I Brake For Rigatoni

What's Your Favorite Pasta?

Not long ago, I was in a market and overheard a lady, pausing with her hand to chin and knees slightly flexed, ask her husband, “Which pasta should I get for the dinner party?”

I could not help blurting, “Get the Rigs. They’re my favorite.” Rigatoni stimulates reflex actions. I have difficulty walking by a box. Even when we don’t need them, I buy them. Even when I’m not asked my opinion.

She pivoted, stopped, stared, and the puzzled query, “Rigs? Whatta Rigs?” For sure, she was not Italian. I pointed to a box and as I brisked away, “Oh, you mean Rigatonis.” Ugh, she used the ‘s.’ An over-the-shoulder “Yep’” launched me. I was afraid she might ask what sauce to use. “Gravy,” would have floored her.

I could not help it because Rigs have been my favorite for years, most likely because that’s what my mother served. And also because I don’t like spaghetti as much as I should.

Oh fer cryin’ out loud, I don’t know why the spaghetti hang-up. Maybe because the untidy strands slide on the fork, making it difficult to get a manageable bite. Or it requires skill and coordination and clumsy me ends up with sauce all over my face and strafing my shirt. I’m a Rigs man.

Rigatoni, ridged with square-cut ends, take their name from rigato meaning ridged/lined. The dough is pressed through a mold forming lengthwise striations. Meat and thin tomato sauces love to cling to Rigatoni’s (possessive ‘s’ here. No critics) ridges. Al dente . . . why simply luxurious. Rigatoni hold sauce inside as well as outside. Si sposa bene . . . pairs well, marries well.

Ahhh, Rigatoni, Errr Rigs

So why call them Rigs? It's simply a linguistic pattern. Just as ‘phone’ is short for telephone, Rigs is a concise and easy-to-say version of Rigatoni.

The abbreviation is more prevalent in informal settings in conversations with friends or family, rather than formal culinary discussion. Horrors! I reflexly used it in the grocery store.

There was once a competitor to the Rigs. My mother’s ricotta-stuffed ravioli were a substantial offering of huge ravioli that we called “sliders” because they slid down so effortlessly. She started early in the morning rolling out the dough into thin sheets, moving quickly, never allowing the dough to dry.

She made the filling and then placed it neatly in the squares. She draped another thin sheet of dough over the filling and then used the rolling pin to remove any air bubbles. She used a ravioli cutter to create the perforated edges, gently pulled them apart, dusted the surfaces with cornmeal, and covered them with a towel to keep them moist. Then she did something that I saw in other Italian homes.

She loaded the ravioli on a large platter, and back and forth she traipsed to the bedroom, skillfully placing each in perfect order on the tablecloth on the bed. They were there for a reason, but I never knew why. Maybe just to park before they were dropped, one by one, in the boiling water. Before that, her guests, children, and grandchildren, peeked at her beauties in that bedroom. “Can’t wait.”

Our family sat eagerly at the table when she presented them; with a mound of abundance that looked impenetrable. Down they slid . . . so soft, so palatable, with a tangy, meat-based, hearty, sweet sauce, err, gravy, which was married to them perfectly. Si sposa bene. At one point, in their customary contest, our children counted how many they could eat. “Slow down, you’ll explode.” Dad weighed in.

Mom is gone and so too her recipe. So now, “Get the Rigs!”

As I was researching for my article, I found the expression “braking for pasta” that suggests stopping abruptly because of a sudden and unexpected desire for pasta. The phrase has become a lighthearted way to acknowledge a strong craving or a sudden shift in priorities.

So now, we’re braking for Rigs.

If you see skid marks at the grocery, they’ll be mine in front of the Rigatoni.

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