A Pasta Star Is Born

New to America: buckwheat noodles called pizzoccheri

Mimi Sheraton

"The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a star," wrote the nineteenth-century French gastronome Anthelme BrillatSavarin. Imagine, then, the magnitude of such happiness if the discovery is a new pasta dish. In case that sounds like a trivialization, ask yourself this: What has any star done for me lately that compares to the soulsoothing, sensuous sustenance provided by a single bowl of steaming linguine with white clam sauce? Except for the sun, that star of stars that makes life on earth possistars have a small audience made up mainly of astronomers, astrologers, and navigators whose instruments have failed. Pasta has a far wider appeal, especially if one considers the non-Italian variations: the soba and udon that comfort the Japanese, the lo mein dishes that nourish the Chinese, and all the lokshen, nudeln, and nouilles that are Europe's way of saying that pasta has a place on every menu.

If serious eaters watch the night sky at all, it is probably to make a star-light, star-bright wish for a platter of fettuccine nestling in a verdant pesto sauce heady with basil and garlic, or even, perhaps, for a whole galaxy of pasta creations to call their own.

Few foods, in fact, enjoy such popularity, and few have a more enviable image. For pasta, it turns out, is also good for us. Reversing the old assumption that proteins are more conducive to good health than carbohydrates, nutritionists now advise us to eat the roll and throw away the hot dog, and the current wisdom among athletes preparing for competition is to forswear steak in favor of spaghetti.

If pasta has charisma, it is because of the combination of its reputed healthfulness and acknowledged deliciousness. But high-fashion status invariably has its negative For with food, as with any other ion, popularity often fosters a decline in quality as opportunists manipulate a trend for all it is worth. Those anxious to climb aboard the profitable pasta bandwagon, whether as retailers, recipe writers, or chefs, frequently strive for novelty in an effort to gain attention. "Anyone can give you plain and classic pasta," such innovators imply, "but just look at what we have dreamed up."

Often, what they have dreamed up are nightmares, such as the currently ubiquitous doughy and oily cold pasta salads, at their worst when based on tortellini or similar filled and twisted shapes—and worse yet when they are combined with fruit vinegars or nuts and raisins. Curtains of confetti-colored pasta may look festive in a store, but does anyone really want pasta dough preflavored with carrots, saffron, dried herbs, or garlic, which are certain to go stale? The whole point of pasta is its neutrality, which serves as the foil for subtly flavored sauces.

This is not to say that culinary masters cannot create sublimely; witness the airy, sweetbread-stuffed ravioli turned out by Gerard Pangaud in Paris, or the sheer pasta enveloping nuggets of lobster served in a truffle sauce at Lutece in New York. But such genius is all too rare.

Pizzoccheri, the latest pasta import, is something else again, not a truly new creation but previously unknown in this country. A classic specialty of the mountainous Valtellina region of northern Italy, it is a hefty dish much appreciated on snowy afternoons and evenings by

tired skiers and Lombardians of all sorts. Although I first sampled pizzoccheri (pronounced pitz-mzi-ery) during a ninety-five-degree heat wave, its opulent charms did not escape me. It is, to begin with, an exceptionally beautiful pasta to behold: toast-colored noodles and nuggets of boiled potatoes in an ivory sauce of melted cheese and butter, brightly flecked with shreds of emerald green Swiss chard and ruby dicings of red onion, and flavored with garlic and silvery green fresh sage. Not even the dazzling white heat and dust I had driven through to the charming rustic inn called La Brace in the village of Forcola could render me impervious to the appeal of the first taste of that dish— the grainy bite of the fettuccine-shaped pasta mellowed by the satiny sauce and accented by the pungent herbs.

The basis of pizzoccheri (the name of the pasta as well as of the dish made from it) is buckwheat, called romantically in Italian grano saraceno, or Saracen grain. Originating on the none too fertile soil of the Central Asian slopes, buckwheat was brought to Europe, it is said, by returning Crusaders, and it flourishes on the rugged terrain of this Alpine valley. Technically, buckwheat is neither a grain nor a cereal, but rather a grass or herbaceous fruit. Its grainy texture, nutty flavor, and high carbohydrate and lysine content are all attributes that should make it popular now. And with its rustic sandy beige color, this pasta has a distinctly unrefined, handcrafted look that should give it a timely appeal.

Because buckwheat flour has a strong flavor and is heavy and absorbent, it is best combined with wheat flour in the pasta dough so that the pizzoccheri will be delicate enough to serve as a backdrop for a sauce. Buckwheat flour in Valtellina is also combined with a little cornmeal to make a gray-black polenta called polenta taragna. This dish is best if a quarter pound of butter and cheese combined is stirred into each portion. Butter and cheese are natural accompaniments to buckwheat in Valtellina not only because they are produced there in abundance but also because the creaminess of the dairy products aesthetically enhances the graininess of the pasta or polenta.

It is possible, of course, to make fresh pizzoccheri, just as one might prepare any other pasta, and undoubtedly that is the preferable way to have it. But those looking for an easier way out, especially on the first try, have cause to celebrate. Packaged, dried pizzoccheri is now available in New York City at Dean & DeLuca at 121 Prince Street (mail-order phone in New York State 212-431-1691; elsewhere 800-221-7714) and at Todaro Brothers at 555 Second Avenue (mail-order phone 212679-7766).

Packaged pizzoccheri, because it is dried, takes even more butter and cheese than the fresh pasta, and in preparing it a second time I found that a little hot milk stirred in with the cheese and butter added needed moistness.

In Valtellina, the cheeses used for both the pizzoccheri and the polenta taragna are Parmesan and bitto. The latter is a semisoft cheese that is close to a slightly dry fontina. Sassella, the fruity, bright wine of this Alpine region, provides a crackling contrast to the rich and mellow buckwheat pasta.

Ambitious cooks who would like to prepare the pasta fresh can find buckwheat flour at many health-food stores, but the Italian variety will soon be available at the same shops that sell the packaged pizzoccheri. Good recipes for both the pasta and the dish can be found in More Classic Italian Cooking by Marcella Hazan (Knopf) and in Italian Regional Cooking by Ada Boni (Bonanza), as well as on the box the dried pasta comes in. Add fresh sage to the recipe in Mrs. Hazan's book.

With luck, some enterprising Italian restaurateurs will soon be serving this lusty pasta and, along with it, the subtle silvery polenta taragna, which would add novelty without sacrificing quality.