Pepe was born just outside Bologna, in a house where the walls were permanently stained with the scent of soffritto – onions, carrots, and celery dancing in olive oil like it was opera. His real name is Giuseppe, but no one calls him that. He’s Pepe, and he’s the undisputed king of Bolognese.

His mother, Filomena, taught him that sauce is not a topping – it’s a commitment. His father, Giulio, taught him how to choose meat like a maestro – always a mix of beef, pork, and veal, finely minced, never rushed. Pepe listened. And then he levelled up.

Pepe’s Bolognese Sauce doesn’t follow the trends. It doesn’t do shortcuts. It starts with a base so deep it could write its own memoir. There’s wine (always red), milk (yes, milk – trust Nonno), and a five-hour simmer that ends when he says it’s done, not when the recipe does.

He insists on hand-chopped veg. He refuses to use garlic. He only stirs clockwise. And he always makes enough for leftovers, “because Bolognese is like love – better the next day.”

It’s been served over tagliatelle, spooned into lasagne, and even (to his eternal dismay) used on spaghetti. He grumbled, but he still gave seconds.

Pepe says:

“A good sauce should hold a noodle, a secret, and a grudge.”