at home. When you turn it out, the cabbage leaf at the bottom becomes the top and its thick rib looks like the trunk and its veins like the branches of an oak tree. The recipe is from one of my favorite chefs, Rowley Leigh, by way of my brother, and has been an unfailing favorite in this Roman kitchen ever since I first made it for the blog four years ago. It’s unfailing, too, in its ability to make me think, “What a brilliant idea!”
You need a handsome savoy cabbage, from which you pick seven of the nicest leaves, blanch them, and use them to line a suitable dish. After that, it’s all about layers of boiled, buttered, chopped cabbage and sausage meat. You can add a scant sprinkling of fennel seeds too, if you like, as fennel and sausage get on like a house on fire. Be careful as you invert the cake onto the serving plate, as there will be hot, buttery juices. After admiring your tree, it’s hard not to marvel at each neat slice too, with its pleasing stripes of green, pink, green, pink, green. I like a big slice of tree cake with buttery mashed potatoes, a dab of strong mustard, and a glass of aromatic white wine like Greco di Tufo from Campania. It’s also good with a simple tomato sauce.
serves 6
1 large savoy cabbage
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ teaspoon fennel seeds
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1½ tablespoons butter
about 1 pound very lean, well-seasoned sausage (without casings)
Remove 7 of the largest, handsomest outer leaves (discard any that are discolored or damaged) and wash them carefully. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and add the chosen leaves. Wait for the water to come back to a boil, then blanch the leaves for 2 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to remove the leaves and drain in a colander in the sink, rinsing with very cold water to fix the color. Drain them well and spread them out flat to dry thoroughly on paper towels. Set them aside.
Cut the rest of the cabbage into quarters and bring the same water back to a boil. Cook the cabbage quarters in the boiling water for 5 minutes, by which time the leaves should be tender but the stems still firm. Drain the cabbage, rinse with cold water, drain again, and squeeze out any excess water. Cut away the hard central stem and separate the leaves into a bowl. Dress them with olive oil and fennel seeds and season with salt and pepper.
Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease an 8-inch round shallow ovenproof dish with half the butter. Choose the largest and best-looking leaf from the 7 you have set aside and place it in the bottom of the dish. It should cover the base and come up the sides. Arrange the other 6 leaves so that they cover the sides of the dish, fanned out, overlapping a lot and hanging over the edges.
Using a third of the seasoned cabbage, make a layer at the bottom of the dish and cover with half the sausage, pressing it down so it molds into the dish. Repeat the process, ending with a third layer of cabbage leaves. Press everything into the dish. Fold and bring in the overlapping leaves to cover the top and make a neat packet. Dot with the remaining butter and bake for 1 hour.
Remove and allow the cake to stand for 5 minutes before inverting a serving plate on top of the baking dish and turning out the cake. Be careful, and do this over the sink, as there will be hot juices.
Spezzatino di vitello
Braised veal with celery
My former actress self would have been mortified to hear that she was going to end up teaching English to children through music and theater. Fortunately I left her behind at the airport nine years ago, so she will never know how much I enjoy singing a pseudo-folk version of “Eensy-Weensy Spider” to three-year-olds on a Wednesday morning in the park. The pseudo bit is me and the folk bit is Diego, the man whose guitar keeps me in tune, and who talks me through how to cook braised veal with celery as we walk across the park after a lesson.
I think this dish sums up much about Roman cooking: it’s simple, clever, homely, rooted in popular tradition, and really sensual. A good pan with a tight lid is important, as the veal needs to simmer very gently. I like the way the veal seizes slightly at first but then, given time, the influence of the wine and veal juices and a little more hot water if the pan seems to be getting dry, relaxes into tenderness. In Rome, potatoes, root vegetables, and peas are often added at an appropriate point in the cooking process, making a satisfying whole. I prefer the veal just with celery, and either served alone with bread to mop up the juices or (predictably) with mashed potatoes.
serves 4
1½ pounds braising veal, such as shoulder
1 onion
6 celery stalks
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 cup white wine
salt and freshly ground black pepper
If your butcher has not already done so, cut the meat into 2-inch cubes. Dice the onion and slice 1 celery stalk crosswise. In a large deep sauté pan or casserole dish with a lid, heat the olive oil. Add the onion and celery and cook for 1–2 minutes, until softened. Add the meat, increase the heat, and brown it on all sides.
