Rolled Pasta of the Mountains

To make it, Sammarinese cooks spread thin sheets of fresh pasta with besciamella (Italy’s béchamel sauce) and top them with Alpine-style cheese; thin, savory slices of prosciutto cotto; and sometimes mushrooms before rolling them up in a spiral (it’s from this distinct shape that the dish takes its name: “nidi di rondine” translates to “swallows’ nests”).

They slice the rolls, stand the pieces on their ends in a pan of more besciamella, and bake. In the oven, the cheese melts, and the meatiness of the ham (and earthiness of the mushrooms, if used) infuses into the sauce. The exposed tops of the rolls are transformed into crispy whorls that have the same textural appeal as the corners of a pan of lasagna. But nidi di rondine is a more egalitarian pasta—unlike in a lasagna, everyone gets a share of that delectable browned crunch. 

Most recipes I found called for either Emmental or fontina cheese; I opted for higher-moisture fontina for its meltability. And since I lacked the prosciutto cotto that Sammarinese cooks would typically use to fill their rolls (it’s made from the same cut as the prosciutto crudo that’s more typically seen stateside, but it’s baked instead of air-dried), I substituted thinly sliced Black Forest ham, which hews closer to prosciutto cotto than prosciutto crudo does. 

All the other ingredients were pantry staples—with one exception. The thinness and flexibility of fresh pasta are necessary here to build the most attractive, cohesive spirals. Fortunately, the test kitchen already has a recipe for pasta dough that’s a dream to roll out even if you don’t have a pasta-rolling machine.

I whizzed together flour, whole eggs, yolks, and a glug of oil in the food processor to form a dough and then set it aside to rest while I made the besciamella. I melted butter in a skillet over medium heat; added flour, salt, pepper, and nutmeg; and cooked until it took on some color and became fragrant. I added milk and cooked the sauce until it was thick and smooth.

At this point, I split my sauce into two portions: First, I transferred a cup of the sauce to a bowl to use as the “glue” to hold my rolls together (a less common Italian term for the sauce is “salsa colla,” or “glue sauce”). Then, I poured the rest into a casserole dish. 

I rolled out the pasta to make eight pasta sheets, which I boiled briefly, cooled in ice water, and patted dry. I spread them with the reserved besciamella, layered in the cheese and ham, and rolled the sheets up. 

After cutting each roll crosswise into three pieces, I stood them on their ends in the besciamella-lined casserole dish. Immediately, I took note of an issue: The combined width of the rolls wasn’t enough to fill the casserole, so some of them toppled over and were submerged in the sauce.

Nevertheless, I dusted the lot with grated Parmesan and baked it. 

Because so many of the rolls had fallen over, I was robbed of the crisp, spiraled top that’s a hallmark of the dish. Moreover, the pasta had absorbed a lot of moisture from the sauce, so the besciamella was, true to its secondary name, rather gluey. Time to try again—and to streamline my process along the way. 

Borrowing a technique that I’ve used with no-boil lasagna noodles, I made another batch of pasta sheets but skipped the parcooking step. I also cooked another round of besciamella, but this time I made the sauce in a 10-inch skillet instead of a saucepan.

After setting aside some of the thick besciamella to spread inside the rolls, I added more milk to the remainder, thinning it to the consistency of cream so that it could hydrate the uncooked pasta. 

I assembled the rolls as I had before, this time with the uncooked pasta. And to solve the problem of some of the rolls tipping over, I bulked them up with the addition of chopped raw mushrooms, which both made the rolls just a bit wider, so they could all stand tall and proud in the dish, and contributed texture and subtle earthiness.

I spooned some of the thin besciamella over the tops of the rolls to help them hydrate, sprinkled the Parmesan, and covered the skillet tightly with foil to trap steam. 

After an hour, I peeked under the foil: The pasta had absorbed the excess liquid from the besciamella and cooked through, and the besciamella was reduced and lush but not too thick. I removed the foil and gave the skillet a few minutes under the broiler, which crisped the top of the pasta beautifully. 

As I spooned up a portion, I reflected on the full name of its country of origin, “The Most Serene Republic of San Marino.” It feels right: With such a comforting dish in their repertoire, it’s no wonder that the citizenry are so tranquil.