History and legend have always known each other, and they have always mingled. History sees legend as a sweet old grandmother, a bit out of her mind: her tales are captivating but a mixed bag of individual and collective memories, old readings, dreams, and fantasies. For Legend, History is too pragmatic: somewhat dry, so attached to documents (the papers) and numbers (the dates): a kind of accountant. Legend sings, History counts, but both tell stories. Each in its own style, of course. And that’s exactly what happens regarding the tortellini. Out of respect for age, let’s first hear from Legend. According to A. Panzini, the know-how of the tortellini should be sought—and rediscovered—at the bottom of a bucket. For the sake of truth, that would be a bucket, the most famous in literature: the “Secchia rapita” sung by the Modenese poet Alessandro Tassoni in 1624. The story (understood here as the plot of the work) narrates, in burlesque and mocking terms, the eternal rivalry between Modena and Bologna: two cities too close, and too passionate, not to fight at every opportunity. And with every pretext, like the ownership of a very common battered bucket, one of those used to draw water from a well. Due to the bucket stolen by the Modenese, a heroicomic war breaks out that lasts a full twelve cantos; involved are Olympus in full, King Enzo, and characters such as the warrior Renoppia and the Count of Culagna. The poet of the nineteenth century Giuseppe Ceri would have been inspired by the “Secchia rapita,” who in a poem recounts the earthly expedition of three deities from Olympus: Bacchus, Mars, and Venus. The three, coming to lend a hand to the Modenese (each according to their own expertise) in one of the many wars against the Bolognese, stopped to sleep in an inn in Castelfranco Emilia, on the border between the provinces of the two beautiful and belligerent cities. The innkeeper (could it go otherwise?) was captivated by the wonderful features of Venus and decided to recreate her navel – which he had managed to sneak a peek at – with the puff pastry he was preparing down in the kitchen. At this point, Legend falls silent, satisfied. And up jumps the petulant History: it’s all wrong. To begin with, Tassoni was from Modena, and he would never have fixed Castelfranco – a stronghold of the Bolognese – as the birthplace of the so hotly contested tortellini. In confirmation of this, in the “Secchia rapita” – History continues relentlessly – there is no trace or imprint of Venus's navel: the invention is therefore all flour (sic) from Ceri’s sack, who in his verses says verbatim:
“…and the innkeeper, who was one-eyed and Bolognese,
imitating of Venus the military
and with capons and starlings and that good wine
the art of making tortellini learned.”
However, History cannot sing victory just yet. Picking on legend is one thing; but pulling out the documents that testify to the birth of the tortellini is a whole other story. Not less nebulous, in truth.
Cervellati, a trustworthy historian, notes that in the 12th century Bologna, they ate “tortellorum ad Natale.” A holiday, that of Christmas, very close to the winter solstice (December 21).
In those parts, during those days, it’s cold enough to make your skin crawl. And what food is more nourishing and caloric than capon broth, still the most faithful companion of the tortellini?
Okay; this is not proof, it’s a supposition. But we must settle for that: before the 12th century, no reference to the tortellini has been found.
Only later does something begin to appear; in a book of 14th-century recipes, some sources refer to a recipe for “torteleti de enula,” an herb found in Emilia.
The recipe is written in the Modenese dialect, which concludes thus: “...and then make the small tortelli in sheets of yellow dough.” The reference to puff pastry, yellow due to the presence of eggs, is as clear as day: and “pizenini,” small, these “tortelli” are just like today’s tortellini.
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