When gnocchi and I first met, it was the vacuum-packed, store bought kind; each one a perfectly formed, uniformly sized little nubbin, with machine-made ridges running down its side like cartoon washboard abs. With all due respect to my mother and her myriad culinary skills, handmade gnocchi were simply not in her repertoire. Understandably underwhelmed by what I tasted, in the subsequent decade or so gnocchi and I crossed paths a handful of times, but I never sought her out, never longed for her.
Years later, while studying the food and beverage chapter in my college Italian class, my signora uttered her name, and asked for an English translation. I thought “Translation? Gnocchi means…gnocchi…” But alas, I had been wrong; it turns out I had only known half of her identity until that point. While most of us know that her heritage is Italian, we have so completely assimilated her name into our language that we forget its not our own invention (SO unlike us Americans to do that, huh?). What most of us think of as gnocchi is only one manifestation- and a pallid one at that- of what actually translates into ‘dumplings’.
Yet another misconception, us Americans hear ‘dumpling’ and think Chinese, not Italian, but it is a word with far more breadth than most if us imagine. In fact, almost every culture has some version of a dumpling in their culinary inventory. According to The Food Lover’s Companion, dumplings can be sweet or savory, and simply consist of “small or large mounds of dough that are usually dropped into a liquid mixture (such as soup or stew) and cooked until done. Some are stuffed with meat or cheese mixtures.” Oh, the possibilities…
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| Tuscany c1570 |
Though not yet showing signs of age on her doughy little face, gnocchi is centuries old. One of the oldest records is a cookbook from the 1300s written in Tuscan dialect, and roughly translating to “If you want gnocchi, take some cheese and mash it, then take some flour and mix with egg yolks like if you make dough. Place on the fire a pot of water and when starts boiling place the mixture on a board and slide them in the pot with a spoon. And when they are cooked place them on the plates and top them with a lot of grated cheese.” Alright, sounds easy enough, but if you were paying attention you would note that not once was potato mentioned. Hmmm, it seems her most common guise today is a far cry from her humble beginnings. Potato is by far the most prevalent modern adaptation of gnocchi, but anything that can be incorporated into a workable dough can be utilized: squash, sweet potatoes, breadcrumbs, semolina, ricotta…the list goes on. Yes, she is an accommodating mistress, and will seldom turn down a worthy suitor, the only caveat being you must choose the best ingredients, and you must handle her right. If potato is your weapon of choice, give her starch- a floury russet potato will make her purr, but she’ll turn up her nose at a waxy Yukon gold, knowing it will turn her gummy and heavy- quite unladylike. Don’t handle her too much, just enough to work the flour into the potato, and- just like a real woman- there is no definite rule or guideline; the ratio of potato to flour will depend on the moisture in the potato, the humidity in the air, and the temperature, so follow your instincts, and if you err at first, just trust that with time and practice, you’ll learn her wily ways.
At this point, you may be wondering why I am devoting such energy to uncovering the delicate beauty of gnocchi, when I began by articulating my indifference. Therefore, I must confess that after a recent tryst she has won another admirer, and left me agog in her wake, longing for just one more taste. During a trip to Erbaluce in Bosont’s Bay Village, I was fortunate enough to try chef Charles Draghi’s signature gnocchi. It sounded simple enough on the menu- served with braised Berkshire pork- but when execution is impeccable, simplicity is just the ticket. The dumplings were irregular in shape and size and unridged; beautiful in their imperfection in the way of all things handcrafted. Chef Draghi explained that the potatoes are roasted in pancetta and prosciutto fat with sprigs of thyme and rosemary, left to sit overnight, and then formed into gnocchi the next day. The sensation of eating one is almost aberrational; so rich in flavor, so present in your mouth, yet so light that it feels as if it’s blown up with air. Each bite virtually melted on my tongue, prompting me to equate it with eating cotton candy (minus the artificial flavor, sticky hands, and pesky sensation that you’re ingesting fiberglass insulation). Now, I usually have tunnel vision when there are pig products on my plate, so the fact that I haven’t even mentioned the pork yet speaks volumes. The aforementioned Berkshire pork was braised to succulent tenderness, and along with a white mirepoix of parsnip, celeriac, and fennel, hunks of it mingled with the gnocchi in a sauce that made its presence known, but in its subtlety showed deference to the obvious star of the plate, the gnocchi.
So in answer to why I am writing this, I too am showing deference to those little morsels, which have plagued my mind with their perfection ever since that fateful night. One of these days I might try my hand at this venerable culinary tradition, but with direct knowledge of her abhorrent nature when handled incorrectly, the task is daunting. So for now I’ll just accept that while I’ve spent many satisfied years immune to the charms of gnocchi, under a beguiling cloak of cheese and tomato she made her way into my heart- just like a true Italian.
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