Is It Marinara Or Is It Tomato Sauce?

Either Way, It's NOT Gravy

It's been another bountiful summer for my small garden plot of Roma tomatoes. Too bountiful if you ask me...or my neighbors and friends. Or my barber. Or my mail carrier. Or total strangers driving by my house who run the risk of having me throw tomatoes through their open car windows. Anyway, it's time to make sauce again! But will it be marinara or tomato sauce? “Wait,” you ask, “there's a difference?” Oh, yeah.

Marinara is what most Americans think of as “spaghetti sauce.” But, for heaven's sake, please learn how to pronounce “marinara.” I don't know when, why, or how Americans started saying “mare-uh-NARE-uh.” I don't remember most people pronouncing it that way when I was a kid, but they do now and it drives me nuts. Sometime over the past fifty or sixty years this offensive mispronunciation has taken hold and it simply makes my skin crawl. It has the same effect on me as nails on a blackboard, especially when I'm assailed by it in so-called “Italian” restaurants. “So you want the mare-uh-NARE-uh with that?” Uffa! Che schifo! PLEASE eschew the flat, nasal and completely incorrect American pronunciation and use instead the rich, round authentic Italian “mah-ree-NAHR-ah.” Grazie mille.

I tend toward marinara because it's a simpler preparation and generally more useful for my purposes. Marinara is a quick-cooked sauce. Because of the shorter cooking time, it retains its bright flavor and vibrant red color. It's also a thinner sauce and it's a little more on the sweet side with just a hint of tartness. It lacks the depth of a longer cooking tomato sauce, but it's my go-to sauce for pizza and for simple dishes like spaghetti al pomodoro.

I said it's “quick-cooked,” and it's just that. I have a recipe here from Italian-Canadian chef David Rocco for a so-called “five minute” marinara sauce, something of a misnomer since the sauce actually takes about fifteen minutes to prepare and cook.

1 medium onion, chopped

1 clove garlic, chopped

4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 (28 oz) can San Marzano tomatoes, pureed

pinch dried red chili flakes

4 or 5 fresh basil leaves, torn

Salt

In a large saucepan, heat olive oil and add onions, garlic, and chili flakes. Sautè for 2 or 3 minutes. Add pureed tomatoes and simmer over low to medium heat for 10 minutes. Salt to season. Add basil in the last minute or two.

On the other end of the “quick” spectrum, here's a recipe from Rocco DiSpirito for his mama's marinara. This one takes about an hour, so it kind of straddles the line between quick-cooked and long-cooking:

1/2 yellow onion, finely chopped

3 cloves garlic, crushed or minced

3 tbsp olive oil

2 (28 oz) cans San Marzano tomatoes, crushed

1 tbsp tomato paste

1 cup chicken stock

1 cup water

1 tsp sugar

pinch of red pepper flakes

Kosher salt and freshly-ground black pepper, to taste

a few leaves of fresh basil, torn into small pieces

In a sauce pot or Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium-low heat and add onion. Cook for about five minutes before adding garlic. Cook an additional five minutes, or until onions are translucent and garlic is lightly golden. NEVER allow garlic to brown!

Add in the tomato products. Add the chicken stock, water, and sugar. Taste and season with salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Cover and bring to a simmer.

Simmer the sauce for about an hour, adding in the fresh basil during the last ten minutes or so of cooking time. The sauce will be fairly thin. For a thicker sauce, simmer uncovered until the sauce reduces to desired consistency.

Now, on to tomato sauce.

In classic French cooking, Sauce Tomat is one of the five foundational “mother sauces.” The French preparation varies from its Italian cousin in that it is generally thickened with a roux, a mixture of flour and fat (usually butter) and it also includes some kind of roasted or cured meat, like ham or bacon, which is rendered in for additional flavor. The French technique often employs chicken or beef stock to add to the depth, along with the aromatics, which, in French tradition, are called mirepoix rather than soffritto. And, of course, the French use less of those base Italian seasonings like garlic and basil and oregano. Lah-te-dah.

Anyway, this is a simple recipe for good old Italian tomato sauce.

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 small onion, finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 stalk celery, finely chopped

1 carrot, finely chopped

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 (14-ounce) can diced tomatoes

1 6 oz can tomato paste

1/2 tsp Italian seasoning

1/2 tsp parsley

2 basil leaves, finely chopped

2 dried bay leaves, whole

1/2 tsp brown sugar

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, optional

In a large stock pot, heat oil over medium high heat. Add onion and sauté until soft and translucent, about 2 minutes. Add garlic and cook for an additional minute. Add celery and carrots and season with salt and pepper. Sauté until all the vegetables are soft, about 5 minutes.

Add juice from canned tomatoes by pouring through a strainer, then crush tomatoes and add pulp. Add tomato paste and seasonings and simmer covered on low heat for at least 1 hour or until thick.

Remove bay leaves and check for seasoning. If sauce still tastes acidic, add unsalted butter, 1 tablespoon at a time to round out the flavors.

