The Genovese

There are several theories about the origins of this dish. The most widely accepted speaks of Genoese cooks working in port taverns in the 16th century, who prepared a meat-and-onion stew that won over the Neapolitans.
Others say the name comes from a linguistic distortion, or from an old tavern owned by a certain “Genovese.”
What is certain is that Genovese has outlived all trends.
It’s not a sauce, not a stew: it’s a culinary masterpiece, built slowly, over low heat, layer by layer.

The queen of Genovese is this: the copper-skinned onion, sweet and strong. Lots of it. Mountains of it.
Thinly sliced, it is cooked for hours along with the meat (usually beef shank, round or silverside) in a pot big enough to hold both love and steam.
The miracle happens slowly.
The onion melts, the meat falls apart, the aromas blend. After 4, 6, even 8 hours, you get an amber-coloured, thick and velvety sauce that smells of home and tradition.
It’s served with pasta — broken ziti, mezzani, paccheri — and every bite is a caress.
The meat, meanwhile, becomes the second course. Because in Naples, nothing is wasted, everything is celebrated.

Genovese cannot be improvised.
It’s a dish that demands respect and gives back emotion.
A comfort food that doesn’t soothe quickly, but slowly — with the rhythm of the heart.
It’s the Sunday of working-class Naples, of lunches that last for hours, of families gathered around a pot as if it were a hearth.

Genovese is the dish that doesn’t seek attention, but deserves it all.
And if ragù is a tenor, Genovese is a cello: it plays in lower tones — but resonates longer.