Let the meatballs rest. That’s the advice that seems to be agreed upon. Beyond that, freedom reigns: the type of meat, the inclusion of bread, eggs, herbs and seasonings. Everybody knows how to make meatballs their way, and our experience, preferences and secrets are kneaded into the mixture, then rolled between our palms. Matters of size; whether you flatten them into UFOs or lengthen them into submarines; to fry or not to fry? And do you serve them with sauce, or not? Some people feel strongly about meatballs, while others – like my Italian family – just shrug and tell you that nonna’s were second to none, which is surely just another way of saying there is no taste like home. My own recipe is partly inherited, partly practice.
I wasn’t meant to write about meatballs today. I was going to write about semolina gnocchi. Which is why on Wednesday we went to il Piccolo Alpino, a small, traditional trattoria on the far side of Testaccio. It is an old haunt of my partner Vincenzo, and a favourite of several friends. The thing is, every time I have tried to visit, I’ve found it closed. On Wednesday the shutters were up, door open, and inside the TV was beaming out a lunchtime cookery programme. The handful of tables were unlaid though, and no one around. “Buon giorno?” Nothing. Then a rattle from the kitchen. “Buon giornoooo” – at which a man in checked chef’s pants came out. Yes, they were open, but there was no point looking at the menu, because it was the first day back after two days closed and he had only just got cooking. No gnocchi, but he had just grilled aubergines and made polpette (meatballs) and of course he could make us a plate of pasta. We sat down.
The grilled aubergine came with slices of mozzarella – good stuff, milky and sweet; and basil leaves – a remarkable combination. Then, as Vincenzo ate his generous plate of pasta, I had three big, fat meatballs in a pool of tomato sauce. Like the trattoria itself they were ordinary and absolutely good, plump and so tender that only the edge of the fork was required, the sauce rich and right for scooping. Yes! As we ate the man moved in and out of the kitchen, his wife arrived with bread, and the TV added to the domestic glow. It reminded me of arriving at a friend’s house before the friend, and the mum saying make yourself at home, so you do and feel extremely comfortable, but also ever so slightly intrusive. I complimented the chef on the meatballs and next thing he’d brought a great sloshing tub from the kitchen to the table, balls bobbing in a sea of sauce. Yes, he confirmed, he is known for his meatballs. His wife rolled her eyes, and told him to put them away, but not before both of them gave us advice, which I would then squeeze into my meatballs.
There was confirmation from Roberta, my butcher, the following morning: if I wanted really soft, plump meatballs I should poach them. Now you have probably known this for years, but to me it was a little revelation. No more browning and sealing, which of course gives you a crusty coat, but direct heat, like bitter cold, can make things seize – at least for me. Poaching gently, however – a steady bob over a low flame – keeps things tender and plump, which is exactly what I want in a meatball, for now at least.
So, here is another meatball recipe, old and new advice squashed together on to larger balls, which are poached. The ingredients are pretty standard: beef – twice minced if you can, bread soaked in milk, eggs, a little finely chopped garlic and parsley, and lots of salt and pepper. You want a rich, soft sauce that has the right balance of acidity and sweetness – a mix of fresh and tinned tomatoes works well. No rules though; the recipe is merely a guide – tweak as you see fit, then let the sauce bubble and spit at the back of your stove until it is rich and thick.
The meatballs should bob for 15 minutes or so, turning the sauce a deep rusty red. Once done, you turn the heat off and leave them in the sauce: they are better after a rest. In plate-separatist Rome, polpette are served alone, with bread and vegetables on the side. Last night we had them with buttery mashed potato, which was comforting. Today, I will have the last one, squashed in some pizza bianca; after all, freedom reigns.
Polpette al sugo (meatballs in tomato sauce)
Serves 3-4
2 slices of day-old bread (about 50g), crusts removed
A little milk
500g minced beef
2 eggs, lightly beaten
A small garlic clove
A sprig of parsley
Salt and black pepper
For the sauce
750g ripe, fresh tomatoes
6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1–2 garlic cloves, peeled or crushed
A pinch of red chilli flakes (optional)
A tin of peeled plum tomatoes, chopped roughly in the tin
1 tbsp tomato puree (optional)
Salt
1 Rip the bread and soak in a little milk until soft, and easily crumbled. Squeeze out excess milk. Put the crumbs in a large bowl along with the beef and lightly beaten eggs.
2 Peel and chop the garlic very finely along with the parsley, salt and pepper. Add to the meat, then use your hands to mix everything together.
3 Divide the mixture into 12 meatballs: if the mixture is very sticky, flour your hands lightly. Let the meatballs rest.
4 Meanwhile, make the sauce. Peel the fresh tomatoes by plunging them first in boiling water, then in cold, at which point the skins should slip off. Then chop them roughly.
5 Peel the garlic and crush for a milder flavour or finely chop for stronger. Put 4 tbsp of the olive oil in a large, deep frying pan or cassarole and cook the garlic gently over a low heat until it is fragrant. At this point you can remove the whole garlic if you wish.
6 Add the chopped tomatoes and chilli. Cook for 5 minutes, then add the final 2 tbsp oil and the tinned tomatoes. Add 1 tbsp tomato puree if you feel it needs it. Cook for 20–40 minutes, or until the sauce is rich and thick.
7 Drop the meatballs in the sauce, making sure they are submerged. Turn the heat to low, cover the pan and poach for 15 minutes, by which time the meatballs should be cooked through but still tender.
- Rachel Roddy is a food writer based in Rome, the author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard) and winner of the André Simon food book award
