Pasta puttanesca

They say this dish’s origins lie in the workplace of that oldest of professions. (Funny that the oldest profession would be a woman’s, no?) Some say it was prepared by working ladies in between engagements, when time was scarce and shopping infeasible. Others say it was prepared by those same working ladies to lure potential patrons. They all seem to say that it is quintessentially, anciently Italian. My copy of The Silver Spoon—touted as Italy’s classic, its Joy of Cooking—makes no mention of the dish at all.

Perhaps this is because The Silver Spoon was first published in 1950, and apparently the dish did not take hold until the 1960s. There have been many editions since 1950, however, and though my English translation of the book dates all the way back to 2005, you’d think that forty-some years would be enough time for us Anglos to catch up on these things. I don’t really know, or particularly care. But you should not use the first two syllables of the sauce’s name to refer to any lady, working or otherwise. And whatever their origins, the myths do account for the dish’s virtues. Cooking between engagements means the thing goes fast. Talk of luring patrons means that it is highly aromatic. It’s made from ingredients you should have in your pantry anyway, and even if you don’t work nights, the dish is very good.

A few notes on the ingredients: I like to use whole wheat spaghetti for this. The sauce is punchy, and whole wheat stands up nicely to its spice and brine. For the shape, a noodle such as linguine, fettucine, or spaghetti is preferable. Dried and fresh pasta take different kinds of sauces. This sauce is for the former. If possible, the tomatoes used should be San Marzano. They may be crushed or whole. The olives are often black, but since you are raiding your own pantry tonight, you should use whatever that pantry has on offer.

And on my particular preparation: Given the health benefits of tomatoes, I like to use more sauce than the proverbial Italian grandmother would recommend. I don’t have an Italian grandmother, and am accordingly unconcerned about the blasphemous nature of my preferences. You’ll see in the photo above that I grated on some cheese. This may be blasphemous too, but even Italian grandmothers can’t be omnipresent. The sauce will generously coat ¾ lb of pasta, so you should have some leftover. Keep it in the freezer for a night when you can’t be bothered to use your can opener.

Spaghetti puttanesca

½ lb pasta  |  2 T olive oil  |  2 anchovy filets  |  big pinch chile flakes  |  2-3 fat cloves garlic, chopped  |  1 28 oz can tomatoes  |  ½ cup olives, pitted  |  3 T capers  |  kosher salt and freshly ground pepper  |  small handful parsley,  chopped, optional  |  small grating Parmesan cheese, optional

Put a pot of water on to boil.

Heat another pan over medium heat. Add the olive oil. Rinse the anchovy filets (You can do this with milk if you feel like that Italian grandmother is watching.) and toss them into the hot oil along with the chile flakes and garlic. Stir from time to time, and smoosh up the anchovy a bit. After 2-3 minutes, when the garlic is blonde, add the tomatoes, olives, and capers. Stand back as the oil and garlic will sputter. Turn up the heat. When it is simmering, cover partially and turn the heat back down. (It should still simmer.)

By now the water should be boiling. Salt it heavily, and add the spaghetti. Stir once or twice. When the pasta is a minute shy of done, use a mug to dip out some of the cooking water. Then drain and put back in the hot pot. Add as much of the sauce as you would like and stir well. Add a bit of the pasta water to loosen the mixture as necessary. Taste and add salt or pepper if you like, then throw in the parsley or grate the cheese, and serve.

Serves 2