Nobody is quite sure where risotto came from or when it first appeared.

In the autumn of 1984, my parents and I paid our first visit to Venice. They flew, and I joined them there, having gone happily astray on European trains in the preceding fortnight, arriving at Santa Lucia station in a dawn that appeared to be steeped in motherof-pearl. One day, we took a boat to the island of Burano, three-quarters of an hour from the city's heart, and lunched at the Trattoria da Romano. Ordering at random from the menu, I chose risotto, and, after a puzzling delay, it was placed before me. Off-white, unobtrusive, and modestly freckled with parsley, it was as plain to the eye as it was revolutionary to the palate. Never had I tasted such a thing. The flavor, far from strong, was mysterious and mild. As a young fool, recently graduated from college, I neglected to ask how, or of what, the risotto was made. Instead, I feasted, almost cracking the plate with my scraping, and silently vowed that I would try to re-create such food-or a ghost of it, however dissatisfying-for the rest of my life. I would wander the earth, seeking out one risotto after another, in search of the ideal. Forty years later, the folly has worsened, and the quest goes on.

The good news is that making risotto is a breeze. The fundamental things apply. You melt a bit of butter, sauté some chopped onion, add rice, stir it around, add wine, stir, then add hot stock, ladle by ladle, while you stir and stir again. Remove the pan from the heat. Throw in grated Parmesan and more butter. Stir. Wait. Serve. Eat. Feel your immortal soul being warmed and suffused with pleasures both rare and immeasurable. Lick the spoon. Wash the pan. Done.