Bollito Misto Piemontese

Bollito misto is not dinner. It is an occasion. In Piedmont, this is the dish for Christmas, for New Year's, for the Sunday when the whole family gathers and you need to feed fifteen people from one pot. The meats poach together for hours, filling the house with the smell of something important happening.

The first useful thing to know is that bollito, though it means boiled, must never actually boil. A vigorous boil toughens the meat and clouds the broth. You want the water to tremble, to shiver, to show only an occasional bubble breaking the surface. This requires attention. You cannot start this dish and leave it.

Americans find boiled meat suspicious. They have been ruined by overcooked pot roasts and cafeteria steam tables. But meat poached properly, at the gentlest simmer, in liquid seasoned as carefully as any sauce, emerges silky and succulent. The tongue melts. The brisket falls apart. The chicken absorbs the flavors of everything around it. What you keep out, the violent boiling, the short-cuts, is as significant as what you put in.

The sauces matter as much as the meat. Salsa verde, that vivid green puree of parsley and anchovy and caper, cuts through the richness. Bagnet ross, the red sauce of Piedmont, adds brightness and acidity. Mostarda, fruit suspended in mustard-spiked syrup, provides the sweet heat that makes each bite interesting again. Without all three, you have only boiled meat. With them, you have bollito misto.