Super Quick, Super Sauce

THE ITALIAN INVASION of the American restaurant scene rolls on - without any signs of weakening. It's a matter of discussion whenever food professionals meet; it is the hot topic whenever restaurant reviewers schmooze.

Italian is in. Italian is it.

Why? Is it simply a matter of a food fad with unusual force and longevity?

Is it economics? A cuisine riding a popular crest because it usually costs less? Or has it linked up with the "comfort food" phenomenon: spaghetti and meatballs as the ethnic kitchen cousin of meatloaf and mashed potatoes?

I suspect it is all of those things - and more.

This is the first generation of adult Americans (all Americans, not just inhabitants of East Coast cities) who grew up with mass-marketed Italian food nearby, even if that emphasis consisted mainly of Pizza Huts and Godfathers.

It is not insignificant that the major growth sector in the U.S. fast-food industry during the 1980s was pizza. Burgers remained flat; pizza bubbled.

Thirty years ago, Seattle had a half-dozen Italian restaurants, some of them not so good. Today, if you include the pizza outlets, the area has more Italian restaurants than you can shake a wooden spoon at. And more open every passing month.

What I find interesting in all of this is the rediscovery of a way of cooking that I grew up with: spaghetti, lasagna, ravioli were eaten not only once or twice a week, but frequently once or twice a day by most of my Italian-American friends.

Lunch was often a meatball "sub" or a bowl of pasta e fagioli (macaroni and beans). Lasagna was a familiar Sunday dinner and Monday leftovers. Pizza and beer at the neighborhood bistro - almost every night.

Then, for a while, plain, wholesome Italian cooking fell from favor. Too proletarian. Too unimaginative. Too fattening.

"Back in the '60s, it was spaghetti and red sauce," one restaurateur recalled. "It was cheap and everywhere.

"Then it was fresh `pasta,' not so cheap. It came with a white sauce; all the rage but bad for your heart.

"Now they call it a complex carbohydrate, it costs $12 and it's good for you again."

The most recent ripple on the latest culinary wave has been the American discovery of Italian quick sauces. Years ago, a good, rich tomato sauce took four or five hours of long, slow simmering to reach perfection (and still does). It was an all-day procedure in Grandma's kitchen.

But there are other pasta sauces that take no more than a few minutes. Which is, so to speak, timely. Because Grandma is no longer in the kitchen and nobody has five hours to do anything anymore.

A couple of weeks ago, I dropped into Buongusto up on Queen Anne Hill, a cozy neighborhood restaurant that has been open for less than a year and is jammed every night. I had just finished my two-hour Sunday night radio talk show and I was feeling that combination of half-wired and half-tired that any intense work brings on.

I wanted something simple - yet, in a sense, more than that. I wanted something fundamental. Salvio Varchetta, the restaurant's co-owner (with Anna Mascio), brought over a glass of red Tuscan wine, a basket of bread and one of the world's basic pastas:

Capellini (ultra-thin spaghetti) tossed with olive oil, a touch of barely cooked garlic, some heated, chopped fresh tomatoes tossed with fresh, chopped basil. He dusted it over with fresh-grated Parmesan. I didn't merely eat it. I demolished it.

The dish is a classic. Yet it takes less than 10 minutes to make. The sauce cooks in less time than it takes for the pasta water to come to a boil.

Saleh Joudah, at Saleh al Lago near Green Lake, has another super-quick pasta which he calls Spaghetti with Sand. It's not on the menu. He makes it for himself and a few friends on informal occasions.

Again, the base consists of a quality olive oil (he uses Guiseppe Ribatti's extra-virgin cold pressed, from Andria, Italy). Into the heated oil he crushes a little garlic, adds a pinch of crushed, dried red pepper, a sprinkling of salt, and about a tablespoon (or less) of toasted bread crumbs. That's it.

He makes his own bread crumbs (the size and consistency of - you guessed it - sand) from leftover Italian bread in a dry skillet, but I've used commercial bread crumbs (Progresso) right out of the cardboard cylinder and it works just fine.

When I want a quick pasta sauce that's a little more substantial but not much more work, I go rummaging through the kitchen cabinets and start pulling out - dare I say it? - cans.

A can of black olives. A can of good tuna. A can of tomatoes - imported if I have them, Progresso's Italian plum pack if I don't. From the refrigerator: a few green olives I keep for martinis; a tablespoon of capers; sometimes a half-dozen mushrooms; a couple of anchovies (optional) if I have them. A pat of butter. Minced fresh basil. A handful of minced parsley. Several cloves of garlic. Maybe a splash of white wine.

And, of course, the ever-present package of spaghetti (I use Primo, a Canadian brand).

It's pretty haphazard and it's meant to be. If I'm missing the capers, I get by with chopped green olives. If I'm out of black olives, it doesn't matter. No fresh basil? Use a sprinkling of dried. You can add a dusting of Parmesan cheese if you really like it, but the dish (like all Italian seafood sauces) is better without grated cheese.

But no matter how I make it, I have never seen anybody leave any of it on the plate.

These are the essentials:

Figure on about two tablespoons of olive oil per person (a third of a cup for four servings), heat it slowly, add three or four large cloves of garlic and a tablespoon of butter if you choose, and from two to four anchovy fillets (you can leave them out if you are convinced you don't like them, but they really add a vital richness and don't taste at all like the dried and baked anchovies on pizza).

Toss in the red pepper, about a half-teaspoon or more, and cook very slowly, without browning the garlic. Throw in the capers and the mushrooms. Increase heat and saute for a few minutes. I sometimes add an ounce or two of white wine (or dry vermouth) to the mushrooms after they've cooked and boil most of it off; it plumps the mushrooms and adds flavor.

Add in about a dozen coarsely chopped black olives, some chopped green olives, if you like, and the drained, roughly chopped Italian plum tomatoes from a 28-ounce can. Cook 10 minutes, stirring frequently, with the dried basil. If using fresh basil - about five or six leaves - chop and set aside.

(You can use tomatoes packed in sauce or puree - but it will make a denser sauce more like a southern Italian Puttanesca.)

Now add the drained can of a better-quality tuna, breaking it up with a fork, and the fresh basil. Heat through for a couple of minutes and toss with cooked pasta - two-thirds of a pound of dried spaghetti for four.

A simple green salad, a loaf of Italian bread and a chilled white wine complete a quick, robust supper. JOHN HINTERBERGER'S FOOD COLUMNS AND RESTAURANT REVIEWS APPEAR SUNDAYS IN PACIFIC AND FRIDAYS IN TEMPO. HE ALSO WRITES A WEDNESDAY COLUMN FOR THE SCENE SECTION OF THE SEATTLE TIMES. MIKE SIEGEL IS A TIMES STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER.