Tortelloni

Tortelloni are fresh filled egg pasta from Bologna and Modena. A square of rolled dough seven to eight centimetres across and six to eight tenths of a millimetre thick takes a walnut of filling, ten to fourteen grams, is folded into a triangle, has its edge turned back on itself, and is wrapped around the index finger until the two points meet.

That fold creates three different thicknesses inside one mouthful: a single layer stretched taut over the filling, a double layer at the sealed edge, and a triple layer at the turned-back cuff that stays firm even after cooking. You feel the progression as you bite. It is the reason hand-shaped filled pasta eats differently from the machine-crimped kind, which has one thickness everywhere.

The Bolognese filling is di magro, meatless: fresh cow's-milk ricotta, chopped parsley, Parmigiano Reggiano, nutmeg, an egg yolk to bind. Tortelloni were the pasta of fast days, Fridays and Christmas Eve, while tortellini, small and filled with pork, were for feast days.

And here is the part most cooks get wrong. The flavour is already inside: rich ricotta, aged cheese, herbs. The sauce is not there to add a second layer of taste, only to lubricate the dough and carry it to the fork. A heavy ragù buries the filling and turns the dish into something else; a thin tomato sauce drowns the pasta and makes it slide off the fork. Melted butter, which lodges in the folds of that turned-back cuff, is the correct engineering answer.

Mild, rich and clean. The filling tastes of fresh dairy first, because good ricotta is faintly sweet and lactic, then of aged Parmigiano, then of parsley and a whisper of nutmeg. Nothing in a proper tortellone is assertive; the pleasure is in the balance and the texture.

The dough matters as much as the filling. Hand-rolled sfoglia has a slight roughness and a springy resistance from being worked with a rolling pin rather than pressed through steel rollers, and it holds butter on its surface instead of letting it run. A well-made one gives you soft filling, tender dome and a chewier cuff in the same bite.

Industrial versions taste flatter for a specific reason: the filling is usually extended with breadcrumb, potato or egg white to cut cost, which makes it dense and pasty rather than granular and moist. If your tortelloni taste of the pasta and not of dairy, that is why.

Salt the water lightly, because the filling is already seasoned, and keep it at a bare simmer rather than a rolling boil, which knocks the pieces together and splits them. They need three to four minutes from the moment they float.

Lift them out with a spider or slotted spoon. Never tip filled pasta into a colander: the weight of the top layer bursts the bottom one.

The sauce should be minimal. Melted butter with sage, cooked just to the point where the butter smells nutty, plus grated Parmigiano off the heat. Or burro e oro, the Bolognese version, where a spoonful of tomato passata and a splash of cream turn the butter a pale orange. Or simply butter and Parmigiano, which is the strictest option and the best one when the filling is good.

Thirty seconds in the pan with a spoonful of pasta water is enough to emulsify the butter and coat everything. Do not toss filled pasta for long: it breaks.

What to avoid: ragù alla bolognese, which belongs on tagliatelle and buries the filling; thin tomato sauce, which drowns the dough; broth, which is where tortellini live. And heavy cream, which is a restaurant-menu addition rather than a tradition.

Fresh tortelloni from a pasta shop go straight into the fridge on a tray, in one layer, dusted with semolina and covered loosely rather than sealed, and they hold a day or two on the printed date. What limits them is water moving out of the ricotta and into the dough: the bases go tacky, stick to the tray and tear when lifted, and the crests soften and lose their definition. Supermarket packs sealed under modified atmosphere carry a much longer date, but once the film is broken they behave exactly like fresh ones.

Freezing is the normal way to keep them, and the method matters more than the time. Spread them apart on a tray until they are hard, then bag them, and drop them into boiling water straight from frozen with an extra minute or two; thawed on the counter they release water, slump and split along the seams. After a month or two in the freezer the exposed surfaces dry out, turning chalky and white at the edges, and the dough cooks up tougher.

Size settles it first. A tortellone is four to five centimetres across and weighs eight to twelve grams, roughly three or four times a tortellino, and it is filled with ricotta and parsley rather than meat. The shape comes from folding a square of egg dough into a triangle, wrapping it round a fingertip and joining the two ends, so there is a ring with a raised crest standing up behind it. Hand rolled sfoglia looks pale yellow, faintly rough and dusted with flour, not slick and glassy, and in a good one the filling is close to half the weight.

In chilled cabinets abroad the same word covers a very different object: thick walled parcels with a small core of filling and weeks of shelf life, achieved by pasteurising and packing under modified atmosphere. Ravioli are flat and sealed on all sides, tortellini are small and meat filled, and cheese tortelloni often means a processed blend rather than ricotta. A Bologna pasta shop charges 14 to 20 euro a kilo; abroad reckon on £4 to £6 for 250g or $8 to $14 a pound at an Italian deli.

In the US, refrigerated tortelloni from Rana and Buitoni are in most supermarkets at $6 to $9 a pound. Eataly's fresh pasta counters, Italian delis and specialist frozen brands run $10 to $18 a pound and are a genuine step up, mostly because the filling ratio is higher. Check the ingredient list: ricotta should be first, Parmigiano Reggiano should be named in full, and breadcrumb, potato, whey or starch near the top means the filling has been extended.

In the UK, Waitrose, Ocado and M&S carry fresh tortelloni at £12 to £20 per kilo, and Italian delis and Natoora sell artisan versions at £20 to £32 per kilo.

In Italy, a pastificio in Bologna or Modena charges €14 to €22 per kilo and supermarket fresh packs €8 to €14. A kilo feeds five people generously, since a portion is eight to ten pieces, or about 200g.

Frozen is usually better than long-life refrigerated: filled pasta deteriorates fast because the wet filling softens the dough from the inside, and freezing stops that clock.

Bologna is the place. The sfoglia workshops in the old centre, around Via Oberdan, Via Drapperie and the Mercato di Mezzo quarter, roll dough in the window and sell by weight, and the trattorie between Via Broccaindosso and Santo Stefano serve tortelloni with butter and sage and no variations.

Modena works from the same school, with slightly sweeter, more Parmigiano-forward filling and Lambrusco on the table as a matter of course.

In the Bolognese Apennines, between Vergato and Porretta, late-summer village festivals still serve tortelloni rolled by hand by the local sfogline. It is the best value for hand-made filled pasta anywhere in Emilia, and worth timing a drive around.