When I was 18, I spent a spring and summer living with my mother in Italy. In Florence, I remember the jarring, muddy taste of bread without salt (a regional curiosity, which a young Florence Fabricant, invoking Dante, wrote about twenty-six years ago). I remember our favourite cheap lunch spot, with tomatoes like you wouldn’t believe, and a chorus of waiters who could be counted on to chant, in unison, “Why wear makeup? You’re already so lovely!”, every time I opened my compact to powder my nose. And I remember my young, pretentious self, so eager to seem world-weary, sending back a bottle of Valpolicella Amarone that was “corked” (I didn’t know what to make of tannins then, though now I’d be happy to have some, in a New York world of Californian “pee-no”), and losing interest halfway through a dish of truffled risotto because I couldn’t find any truffles in it.

And then I travelled south to Rome, where I tasted a dish I have never forgotten. It’s not that it was especially good. A dish that predates Mediterranean fetishism, not a tomato in sight, it seemed to me not Italian but singularly Roman: whole cuttlefish bodies, stuffed with pureed green peas, braised to the tender-fat texture of stewed tripe. I’d been fascinated by the dining habits of the ancients ever since I began studying Latin in middle school; I had even built a miniature triclinium (the Roman dining room, named for the couches on which diners would lay, wiping their greasy fingers on the heads of kneeling attendants) in a shoebox, complete with tiny clay food, for a class project. I found out later that Cuttlefish with Peas really is mentioned in Apicius. (Selected translations from the 4th- or 5th-century manuscript, with modifications for the modern cook, can be found here.)

The dish needed salt and kick (I knew this even when I was acting like an ass in good restaurants), and I tend to disagree with the Spanish/Portuguese/Italian practice of braising squid. Of course, I also frown upon English speakers using the word “calamari” when we have a perfectly serviceable one in our own language, and the American inability to stomach squid in any form other than a deep-fried, breaded ring with watery marinara on the side. So I guess I’m just implacable when it comes to squid. But this is a recipe to my taste, an ancient dish enlivened by a half-Chinese sensibility. (And, as it happens, a very satisfying, solitary Valentine’s Day lunch before an evening at the opera.) Flash-fried, heavily salted squid served with sweet shallots and peas left whole; pasta for heft and a rich porcini and butter broth to tie it all together.

Trofie are eggless spaetzle from Liguria, which I tried yesterday for the first time–and loved. A pasta en brodo, to my mind, should be dense and chewy: orecchiette, cavatelli, campanelle. Choose your own.

Trofie with Squid and Peas in a Porcini Broth–Serves 2

INGREDIENTS

1/2 lb. cleaned squid bodies

1 cup frozen peas
1 shallot, minced

1 oz dried porcini mushrooms
2 cups water
2 tbsp butter

1/2 lb. trofie (or other dense pasta shape)
salted water for boiling

vegetable oil

METHOD

Boil salted water for pasta. Cook slightly beyond al dente (which I believe works better with brothy sauces).

Meanwhile, soak porcinis in 2 cups of very hot water, covered, for at least 20 minutes.

While the porcinis are soaking, sweat minced shallot in oil until lightly coloured. Add frozen peas to pan and heat through, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.

Strain porcinis from soaking liquid and reserve for other use. Transfer liquid to a saucepan and reduce by half. Remove from heat and whisk in butter until incorporated. Season generously.

Slice squid bodies into rings. Salt heavily and sautee briskly in oil over very high heat, until opaque and gently browned. Do not overcook or the flesh will contract and become tough.

To serve: reheat porcini-butter broth if necessary. Combine trofie, squid and peas and toss in the liquid. Serve with generous spoonfuls of broth.

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