How to Make Pesto like an Italian Grandmother
Wednesday, March 28th, 2007Some serious ‘ono Pesto from 101 Cookbooks …
most of what you see here is made by machine, usually a food processor or hand blender. This holds true even if it is homemade. Don’t get me wrong, it usually tastes good, but because the ingredients aren’t hand chopped you end up with an texture that is more like like a moist paste and there little to no definition between ingredients.
chopping all the ingredients by hand and not blending them is key because this prevents the ingredients from becoming a completely homogenized emulsion or paste. When you dress a pasta with a pesto that has been hand chopped the miniscule flecks of basil will separate from the olive oil in places, you get definition between ingredients, and bright flavors pop in a way they don’t when they’ve been blended into one .
Genovese pesto is famous in part because it is often made with young, small basil leaves.
if you are serious about making good pesto, get a good, sharp (preferably large, single blade) mezzaluna, you’ll need it. Chopping the ingredients will take twenty or thirty minutes. Whatever you use to chop, make sure it has a sharp blade or the basil will turn dark.
The technique here is: chop a bit, add some ingredients, chop some more. I think part of the reason she does it this way (instead of chopping everything all at once) is because some things get chopped into oblivion, while some not as much - it encourages specturm of cut sizes throughout the pesto contributing to the overall texture. All told, the chopping took me a leisurely twenty to thirty minutes
You’ll notice this recipe doesn’t have any added salt (just the saltiness from the cheese), make sure your pasta water is well salted if you are going to use this pesto on pasta or the overall flavor profile will fall flat.
1 large bunch of basil, leaves only, washed and dried
3 medium cloves of garlic
one small handful of raw pine nuts
roughly 3/4 cup Parmesan, loosely packed and FRESHLY GRATED
A few tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil
Start chopping the garlic along with about 1/3 of the basil leaves. Once this is loosely chopped add more basil, chop some more, add the rest of the basil, chop some more. I scrape and chop, gather and chop. At this point the basil and garlic should be a very fine mince. Add about half the pine nuts, chop. Add the rest of the pine nuts, chop. Add half of the Parmesan, chop. Add the rest of the Parmesan, and chop. In the end you want a chop so fine that you can press all the ingredients into a basil “cake” - see the photo up above. Transfer the pesto “cake” to a small bowl (not much bigger than the cake). Cover with a bit of olive oil, it doesn’t take much, just a few tablespoons.
You can set this aside or place it in the refrigerator until you are ready to use it. Just before serving give the pesto a quick stir to incorporate some of the oil into the basil.
Makes ~1 cup
Those not into Parmesan, do not fear, nutritional yeast appears to be the substitute of choice, and in similar quantities ( anywhere from 1/4 to 3/4 cup, ) however I would certainly experiment if I were you, then let me know as I’ve never tried it.
UPDATE : In October of 2003, I posted a blog entry entitled “Secret Basil Po-lice”. You will notice some strong correlations to the article reproduced above. Unfortunatly the original link to the article pointed to by the post no longer seems to return anything useful, but I managed to find a cached version.
“That’s why they call it pesto, not presto,” snapped one woman at another.
My ears perked up. Pesto, that aromatic marriage of fresh basil, raw garlic, toasted pine nuts, virgin olive oil and grated cheeses is so divine we can’t be too surprised when its preparation provokes controversy of theological intensity. But by piling a thousand bunches of basil into a towering, fragrant heap at the front of my farmers’ market stall I had sought to stimulate comment, not a spark a foodie fight. I moved in to mediate.
The brittle-voiced woman in the dark-blue power suit arguing for a human touch was right, of course, technically. Pesto is a cognate with pestle and derives from the Italian verb pestare, which means to pound. Presto means fast, quick, soon, prompt. Experts agree that the most luscious pesto is made in a mortar by hand, laboriously grinding clean basil leaves into a paste with the other savory ingredients.
Powerful food processors driven by unlicensed ignorati can reduce delicate basil leaves — presto — to an unappetizing mulch.
But the milder tempered lady with the wide blue eyes had a point. “Who has that much time?”
