How to make a real Italian ragù

Let me start with this: making ragù is not the same thing as making Bolognese. I realize this might sound pedantic, and if you’ve already tuned out, it’s probably because you’ve been conditioned by years of red-sauce propaganda to believe that “Bolognese” and “ragù” are interchangeable, that both refer to a kind of basic, vaguely Italian meat sauce. They don’t. This is important, because ragù, properly understood, is less about the actual dish and more about an entire way of being, of living, of approaching the small (and large) crises of daily life with the kind of patience that only four to six hours of slow simmering can teach you.

Ragù is a meat-based sauce with traces of tomato. There’s no specific way of cooking it and there are dozens of varieties made all over Italy from oxtail ragù to fish ragù. It’s very much the umbrella term for a meat-based Italian sauce. This is where bolognese comes in. Firstly, bolognese originates from Bologna, a city in northern Italy. And secondly, bolognese is known as ragù alla bolognese because it’s a type of ragù. Bolognese sauce is typically more strict in its recipe, including ingredients like ground meat (usually a combo of pork and beef mince), onions, carrots, celery, tomatoes, broth, wine, and sometimes (sic) milk or cream. It’s generally a much thicker sauce than other ragù varieties and is served with taglatielle.In this article we talk about Ragu’ Bolognese because it is the most famous, it is one of the best ragu’ a dead heat with the Ragu’ Napolenano (Bolognese ragù is made with minced meat, Neapolitan ragù with pieces of whole meat) and becaus ein my famy we used to prepare Ragu’ Bolognese.

Italians know this in their bones. We don’t talk about it, because it’s a truth so fundamental to our culinary (and existential) worldview that it hardly bears mentioning, like how nobody in Ireland needs to be explicitly told that you drink tea when faced with any problem—whether emotional, meteorological, or metaphysical. But ragù, like life itself, requires time, care, and a sort of quiet faith in the process. It’s a dish that embodies, in every sense, delayed gratification. So, before you even think about turning on the stove, you need to accept one key thing: This is going to take a while. A long while. Like, clear your afternoon kind of while.

Step One: Ingredients (or, The Holy Trinity of Italian Cooking)

You’re going to need:

• Olive oil: extra virgin is mandatory, is not “preferably EVO”. If teh oil was not extra virgin my nonna used to say that was good just for the Fiat and the Vespa.
• Onions, carrots, and celery: soffritto is your base here, and like the foundation of a good building, it’s what holds the whole thing up. If you skimp or rush this, you’re essentially trying to build a house on sand.
• Meat: Traditionally, a mix of beef and pork. Not minced meat, please. We’re not making chili con carne here. You’ll want meat with *texture*, so think about a good chuck or short rib, something with fat and flavor.
• Tomato paste: This is where a lot of people go wrong. They drown the ragù in tomato sauce, creating this watery, overly sweet imposter that has no business pretending to be ragù. We want a concentrated flavor. Less is more, a small can of paste is plenty.
• Wine: Both for deglazing and for your personal fortification (this is a long process, after all). People with serious personality issues tend to use white wine. I  go red because, well, vino rosso just feels…right.
• Other ingredients : You can use herbs if you like. Bay leaves, a little thyme, and some nutmeg. Nutmeg might sound odd here, but trust me, it’s a subtle trick that gives the sauce a deeper, more complex flavor. No milk please. The milk can add a certain smoothness, a richness that makes the whole thing less acidic, more velvety, but don’t do it. Why? Because I am Italian and my  nonna said no.

Step Two: The Sofritto (or, Why You Can’t Rush Art)

If you’ve ever sautéed onions, carrots, and celery, and thought, “Eh, that’s good enough after 5 minutes,” you’ve never made real ragù. The soffritto is where everything begins, and it needs to be treated with reverence, like the opening lines of a novel that you know is going to change your life. You want the vegetables to sweat, not brown. There’s a difference. Browning means you’ve gone too far, you’ve crossed a line into a place where the flavors get harsh and bitter. Sweating, on the other hand, means coaxing out the sweetness, letting the vegetables soften and release their inner, delicate essence. This will take longer than you think. Get comfortable.

At this point, you’ll want to season with a pinch of salt, but not too much. The meat is going to bring its own intensity later, and there’s no quicker way to ruin a dish than by turning your ragù into a salt lick.

Step Three: The Meat (or, Where the Real Work Begins)

Now comes the moment of truth: the meat. There’s an art to browning meat, and it’s where a lot of home cooks falter. You need high heat, but not too high. You need patience, but not too much patience, or the meat starts to stew in its own juices, which is not what we’re going for here. The goal is caramelization—that beautiful, browned crust that will give your ragù depth and complexity. Don’t crowd the pan. Do it in batches. Yes, this is time-consuming. Yes, you will feel like skipping this step. Don’t.

Once the meat is browned to perfection, comes the truly magical part: deglazing with wine. Now, this is important, because deglazing is essentially a negotiation between you and the pan. All those bits of meat stuck to the bottom? That’s flavor. The wine lifts it up, dissolves it, creates a rich foundation for what’s to come. The first hiss of wine hitting the hot pan should make you feel something primal, something close to reverence. Let it reduce. Don’t rush. Again, remember: This is going to take a while.

Step Four: The Tomato Paste and the Long Wait

Now, add your tomato paste, but in moderation. You want just enough to give the sauce a little color and acidity, but not so much that it becomes a tomato sauce. Stir it in and let it meld with the meat and soffritto. Here’s where most people will want to throw in cans of crushed tomatoes or purée, but resist. This is not marinara, and the tomato is here to play a supporting role, not dominate the whole conversation.

Now for the waiting. You’ll add a little broth or water, bring it to a simmer, then turn the heat down low. I mean low The idea is to let it cook, slowly, for hours. Three, four, even six hours, if you can manage. It’s a little like meditation—nothing happens for a long time, but then, slowly, things start to change. The meat breaks down, the flavors meld, and what you end up with is something that tastes not like meat, or tomatoes, or wine, but like something altogether new.

Step Five: Serving (or, The Moment of Truth)

Here’s the thing: after all this effort, you’re going to want to do something fancy to serve your ragù. Resist this urge. Ragù is not about being fancy. It’s about simplicity. Serve it over tagliatelle (or another broad, flat pasta that can handle the weight of the sauce), with a generous dusting of Parmigiano-Reggiano. You don’t need garnishes or tricks. The sauce is the star.

And that’s it. What you’re left with is something profoundly comforting, deeply flavorful, and honestly, a little humbling. Because in the end, making ragù isn’t just about following a recipe. It’s about embracing the process, trusting that good things take time, and realizing that, in both life and in the kitchen, the best results come when you let go of the need for immediate satisfaction and simply let things cook.