Add the wine and let it sizzle for a minute or so, then cover the pan, reduce the heat, and leave the meat to simmer gently for 1½ hours. Meanwhile, chop the remaining celery into 2¾-inch lengths and add them to the pan after 45 minutes. Keep checking the pan; if at any point it seems dry, add a little boiling water. It’s ready when the meat is extremely tender, the celery is soft, and the liquid has reduced to a tasty and thick gravy.
Pollo alla romana con peperoni
Chicken with tomatoes and sweet red peppers
The front door of my first flat in Testaccio opened onto a narrow walkway suspended over an internal courtyard. The courtyard itself was a sort of vortex that drew in the scents and smells from the bakery and trattoria on the first floor, then spun them upward, past 28 apartments on five floors, and into the Roman sky. In the morning it was the scent of bread and pizza bianca that swirled past our third-floor flat, mingling amicably with coffee smells gathered from the morning pots brewing in flats on the first and second floors. At about ten o’clock, the trattoria occupying the lower right-hand corner of the building began preparations for lunch. Often the smell was of boiled greens: vegetal, vaguely sulfurous and reminiscent of school. It seemed sent purposely to challenge any romantic illusions about Italy I might be harboring while leaning over the balcony. Then, as if to make up for the intrusion, there would be the scent of frying pancetta, garlic and rosemary in olive oil, or better still, the sweet waft of red peppers simmering for what I imagined was pollo alla romana con peperoni.
Traditionally, the chicken and tomatoes are cooked in one pan and the peppers in another, and then they are united to create this glorious, classic Roman dish. Simpler, marginally lighter, and I think nicer (which could be construed as Roman gastronomic blasphemy) is this version, in which you roast the peppers in the oven, or, if you are brave enough, char them over a flame on the stovetop. Once the chicken is tender and the tomato sauce is thick, you add the red peppers torn into strips, cook it for a little while longer, then let everything sit for at least an hour so the flavors can get acquainted with one another. Its depth of flavor and smoky complexity never fails to please me. It’s a summer dish in Rome, and since most Romans are convinced that they can’t digest peppers after three o’clock, it’s eaten for lunch, and usually warm rather than hot so that the flavors are at their most sultry. Bread is provided to mop up the juices, along with a glass of young, flavorful red like Cesanese from Lazio. I also like it for supper with mashed potatoes, rice, or couscous.
serves 4
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 ounces pancetta, diced (optional)
2¾ pounds chicken, either a nice plump whole chicken cut into 8 pieces, or chicken thighs
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1¼ pounds canned plum tomatoes with their juice, or fresh tomatoes, peeled
1 plump garlic clove (optional)
a sprig of rosemary
4 large red peppers
Heat the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed casserole dish or deep sauté pan, add the pancetta, if using, and cook until it renders its fat. Add the chicken pieces, skin-side down, and cook until the skin forms a golden crust, then turn them over and brown the other sides.
Season with salt and several grindings of black pepper, add the wine, and let it bubble away until most of it has evaporated. Meanwhile, coarsely chop the tomatoes, gently crush the garlic with the back of a knife, and roughly chop the rosemary. Add them to the pan, stir, and cook, covered, over moderate heat. Keep an eagle eye on the pan for the first 10 minutes, stirring every now and then to prevent sticking. Once everything has gotten going, half cover the pan and cook for another 45 minutes, or until the tomatoes have reduced into a dense, rich sauce and the chicken is tender. If at any point the sauce seems too thick, add a little water.
While the chicken and tomatoes are cooking, preheat the oven to 400°F. Roast the peppers for about 45 minutes, turning them every now and then, until they are soft, blistered, charred, and floppy, at which point tip them into a bowl and cover it tightly with plastic wrap. Leave them to steam for 10 minutes, by which time the skins should be easy to peel away. Discard the skins, seeds, stem, and pith. Cut or tear the peppers into thick strips and stir them into the chicken. Cook over low heat for another 5 minutes so that the flavors have a chance to mingle.
Allow the pan to sit for about 15 minutes, or better still for an hour or several. You can serve it at room temperature or reheat it over low heat until warm, but not hot.
