Italian

If you can’t find pizzocheri, a buckwheat pasta cut like fettuccine, you have two choices: make it yourself (page 542) or substitute any fettuccinelike pasta. If you can’t find Taleggio (already a compromise, because when I had this dish it was made with a local Alpine cheese whose name exists only in dialect), use fontina (real fontina, if you can find it, from the Valle d’Aosta), or another fairly strong but not too hard or harsh cheese.

A Ligurian specialty, usually made with “stamped” pasta—pasta that is rolled out and then cut with dies in special designs. You can use any cut pasta for this, though perhaps it’s best with fresh pasta like malfatti (page 542). If you have Tapenade (page 604), simply stir it into any tomato sauce to get the same effect.

A fast, classic pasta sauce popular not only in Rome but throughout central and southern Italy. Arrabbiata means “angry,” and this sauce should be not only spicy but also strong, with the taste of garlic that has been browned, not just colored—as well as a good dose of chile.

Another classic, this one Roman, that simply cannot be omitted; to do so would be a huge disservice to beginners. This is a great snack, late-night meal, or starter. For variety, toss in a couple of tablespoons of toasted fresh bread crumbs (page 580) or start with a few anchovy fillets along with the garlic and chile.

I featured this little group of recipes in my New York Times column and in The Minimalist Cooks Dinner, but it’s so instructive, important, and wonderful that I felt it belonged here as well. All (well, almost all) the variations begin with bits of cured meat cooked until crisp, around which are built a number of different sauces of increasing complexity. Most people insist that the “genuine” meat for these recipes is pancetta—salted, cured, and rolled pork belly. Pancetta is available at almost any decent Italian deli and at many specialty stores, but you can use bacon (or even better, if you can find it, guanciale, which is cured pig’s jowl; see the back of the book for mail-order sources). Pecorino Romano is the cheese of choice here, but Parmesan is also good.

These are hand-rolled spaghetti from Tuscany; they’re thick, like bucatini, but have no holes. They must be boiled right away, or they will stick together. I think this is a fine project for a rainy afternoon with a ten- or twelve-year-old who likes to cook. If you’re not in the mood, simply make spaghetti and follow the directions for this wonderful and simple sauce. This—as you’ll quickly gather—is poor people’s food, a rather meager dish. This does not prevent it from being delicious, which it is, but you might want to follow it with a meat or fish course and vegetables.

A classic ravioli filling. Top with any tomato sauce.

Every traveler to Italy’s countryside tells stories about elderly couples seen out on the hillsides scavenging for greens. One of the things they do with the greens is fill pasta. One of my favorite quotes about ravioli was from a friend: “The older my grandmother gets, the bigger her ravioli.” If you’re unskilled, start with big ones; you will be far more successful. Remember that in Italy there have long been people—women, it’s safe to guess—who specialize in handmade pasta; it is a skill and an art, and unless you practice frequently, you’re not likely to get good at it. But it can be fun, and you can always choose to make cannelloni; see page 545.

This is a very rich pasta dough, as made in Emilia-Romagna. My feeling is if you’re taking the trouble to make fresh pasta, it ought to be sensational. This recipe meets that qualification. If this is the first time you’ve made fresh pasta, allow extra time; the rolling process takes some getting used to. But the dough is very sturdy and can be worked over and over, so eventually you’ll get it right. And, believe me, it will be easier each time you do it.

Here, meatballs—usually called polpette, at least in Rome—are made with a load of fresh Parmesan, lightened with parsley, and served in a delicious broth, with just a bit of pasta. It’s filling soup but not overwhelming. Although you can assemble many of its components in advance—the meatballs, pasta, carrots—it’s best to do the actual cooking at the last minute. This soup will lose its light texture if allowed to sit with the meatballs and pasta in it for too long.

