I was once served a pasta course that was two ravioli sitting naked on a plate. They were filled with lentils, sausage mince and broth, and were so slippery I thought they’d slide uninhibited down my throat. They were part of an expensive degustation. Before then, most of the ravioli I’d eaten were more like chewy dumplings with fillings barely distinguishable from their wrappings, usually served in sauces made with tinned tomatoes and carrots. I can’t tell you which I enjoyed more.
I think of ravioli like jazz songs, sweet potatoes and the underwear I own – I’ve never stopped to consider what makes a good one, I’m just happy they exist. But presumably, some ravioli are far better than others.
