Italian

Bruschetta is toast. Usually with olive oil. Often grilled. But no more than that—or not much more. You need coarse, crusty bread; the preceding recipe will give you the kind you want, but any peasant bread will do. The amount of garlic you use is up to you. You might split a single clove and rub it on the slices of bread after they’re toasted; or you might mash a few cloves and smear them on, which is obviously stronger.

In southern Italy, where the flatbread called pizza originated, it was traditionally kept very, very simple, topped with as little as salt, olive oil, and rosemary or a few tomato slices and a bit of fresh mozzarella. Now, of course, you see American-style pizzas on the streets of Rome. The recipes here, then, are a bit of a throwback—very simple and very real. Even simpler if you use a food processor; you can knead the dough by hand, of course, if that’s your preference, but the machine is far easier and more efficient and, in fact, does a better job, at least for most of us. Be sure to see the recipes for Pissaladière (page 45) and Tarte Flambé (page 44), both of which are based on this dough.

In many southern Italian homes, this is daily bread, the closest thing to the prototypical pizza. I vividly remember the first time I tasted it (in Rome)—it blew my mind. Please try it. Not only is it delicious, but it’s the launching pad for making any other pizza you like (see the variations for a couple of ideas). For this to be most successful, your oven should be equipped with a pizza stone, and you should make the dough directly on a peel. However, it’s almost as good on a baking sheet, and I give directions for both.

What’s different about this pizza is the inclusion of semolina flour in the crust and bread crumbs on the top, which makes the pie slightly crunchy. Nevertheless, the large quantity of onions (consider using a food processor to slice them) produces a distinctively sweet pizza. This is a large recipe; you can halve it or make it for a party.

In Piedmont, the home of grissini, these best-of-all breadsticks are scattered on restaurant tables, unpackaged, waiting for someone to sit down and start the inevitable and irresistible munching. They’re usually quite thin, irregular in shape, and very crisp, with a faint sweetness. You can make these stirato, or straight, by following the directions here. Or make them rubata—hand-rolled and irregular—by just rolling the strips of dough after you’ve cut them to make them even thinner. Sprinkle these with toasted sesame seeds, poppy seeds, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, or sea salt before baking if you like, though it’s rarely done in their homeland.

This is why people want to move to Italy: you can buy raw fresh artichoke hearts already trimmed (occasionally you can find these in this country’s best markets too, especially in California), and layer them with the best Parmesan and olive oil. The cheese and artichoke have some kind of symbiotic magic going on, making the whole far greater than the sum of its parts. Fantastic.

You might think Caesar Salad is American, but legend has it that it was invented in Tijuana in the 1920s by an Italian named Caesar Cardini, who originally called it “aviator’s salad” because so many of the U.S. Air Force pilots based in San Diego loved it. In any case, the secret to a great Caesar salad is making sure everything is as fresh as you can get it—this includes the eggs and lettuce—and the best quality possible: freshly grated (and real) Parmesan and good anchovies, packed in either salt or olive oil.

It’s no secret that people eat leftover pasta, but this is a time-honored way to turn it into something else. It’s so good that you might find yourself cooking extra pasta just so you have an excuse to make this. As with any other frittata, you can add what you like here. It might be a bit of pancetta or bacon, but it can also be a bit of cooked vegetable or something as simple as minced scallion or parsley.

A dish I learned from my good friend Andrea, who is originally from Rome but has collected unusual pasta dishes from all over Italy. This is clearly a peasant dish, but the presence of sausage, butter, and cream makes it special enough for guests. Use well-seasoned “Italian” sausage; it can be hot if you like. That made without casing—in patties or bulk—will save you a step.

This is a dark pasta sauce served in much of Italy, made with stewed, shredded meat. I like to make it with duck legs, though you could use rabbit, pork—cut from the ribs or shoulder—or even the dark meat of a good chicken (hardest to find). The meat must first be braised in red wine or, even simpler, cooked in its own fat as I do here. That’s the only time-consuming part of the process, and it may be done a day or more in advance. (Refrigerate both meat and juices if you complete this step more than an hour or two before proceeding.) Sharp pecorino Romano is a better choice of cheese than Parmesan here, though chopped parsley also makes a good garnish.

A deliciously strong pasta dish, taught to me (as were so many others) by my friend Andrea. See page 546 for information on guanciale. Frankly, I can barely write this recipe without rushing off to the stove.

One of those wonderful from-the-pantry pasta dishes that can be prepared in the time it takes to boil the water and cook the pasta. Canned tuna is not only acceptable but necessary; but the ideal tuna here would be that taken from the tuna’s belly, the fattiest part, and cured (preferably by your Sicilian grandmother) in great olive oil. Assuming you don’t have that, buy tuna packed in olive oil from Italy or Spain. (In a serious specialty store, you might find belly tuna—probably labeled ventresca—packed in olive oil. It’s dynamite.) What you’re looking for is dark, soft meat that will flake nicely and add its rich flavor to the sauce.

If you love octopus, this dish will satisfy your cravings. Just be sure to allow enough time for the octopus to become fully tender. (You can also use squid, which will cook much more quickly.) This dish employs the unusual but excellent technique of completing the cooking of the pasta in its sauce, something done throughout Italy.

Fresh porcini make the base of an incredible pasta sauce but cost at least twenty dollars a pound, if and when you can find them. Portobellos, which are cultivated, not wild, are sold at every supermarket every day at prices ranging from four to ten dollars a pound, and they’re consistent in quality. And if you cook them slowly in oil, adding a few reconstituted dried porcini as they cook—a technique popularized by Marcella Hazan—the results are wonderful. This mushroom topping is also great with nice, soft polenta (page 529).

There are several types of pasta sauce based on walnuts in northern Italy, including the one on page 550; this is among my favorites. It also happens to be the easiest. If you like, you could throw in a tablespoon of capers, too.

This is a simple preparation that can serve as a side dish or main course (add some cooked sausage if you like) and can be made with any dark green, from spinach to collards to turnip or mustard greens. It needs no cheese.

Cabbage, when it begins to break down, becomes quite creamy, and that’s what makes this dish somewhat unusual. This will be stronger tasting if you use plenty of black and red pepper, olive oil, and pecorino or quite mild if you start with butter, reducing the black pepper, eliminating the red, and finishing with pecorino. You can also make it far more substantial; see the variation.

The sweet, familiar combination of pine nuts and currants offsets the mild anise bitterness of fresh fennel here. Omit the pasta from this Sicilian sauce and you’ll have a good vegetable dish. If you can find the herb fennel (those living in southern California can find it wild, and many gardeners use it as an ornamental), use a few of the feathery parts of its stalks in place of the tops of the bulb. If you cannot, add the fennel seeds for stronger flavor.

True pansotti are stuffed, with a mixture like this, but I rarely feel like filling pasta, and this way it makes a very fast meal and tastes just as good (it tastes even better with fresh pasta, page 541). Like Tarator or Skordalia (page 600), a terrific use of nuts as sauce.

Diced onions mix well with fusilli and penne, so those are the pasta shapes most often used here, but you can use spaghetti if you prefer. Best with Spanish onions (the large yellow ones); add a handful of black olives if you like, too.