Pici all'Aglione

Pici is peasant pasta. The contadini of southern Tuscany made it with flour and water because eggs were for selling, not for weeknight supper. They rolled it thick and uneven because uniformity is a factory concern. They ate it with whatever the garden provided. In Siena and the surrounding Val di Chiana, that meant aglione: giant garlic cloves the size of small plums, mild and sweet when given time.

The name aglione means 'big garlic,' and the sauce requires faith. You slice an alarming amount of garlic into a pool of olive oil and cook it so slowly that it nearly dissolves. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. The kitchen fills with fragrance, but the harshness disappears. What remains is sweetness, depth, a warmth that has nothing aggressive about it. The tomatoes join late and play a supporting role.

This is not the garlic of American-Italian cooking, raw and pungent and overwhelming everything else. This is garlic transformed by patience. The technique matters more than the quantity. If you rush the garlic, if you let it brown, you will understand why some people think Italian food uses too much of it. If you give it time, you will understand why the Sienese built a dish around it.