The “best” meatballs do not exist, at least according to Elvira, who is not technically a nonna. Though she did fit a particular American idea of the “nonna” with her stern rebukes about the tiny departures I took from her meatball recipe. She had hurried over to her daughter’s friend’s home on a Thursday night with short notice when she learned that a journalist would be in Rome trying to find the absolute best way to make Roman-style meatballs.
Elvira used to run a restaurant, and according to Debora Lanini, who teaches cooking classes from her home—which is incidentally filled with more than 370 pieces of frog-themed decor—Elvira was known around the city for her meatball prowess. I had arrived in Rome during the hottest week of the summer to gorge on salty meat. I forgot to check the weather before planning my visit, which spanned a number of appointments to learn the art of the Italian meatball and then an extended visit to the Festival del Prosciutto di Parma in the Langhirano Valley of Emilia Romagna. Anyway, the Langhirano Valley sounded windy, and didn’t Rome have all of those fountains? I spent the ten minutes I had to spare between landing and arriving at Debora’s home in Trastevere eating a plate of thinly sliced cured jowl and, amid a city built on 2,776 years of culture, scrolling through the online marketing materials for the upcoming prosciutto fest.
By the time I made it to the top of two large hills and one steep staircase that Google Maps had innocently obscured and I came face-to-face with the large metal frog-shaped mailbox affixed to the grand double doors of Debora’s home (me: red and glistening and grinning, it: chilly and unbothered), I was nearly indistinguishable from the cheerful sow used as the mascot for the Festival del Prosciutto di Parma. A second frog, dressed in miniature gingham pants, glanced accusingly at me from a glass case. Already at Debora’s was a married couple who had plans to head to Italy’s other meatball capital (Naples) the next day, as well as a friend of Debora’s who renounced all meatballs shortly after I showed up, citing a wedding diet. There was the bride’s fiancé—a local magistrate who was introduced to me only as “The Judge”—and the bride’s mother, Elvira. Debora had kindly welcomed me for dinner with her friends on one of her few nights off, after I’d sent a desperate inquiry about wanting to learn the best way to make meatballs. She was the first person of many to tell me that there was no such thing as a “best” meatball, because a meatball was a humble thing, born of leftovers. It would be like flying to an asphalt factory and asking about the most iconic way to make highway pavement.
The meatball’s historic roots as a use for leftovers is especially evident in one Roman version, called the polpette di bollito: a juicy blimp of days-old stewed beef as tender as short rib, held together by a fried casing like a croquette. (Two great versions can be found at the Mordi e Vai booth at the Testaccio market and the restaurant Trattoria Da Cesare al Casaletto near the Villa Doria Pamphili.) Debora and Elvira demonstrated how to “ammolare” (pre-soak) the stale bread with milk just until it stopped sucking up the liquid, then to pour no more. Debora added a parsimonious pinch of salt and grated just a bit of lemon zest into the mix but abandoned the citrus well before she hit the bitter white pith. Elvira added more salt while Debora was turned away, then got to mixing with a black latex glove. We each ate a spoonful of it raw and Debora pronounced it slightly too salty. They demonstrated various sizes and explained potential use cases; one, sized like a newborn’s eyeball, could be put in a lasagna. But each time I tried to prod about the best way to chop the parsley, or the best ratio of grated pecorino to meat, Elvira gently corrected me: Meatballs were a matter of personal taste and routine. Meatballs were so personal, she told me, that you can work out which grandchild (or son-in-law; she winked at The Judge) a nonna prefers by the corresponding tweaks she makes to her meatballs. Still, that doesn’t make them the best; they’re still just meatballs. The idea that the best did not reign supreme the same way it did in America was a sentiment I heard a lot in my travels.
