cresc'tajat, le marche's polenta diamonds
pasta of the month 018
Often fresh pasta is associated with terms like fancy and refined, a special-occasion food reserved for expensive restaurants and once-a-year celebrations. Sometimes that’s true, but I’m on a mission to prove that for every fancy, refined pasta there is its everyday, rustic counterpart. Shapes like cavatelli, pici, and orecchiette come to mind—bits of dough fashioned quickly and irregularly, without a passing thought for perfection. Another such pasta—or rather, genre of pasta—is maltagliati, meaning “badly cut,” versions of which can be found in most regions of Italy under varying names, and all of which are the product of some of the least-refined items in our kitchen: leftovers. In Emilia-Romagna, the word “maltagliati” refers to the scraps of thinly rolled egg pasta dough left behind after making those aforementioned fancy, refined shapes like tortellini and tagliatelle. But in Lombardy, you’ll find similar offcuts called pizzoccherini, left over from the region’s famous buckwheat noodles, pizzoccheri; in Friuli-Venezia Giulia, you’ll find other buckwheat pasta scraps called blecs; in Liguria, there are martaliai, usually enriched with cheese. And in the Marche, they’re made with leftover polenta and are our March Pasta of the Month, cresc’tajat.
Cresc’tajat (pronounced cresh-tie-et, by the way, and also known as crestaiate or cristaiate) exemplifies frugal cooking. Hailing from the province of Pesaro and Urbino, not only is the dough traditionally made with leftover polenta, but it was, in its earliest days, made with leftover leftover polenta—the crust stuck to the sides of the paiolo (a polenta-specific copper pan with a tapered bottom) in which it had been cooked. These leftover leftovers were kneaded with flour into a soft dough, then rolled into a thin-but-not-too-thin circular sheet reminiscent of a local flatbread called “la crescia” (hence the name; tajat means “cut” in local dialect), and served with herbs fried in lardo (cured pork fat). Another version of this pasta is made with corn flour instead of cooked polenta, a version I’ve seen used more often today probably because most of us don’t have leftover polenta lying around. Contemporary iterations also skip the lardo in favor of a pork-infused tomato sauce with sausage and/or beans.
The unique nature of cresc’tajat speaks to its birthplace. The Marche (Le Marche) is a region often overlooked, but not for lack of beauty or culinary creativity. Nestled between the Apennine mountains and the Adriatic Sea, the area boasts stunning beaches, verdant hills, limestone cliffs, and pretty medieval villages. Its varied landscape has birthed similarly varied food traditions, with a cuisine focused equally on meat, seafood, and foraged vegetables, nuts, and herbs. Specialties run the gamut of extravagance, from showstoppers like slow-roasted porchetta and vincisgrassi (lasagne layered with a chicken liver and sweetbreads ragù, and finished with white truffles) to finger foods like fritto misto, featuring fried stuffed olives (olives all’ascolana), breaded lamb cutlets (agnello panato), and fried cream (crema fritta—are we sure the Marche isn’t actually a fairground in America?).
Fresh pastas, too, range widely in the Marche. At the top of the pasta pyramid, you’ll find lumachelle della duchessa, the “duchess’s little snails,” tiny cinnamon- and Parmigiano-infused tubes; maccheroncini di Campofilone, 600-year-old, angel hair-adjacent strands made with lots of egg yolks and dried on sheets of paper; spaghetti alla chitarra, also a signature of Abruzzo; and cappelletti filled with beef, pork, capon, and turkey. But just as exciting are the scrappier shapes like pincinelle, twisted ribbons made with sourdough discard or other leftover bread dough; tajuli pilusi, “hairy tagliatelle” made with whole wheat flour and no eggs; passatelli, also from Emilia-Romagna and made with leftover breadcrumbs; and, of course, cresc’tajat. This is to name just a few—I have yet to travel to the Marche, but it’s clearly the most underrated pasta-lover’s paradise.
Back to the recipe. You don’t need eggs to make cresc’tajat (yay!), nor a pasta machine (double yay!), and I didn’t even bother to rest the dough (more yay!). Which means it’s simple to make, but entirely different from my typical pasta-making endeavors, so here are a couple of things to keep in mind:
When it comes to the dough, if you’re a regular polenta-maker who takes the time to cook it low and slow, opt for those leftovers; if you’re not (me), try my less-traditional, quick-cooking method; if you prefer, skip the polenta entirely and use corn flour (though it’s a little less fun that way!).
The cornmeal looks great, tastes great, and imparts a great delicate-yet-chewy texture, but it’s also naturally gluten-free, which means it yields a particularly fragile pasta. So just remember to be gentle with it, especially when boiling and handling the cooked diamonds—still, if they break apart a little, don’t worry. They’re meant to be “badly cut” after all!
I’ve paired my cresc’tajat with a twist on their typical tomato-bean accompaniment, swapping the pork for Parmigiano rinds and anchovies to impart a slightly different, but still deep, savory flavor. The traditional beans of choice are dried borlotti beans (cranberry beans), which have a marbled red-and-white skin and rich texture, and are often used to make pasta e fagioli. Borlotti beans can be tricky to find, so feel free to swap them for your favorite creamy white bean instead (cannellini and great Northern would work well). And although I’m not usually one to bother with dried beans, here their flavorful cooking liquid forms the foundation of the sauce and makes all the difference. The result is at once rich, comforting, and nourishing, a last salute to winter cooking before we’re embraced by warmer weather.
Cresc’tajat with Brothy Borlotti Beans
Serves 4