In Search Of Pasta’s Past

by Hugh Dessereau

Contrary to popular belief , Italians did not invent pasta. The history books claim that pasta is the culinary child not of one, but of many, countries. It is possible that sometime in the last 5,000 years, the Chinese – or their neighbors the Japanese – may have invented pasta. And, much later, the Nudel-eating countries of Europe, more particularly Germany, may have produced a Western counterpart.

Macaroni is mentioned in Boccaccio’s Decameron, at the beginning of the fourteenth century. In it, the Florentine writer describes the imaginary land of Bengodi, “Enjoy-yourself-well,” where cooks stand on mounds of Parmesan cheese and ladle macaroni and ravioli into pots of capon broth. One may not have mounds of Parmesan to stand on, but there should be mounds of Parmesan to sprinkle on the ravioli. Feast on!

Historically, the earliest authentic reference to macaroni, and hence to pasta, appears in an eighth-century version of the works of Hesychius, a Greek lexicographer, in which a food called makaria, “blessed things” or “food of the blessed,” is described as a dish made of dough and served with a sauce.

There is probably as much fiction as fact regarding the accuracy of the legends about the origins of pasta. The scholars of the pasta myth may one day abandon their heated discussions and give the appropriate countries their due. There can be little doubt though that Italy deserves credit for having done the most for it. No matter, Italy today is the undisputed champion of culinary pasta delights.

It took ingenious curiosity and courage to develop a crude mess of flour, egg, and water into supernal pasta. And, these qualities the Renaissance man – Italian peasant or prince – had in full measure. He must have felt that “what doesn’t kill you fattens you.”

Accordingly, he took the hard, glutinous wheat that southern Italy produces so abundantly, milled it, mixed it with water, and dried it in extravagant shapes and forms of translucent amber.

However, unlike his peers in centuries past, he could not leave well enough alone and proceeded to complicate pasta by stuffing it. He literally put all of Italy into his pasta; the tomato, that the seafaring Spaniards had brought to Italy, the prosciutto of Bologna and the North, the onions and bacon of the Roman countryside, the meats of Puglia, the fresh cheeses and hot sausages of Calabria, and the succulent fish of the Tyrrhenian coast.

No monument in Rome exalts this enlightened making and mixing, but succeeding generations have given pasta an imperishable place in the national life by bringing it to table at least once a day. And, many Italians dispense altogether with antipasto (before the pasta) and begin the meal and comradship with friends and family with pasta.

This is the mealtime order in the South – in Naples and Sicily – the region of pasta-lovers, but not necessarily that in the North, where rice-lovers predominate, or in the Center, where soup-lovers hold forth. The Italians are probably far wiser and more economical than we in their use of pasta, for, with creditable logic, they seldom serve pasta as a main course. It is intended, and succeeds in its intention far better than antipasto, to take a considerable edge off the diner’s hunger thus inclining one to be a bit lenient toward the consumption of vast quantities of meat. A good thing, I think.

The first step in cooking pasta is as simple as boiling water. As a matter of fact, this is just what it is, but for some reason this has caused the downfall of many an aspiring cook. Pasta, whether the “moist,” freshly made, or the packaged dry variety, should be cooked in a pot large enough to give it room to move about.

Lower the pasta into briskly boiling salted water, a little at a time, so that the long or curly strands or the crimped layers of filled pasta do not break. The water should continue boiling while the pasta cooks.

The connoisseur believes that the peak of pasta perfection is the el dente stage, when the glutinous morsels are tender, yet just a bit resistant to the tooth. Once the pasta is well-drained, it is ready to be liberally sauced.

Stuffed pasta can be as elaborate as the concoction of the nineteenth-century Italian composer Rossini, who, with a syringe, filled the holes of macaroni tubes with beef marrow, and then cooked them with foie gras, filets of game, and truffles. Autres temps, autres moeurs. Lasagne, al magro and al grasso, involves half the effort, none of the hassle, and tastes twice as good.

Making your own pasta is as simple as 1-2-3. You don’t even need a bowl; you can use what chefs call, “the well method.” Let me explain.

For every serving, put 1 cup of flour on your work surface. Then create a well in the center creating a circular wall of flour. Into the center crack one egg for every cup of flour used and beat it with a fork. Add a touch of water, and mix it again. Then, working out from the center, begin to incorporate the wet ingredients into the flour with the same fork until a dough is formed.

Don’t overwork the dough, but knead in enough to get the glutin working. Finally, take your dough and roll it out to within 1/8-inch thick. Fold it over and roll it out again and even a third or fourth time. You can use a rolling pin or a pasta maker (manual or electric) for this step. The final step it to cut the pasta into the desired shapes.

Classic pasta based recipes will be posted to Cooksalot.com in future weeks. These recipes have been around for a very long time, and they’re just as delicious now as they were in days long gone.

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