I sometimes daydream. It is true. My catatonic stare into a deep space can take minutes to travel through. Blink. I have to shake myself out of it. Blink. I may have been to paradise. Dazzling sun. White powder sand beaches and seas so brilliant an aquamarine blue it hurt the eyes. Blink. Et in Arcadia ego. The words resonate in this particular paradise where amongst all the beauty, I saw a murder. Blink. I focus. The brilliant sunshine, its strong rays on my face from beyond the kitchen window, has caused this revery.
My dish comes from a Mediterranean island, the subject of my daydreaming, whose Italian dialect gives a nod to the meal´s origins. Beaches usually found in dreams contrast with wind and rain hewn course granite mountains. Isolated villages nestle amongst the low fragrant course shrubland and high forests. The home of bandits. The land of Napoleon. But you guessed already? Of Corse.
I have sausage. Not the figatellu that is traditional. I cannot find it. I am using luganega sausage, its northern Italian equivalent. They are skinned. The meat placed in a bowl. The kitchen is filled with the aroma of fennel and garlic. It is strong. As intense as a pine perfumed sauna. Fennel and garlic would be my kind of sauna smell. A twinning of summer´s scents.
A large carrot. Peeled and fine diced into the smallest of cubes. I have shed layers of onion, sawn, sliced and chopped it into a similar size. And practically shaved the celery strips to join them. I have resisted garlic given the pungency of my sausages. My knife, my closest friend in the kitchen, making easy work of this sofrito.
Oil. Olive green and smelling of grass and pepper, it shimmers in the pan. I add the vegetables. The sizzling and spitting louder than a chorus of blackbirds. I turn the gas down, shower it with salt and toss the pan, flicking the vegetables over. Coating them in oil like a sunbather on the beach. I wait for the crunchy to become supple and translucent.
There are a couple of parcels on the counter. It is not my birthday. I unfurl them to reveal two types of mince: pork and beef in wax lined paper. I turn up the heat, shake and riddle the frying pan to even out the mix before sprinkling in the mince to loosen the clumps. My right hand performs this task more efficiently than the left. Ambidextrousness is not my forte. Two flat topped salad spoons help mix the meat and vegetables. Help cook the mince quickly and evenly. My belly distended to hold the pan in place. To stop it sliding from the hob surface.
A good squeeze. A big squeeze of tomato paste. Turning the sauce bloody in colour. I loosen it up with a coarse red wine, a tannic teeth, jaw clenching brew. Two laurels. Some pepper and then top the ragu with chicken stock. I put on a lid. Turn down the heat and walk on to the next part of this project.
The flour, piled on the surface, holed in the centre, holds eggs. Two fingers fork-like stir. Breaking the yolks. Drawing in the flour and creating, first, rags then a more dough like mound. I knead the dough for the final part wrapping it up, placing it in the fridge to let the proteins stretch. To settle. I check on my ragu. A quick stir to ensure that it does not stick.
This is a traditional dish. My machine, my Bugatti of a pasta roller, stays dusty underneath the counter. No handle turning here. No pushing through the pasta, like clothes in a mangle. Instead, I weald a marble rolling pin. Heavy and cold. A murderous weapon in the wrong hands. I flour the surface and unwrap the pasta, readying myself for the hardest part of the dish.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Holding both ends, I slam the marble rolling pin down onto the dough. One turn. Bang. Bang. Bang. I repeat this process until the pasta dough gets into shape. Squaring it. The marble weighted roller now moves forward one way. I turn the dough again. Another roll. Then the other way. Scattering the flour to prevent it sticking. The marble, cool in this hot weather, thins out the pasta. I am forming a rectangle. More rolling in one direction than the other. No rolling inwards, always away. More control. A rough sheet spreads out on the work surface in front of me. Virtually see through, I carefully lift it up and hang it over the back of a chair to dry out a little. To become slightly sandy to the touch. I am exhausted. No wonder the local women have bigger arms than me. I gulp water to help cool myself down.
The ragu quietly bubbles on a hob corner. Another stir. No sticking. No licking. I strain to take a gratin dish from a cupboard shelf. An awkward angle. I did not put it there. It is deep and rectangular and will hold the meal I am making quite happily. It is also heavy cast iron. It will help with the baking of the meal. With my two forefingers and thumb I pinch a large knob of butter from a glass dish. An heirloom of sorts. A domed ridged lid and a base with a cow image that slowly emerges as the butter diminishes in size indicates an age that predates me. I generously smear the butter all over the inside of the gratin dish. Every inch. The corners. Base. Sides. No ungreased patches. My greasy fingers empty.
