Pesto is, on the surface, a very simple sauce. It requires no cooking and has few ingredients. And yet, read just about any authoritative source on pesto and you're confronted with a laundry list of dos and don'ts.
I wanted to explore these rules of pesto-making, so I've been running recipe tests all week long, and in the process, I've realized an important thing: It's really easy to get sick of pesto. Now, don't get me wrong, because I love pesto, and I get excited for it when summer rolls around and basil crops up at the farmers market. But man, if I'm to be completely honest, I tire of it very quickly.
The reason I can only eat so much is that pesto is, for all its simplicity, a pungent, in-your-face sauce. Don't believe me? Just think of what's packed into it: heaps of fresh, aromatic basil (an assertive herb all by itself); raw garlic; aged cheeses; and rich nuts, plus a good glug of olive oil to hold it all together. There's nothing mild about it. I make this point for a reason: because it helps in understanding what the secrets are to a good pesto. What I've come to realize is that the best pesto leans toward milder, sweeter, rounder flavors, but even if you don't achieve that goal, it's still really hard to mess it up—because all those flavors, even at their mildest, are just so dang strong. This is good news, because it means you actually have a wider margin of error than most experts will admit.
Still, we want the best pesto, right? So how do we get there? Let's take a closer look.
The Pesto Pantheon
Despite its simplicity, there are several variables to explore when making pesto. Read those who wax poetic on proper pesto and you'll usually encounter the following rules:
- First, there's the basil itself; if you do it right, that basil should be freshly picked from the Ligurian hillsides, when the leaves are small and the basil plants are flowering. Obviously, that's out of the question for most of us.
- Next, there's the olive oil, which should be buttery and mild, freshly pressed from Ligurian Taggiasca olives. Most of us can find this oil, but it tends to be expensive.
- Then there's the cheese: Parmigiano Reggiano and Pecorino Fiore Sardo, and preferably not the sharper, saltier, tangier (and much more widely available) Pecorino Romano that many recipes in the United States call for.
- The nuts are typically pine nuts, though some recipes will substitute walnuts. And most recipes call for them to be untoasted.
- Last, there's the method: Should you use a
mortar and pestle, as tradition dictates, or go the easy route and whip it up in a food processor?
I also found, on an Italian website, some necessary "attitudes" for making pesto:
- A little common sense
- Some elbow grease
I decided to run some taste tests in the SE test kitchen to see which of these rules really matter (and whether that website was right about the attitudes). Care to hazard a guess as to which made the most difference?
Before getting into each part, I want to address the glaring omission in my tests: the basil. As essential as basil is to Genovese-style pesto, I concluded that most of us have a limited set of options for it. Unless you're reading this from Liguria itself, you probably don't have access to the prized basil of that region. Otherwise, if you grow your own, that's great. If you have access to a good farmers market with beautiful tufts of fragrant basil, go for it. If you have to settle for supermarket clamshells of hydroponic herb, well, then, that's what it's going to be. And, frankly, some of that stuff isn't half bad. Basically, get the best fresh basil you can, and that's all there is to it.
Without a doubt, in a sauce as simple as pesto, the ratio of ingredients is of paramount importance. Because I've made a lot of pesto in my life, and because I consulted dozens of recipes in books and online, I started out with a pretty good general sense of how much of each ingredient to use. To arrive at what I think is a pretty great ratio of ingredients in my recipe here, I dialed in the quantities during the process of testing the other components, gradually adjusting and tweaking through each successive batch until my colleagues and I agreed that I'd nailed the sweet spot. Still, it's a matter of personal taste, so if you want it with more garlic, or less cheese, just go ahead and adjust it to your own liking.
The Olive Oil
The first test I wanted to do was of the olive oil. I'll admit, I went into this one thinking that it would be one of the most important factors in the final sauce. Because there are so many thousands of brands of olive oil on the market, there was no way to try all of them, so I kept it simple here to test a basic premise: Does good Ligurian olive oil matter?
To find out, I pitted a bottle of pricey Ligurian oil against a months-old jumbo tin of cheapo, all-purpose olive oil that we use in the test kitchen for everyday tasks, making two equal batches of pesto, with the only difference being the oil.
Nearly every taster in the office (there were about four or five in most cases, who, I should note, never knew which variable I was testing) preferred the pesto made with the Ligurian oil—just one gravitated to the pesto with the cheaper oil. But, while the Ligurian oil came out on top, being more buttery and rounded in flavor, all agreed that the differences were incredibly subtle. In fact, few realized the oil was different, assuming I had changed the garlic or some other ingredient.
Going back to the pungency of pesto, this starts to make sense: When it's loaded with basil, garlic, aged cheeses, and nuts, the nuances of a good oil become much harder to taste. That doesn't mean it makes no difference, but the differences aren't as stark as one might think.
I'd imagine that if you used an absolutely awful, rancid oil, or a very, very spicy, aggressive oil, those differences might be more apparent. But as long as you're using a decent, somewhat mild olive oil, your pesto is going to be just fine; if you feel like using an even higher-quality, not-too-spicy oil, whether Ligurian or not, it may be subtly better.
