Trenette al Pesto

Pesto belongs to Genoa. Not to California, not to the jars in American supermarkets, not to the restaurants that put it on everything from pizza to salmon. It belongs to the steep hillsides above the Ligurian coast, where small-leafed basil grows in the sea air, more fragrant and less peppery than any other variety.

The word comes from pestare, to pound. This is not a suggestion. True pesto is made in a marble mortar with a wooden pestle, the basil crushed rather than cut. A blade heats and bruises. A pestle releases the oils gently. The difference is the difference between adequate and transcendent.

Americans know pesto as a sauce. Genoese know it as a way of life. They serve it with trenette (a long, flat pasta slightly thicker than linguine), with trofie (small twisted pasta from the Ligurian coast), and always with potatoes and green beans. The vegetables are not optional, not a restaurant garnish. They are as essential as the basil. Everything cooks together in the same pot, finishes together, arrives at the table together. This is how Ligurian grandmothers have done it for as long as anyone remembers.