Sofrito - The Sunday Argument

There are many ways to divide the world. I prefer the one between those who love white sauces and those who love red ones. Sofrito belongs, of course, to the first kind - the Sunday kind, the dish of celebration. But that’s for those who like categories. I could eat it any day of the week.

In our house, it was always a small battlefield. My brother and I wanted it with fried potatoes, or with rice, peas, and carrots. My father insisted on pasta, buried under grated cheese. My mother - poor woman - tried to please everyone.

The secret of sofrito lies in the garlic and the olive oil, in that dense, velvety sauce that clings to the meat. It’s not a light dish - nor should it be. It’s food that asks you to slow down, to dip the bread, to remember where flavor comes from.

Ingredients (serves 4… more or less)

• 800g thinly sliced veal or beef — ideally from a tender cut such as topside or silverside

• 4–5 cloves garlic, finely chopped or lightly crushed with the flat side of the knife

• 1 cup olive oil

• ½ cup dry white wine

• 1 tbsp white wine vinegar

• 1 tbsp flour

• 1 cup water

• Salt and black pepper to taste

• A handful of chopped parsley

  
  

Method

1. The secret begins with the cut - thin, even slices so the meat stays tender and absorbs the sauce.

2. Flour and brown the slices lightly on both sides in hot olive oil. Remove and set aside.

3. In the same pan, add the garlic, crushed just enough with the flat of the knife to release its aroma - never burnt.

4. Deglaze with wine and vinegar, scraping the pan to lift every bit of flavor.

5. Return the meat, add water, season, and let it simmer slowly until the sauce thickens and clings to the veal.

6. Finish with parsley and serve warm over rice, potatoes, or pasta.

Good sofrito depends on patience, the right cut of meat, and the quiet confidence not to rush the garlic.

Sofrito may sound like a winter dish, but for me it belongs to every season. My own memory of it is tied to summer - the kind that begins with a swim in the sea to build an appetite, followed by a long, heavy nap after a glass or two of dry white wine. Evening came with a walk to the village square, where the meal would turn into conversation, and conversation into company. It wasn’t just food. It was part of the rhythm - salt, sun, and slow contentment.