Historically, the cheeses of true Ligurian pesto were Parmigiano Reggiano and Pecorino Sardo (or Fiore Sardo), a Sardinian sheep's-milk cheese. When pesto first became popular in the United States, however, Fiore Sardo was pretty much unavailable here, so recipe writers substituted the next best available thing: Pecorino Romano. But Pecorino Romano is saltier, sharper, and tangier than Fiore Sardo.
So my question was: Does it really matter? To test this, I made two batches of pesto. The first had equal parts Parmigiano Reggiano and Pecorino Fiore Sardo, which tends to be the ratio of those two cheeses given by most recipes I looked at. In the other, I used Parmigiano Reggiano and Pecorino Romano, but here I used 50% more of the Parmesan and 50% less of the Pecorino Romano—using more of the Parm and less of the Romano seems to be the solution most recipes recommend to account for Romano's more assertive flavor.
Tasters preferred the batch with Fiore Sardo, with its ever-so-slightly sweeter, fruitier, less harsh flavor. And yet here, too, the differences were incredibly minor. So, once again, if you can find the Fiore Sardo, it will make a marginally better pesto sauce, but Pecorino Romano makes a darned good one, too (and frankly, Parmigiano Reggiano alone makes a great one as well).
The Pine Nuts
In all the recipes I looked at, the pine nuts were tossed directly into the sauce, but I wondered whether there was any benefit to toasting them first, which would enhance their nutty flavor.
Side by side, though, the two batches I made were nearly indistinguishable from each other: Not one taster could tell the difference. Because I had made them and knew what flavor I was looking for, I could faintly detect the roasted-nut flavor in the lingering aftertaste of the sauce, and, frankly, I didn't think it did the sauce any favors—it detracted from the sweet roundness that makes a good pesto taste good. But if they're not looking for it, I'm not sure most people would even notice.
The verdict: Toasting is not worth it.
Do You Butter?
In a couple of recipes, including Marcella Hazan's in The Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, a small amount of butter is worked into the pesto in addition to the olive oil. I made a batch with butter, but no one could figure out how it was different. It may marginally help to bind and emulsify the sauce when you toss it with pasta, but it turned out to not be an essential addition.
The Method: Mortar or Processor
If there's one shortcut most people make with pesto sauce, it's using a
For my food-processor batch, I used a mini processor, because I was working with a half batch of pesto. I also made sure to stir the olive oil in at the end, since blending olive oil at high speeds can give it bitter flavors, which seemed like an unfair thing to do in this test.
I started by pulverizing the garlic and pine nuts together.
Then I added the basil and pulsed it until it was finely minced.
I added the olive oil in a thin stream, stirring it in.
Mortar and Pestle
I made the same recipe, using the exact same ratio in the mortar and pestle.
I started by combining the garlic and some sea salt, and working the garlic into a paste.
Then I added the basil in handfuls, crushing the leaves against the side of the mortar until they were reduced to little bits before adding the next handful. Bashing the basil with the pestle doesn't work well here, and will quickly give you a headache from the loud noise. Instead, work the pestle in a circular motion, grinding the leaves down.
Once all the basil has been crushed into little bits and the green juice has stained the side of the mortar, it's time to add the pine nuts. (Some recipes have you do the garlic and pine nuts at the same time, followed by the basil, but I figured it would be easier to break down the basil if there wasn't too much "padding" already in the mortar.)
With the pine nuts, I found that I had to target them, smashing individual ones under the pestle, before they yielded into a paste.
The cheese is the last addition.
I worked it until I had a pretty good, uniform-ish paste going.
Next, I drizzled in the olive oil, working it in with a wooden spoon.
The final mortar-and-pestle pesto was lookin' pretty good, too.
The Method Results
The proof, though, was in tasting them.
Looking at them side by side, it can be hard at first to see the differences, but the mortar-and-pestle pesto (left) had pieces of basil of different sizes, and their texture was soft, silken, and tender, totally yielding. The food processor pesto, meanwhile, had lots of uniform little bits, but in the mouth you could feel them all—they felt almost like grit compared to the mortar one.
The flavor was different, too. The mortar-and-pestle pesto was infused with the flavors of all the ingredients.
On pasta, the differences really become clear. The mortar-and-pestle pesto (left) coated the noodles beautifully, bathing them in a gorgeous green-tinted sauce. The food-processor pesto just stuck to the pasta in little bits, like glitter, and the oil had absorbed little of the basil's color. The best pesto, as its name has insisted all along, should be made under the pressure of a pestle.
Because pesto is such a strong sauce, anything you do to reduce its pungency just a little and steer it toward a sweeter, rounder-flavored sauce will help. That includes selecting a good, mild olive oil; using Pecorino Sardo cheese instead of Romano; and not toasting the pine nuts. Not following the rules above won't ruin your pesto, though.
Staying true to tradition and using a