Capon broth, egg pasta, pork and prosciutto folded tight.
This is the dish that earns its place on a December table — not because it's fussy, but because it asks you to slow down and fold each tortellini by hand, one by one, the way Bologna has done it for five centuries. A whole capon simmers for two hours with vegetables, its bones and fat turning into the kind of broth that tastes like winter itself. The filling is straightforward pork — prosciutto crudo, mortadella, pork loin — bound with egg and a whisper of nutmeg, rolled into pasta so thin you can nearly see through it.
Place the whole capon and beef chuck in a tall pot. Cover with cold water — about 2 litres. Bring to a bare simmer, skimming the grey foam off the top for the first few minutes. Add the halved onion, carrot, and celery stick. Let it bubble very gently — one or two bubbles per second — for two hours. The capon meat will fall from the bone; the broth will turn a clear amber. Strain through a fine sieve, pressing gently on the solids. Taste. Season lightly — you'll adjust later. Set aside to cool; skim any fat once it's cold if you prefer, or leave it for body. You can do this the day before.
Pat the pork loin dry. Heat a knob of butter in a small pan over medium-high heat until it froths. Sear the loin on all sides until golden — about two minutes per side. Lower the heat to medium and cook gently until the centre reads 63°C on a meat thermometer — about eight to ten minutes. Rest it on a board for five minutes, then chop it finely. You want small, meaty pieces, not a paste.
Dice the prosciutto and mortadella into small, irregular pieces — texture matters here. Combine them with the chopped pork loin in a bowl. Add 60g of the Parmigiano, grated fine. Crack one egg into the mix and grate a single pinch of nutmeg over it. Fold gently with a fork until everything is bound — not smooth, but holding together. Taste it. It should taste like Christmas and salt and pork fat. If it's bland, add a turn of pepper.
Tip the tipo 00 flour onto a clean counter and make a well in the centre. Crack your five egg yolks into the well. Using a fork, beat the yolks gently, then slowly draw the flour in from the sides, little by little, until you have a shaggy mass. Knead it — hard, using the heel of your hand — for ten minutes. It will be stiff and golden and slightly resistant. Wrap it in cling film and rest it for thirty minutes at room temperature. This rest matters; it relaxes the gluten.
Divide the dough into four pieces. Work with one piece at a time, keeping the rest covered. Using a pasta machine set to the thinnest setting (usually 00), roll the dough through four or five times, folding it in half each time, until it's satiny and elastic. Then roll it through without folding, getting it thinner and thinner, until you can see your hand through it. Lay it on a flour-dusted table. Don't worry if it tears slightly; you'll patch it as you fold. This is where patience lives.
Using a small knife or fluted pastry wheel, cut the pasta sheet into 5cm squares. Place a teaspoon of filling slightly off-centre on each square. Fold the square in half diagonally to make a triangle, pressing the edges to seal. Pick up the triangle and wrap the sharp point backwards around your index finger, then pinch the two other tips together. You should have a little ring — tortellini means 'small torte'. It takes practice; the first ones look wonky, but they taste the same. Lay each on a floured tray. Repeat with the remaining dough. You should have about 60 tortellini.
Bring the broth to a gentle boil in a wide pot. Drop the tortellini in — they'll sink, then float. Simmer for exactly three minutes from the moment they rise to the surface. While they cook, warm four wide bowls. Ladle the tortellini and broth into each bowl — aim for about four tortellini per person, and plenty of golden broth. Scatter the remaining Parmigiano over each bowl. A turn of black pepper. Serve immediately, while the steam still rises.
“This isn't about arrangement. Warm the bowls first — it matters. Ladle the tortellini into the centre and pour the broth around it until it reaches halfway up the bowl. The pasta should float, visible and proud. A handful of Parmigiano scattered over — not too much, not so little that you're looking for it. A small turn of pepper mill. That's all. The beauty is in the clarity of the broth and the softness of the pasta. No garnish, no plating tweezers. Just honest winter food.”
First spoonful: the broth hits you — capon, beef, celery, two hours of reduction meeting your tongue with warmth and depth. The tortellini is tender almost to the point of fragility, that egg pasta folding easily under a spoon. Inside, the filling is a savory surprise: the funk of aged prosciutto, the sweetness of mortadella, the clean meat of the pork loin, all rounded by Parmigiano and a single whisper of nutmeg that you feel rather than taste. The broth, meanwhile, does the work — it carries everything, enriches each bite, makes you want another spoonful. By the end of the bowl, you're spooning the last of the broth, scraping for those final specks of cheese.
Remake the filling with roasted mushrooms (porcini, cremini, shiitake — 200g total), finely chopped and seared in olive oil until dry, mixed with 50g finely chopped toasted walnuts, 40g nutritional yeast, one tablespoon of miso paste, and a scrape of nutmeg. Make the pasta dough with tipo 00 flour (300g) and a mixture of 180ml aquafaba (liquid from a tin of chickpeas) plus 30ml olive oil, kneaded hard for ten minutes. Fold the tortellini the same way. For the broth, simmer a whole onion, carrot, celery stick, a bay leaf, dried porcini (20g), and a 5cm piece of kombu in 2 litres of vegetable stock for ninety minutes, then strain and season. The result is savoury, mineral, and completely satisfying — the umami from the mushrooms and miso replaces the depth of capon.
Emilia's answer to red wine — light, fizzy, slightly sweet, cuts through the richness of the broth without argument. Serve it cold, the way they do.
If you want white, go for something with backbone — not flabby. The minerality and acidity keep pace with the egg pasta and rich filling.
A proper pale lager — nothing hoppy, nothing fruity. The carbonation and lightness cleanse the palate between spoonfuls.
Not a joke. Italians drink this with brodo. The warmth and acidity settle the stomach and let the dish speak.
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