On Skillsets

Cooking is a trade. I’ve said so before. It is no more an art than is carpentry. Sure, you can be artistic in the expression of your trade; cabinetmakers can be artisans, as can cooks, but never artists. It is merely a trade, like all the others, were raw materials are manipulated using specialized tools and knowledge to produce an end product that people whish to buy. The difference between a good tradesman and a great one lies in the skills he has mastered.

I, therefore, can’t stand to see something cooked, a method used, a culinary trick, without wanting to master it. For example, a walk through china town leaves me hungry for dumpling-making abilities, wok skills (of which I have absolutely none), and peking duck recipes. I want to let pizza dough fly with that quiet arrogance, cold-smoke fish, roll sushi, make sausages. The pursuit has already taught me to cure meats, bake sourdough breads, make perfect consommés, and breakdown 70kg tuna, not to mention all the simple skills needed for the daily life of a chef.

In general, I feel confident that I can learn to do anything with food. This is why it’s so bloody frustrating that I can’t master orecchiette.

For those who don’t know, the name of this small, round, dented pasta translates as “little ears” and each one is hand made. Diminutive Italian women who probably look like your grandmother sit at wooden tables in the backstreets of Trastevere, upon which lay, tucked under towels, fists of a dough made only of flour, water, and salt. These they deftly roll into pale, thin snakes and chop, chop, chop them in woodpecker-time into perfectly even beads. Then, in a motion reminiscent of a child crushing a bug, the old women flatten each one with their down-pressed thumbs, and flick it into a wicker basket sitting in their aproned laps, rolling it slightly as they do so. One after the other, like dealing cards in reverse, each tiny ear pops from the table, little domes with thin centres and thick rims, ready to catch sauce, hold flavour, like cups to your mouth.

I love orecchietta. They are one of my favourite pastas. Except, no matter how hard I try, I can’t make them properly. Admittedly I am not an old Italian woman, not yet anyway, so I am at a disadvantage. I understand the method, have practiced a bit, but my little ears are lopsided, cook unevenly, tear, and are generally both ugly and unpalatable (and then there's the pasta...). Perhaps I need to sit at the desiccated, cracked feet of a pasta guru; perhaps I need smaller thumbs. Or perhaps I need to spend a few years on laneway cobbles rolling and pinching and popping. One more tool for my kit.

For now, I’ll stick with the dried stuff.



Orecchietta with Caramelised Fennel, Anchovies, and Toasted Breadcrumbs

300 g dried orecchietta
1 head of fennel
1 clove garlic
6 anchovies
4 tbsp breadcrumbs
½ tsp lemon zest

Remove the tops of the fennel, keeping any of the fine fronds that remain. Cut the fennel in to two from top to bottom and remove the thick, woody core. Slice the fennel into 1 cm slices; don’t cut them too thin, as they will break down completely during cooking. Place the fennel, a tablespoon of olive oil, a pinch of salt, and 4 or 5 tablespoons of water into a small pot with a tight fitting lid. Cover and cook over medium heat until all the water has evaporated. At this stage, uncover the pot and cook the fennel until it is soft and has become golden. Crush the clove of garlic with your palm and toss it into the fennel. Remove from heat and set aside.

Cut the anchovies into small pieces and mix them into to the warm fennel.

Bring a large pot of salted water to the boil. Cook the pasta until it is tender but firm. While the pasta is boiling, heat a small pan on medium-high heat. Add a tablespoon of olive oil and then the breadcrumbs. Stir and toss these constantly until thy have become a dark brown. Remove from pan to a cool bowl. Stir zest into the warm crumbs.

When the pasta has been drained, return it to the warm (and now empty) pasta pot. Remove the garlic clove from the pot and discard. Toss the caramelised fennel with the hot orecchietta, adjust seasoning, adding a bit of olive oil if it is a bit too dry. Serve into bowls, sprinkling the toasted breadcrumbs over the top along with some chopped fennel fronds, if you have any.

Note, this pasta calls for no cheese. If you think it needs cheese, try something for me: add some salt. Parmesan is very salty, and often when we think we want cheese, we actually lack salt. Trust me.