I made spag bol and so can you
Spaghetti bolognese is a dish tied to memory. As a kid I remember one of my favourite meals was the rich beefy, garlicky, and tomatoey sauce over playfully yellow spaghetti. Now as a bigger kid, my appreciation for the dish only grows. And of course, all the versions I make only seem to pale in comparison to the memory of dear old Mum’s.
It is almost a painful cliche of food writing that one shares such a memory. Despite this, it often fails to leave any sort of positive impression in the other person. It’s sort of like talking about your dreams. Interesting for you, but dull for the person you’re talking at.
Aside from the fact that everyone has a memory of the dish, everyone also has a different way to make it. A staggering combination of meat, vegetables, herbs, flavourings and methods. And unless the dish is made with just the right combination of flavours, it will trigger a reaction that feels a little wrong, rather like rubbing velvet against your teeth—or analogy that seems more familiar to you.
But it’s a dish recognised as being delicious, regardless of the mental baggage with which one approaches the meal. So, allez cusine!
Dice two or three medium to large onions in an average sized diced. Neither too small, nor too big. Aim to dice in an altogether Zen fashion. Become one with the onions.
Start sautéing the onion in a suitably solid pan. Toss in salt. Onions need salt as much as tea needs biscuits.
While the onions are having their fun—try to ignore their laughter, which to untrained ears, actually sounds like tears—dice two celery stalks and two carrots into rather small pieces.
When the onions are soft and shiny and maybe slightly coloured, evacuate them to a bowl and sauté the celery and carrots. Turn up the heat, and even let them get a little brown around the edges. Allow them to join the onions in a bowl when done.
Now cook half a kilo or so of beef mince. A mixture of beef and pork is quite nice, but not always necessary. Do it in small batches over high heat to try and avoid the meat stewing in mince juice. Unless you’re especially pedantic with the ‘small batches’ instruction you’ll likely run into some juices, but the aim is to avoid the disappointment sad grey flabby mince as much as possible.
With the last batch of beef mince, add as many crushed cloves of garlic as you please (5 is a good start) and two or three smooshed up with a fork anchovies. One wonders how something so disgusting—the anchovy—can add such deliciousness to a meal.
When that’s all done good and proper, and if you live in a household where everyone likes red wine—or you are a more accomplished wine drinker—deglaze the pan with a good glass or two.
Then dump in the delicious things: one can of tomatoes, a bottle of passata, four bay leaves, one cup of beef stock, a small miscellany of dried herbs (I used a few pinches of thyme and rosemary) and a few dashes of w-sauce, just for kicks. Add ground black pepper, too. Reinsert the onions, carrots and celery and give everything a jolly good mix.
Put a lid on, set the stove to a suitably low heat, and go away for an hour or so, stirring and tasting when the mood strikes. It’s ready when it has reduced a little and has that look that further cooking would yield diminishing returns.
Make pasta. Boiling water. Lots of salt. Time. Drain. Spaghetti works very well. Barilla makes a fine spaghetti.
Just before you serve, add one or two tablespoons of red wine vinegar to give it a bit of a lift, and a wee bit o’ butter as insurance against not having high cholesterol later on in life.
Serve generous helpings topped with freshly grated parmesan and more pepper. A side salad and perhaps a slice of toast rubbed with garlic is practically obligatory.
Save the leftovers—of which there will be plenty—for making lasagna, more spaghetti, or surreptitiously scooping on to bread as a snack.
