Guardian, 26 November 2008
What is the single, best word to describe the pleasure of a great bolognese sauce? Rich. And right now, in lean economic times and at the start of a long, cold winter, we will be wanting some of that richness, won’t we? Which must be why sales of ‘mince’ are up 16 per cent. It’s an easy, irresistible, almost childish pleasure: the ground meat dissolved into a dark blood-red sauce until they are one and the same; no hacking, slicing or cutting needed; a slurpy goodness; the oily bolognese hanging on to the slippery pasta; guaranteed joy in a world that’s just ruled it out.
In 1973, the National Theatre put on a production of the Neapolitan playwright Eduardo de Filippo’s Saturday, Sunday, Monday, in which a family falls apart along with the meat sauce. A character played by Laurence Olivier was at the centre of it all, but the real star was the ragù: actually cooked onstage, filling the theatre with the narcotic aroma of sizzling onion, garlic, tomatoes and meat. The acting was terrific, but who cared? Audiences applauded and rushed out to the nearest trattoria – only to be disappointed by a garish, thin, red concoction.
You don’t want that, but what do you want; or rather whose ragù or meat sauce? It’s a subject that can start fights among partisans. I’ve borrowed this and that from hostile parties and over many years of experiment developed a version that brings you a bowlful of Italian splendour in icy times.
First, and most essentially, you need time. Bolognese sauce isn’t fast food. If you’re assuming you can get home late, fry up some minced beef, bung a can of tomato purée on it, let it sit for ten minutes and cook the spag, you might as well go to the sub-standard local Italian after all. Think of the real bolognese as a party of shy ingredients who need careful introducing to each other if they’re going to get happily intimate. You will need forty minutes to an hour to get everything going and at least another hour for the sauce to develop its gorgeousness. If you have a whole afternoon, better still, or if you can cook a big batch and leave it to combine and develop (preferably not in the fridge) overnight, so much the better.
Other than time, here’s what you must have: three different kinds of meat: veal, beef and, in some form or other (minced loin, or sausage or pancetta), a bit of a pig. Some classic recipes insist on hamminess as in pancetta, but it depends on whether you want that cured quality or not. It’s certainly not as essential as the mashed chicken livers which, in a true bolognese sauce (such as Elizabeth David’s on page 323), are really obligatory: they give the dark substance and pungency you’re after. If you have liver-haters in the house, don’t tell them; they won’t notice.
The procedure – which also calls for the cook to drink something happy-making, say a Morellino de Scansano – is always the same. Sauté your odori: onion, garlic, parsley, finely chopped carrot (quite a lot of that), celery (ditto). Then remove them to a bowl while you’re browning the meats; drain some (not all) of the fat; return the meat; add chopped peeled tomatoes and a tablespoon of purée; salt, pepper, oregano, a smidgin of thyme, ditto basil. Sauté the chicken livers separately until just the brown side of pink, mash them up and add to the pot. Then add beef or chicken stock. Bring to a simmer.
Now the second Big Decision faces you – the wine: red or white? Both are actually fine, but they make for a different style of sauce. The red can be aggressive, which works if you are on a two-day bolognese, as it will have time to be fully absorbed by the other ingredients; but, if you’re going to be eating it the same evening, use white and let it just help the meat melt.
About half an hour before serving, grate a little Parmesan cheese into the sauce and let it blend – irrespective of whether you’re going to sprinkle more on the final dish.
Last trick – don’t drown the spag in the sauce. The oily grains should hang on the pasta rather than smother it.
And cook enough to freeze a load. You will be grateful on those long, dark winter nights. Or mornings. I’ve had it for breakfast and, believe me, it will change your whole day. Sometimes I’ve even spooned it down cold. So sue me.
Or try one of these classics:
Marcella Hazan’s version
Serves 4–6
1 tbsp vegetable oil
4 tbsp butter
½ cup chopped onion
⅔ cup chopped celery
⅔ cup chopped carrot
¾ lb ground beef chuck
salt
fresh ground black pepper
1 cup whole milk
whole nutmeg
cup dry white wine
1½ cups canned Italian plum tomatoes, torn into pieces, with juice
1¼–1½ lb pasta (preferably spaghetti), cooked and drained
freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese at the table
Put the oil, three tablespoons of butter and the chopped onion in a heavy 3.3-litre (6-pint) pot and turn the heat to medium. Cook and stir the onion until it has become translucent, then add the chopped celery and carrot. Cook for about two minutes, stirring the vegetables to coat well.
Add the ground beef, a large pinch of salt and a few grindings of pepper. Crumble the meat with a fork, stir well and cook until the beef has lost its raw, red colour.
Add the milk and let simmer gently, stirring frequently, until it has bubbled away completely. Add a tiny grating, about an eighth of a teaspoon, of fresh nutmeg and stir.
Add the wine and let it simmer until it has evaporated. Add the tomatoes and stir thoroughly to coat all the ingredients well. When the tomatoes begin to bubble, turn the heat down so that the sauce cooks at the laziest of simmers, with just an intermittent bubble breaking through the surface. Cook, uncovered, for three hours or more, stirring from time to time. While the sauce is cooking, you are likely to find that it will begin to dry out and the fat will separate from the meat. To keep it from sticking, add half a cup of water as necessary. At the end of cooking, however, the water should be completely evaporated and the fat should separate from the sauce. Taste and correct for salt.
Add the remaining tablespoon of butter to the hot pasta and toss with the sauce. Serve with freshly grated Parmesan on the side.
Elizabeth David’s version
Serves 6
85g uncooked bacon or ham (both fat and lean)
butter
1 onion
1 carrot
1 small piece of celery
225g lean minced beef
115g chicken livers
3 tsp concentrated tomato purée
1 glass white wine
salt and pepper
nutmeg
2 wine glasses meat stock or water
½ a tsp nutmeg, freshly grated if possible
Cut the bacon or ham into very small pieces and brown them gently in a small saucepan in about 15g of butter. Add the onion, the carrot and the celery, all finely chopped. When they have browned, put in the raw minced beef, and then turn it over and over so that it all browns evenly. Add the chopped chicken livers, and after two or three minutes the tomato purée, and then the white wine. Season with salt (taking into account the relative saltiness of the ham or bacon), pepper and a scraping of nutmeg, and add the meat stock or water.
Cover the pan and simmer the sauce very gently for thirty to forty minutes. Some cooks in Bologna add a cupful of cream or milk to the sauce, which makes it smoother. I add a light sprinkle of nutmeg. Another traditional variation is the addition of the ovarine or unlaid eggs which are found inside the hen, especially in the spring when the hens are laying. They are added at the same time as the chicken livers and form small golden globules when the sauce is finished. When the ragù is to be served with spaghetti or tagliatelle, mix it with the hot pasta in a heated dish so that the pasta is thoroughly impregnated with the sauce, and add a generous piece of butter before serving. Hand the grated cheese round separately.