Almost Italian

Though Eggs in Purgatory can be a delicious way to use up leftover Sunday Gravy, most versions of the dish are meatless—just eggs poached in a quickly-made tomato sauce. Accompanied by no more than thick slices of bread, the dish has long been a frugal favorite, especially as a Lenten lunch or dinner. There is scarcely a simpler main dish among Italian-American recipes.

Copyright © 2011, Skip Lombardi

But why the name? Uova in Purgatorio (Uove in Purgatorio would be the correct Italian plural) sounds as if it might be a milder, less spicy version of anything labeled alla diavolo. Wasn’t Purgatory (according to those who led our Sunday school and Catechism classes) that murky place for sinners mid-way between l’inferno and il paradiso…? As children, we imagined Purgatory to be something like the damp, cobwebbed root-cellars beneath our grandparents’ New England homes. A little creepy, but not too terrible, Purgatory was not a place for souls on the way down, but rather, for those on the way up.

Indeed, in his mystical poem, La Divina Commedia, the Florentine poet Dante Alighieri ascends through the layers of Hell to find himself in a place of purification. Arriving at the Mountain of Purgatory at sunrise on Easter morning, the poet sees a beautiful landscape flooded in light, one that promises eventual redemption.

So, the great Dante wrote of sunrise in Purgatory. Then, what better way for Italians to honor one of their own than through food? Could the name of the dish have started as a visual pun? Eggs between Heaven and Hell, in Purgatorio? Had you been fortunate enough to study Dante in the original language or to read Longfellow’s translation of The Divine Comedy, you could have given your eggs-in-red-sauce a dusting of 14th-century poetry along with a little Parmigiano.

Is it conceivable that this staple of cucina casalinga was inspired by Dante’s “cheeks of beautiful Aurora [Dawn]… changing into orange?” After all, even non-Italians ask for eggs to be served “sunny-side up.”

Despite our finding a Halifax, Nova Scotia, diner that serves “… wasabi Caesar with a snow-pea garnish” and “Eggs Dante… 2 eggs poached in a spicy tomato sauce, served on hash browns with melted Prince Edward Island mozzarella,” we think it’s a stretch to suppose Uova in Purgatorio was named to honor the great Tuscan poet.

Undaunted, we have followed as many false leads as you’ll find in Dan Brown’s Angels & Demons, but we think we have figured it out:

Upon leaving Italy, the poorest immigrants had subsisted (out of necessity, not choice) on a diet that was virtually vegetarian. In fact, the southern peasantry were described as mangiafoglie, leaf-eaters. Vegetarianism has a long history in Italy, and abstention from animal products took its name from the Greek mathematician and ascetic, Pythagoras (ca. 570 to ca. 490 BCE), who spent the latter part of his life in the Greek settlements of southern Italy. Believing in reincarnation, Pythagoras and his followers consumed nothing considered to have a soul. Until the middle of the 19^th century, a Pythagorean diet, uno vitto pitagorico, was widely understood in Europe and the Americas to be synonymous with vegetarianism.

Two Italians, both true culinary philosophers, wrote of the wholesome virtues of the Pythagorean table.* In 1743, Florentine physician Antonio Cocchi delivered his address advocating the broad Pythagorean admonitions against consuming birds, quadrupeds, fish, milk, honey, and eggs.

Vincenzo Corrado, 1736 – 1836

A generation later, the chef Vincenzo Corrado drew on Cocchi’s work but was more liberal in his interpretation, eschewing the near-vegan Pythagorean model and writing recipes that would appeal to his upper-class clientele. While extolling the health benefits of a plant-based diet, Corrado was also interested in refined preparations. Unlike Cocchi, promoting Pythagoras’ diet of largely raw foods, Corrado, whose banquets were legendary, had the skills and creative curiosity of a professional cook. So looking back to 1781, when Corrado published Del Cibo Pitagoric0… we can see that even if red meat and poultry are still out, anchovies, lobster, eggs, butter, cream, and even grasso di vitello (veal suet) are in. Delicate and sophisticated combinations like tomatoes stuffed with lobster and pistachios were clearly intended for Corrado’s aristocratic Neapolitan patrons. (To what extent the chef followed the modified Pythagorean model we can only guess, but he lived to be 100 years old.)

There is another significant difference between the Pythagorean fare of Cocchi and Corrado: the Tuscan Cocchi does not mention the tomato. Less than 40 years later, many of Neapolitan Corrado’s recipes include pomidoro [sic], which had become far better known in the south, among all social classes.

Returning to our mysteriously named dish, let’s look at the words “pitagorico” and “purgatorio” and recall the linguistic phenomenon known as metathesis, the switching and reversal of letters within words. (See our comments on the spelling of Eggplant Rollatini. Metathesis is hardly confined to Italian, and is very common among the languages and dialects around the entire Mediterranean.)

Once again, we must remember that Italian immigrants to America tended to speak only their regional languages and did not share a comprehension of standard Italian. Furthermore, a large percentage of them were illiterate. For many, acquisition of both English and a hybrid, Americanized Italian occurred simultaneously. Letters were substituted, mangled, and dropped altogether. Since most immigrant Italians would not have been acquainted with the term “pitagorico,” the likelihood that a multi-syllabic word of hazy meaning might evolve into something more identifiable was great.

Did anyone consciously name—or rename—the dish? Probably not. Chances are that someone who did understand the meaning, perhaps an educated cleric, spoke of the meatless dish as being “pitagorico.” Even after they had become upwardly mobile meat-eaters in the New World, Catholic Italian immigrants were nonetheless in the limbo of assimilation; for them, Eggs in Purgatory would have seemed to be an aptly named dish.

Although Eggs in Purgatory sounds positively penitential, the dish imposes no hardship on the cook or diners and need not be confined to Lent. Atop a bed of pasta, it’s a satisfying main course. Corrado would be pleased.

Eggs in Purgatory (Uova in Purgatorio)

Ingredients:

At least 3 cups of My Grandmother’s Marinara
4-6 Large eggs
3 Tbs. Italian flat-leaf parsley, coarsely chopped, OR
6 Large leaves of basil, snipped
Extra virgin olive oil
Freshly grated Parmesan

1 Lb. long pasta (linguine is our preference)

Preparation:

Bring a pot of water to boil for the pasta.

Heat the sauce in a large sauté pan. When it begins to simmer, carefully break the eggs into the sauce, keeping the yolks whole. You may place a lid on the pan or regulate the heat so the the sauce does not sputter. Poach the eggs until they are done to your taste (we like ours to be a bit runny so the hot yolk blends with the sauce).

When the eggs are beginning to set, salt the water for the pasta and cook the pasta to the al dente stage. The eggs should finish poaching by the time the pasta is done.

Spoon a little marinara into the bottom of each of four shallow bowls. Drain the pasta and divide it among the bowls. Spoon another 1/4 cup of sauce atop each pasta “nest.” With a spatula or large spoon, gently lift the eggs and place each in the middle of a pasta nest. Spoon a little more sauce around the eggs and over the pasta (you may have some sauce remaining).

Drizzle a teaspoon or two of olive oil over each dish and sprinkle on the herbs. Finish each dish with about a tablespoon of freshly grated Parmesan.

Serves four as a main dish.