'Big Night,' big dish

Quick, call Louis Prima; there's a timpano in the oven

By Dale Rice
American-Statesman Staff
June 1, 2005

Sal DiSecca photos Ciola chef Jason Rodis said making the timpano is "the hardest thing we do in this dinner," but the results are worth it.

• Hungry for a movie?
• Timpano recipe

One was a perfect dome of golden crust. The other resembled a crusty volcano. One was baked in an enamel pan specially made for the classic Italian dish and ordered from Europe. The other was baked in a 14-inch clay flower pot from a nearby Home Depot. One was assembled by a professional chef. The other was put together by a team of proficient amateurs. Both, though, had the same inspiration: a jovial dinner party based on "Big Night," one of the great food movies of the past two decades.

In 1996's "Big Night," two brothers struggle to save their restaurant, with Primo, the chef, obsessed with the purity of his dishes and Secondo, the business manager, pushing to give customers what they want -- even if it is spaghetti with meatballs.

In one final, valiant effort, they prepare a meal for friends, relatives and the famous singer Louis Prima, who they've been tricked into believing will attend.

In that meal, the movie made famous what had been an obscure Italian dish: timpano, a baked drum made of pasta dough and filled with a variety of ingredients, including pasta, sauce, meat and cheese.

Featured on the cover of Joan Tucci's cookbook (husband Stanley Tucci directed "Big Night" and starred as Secondo), the timpano now stars at dinner parties with a movie theme in locations as diverse as Italian restaurants and beach houses.

But whether the cooks are professional or amateur, whether the diners are paying guests or friends, those who take the time to prepare this multistep dish have one thing in common -- a love of good Italian food.

At Ciola's

Jason Rodis sliced a wedge and pulled it from the pasta dome -- to the delight and the applause of nearly 50 diners.

With an appearance worthy of a cookbook cover, the slice of timpano held its shape firmly, showing off the layers of pasta tubes, eggs, meat and other ingredients from which it was constructed.

It all seemed so easy.

But that wasn't the way it was in the kitchen several hours earlier.

"It's the hardest thing we do in this dinner," the executive chef at Ciola's restaurant near Lakeway said that afternoon. "It's the most time-consuming."

Ha Lam photos for AA-S At Ciola's in Lakeway, chef Jason Rodis makes a timpano for an evening celebrating the movie 'Big Night.' First he places rolled-out dough into a special pan. Then he fills with meat, cheeses, eggs, pasta and marinara sauce. He bakes it twice for 45 minutes. Then he inverts the pan and slices and serves.

The pig, timpano and a host of other dishes were the fare for a special "Big Night" dinner this spring. The restaurant puts on these fetes on a regular basis, with some patrons returning each time a "Big Night" is offered.

"When I saw the movie, I was so impressed with that feast and the timpano dish," said restaurant owner Dan Ciola. "It's my tribute to the finest food movie ever made."

While Ciola's dinner featured six courses, including antipasti such as eggplant salad and Italian ham, soup, risotto, baked salmon, chicken, roasted pig, several vegetables and pastries, and of course, wine, the star of the evening was the timpano.

In making this classic dish, Rodis began by rolling the pasta dough and draping it into a speckled enamel pan specially made for this purpose.

As Rodis layered the fillings, two important aspects readily became apparent. He kept the individual layers relatively thin, and he used the sauce far more sparingly than called for in the recipe.

He had two other secrets. He baked the timpano for 45 minutes and then pulled it from the oven. Before serving, he baked it a second time for 45 minutes and then placed it on the counter for 30 minutes, giving the filling time to set.

Prior to slicing the wedges, Rodis cut a 3-inch circle in the center of the dome and removed it, making it easier for the slices to remain firm and picturesque.

Finally, he ladled marinara sauce on the plate, making up for the small amount he used in the filling.

The result was a timpano that would have made Primo proud.

At the beach

"I'll fix anything you want."

Those, if you didn't already know it, are dangerous words to be uttered in the kitchen.

The next thing you know, the team leader will smile benignly and say, "Why don't you roll out the crust."

Sal DiSecca photos At a beach house in Surfside, we had our own big night. First we put dough into a foil-lined flower pot. Our fillings included cheeses, peas, pasta, meatballs, sausage and marinara sauce. We also made a veggie version. We baked our concoctions four hours, inverted them and watched them erupt.

That thought crossed my mind, too -- for about a millisecond. Until I began calculating the diameter of the circle of pasta dough necessary to cover the bottom and sides of a 14-inch clay pot pressed into service as a baking pan. Until I realized there was no rolling pin in this Surfside beach house.

This, after all, was a weekend at the Gulf Coast beach, bringing together two dozen friends of the hosts from around the country. How much equipment could one expect to have on hand?

(Did I mention the team leader, who developed the idea of a "Big Night" dinner for this year's gathering, actually shipped 50 pounds of supplies in a giant box from the West Coast? But no rolling pin.)

So there I was, forced to improvise with a wine bottle.

I spread wax paper on the dining table, floured the surface, lightly patted a circle of dough and began rolling the dough. And turning. And rolling. And turning. And rolling. And turning. And rolling. All to produce a thin, relatively round piece of dough that would fit the pot.

Then there was the challenge of getting it inside the makeshift, greased-foil-lined pot without tearing. That required folding, lifting, unfolding and gentle stretching.

Finally it was ready for filling.

Our version contained layers of pasta (several kinds), marinara sauce, meatballs the size of peas (patiently made by my cohorts in this madness), slices of sausage, chopped hardboiled eggs, peas and cheese (ricotta and mozzarella). The layers were repeated three times to reach the top.

Then I rolled a small round of dough to cover the filling and sealed that to the rest of the dough, crimping the edges in an oh-so-professional look.

In the 350-degree oven there was approximately one-quarter inch to spare between the top of the crust and the heating element. But four hours later -- far longer than the 45 minutes the recipe called for (we were waiting for the filling to hit 120 degrees) -- the timpano was done. (It's a good thing we had prepared more than a dozen appetizers to stave off hunger before this main-course offering.)

We carried the timpano to the table and, on the count of three, tipped it over and slipped the pot off. A beautifully crusted volcano, it stood there dramatically. Momentarily. And then it erupted, with the layers of filling mingling and spilling onto the foil-covered table.

Perhaps it wasn't as perfect as the one in the movie, but it was all ours: a special dish prepared for friends who appreciated the affection it represented as much as the hearty goodness it brought to the table for our own big night.