I lept into the discussion, appealing for compromise and invoking higher authorities. “Even Marcella Hazan and Alice Waters include instructions for how to make pesto with a machine in their cookbooks. I like the Chez Panisse approach where, for preparing large volumes of pesto, blenders are used to roughly chop the bulk of the leaves and then the other ingredients are massaged in by hand. Sort of the best of both worlds.”
The purist focused her attention on me from behind dark glasses.
“Which of these basils are correct for pesto?” Her voice had softened from a snap to a snip. Behind her, smooth-leaved Genovese basils lay with ruffly, broad-leaved Napolitano basils. Tiny-leaved fino verde basil bunches spooned with yellowish-green lemon basils. Deep purple opal basils glowed apart in dark contrast.
“Pesto is a Ligurian creation,” I answered. “
Genovese basil can be considered a classically appropriate choice for pesto since Genoa is the capital of Liguria, but other sweet basil cultivars can serve admirably. It’s not as if there is a Ligurian Secret Pesto Police come snooping to see if you are mechanically flogging the wrong basil into presto.” “Maybe they’re so secret you don’t know about them,” suggested my purist.
“Perhaps,” I countered, “but then their time would best be spent raiding chain-store deli counters that dishonor Liguria by trafficking in ersatz prestoid emulsions that only hint at the real thing. Here, shake and sniff!”
I handed each woman a bunch of Napolitano basil. Ms. Convenience looked with pleased surprise at the huge Napolitano leaves, some larger than a man’s palm. Both women inhaled. Great. Breathing basil fumes can mellow almost anyone.
“Napolitano is a sweet basil but to some folks it lacks the clovelike complexity of the Genovese,” I continued. “The large leaves make pesto preparation easy but as with any basil you want to remove the stems before you grind because they can impart a distracting bitterness.”
Ms. Pure’s eyebrows arched above her dark glasses. “Of course, if Neopolitan basils are too sweet and mild for your tastes to work well in pesto you can always try piccolo fino verde,” I said, shaking a bunch to release the volatile aromatic oils. Ms. Convenience hung on to her Napolitano.
“The leaves may be tiny but they pack the richest scent.”
“Oooh,” said Ms. Convenience, reaching past me for lemon basil.
“Yes, it’s lemony,” I said. “If you overlook the fact that lemon basil is a cultivar of Thai basil is actually makes an interesting pesto.”
“Maybe I am the Ligurian Secret Pesto Police,” remarked Ms. Pure.
“Then chiffonade the lemon basil and tumble it into a fresh fruit salad to hint at citrus and sound a savory, herbal note,” I replied.
She smiled. “And the purple basil?”
“For ornamental accents only where one seeks flavorful color. Don’t make a pesto with purple basil. Stick with the sweet basils.”
“You passed the spot check for today,” said Pure, dismissing me in a clipped voice. “But the department’s keeping an eye on you. Stay honest.”
I promised I would.
UPDATE : List of basil cultivars of which it is said of Genovese basil …
Ocimum basilicum ‘Genovese’ is an annual native to India, Africa, and Asia. One of the most popular herbs, it is now cultivated in all temperate climates throughout the world. Of all the basils to grow, and there are about 150 varieties, Genovese basil is one of the best because it yields 7 to 8 cuttings and makes the best pesto.
In Italy, it is considered a sign of love. When a woman puts out a pot of basil, it means she is ready to receive her suitor. In France, it is called herbe royale. In India, it is sacred, dedicated to Vishnu and Krishna. In Victorian times, it was sent for best wishes in nosegays called tussie-mussies.
Basil represents the essence of the summer garden. It is not hard to grow from seed, which germinates readily at temperatures between 75-85 degrees. Contrary to most cultivation information on basil, it does not mind slightly acid soil or partial shade. As a matter of fact, it will do best in an area protected from the wind and scorching midday sun. It likes rich, well-drained soil and will grow best in soil enhanced with well-composted manure. It hates cold and should be planted out only when night temperatures reach 50 to 55 degrees. If you practice companion planting, plant basil near tomatoes and peppers to enhance their growth.
Pinch it back early and often to encourage bushiness. Do not let it flower unless you want to let it set seed as this destroys the flavor and shortens the lifespan of the plant. Many save this “end of the season” basil, the one that is always trying to go to seed, for pesto. I suggest you try making pesto from prime leaves at least once, to compare flavors.
