Serving the Italian staple al dente is a relatively recent development, but a little restraint at the hob makes it so much more satisfying
In June, I returned from a week in the south of Italy, during which (do not judge me) I ate pasta every single day, with an indomitable urge henceforth to err on the side of extreme caution when cooking it myself; to serve my orecchiette and cavatelli as I found them in Lecce and Matera, which is to say: on the chewy side. Since then, I’ve knocked a minute, at least, off all my old times, and the result is bravissimo. Restraint at the hob results not only in pasta that’s better to eat (a good thing in its own right as well as vehicle for sauce). It’s so much more satisfying. I find that I want less of it, which aids both the backside and the budget.
Pasta is really coming into its own now, isn’t it? The prospect of the winter ahead is frightening, if not downright terrifying, and pasta is comforting and filling, relatively inexpensive and almost infinitely versatile. In the wakeful small hours, when my brain is humming, I often think of it: a shape, a sauce, a bowl. Regular readers of this column will know that I’ve a thing for the American food writer Jeffrey Steingarten, and once I’ve dealt with supper (right now, penne with garlic, chilli and courgette seems like a plan), I inevitably start fantasising about the sugo d’arrosto he describes in The Man Who Ate Everything– a Piedmontese sauce whose traditional ingredient, beef dripping, he substitutes (of course he does) with a delicate homemade stock. It’s a fantasy because, given the price of gas, no one is going to want to cook anything for two hours this autumn. Two minutes will seem sinful and decadent.
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