A ragu alla bolognese recipe to provoke passionate conversation

I once sat and listened to the most heated debate about ragù alla bolognese. My Italian was still basic, and a lot of wine had been drunk, so I wasn’t able to keep up with the detail being bounced back and forth across the table between the two main debaters, both from different sides of Bologna, which apparently makes a difference. It was possibly chicken livers, or when to add the cheese. At a certain point, the thing I had been quietly dreading happened and the conversation turned to spaghetti bolognese, and faces turned to me, one of two English people.

Now, I grew up with my mum’s spaghetti bolognese, the same deep red as the waxed cloth on the table, and loved it as much as being able to twirl the strands around my fork, then suck the last strand so hard it flicked sauce up my face. I have also made a pretty traditional ragù for years. I was neither capable or willing to join in the debate though, which felt as if it might tip from jest to ridicule. My face burned. Then, the most opinionated of the lot said something I did understand, about how discussion about food should be as generous, passionate and good as we wish our food to be. Yes, talk about authenticity and difference, but never make people feel ashamed.

This has stayed with me as I continue to learn more about Italian food. A fascinating journey that sometimes has me feeling as if I am pressing my nose up against a misted-up window pane trying to understand what the hell is going on inside. Nonetheless, I think the debate is wonderful. Jane Grigson was spot on when she said that food, its quality, its origins, its preparation, is something, the best thing maybe – to be studied and thought about. And this means the whole damn lot, tracing dishes back as far as you can (which can be no mean feat when recipes become stories and vary from stove to stove), but also observing variations as dishes cross continents, changing shape and significance as they go.

With this in mind, I have found it fascinating to learn more about traditional ragù alla bolognese. (That’s not to say that I don’t have my own variations, some with their roots in Hertfordshire in 1981, waxed cloth and The Human League’s Don’t You Want Me topping the charts, but more about that another time.) Not to be confused with the Neapolitan version, ragù alla bolognese originates in Bologna, the capital of Emilia Romagna which sits two thirds of the way up the boot. It begins with a battuto – which describes the action of striking (battere) – of onion, celery, carrot and cured pork, which you then cook in the fat of the north: butter. Traditionally, there is no garlic and the meat is beef, maybe pork, possibly chicken liver. The wine can be red or white, depending on your preference, or the bottle open, and the suggestion of tomato lent by concentrate dissolved in water or stock. The finish is milk, which may sound odd, but is gorgeous, softening the edges and making the whole thing rounded and very delicious. Nothing complicated, but care and attention are needed to get to this point.

Now, very little attention is needed, as you leave the pan to quietly blip and burp at the back of the stove, feeding it with drips of milk from time to time. The final panful should be dark, but slightly blushing and visibly rich. Initially, I found the appearance and consistency of ragù disconcerting, almost crumbly. The consistency is why ribbons of egg pasta, such as tagliatelle or fettuccine, are just the thing, and why it is important to add parmesan, and the vital slosh of starchy pasta cooking water to weld everything together. When you are ready, serve and invite passionate, generous discussions, fueled by the rest of the bottle of wine, or two.

Ragu alla bolognese

Serves 4–6
40g butter
3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
1 carrot, finely chopped
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
50g pancetta or unsmoked bacon, diced
1 bay leaf
200g minced beef
200g minced pork
50g chicken livers (optional)
200ml red or white wine
1 tbsp tomato puree dissolved in 150ml warm water or chicken stock
Salt and black pepper
150ml whole milk
500g fettuccine, tagliatelle or pappardelle
6 tbsp freshly grated parmesan

1 In a large, heavy-based saucepan or deep saute pan with a lid, heat the butter and olive oil, add the vegetables, pancetta and bay leaves and cook over a low heat until soft and fragrant.

2 Increase the heat slightly and crumble the meat into the pan. Cook, stirring pretty continuously, until the meat has lost all of it’s colour and browned evenly. Add the wine, let it evaporate for a couple of minutes, then add the tomato. Simmer, uncovered, over a low heat for 30 minutes, by which time the sauce should have deepened in colour and have very little liquid. Add a good pinch of salt, lots of black pepper and a little of the milk. Cook slowly, covered, for another hour, every so often lifting the lid and adding the milk until it is used up. The sauce should be rich, and thick, with very little liquid, but not dry, so keep an eye on it.

3 Warm a serving bowl. Cook the pasta in plenty of well-salted water until al dente. Drain the pasta, reserving some of the pasta cooking water, and tip into the warm bowl. Sprinkle over half the cheese, the sauce, a little of a pasta cooking water and toss carefully, lifting the pasta from below with two spoons, If it seems a little dry, cautiously add more pasta cooking water, toss again and serve, passing round the rest of the grated parmesan.

Rachel Roddy is a Rome-based food blogger and author of Five Quarters, winner of the 2015 André Simon food book award