The Shoemaker's Sauce

In which I make the last of our Argentine red sauces slated for these pages.

Like every other pasta sauce we might encounter, there are a myriad of stories about its origins. Today we’re looking at Salsa Scarparo, the, arguably, spiciest of Argentine pasta sauces. Though, “spicy” in Argentina is a relative worldview, as for some, that means a single grind of black pepper over a dish, and for others, the introduction of chili in one form or another. It’s a near guarantee that for those of us from places where we have access to… well, actual spicy dishes, it won’t register as spicy. I’ve literally sat across the table from Argentine friends having made something with the spice level of cocktail sauce and watched them cry in pain as they tried to eat.

I’ve also simply served dishes that had pepper and/or chili in them and told the exact same people about it and had them not have any reaction other than enjoying the flavor. For me, Argentine reaction to spice is akin to watching a futbol match and seeing a player down on the field, rolling around, screaming in pain, after someone passed within a half meter of them.

First, some theories of origen. Some folk are absolutely insistent that it is of Calabrian heritage, pointing to similarly spicy dishes using the chilies native to the area. But no one seems to be able to point to a specific sauce, nor how the name came to be. Yes, scarparo is a Calabrian word meaning shoemaker, and it’s entirely possible that whomever introduced the sauce here (more on that in a moment) used the word. The question would remain… why? The other main theory has it being from the area around Naples, in Campania, where there is a classic pasta sauce called scarpariello, based on tomatoes, basil, chili, and garlic. I mean, it fits. And the word means the same thing more or less - literally, little shoemaker. There’s also a contingent pimping for the sauce called scarpara, from Cinqueterra in north Liguria, made from tomatoes, garlic, and chili.

Now, as to its introduction to Argentine society, the (disputed) claim is that it was first on the menu at La Strega, in the Abasto area, which later became the steakhouse La Raya, which then later moved to Palermo chico. But La Strega’s recipe was basically what these days is referred to as tuco-pesto, a tomato sauce (my last Argentine red sauce write-up) cut with basil pesto, and covered with grated provolone (which would fit quite well with the Ligurian theory). There are those who dispute this history, including one “eye witness” who says that the recipe was stolen from his uncle’s restaurant along Anchorena, where the tomato sauce was intensely flavored by using olive oil in which garlic had been cooked until browned, and then strained.

All this is to say, we really have no solid idea. On to my version of Salsa Scarparo.

Fresh plum tomatoes along with a jarred crushed tomato sauce, red bell pepper, chili, garlic, basil, anchovies. And, of course, olive oil and salt. Plus, I’d forgotten when I took this picture to get out a good pinch of dried oregano.

In the skillet, chopped garlic and chilies, and the anchovies. I removed the seeds from this particular chili as I didn’t want to overwhelm the sauce with spiciness. More common would be either to split the chili, remove the seeds, and leave it in two pieces just to flavor the oil, and then remove it; or, just use a good pinch of dried chili flakes. Anchovies are not always used - in a sauce like this they just become a background umami note. Some people use guanciale or panceta (bacon).

Side note. Argentine panceta and Italian pancetta are not the same thing. The former is really just bacon (in other Spanish speaking countries usually called tocino or beicon) - salt cured and/or smoked pork belly. The latter is a rolled, salt, herb, and spice cured pork belly that’s aged almost like a salami, and is often eaten simply sliced, as is, versus the former which most people would cook to one degree or another.

After a couple of minutes of stirring it around as it cooks over low heat, the anchovy more or less dissolves.

Around the point where the garlic is just starting to color, add the chopped bell pepper - I didn’t use the whole pepper shown above - it just looked like too much compared to the amount of tomato I was using, so I used about half.

Cook that down until the peppers are soft, then add the tomato, chopped up, the crushed tomato sauce, and the dried oregano.

Cook that down over about 15 minutes. Part way through, drop your pasta into your boiling salted water. If the sauce starts to get too thick and dry out, add a ladle of the pasta water.

When the pasta - in this case I was using bucatini, a thicker, hollow spaghetti type pasta - is about two minutes short of the recommended cooking time, move it to the sauce along with a ladle or two of the pasta water. This brings the salt and the starch to thicken it.

Finish cooking the pasta in the sauce, which will absorb all the excess liquid. Add grated cheese - here, Argentine reggianito, and the torn basil.

Toss well to coat the pasta with the cheese.

And, serve. You can add more cheese to this if you want. For me, it was enough.

And that’s it, for the moment, for our Argentine red sauces. Next time I’ll head into the white sauce world, with a look at two common classics here, Parisienne and Principe de Nápoles.