Italian

Omnivores can sprinkle the risotto with shaved Parmesan cheese and crispy pancetta for a salty, crunchy, meaty finish.

Melissa Kelly opened Primo, an Italian restaurant in Rockland, Maine, in 2000. She has since expanded with locations in Orlando and Tucson. This Web-exclusive recipe for Epicurious is a crispy, delicious dessert from Primo's menu. It can be served hot on its own, or alongside an espresso float with vanilla and chocolate gelato.

There are some high-quality, great-tasting low-fat tomato sauces available on the store shelves these days, so if you don't want to make sauce from scratch (don't tell Mama!), you'd do well with any of the leading brands. But my name is Rocco, after all, and I figured I was under obligation to include at least one from-scratch marinara sauce. There's just a hint of olive oil in it; everything else was bulked up to create great flavor.

This Italian marinade and glaze is truly all-purpose. It can be used over roasted sweet peppers, marinated mushrooms, olives, or even pizza. If the sun-dried tomatoes feel brittle, refresh them by placing them in a nonreactive bowl, add 1 cup boiling water, and let them set until plump. The parsley and basil are interchangeable, so feel free to double up based on availability and preferences.

As simple a dish as this is, I have had requests for it in all my restaurants as far back as I can remember. I like the sauce a little feisty, so I’m generous with the crushed red pepper. You can add as much—or as little—as you like. Often, restaurant chefs finish this dish by swirling butter into the sauce at the end. You can do the same, or use olive oil to finish the sauce. I prefer olive oil, but I probably don’t have to tell you that by now.

I got a perplexing message from someone who made these biscotti: “They were good, but full of big chunks of chocolate.” I’m not sure if that was meant as a compliment or a criticism, but I do know for sure that it wasn’t a mistake—that’s exactly what I had in mind when I came up with these superchunky chocolate biscotti. They’re perfect for dipping in a large cup of dark coffee or alongside a glass of Cognac after dinner. They’re also great travel cookies—I’m always happy when I pull out a bag midway through a flight or train trip. I make sure to bring extras because when I see the longing looks of passengers around me, I feel pressured to share—and I do, reluctantly.

The product: An orange that's streaked with red throughout and almost seedless.
The payoff: Sweet-tart flavor and pinkish-red color that come together in an easy, sophisticated dessert.

In this luxurious risotto, leeks take the place of the chopped onions that are traditionally used in the beloved Italian rice dish.

One mention of a food that interests us, and we're off. Our friend Luisa, who writes a food blog called The Wednesday Chef, spent a good part of her summer in Italy, with her family there. Clearly feeling nostalgic for her time there, Luisa spent weeks trying to replicate her grandmother's focaccia bread. The photographs of her last, successful attempt left us both a little dazed. We wanted some. Of course, we had to change it quite a bit, since hers contained gluten. I was shocked to find that most authentic Italian focaccia breads contain a potato. But it makes sense. Boil the potato and then put it through the ricer and you have a light-as-air starch. Focaccia breads are lighter than other breads. The egg white, beaten to stiff peaks, adds lightness here too, like a soufflé. Try this bread with rosemary or oregano. It's a little taste of Italy, right in your kitchen.

When you find out you cannot eat gluten, one of the first foods you worry about living without is pasta. There's a certain mourning involved, imagining a trip to Italy without a mound of fresh fettuccine. Guess what? The Italians make great gluten-free pasta, since many of their citizens have celiac sprue. You can buy a package of gluten-free pasta at the farmacia and take it to the best restaurant in town, where they will make the pasta of the day for you. When we first started making pasta, we tried our favorite gluten pasta recipes with gluten-free flours, without much success. It took us about fifteen different recipes and wranglings with flour combinations before we figured out the right ratio of flours to liquids. Now, at least once a week, when we want a quick meal, we pull out flours and make homemade pasta.