If not using all the sauce, allow it to cool completely and pour 1 to 2 cup portions into plastic freezer bags or other freezer-safe containers. This sauce will freeze well for up to 6 months.

As you can see, a little more goes in to creating a tomato sauce. For one thing, you always use a soffritto of onion, celery, and carrot. This adds a depth of flavor and a natural sweetness.

The real secret to this layered, complex flavor, though, is the longer cooking time. A long simmer, usually for at least an hour if not two, will really allow for a deep flavor and a rich texture to develop in a way quick cooked sauces can't match.

While a light marinara is perfect for pizza or quick, simple pasta dishes, the heavier, heartier tomato sauce is great for something like lasagne or cacciatore or bolognese that require longer cooking and a sturdier sauce.

Now....(opening a can of worms) about “gravy.”

I like to attend local Italian street festivals. They're great fun, even though they're not always strictly Italian in nature. For example, the Festa Italiana I went to most recently featured a karate demonstration. Hey, nothing shouts “Italian!” like a good dojo. But, by and large, they really do showcase the heart of Italian-American culture.

You know how I could tell it was Italian-American rather than Italiano vero? I could tell because I saw a nice middle-aged couple walking around wearing matching t-shirts they had just purchased from one of the vendors. The shirts said “It's Not Sauce, It's Gravy.” I smiled, turned to my wife and said, “Solo in America è vero.” (Only in America is this true.) I don't think the couple understood me and they just went smilingly on their way, but it's a fact: only Italian-Americans – and a specific geographically limited group of Italian-Americans at that – ever refer to either marinara or tomato sauce as “gravy.” I don't care what your nonna called it, it is most decidedly not gravy.

By strict definition, a “gravy” – a word that has its origins not in Latin or Italian, but in Middle English – is a preparation made from meat drippings or juices. There's not even an equivalent Italian word for it. In Italy, a condiment that is poured over or mixed in to enhance the flavor of a dish is broadly referred to as a “salsa,” which directly translates to “sauce.” A preparation made by combining tomatoes and meat is sometimes called a “sugo” or a “ragu”. In central and southern Italy, a sugo describes a basic tomato-forward preparation while “ragu” is used in northern areas to describe a slow-cooked meat-based sauce. Northern or southern, nobody calls it “gravy” because the word doesn't exist.

So why do regional pockets of Italian-Americans call it gravy? Here's the most popular theory.

When millions upon millions of Italians began arriving on American shores around the turn of the twentieth century, many, if not most, were met with the traditional American greeting: prejudice. Hostility and bigotry were rampant. Descendants of enslaved Africans had already had their turn as objects of hatred as had the Irish and the Chinese. Americans needed somebody new to dislike and, since the Puerto Ricans and other Hispanics had not yet arrived, Italians bore the brunt. Especially those from southern regions whose darker complexions made them easier targets.

These folks quickly found that it was in their best interest to distance themselves from their “Old Country” roots. So, to “fit in” in their new surroundings, they started changing their names, often just dropping the final vowel or making the “e” “silent.” They learned at least some English and forbade the speaking of Italian dialects in their new American homes. And those rich sauces they used in their foods? Far too foreign for “real” Americans, who called the stuff they poured over their meat and potatoes “gravy.” And since we want to be real Americans, it's arrivederci sugo, e ragu, e salsa! Let's call those tomato and meat sauces we love so much “gravy” so our American neighbors will accept us.

And so “Sunday gravy” it became and “Sunday gravy” it remains. Even though it really isn't. Gravy, that is. However, along with the regional massacre of Italian words like “gabbagool” for capocollo, “mootzarell” or “mootzadell” for mozzarella, “rigot” for ricotta, and “prozhoot” for prosciutto, this is a fight on which I have long since given up. Knowledge and reason are ineffective weapons against, “That's the way my nonna said it and that's the way I'm gonna say it, so fugeddaboutit.” Pour on that “gravy,” baby, firm in the knowledge that absolutely nobody in the land that gave birth to your revered ancestors would have the slightest idea what the hell you were talking about.

Okay, so there you have the essential lowdown on Italian sauces, both the light and simple marinara and the more hearty, complex tomato sauce. Now, drive on by my house and roll down your windows.

Knives, Forks And Pizza Etiquette

It's Not “Wrong” Or “Weird” To Use A Knife And Fork

I was dining with family at an Italian American place. I had ordered pizza and was, as per my usual, employing a knife and fork in its consumption. My Gen Z great-niece watched me for awhile and then asked why I was using a knife and fork instead of just picking it up like “everybody else” does. I explained it to her as I'll explain it to you, lettore cara.

First of all, it's a topic of great controversy depending upon where you are. In the vast pizza metropolis that is New York City, eating a slice of pizza any way other than by using your hands to fold it in half is considered heresy, punishable at the least by great mockery. Witness what happened a few years back to erstwhile mayor Bill de Blasio when he took utensils to slice at a place called Goodfellas on Staten Island. He was derided mercilessly and the press even hounded him again a few months later when paparazzi caught him with a knife and fork in a pizzeria in Naples. (The one in Italy, not its counterpart in Florida.) But de Blasio had a defense: he said he was being “authentic” and that he had picked up the cutlery habit while visiting his “ancestral homeland.”

