Edible Harlotry

Yes, yes, I know that the name “Pasta alla Puttanesca” means “Pasta in the style of a prostitute,” or “Harlot’s pasta,” or (in the words of Nigella Lawson) “Slut’s Spaghetti.” Take your pick. Most cookbooks that feature this recipe give you some whimsical nudge-nudge-wink-wink explanation for the name. The most ludicrous, to my mind, are the numerous books that claim Italian prostitutes would attract clients by preparing this dish. Because that’s what men go to brothels for—the cooking.

Of course it could be named “Pasta alla Puttanesca” because it’s cheap and easy. Ba-dum-bum. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be here all week, don’t forget to tip your server.

The truth is, as far as I can tell, no one really knows the origin of the name. The recipe appears to be a mid-twentieth-century invention, and it is primarily made from pantry ingredients. Aside from the fresh herbs, which are optional, everything for this sauce comes out of a can. Aside from the garlic, I suppose, but that qualifies as a pantry item.

It’s also ridiculously simple, as it’s just an olive-oil-based tomato sauce, with a variety of salty and/or spicy things added to it: anchovies, garlic, capers, olives and maybe some fresh herbs. If it’s late summer, and fresh tomatoes that actually taste like something are available, by all means use them, but canned ones work just fine.

Purists will tell you that spaghetti is the only pasta shape you should use for this dish. Many Italian cookbooks will tell you that certain pasta sauces should only be combined with certain pasta shapes, and some of them get quite heated about it. Some even specify the specific shapes that go with certain sauces, and warn you that the dish will be ruined if you flout the pasta/sauce combinations that they have dictated. Trouble is, even the books that take a milder viewpoint tend to be inconsistent and confusing about it. For instance, many of them tell you that when you are eating a chunky pasta sauce, you want a pasta with nooks and crannies to catch those chunks—little shells, say, or orchiette. But if that’s the case, then why the hell is this sauce—which is decidedly chunky—always combined with spaghetti, a shape that is completely lacking in the nook and cranny department?

So if you’re like me, you ignore the purists and use whatever shape appeals to you and/or that you have on hand. Today, that happens to be shells.

I’m making a small amount here—enough for ½ lb/225g of pasta, which serves 2 as a main course, but you can easily multiply it if you’re feeding more people. And yes, I know that pasta is used as a first course in Italy, and that if used as a first course, this amount would serve 3 – 4. Happy now, pedants?

This is a sauce I’ve been making for a couple of decades, so I don’t measure anything any more. Most Italian—or even non-Italian—cookbooks have a recipe for this, so check your local library if you need detailed quantities and such.

Coat a skillet with a generous amount of olive oil. Add a couple of cloves of garlic, puréed, and 3 or 4 minced anchovy fillets to the cold pan. If you like things spicy, add a pinch or two of chili flakes. Then put the pan onto low heat and cook gently, stirring occasionally, until the anchovies dissolve and the garlic colors very lightly, maybe 10 minutes or so. This is one of the rare times when I do not add a pinch or two of salt to a sauté, btw—given the amount of salt in the ingredients here, it’s not necessary.

If you're a vegetarian, I shall permit you to omit the anchovies. I give no quarter to the rest of you, though. 

While the garlic and anchovies cook, chop a small handful of olives (kalamata shown here) and grab a tablespoon or so of capers.

Turn up the heat to medium-ish. Add the olives and capers. Sometimes I chop the capers, sometimes I don’t. I’m happy-go-lucky that way. Cook for a few minutes.

Drain a can of tomatoes, reserving the juice. Add the tomatoes to the pan and simmer a few minutes until the sauce is thickened to your liking. If you're one of those organized types who get their kicks by making me feel inadequate and insecure, you could cool the sauce down and freeze it at this point. But given that the whole point of this sauce is that it’s pantry-based, I don’t know why you’d bother.

Anyway, if you haven’t already cooked some pasta in boiling salted water, do so now. Here's a picture just in case you've never seen a pot of boiling water before. Once the pasta is cooked, toss it with the sauce. If you have some fresh parsley, basil or oregano on hand, chop it or shred it and throw it in. If the sauced pasta seems dry, you can thin it out by adding the reserved tomato juice. If you foolishly ignored me and tossed the tomato juice, you can add some of the pasta cooking water instead. You did save a cup or so of that, didn’t you?

Btw, if you want to be radical about cooking pasta, this apparently works.

Serve it forth at once, adding some grated parmesan or pecorino if you like. Although most Italian cookbooks claim that one must never mix seafood with dairy products of any kind, anchovies apparently don’t count, at least not when used in this fashion. Bon appetìt, y’all.