Any food historian will tell you that trying to track down the origin of a recipe is like chasing tadpoles. There are so many, and they all look alike. Even when you find what seems to be the original source, you can't necessarily believe it because adapting recipes is an age—old industry. Nonetheless, I thought I'd give the hunt a try with chicken Canzanese, an unusual recipe that ran in the Times in 1969. A Google search for "chicken Canzanese" yielded many results, a number of them facsimiles, or slight variations of the chicken dish that appeared in the Times. There's one on Cooks.com that's a close adaptation of the Times's recipe, another by Mario Batali on the Food Network's website and one by Anna Teresa Callen, the cookbook author and teacher, on her own website. Batali's and Callen's, which vary only slightly from the Times's recipe, are nearly word for word the same. Only one recipe that I found sourced the Times's recipe, which itself came from Ed Giobbi, a cookbook author, and was written about by Craig Claiborne. You can also find plenty of turkey recipes done in the style of Canzanese (Canzano is in the Abruzzo region in Italy), which refers to braised turkey, served cold with chopped turkey aspic. But chicken Canzanese, which is not mentioned in important Italian cookbooks like Le Ricette Regionali Italiane (Italian Regional Cooking), is completely different. When you make it, you understand why it's still kicking around after all these decades. After flash-brining the chicken, you throw everything into the pan at the same time—chicken, cubed prosciutto, sage, bay leaves, rosemary, garlic, chile, cloves, peppercorns, and wine—and end up with a dish that has the fragrance of Chinese steamed duck and the succulence of a Bolognese sauce. I sensed that it would be impossible to come to a conclusion about where chicken Canzanese originated (Giobbi's recipe was the earliest I could find), and this was confirmed as soon as I started calling people. Callen said she grew up in Abruzzo eating chicken Canzanese. Batali, who regularly credits people from whom he adapts recipes, said that he must have gotten his from Callen, and was apologetic about the borrowing. Giobbi, whose recipe came from a family friend in Abruzzo, suggested that perhaps Callen was influenced by him. When I asked Callen if there was any chance she referred to Giobbi's recipe when writing about her family's dish, she said, "Could be, very well." I didn't intend this to be an investigation—recipes are adapted all the time, it's one of the primary ways cuisines evolve—so I did not chase down the dozens of sites that appear to have copied Callen or Batali. One thing is clear, though: a good recipe has a thousand fathers, but a bad one is an orphan.

Spiedini ("skewers" in Italian) refers to this dish at Frasca Food and Wine involving meat, seafood, or vegetables roasted or grilled over a fire. Instead of lamb shoulder, you could buy about 21/2 pounds boneless leg of lamb to trim and cube for the spiedini.

To make the sourdough croutons, toss 3 1/2 cups 1-inch cubes crustless sourdough bread with 2 tablespoons olive oil. Spread the bread cubes on a heavy-duty rimmed baking sheet and bake at 400°F for 20 to 25 minutes.

Roasting the tomatoes concentrates their flavor.

Escoffier codified the mother sauces of French cooking. In the Italian-American tradition, there is only one: tomato sauce. Call it marinara (we do), call it gravy (we don't), call it whatever your grandma called it. It's tomato sauce. There's almost nothing we won't cook in it or put it on. The real deal—what we grew up with and the way we would do it if we had our choice (and didn't have so many vegetarian friends and customers) would be to make that sauce, then simmer up a batch of braciola or meatballs in it, and then use the resulting meat-infused product as our "tomato sauce" in all its myriad applications. And if you're not catering to vegetarians, we advise doing just that: make a triple batch of sauce, use it to simmer up braciola or meatballs and then use that tomato sauce, fresh or from the freezer, whenever tomato sauce is called for in these pages. Use good Italian canned tomatoes and high quality olive oil when making this sauce, and take your time—there's no rushing it. When you're cooking the garlic, you want to very, very slowly convert the starches in it to sugars and then to caramelize those sugars. Slow and steady. Then get the tomatoes in and let them simmer. Not a ton happens over the four hours—no epic deepening of color or furious reduction—but it cooks as much water out of the tomatoes as possible without turning them into tomato paste.