On the other hand – no pun intended – if you try to pick up and fold a slice of the tomato and cheese casserole that passes for pizza in Chicago, you'll wind up with quite a mess.

Anyway, de Blasio was right. Protestation and ridicule from the Italian American contingent aside, the proper Italian way to eat pizza is, indeed, with a knife and fork. At least, according to formal galateo (etiquette.)

You see, in America pizza is always served one way – pre-sliced. You can buy it by the slice, of course, or you can purchase a whole pie. But even then, that pie will come pre-sliced, generally into eight pieces. In America, pizza is the ultimate sharing food, the ultimate party food. But that's not the case in Italy.

Italian food traditions are very particular and very specific. One of the specifications dictates that foods should not be combined. That's one reason why Italians don't mix, say, chicken and pasta. And it's why Italian pizza options are pretty limited by American standards. In Italy, you will seldom see a pizza with more than one or two toppings. The all-out pizza with pepperoni and cheese and mushrooms and green peppers and olives and sliced tomatoes and sausage and whatever else they happen to have in the kitchen would absolutely bewilder an Italian pizzaiola.

Italians are also not very big on sharing food or on leftovers. I'm not talking about family-style sharing, of course, but specifically to people sharing dishes in restaurants and formal settings. It's really not done. Nor is asking for a box or bag for leftovers. In the Italian mind, there aren't supposed to be any leftovers. They bring you what they consider to be reasonable portions of food and you're supposed to consume all of it. That includes pizza.

Although politically unified in 1861, in many ways the Italian peninsula is still twenty different regions. Nowhere is this more evident than in food culture. There's really no such thing as “Italian food.” Instead, there are the foods of the country's twenty regions. Occasionally, there's some overlap. Pizza, for instance.

Just as in the US, where you have Neapolitan-style and Sicilian-style and New York-style and Chicago-style and Detroit-style and St. Louis-style and California-style and seemingly endless other styles of pizza depending upon where you are (Altoona-style pizza, anyone?), there are different types of pizza in different regions of Italy. Obviously, the most popular comes from the generally accepted birthplace of modern pizza, Naples. But pizza Romana is a close second in and out of Rome. Sicily boasts of its own style as do other regions like Puglia, which produces a thick crust pizza topped with tomato sauce, mozzarella, and lots of onions.

Although some form of flatbread “pizza” has been around since ancient times, the “modern” pizza, as mentioned, rose from a simple, modest, affordable street food eaten by the poorer classes of southern Italian society. That all changed, however, after World War II, when a combination of social and economic factors caused the spread of the Neapolitan peasant dish to all parts and regions of the Italian peninsula and across the face of the globe. By the 1960s, pizza was ubiquitous.

“All very interesting,” you say, “but what does it have to do with using a knife and fork?”

Okay. Despite some regional variations, most Italian pizzerias serve a thin-crust pizza that comes in one size. It's a small pie by American standards, about the size of a dinner plate. It does not come pre-sliced and it is not intended to be shared with others, but rather to be eaten by one person as a single course. As such, the use of utensils is required as the individual diner must cut bite-sized morsels from the whole pie, a pie he or she is expected to finish. Don't even think of asking for a box.

Thus when de Blasio and other misunderstood knife and fork users say they are honoring their “cultural heritage” or whatever, they're right. By and large, pizza in Italy is eaten with a knife and a fork.

Oh, there are exceptions. Tourist places, for instance, will serve pizza in a more universally recognized form, i.e. whole pies sliced for sharing or individual slices made for folding over and carrying. Actually, the latter is often offered in the form of a calzone – and that's “kal-ZOH-nay,” not “kal-ZOHN,” – which is basically a folded-over pizza, made from the same dough and toppings as a regular pizza, designed to be carried and eaten with one hand.

And one more exception, which may validate all you devotees of the notion of pizza as a finger food: In Italy, unless in a very formal setting, it is permissible and sometimes even common to begin eating your pizza by cutting it with a knife and picking up the bite-sized pieces with a fork, then transitioning to picking up the remainder of the slice and eating it from your hand, often after folding it over. This is especially true of the end of the pizza slice at the cornicione, or the outer edge of the crust.

After a somewhat abbreviated version of this admittedly lengthy explanation – basically I told her, “That's how they do it in Italy” – I was gratified to note that my young great-niece picked up her knife and fork and followed my lead. Would that the rest of America's pizza-eating society do the same, we would have a much better mannered – and probably less messy – Italian dining experience.

But even if you personally choose to continue in the common American or Italian-American method of pizza eating, now, armed with appropriate knowledge of etiquette, would you at least please refrain from disparaging those whom you observe using a knife and fork? Because now you know that they are, indeed, not weird, but quite correct in doing so.

Buon appetito!