I return to the pasta sheet. I lay it out on the still floured surface width ways. With my knife, still my closest friend, I have not cut myself, I slice the edges to make neat the ends. The sausage meat squeezed and squelched between my fingers. Smoothed. I start to spread the aromatic meat over the sheet of pasta. Easing and persuading it. Flattening it. Trying not to tear the pasta underneath. It is a quilt of colour.
Taking the end nearest to me I flip up the pasta and roll it over the meat. Tightly. Evenly. Rolling over itself a couple of times. A spiral of speckled pink contrasting with the pale yellow of the pasta. Working from the right, I take the knife and slice the roll into discs an inch thick. Setting each one just behind on the surface. Moving slowly down towards the left end. The sharpness of the blade preventing me crushing the delicate discs.
Bechamel. Milk. Flour. Butter. It does not seem very appealing, but that almost flavourless combination is a clean canvas for broad brushstrokes of flavours. It becomes a glossy sauce that enriches a dish. My two pans, one empty, one full, await my artistry. The full one is scalded milk. Heated milk. Small bubbles in the milk at the sides of the pan give evidence that it is the right temperature. I pinch more butter from the antique dish and place it in the empty pan. It melts to the point of sizzling before I heap some in some flour from a dented metal serving spoon. I am eyeballing this; you may have noticed. With a whisk I stir it around until the flour tints a little. Then slowly I ladle some of the hot milk into the pan. The hiss is satisfyingly loud. I start beating the contents. The first ladle splits the floury mix. The next pulls it together. The following one starts to reveal the makings of the sauce. I pour the rest of the milk in and stir. Watching it slowly thicken as it starts to bubble. It only takes a few minutes for the consistency to be just right. I generously pepper it. My pepper mill, wood, comedy sized, almost stealing the moment. I do not want any other flavours to diminish the ragu and sausages. I did not say it would be entirely authentic.
I take a spoon of the bechamel, pouring it into the bottom of the gratin dish. Spreading it out until the base is covered with the finest of layers of silky white sauce. With the utmost care, I place the cut discs of sausage and pasta onto it. Flat side up. One by one. Side by side. They are a tight fit. Why there is always one left I will never know. Odd numbered slicing means even numbered slices.
The ragu has reduced. Thickened. Intensified. The aroma: meaty sour, tomato sweet. It moves idly as I tilt the Dutch oven. I pour the contents over the discs with a ladle. Covering the discs individually. One ladle per disc. The bechamel, the remainder, slowly pours out from the pan, my spatula encouraging it, ushering it from the pan, the contents spread in waves that need to be tamed. I ease and flatten the white sauce with the spatula´s edge. The dish is almost full. Almost complete.
I draw out my grater. A wide surfaced, handheld kitchen tool. From the fridge, foil wrapped, waxed paper wrapped, I bring out the Parmigiano Reggiano. Another Italian substitute. Tool left, cheese right. Or vice versa. I start to rub. The two Cha-cha-cha over the bechamel, shedding flakes and flakes of salty, nutty flavour. Their dance could go on and on, but my arms are getting sore and there was never any music. Once again, I pinch some butter. Two fingers and thumb. Smaller knobs. Pinch. Scatter. Pinch. Scatter. Some pepper from the comedic mill and it is ready to bake in the oven.
Time has passed as I remove the dish from the oven, setting it aside to rest. The bubbling browned cheese and bechamel sauce too volcanic to dive straight in. I let the room fill with the aromas of hearty cooking. The garlic pungency from the sausage almost undiminished. I roughly tear some leaves from a lettuce, dropping them into a bowl. Their pale green stalks and red tips giving colour to what would otherwise be a dull side dish. In a small jar I pour some white wine vinegar, mixing it with a little salt. I make a swirling motion to dissolve the crystals before adding oil. Grassy, peppery oil. Lid on I shake vigorously. Three. Four. Five shakes. Lid off. I run the vinaigrette over the lettuce. Just coating it. Covering it. Not drowning it. Tossing it through with my fingers. The acidity will cut through any richness.
My plate, warmed, sits beside the gratin dish. With a fish slice I make cuts into the crusty surface. Plunging it down through the sauce, through the ragu, to catch a coin or two. The pasta coins buried treasure under the weighty richness of the rest of the dish. A secret cache to be discovered in the first bite. A meal supposedly based on the discovery of roman treasure. I suspect that there are as many legends as there are variations to this island´s version of the Italian dish: dollari. I cautiously lift out a portion and seat it on the plate. I watch the contents spread out slowly. Fill the plate. I wait for the steam to dissipate. To cool further. I pour a glass of wine, chilled and rose coloured, and stare at the horizon as the sun starts to disappear. Memories take me to the warm summer nights in Porto Vecchio, the time when I first tasted this meal. It is true. I sometimes daydream.
Bang for your Buck
Anything that celebrates ragu is something I celebrate!
You must come over and make thus for me. I'll find a Corsican wine to go with it: salute! 🍷