Hand-twisted pasta, pound-fresh basil, no shortcuts.
This is what summer tastes like on the Ligurian coast — basil at its green-fisted peak, pounded by hand until it releases everything it's got, never heated, never hurried. A potato in the pasta water isn't fancy; it's how they do it here, and it works because the starch clings to the pesto and makes it coat every twist. One thing: a blender will kill this dish dead. You need a marble mortar and the patience to use it.
Rinse the basil gently under cool water, dry it completely on a cloth — any water will bruise the leaves and invite oxidation. Toast the pine nuts in a dry pan over medium heat for 2–3 minutes, moving them constantly, until golden and fragrant. Tip them onto a plate to cool; they'll crisp as they do.
In a marble mortar, crush the garlic cloves with a pinch of salt until you have a rough paste. Add the cooled pine nuts and pound gently — you want to break them down without turning them into powder. Add the basil leaves in handfuls, rotating the pestle as you go, until the leaves are bruised and the mixture is fragrant and thick. You're not making soup; you want visible basil flecks and a rough texture. Once the basil is broken down, add both cheeses, grated finely, and fold them in with a wooden spoon. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil, stirring as you go, until you have a loose, spoonable consistency. Taste; adjust salt if needed. Set aside in a bowl.
Cut the new potatoes in half (leave the skins on). Bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil — the water should taste like a salty broth. Add the potatoes and simmer for 8 minutes until just tender. Top and tail the green beans, then add them to the pot with the potatoes. Cook for a further 3 minutes until the beans are bright green and tender-crisp. Reserve a teacup of the starchy cooking water, then drain the potatoes and beans into a colander.
Return the same pot of water to a boil — don't rinse it out, the starch is your friend. Add the trofie and cook until al dente; check the packet, but usually 9–11 minutes for dried pasta. The pasta should still have a slight resistance between your teeth. Scoop out a final splash of the cooking water and reserve it. Drain the pasta thoroughly.
Tip the drained pasta, potatoes, and green beans into a large, warm bowl. Pour the pesto over everything and toss gently but thoroughly, using two wooden spoons to turn the pasta without breaking it. Add splashes of the reserved starchy water — a tablespoon or two at a time — until the pesto loosens and coats every piece. You want the pesto to be loose enough to flow, not so thin it disappears. Taste and season with fleur de sel if needed. The pesto should never be heated; it dresses the warm pasta and that's all.
“Spoon the trofie into warm bowls, twirling the pasta as you go. Let some of the pesto pool at the bottom; scatter the potatoes and beans around, then finish with a thread of your best olive oil and a leaf of fresh basil if you've got one left. No grated cheese at the table — it's already in the pesto. Eat it warm, but not piping hot; pesto shows itself best when the oil isn't being driven off by heat.”
The first forkful is grass-bright and nutty, the basil alive against the creamy potato and the sheep's cheese's subtle tang. The pine nuts give it body; the garlic whispers rather than shouts. There's salt and umami from the Parmigiano, a soft peppery note from the Pecorino, and the olive oil wraps it all in silk. The green beans add one clean, grassy note. It tastes like you're eating summer in Genoa, not a recipe you found online.
Make the pesto exactly as above, but omit both cheeses. Instead, blend 50g of blanched almonds (soaked, then drained) into the mortar with the basil and pine nuts — they'll add creaminess and umami without dairy. Toast them lightly first. Use the same amount of excellent olive oil. The potatoes, beans, and trofie are already vegan; this version tastes less salty and slightly more nutty than the original, but loses nothing in brightness. Finish with fleur de sel.
Crisp, herbaceous, cuts through the richness of the oil and cheese without overwhelming the delicate basil.
Grown 50km from where you're eating; it tastes like the same sun that grew the basil.
Cold, sharp, and cleansing — lets the pesto be the star without any competing flavour.
Cooked this dish? Snap a photo, share it here. No filter, no fuss — the good, the wonky, the accidentally set-fire-to.
Sign in to share your photo of this dish.
No one's cooked this yet — be the first.