Given all the fuss that has been made about the difficulty of producing the real thing, I wouldn’t blame you if you bought “instant” polenta. But polenta—and its identical Romanian cousin, mamaliga—is basically cornmeal mush, ethereal when made correctly and hardly neurosurgery. First off, forget about stirring clockwise for 40 minutes with a long-handled wooden spoon or any of the other myths you’ve heard about how it has to be made. If you want great creamy polenta, cook the cornmeal very slowly and add as much butter as you can in good conscience. Second, this is a case where Parmigiano-Reggiano, the real Parmesan, will shine. Finally, note that the amount of water you use is variable: use 5 cups if you want to make very firm polenta that you can later grill or sauté; use more water if you want smooth, soft polenta, into which you will stir cheese and serve as a simple side dish or perhaps with a little tomato sauce. The following recipe is based on one food writer Mitchell Davis learned from the chef at Cibreo in Florence, Italy. You could, of course, omit one or all of the herbs if you didn’t have them on hand. With herbs or without, this polenta is great with any Italian roast or braised dish or with simply grilled Italian sausage.

From the land of risotto comes yet another rich, full-flavored (but far simpler) rice preparation; butter is nearly essential here. With thanks to the great food writer John Thorne (see his Simple Cooking Web site, www.outlawcook.com), who first made me aware of the existence of this Lombardian dish.

In all but the best restaurants, risotto is abused—cooked in advance, baked, and who knows what else—so if you have never made risotto at home, you are in for a treat. It takes a little patience and a little practice, but it is not a difficult process at all. True risotto alla Milanese contains—indeed, features—bone marrow, but don’t be discouraged if you cannot (or will not) deal with that. Risotto is wonderful without it, and prosciutto makes an adequate substitute. What you do need are Arborio rice (now sold everywhere, but still best purchased in Italian markets), real saffron, and, ideally, good, homemade stock. (Having said that, see my “bare-bones” variation.) I might add this: After years of trying every possible technique to make my risotto as creamy as the best I’d ever had, I realized that the “secret” was large quantities of butter. Don’t hold back unless you must.

Throughout the northern Mediterranean littoral, chestnuts not only grow on trees; they fall to the ground each autumn and are, for many people, a free crop. (They once did the same on this continent, but a blight wiped them out.) The first fall I visited northern Italy, I saw them drop and realized there were more than anyone could possibly eat. As a result, they are used in a much wider array of dishes there than they are here. This is a rich soup, one that can be made in a matter of minutes with cooked, frozen, or even canned chestnuts, and the results are inevitably good. Add a little splash of port just before serving to give this a bit of a kick.

There are as many versions of pancotta—cooked bread—as there are towns in Italy (and, it seems sometimes, Italian Americans); so feel free to improvise. Some versions are quite dry, some incorporate cooked white beans, and some are run under the broiler just before serving, just to give you a few ideas. This is the perfect way to use leftover bread, though you can also make it with fresh bread.

This is one of those soups that contain so few ingredients that it’s really best to use good stock as opposed to canned broth. (On the other hand, the broth should not be too strong, or it will overwhelm the delicate, fresh pasta.) If you already have fresh pasta dough prepared for another dish, you can substitute it for the passatelli, but this stuff is worth making for its own sake—and easy.

This is an unusual soup, with flavors that may mystify but undoubtedly will please your guests. It’s often served cold—and called a gazpacho—but I like it equally well hot.

This improvement on the American Chinese restaurant classic has one thing in common with egg-drop soup: when properly made, the egg looks like delicate flowers. While many versions of this soup are thickened with cornstarch, I think the egg thickens the broth sufficiently. Like the Chicken and Watercress Soup on page 140, this has an Italian relative; see the variation. Any of these soups can be made more substantial by adding some shredded leftover chicken—or diced raw chicken, added while the stock is heating; don’t add the egg until the chicken is just about cooked.

Obviously not a sauce for everyone. But in Liguria, where it seems people eat anchovies daily, it’s popular. An incredibly easy sauce to spice up grilled chicken or fish—swordfish, for example—whether hot or cold.

I love this over pasta, but it’s also good used as you would salsa, hot or cold: over grilled or poached fish, meat, or poultry, or even as a dip. Be sure, one day, to try the Spanish version (page 606).