Whenever I make ravioli they disintegrate. The pasta is too fragile or the filling too wet and the little parcels stick together, leak and tear. My birthday was coming up and, for a gift, I wanted nothing less than the answer to the mystery of ravioli. My mother, an organisational superhuman, (lists, dear, lists!) found me a week-long spot in a friend of a friend of a friends’ well-reputed fish restaurant, Al Tuguri, in Alghero on the west coast of Sardinia.
And so I arrived at 9 o’clock on a Monday morning, my knives wrapped up in a dishcloth, and…
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