Burrata con Pomodorini e Basilico

Burrata means 'buttered,' and when you cut into a fresh one, you understand why. The outer shell of mozzarella gives way to a center of stracciatella and cream that pools across the plate like something alive. This is not a cheese you cook with. This is a cheese you worship.

I must be direct with you: if you cannot find excellent burrata, do not make this dish. A mediocre burrata is a sad thing, rubbery on the outside and bland within. The cheese should be no more than two days old, still swimming in its milky whey. In Puglia, they eat it the day it is made. We cannot all live in Puglia, but we can demand freshness.

The same applies to the tomatoes. They must be ripe, fragrant, and at room temperature. Cold tomatoes have no flavor. Refrigeration destroys the volatile compounds that make a tomato worth eating. If your tomatoes smell like nothing, they will taste like nothing. Wait for summer. Wait for tomatoes that smell like the sun.

What you keep out is as significant as what you put in. There is no garlic here, no balsamic reduction, no arugula piled on top like a small forest. The Pugliesi understand that when your ingredients are perfect, your job is to stay out of their way.