I tried 12 store-bought red sauces, and the major brands couldn’t compete with the specialty jars

A well-known brand sold in supermarkets nationwide, Prego seemed like a good place to begin.

Stirring the sauce, I found it had a medium consistency with some cubed tomato chunks. It tasted sweet from the get-go and even more so when returning to it after trying the others.

It had a soupy, artificial flavor that reminded me of SpaghettiO’s if you were to add diced tomato and some puree to thicken it up, which made sense since both brands are owned by Campbell’s.

Warmed up, this already-watery sauce thinned out only a little bit more, but it got really sweet, the sugars concentrating with a caramel-like quality and becoming the prevalent theme.

It lost its SpaghettiO’s flavor and became like a rich, thick ketchup with a mind of its own in that it preferred sliding off the pasta rather than clinging to it.

Barilla has made a huge name for itself in the pasta world, with over 130 years to perfect its craft.

It recently released a new line of geographically influenced recipes, boasting the inclusion of Italian tomatoes, extra-virgin olive oil, Genovese basil, and no artificial ingredients.

When I excitedly opened the jar, I revealed a deep, clean lid with no caked-on — or over-reduced — sauce on it, hefty pieces of tomatoes, and visible garlic floating up top.

The taste of tomato was strong and immediate, with a bit of a bite at the end that was emphasized by the strong presence of black pepper and the signature spiciness of Genovese basil.

This earthiness built toward the middle of the bite, when a cheese-like richness — most likely because of the carrots added as a natural acid counterpoint and sweetener — emerged.

On pasta, it was bold, hearty, thick, and chunky, grabbing firmly to each piece to make sure every ridge was coated.

Not only did the sauce get richer and sweeter from the heat, but its harder edges smoothed out. The previously noticeable black-pepper flavor backed off and the basil blended, making each bite impactful, yet not jarring.

The Newman’s Own organic tomato-and-basil sauce had a few more ingredients and a much bigger halo than the nonorganic alternative.

I found a thinner puree, though, with tomatoes that were clearly added in as opposed to cooked together, which is typical for major manufacturers.

Straight from the jar, the tomato flavor was warm and the black pepper stood out, supported by the distinctive fennel.

Unfortunately, its concentrated syrupy flavor and acidity lingered a bit too long, ineffectively countered by the pureed carrot.

Once heated, it looked sadder — plain and nondescript. Appearances proved to be deceiving, however, as it got significantly better.

I could now taste the basil, even though the tiny flecks had faded, and the overall flavor of the sauce strengthened with a deeper sense of tomato.

Plus the thinner, kid-friendly texture proved to be a boon, refusing to water down or separate and evenly coating the pasta.

This option boasts an absence of gluten and grains — an odd flex since those ingredients aren’t common in any red sauces.

The brand has a loyal following among the paleo, keto, and Whole30 communities and a shocking price tag on par with the restaurant sauces, so I was curious to see whether it’d prove itself worthy. 

At first glance, it was brightly, cheerfully red, with oversize pieces of clearly fresh basil floating in a sea of gloriously thick puree.

Diced tomatoes are named first in this ingredient list, denoting a higher concentration. I suspected, based on their shape and texture, that they were actually simmered in the puree and not added as an afterthought.

The tomatoes were on the acidic side, but the basil came through sweet, and the oregano was warm.

But the microwave ended this honeymoon. Though the sauce stayed nice and thick, pleasantly hugging the pasta, the flavors dramatically changed.

The basil got sharper, but not in a fresh way. The acid became pronounced to the point of abrasion. Plus a piercing, horseradish-like tang emerged, as if someone spilled cocktail sauce in my pasta.

When warmed, the salt also had a rather salty taste.

This restaurant’s 2013 opening has made quite a mark on the New York City food scene.

Between its old-school dining experience, exclusivity hook with reservations released only once a week, mega-powered ownership, and Michelin-starred cuisine, its success is strategic — and so is its sauce’s formula.

At first glance, it was considerably darker than the other sauces — a deep brick with scarlet oil splotches and visibly wilted fresh basil.

It was already sweet and rich when cold, and though it uses puree, whole tomatoes are listed first in the ingredients, which was evident in its chunky texture.

There was a lingering whole-mouth feel to the sauce, with a malty, mushroom-like sense and a reminder of cheese, even though none is used in the recipe.

It immediately struck me that this is the kind of sauce you’d want to put on a thick, breaded cutlet for chicken Parmesan.

This impression got stronger after it was warmed and mixed into the pasta, to which it clung well.

The maltiness opened up to be less mushroom-like and more reminiscent of caramelized onions. It was a flavor that was hard to place and difficult to define, but not unpleasant.

There was a little tartness at the end to counterbalance the earthiness for an overall satisfying bite that would be made better only with chicken and mozzarella.

Victoria uses a 90-minute kettle-cooking process — a direct challenge to mainstream manufacturers that use heat-transfer tubes to flash cook their sauces — that results in a beautiful texture of whole tomatoes broken down in their own juices until irregularly lumpy. 

Without puree, the base was a little on the watery side, but the coarse tomatoes were plentiful enough that it wasn’t runny.

As with the sauce from Carbone and Rao’s, I could see some oil floating, but I mostly noticed the diced onions, tomato seeds, and smaller pieces of basil, which were dark and fine.

It tasted clean and fresh, sweet at first, then suddenly sharp before it tapered off into sweet again — a lovely ride.

Unfortunately, this journey ended early when the sauce was served warm. The flavor considerably lightened up and became fleeting and shallow.

The basil remained detectable, distributing well and evenly across the pasta in its tiny pieces, but the tomato lost a lot of its freshness.

It just wasn’t very assertive, even though the water didn’t separate as much as expected. Not devoid of personality but in need of a partner, this would pair well with high-quality or fresh pasta.

The restaurant sauces were glaringly identifiable from those of more recognizable brands.

As similarly mass-produced as some of these big names may be today, there’s just no mistaking the thick, chunky viscosity of cooked-down, whole tomatoes.

Among the major manufacturers, two distinguished themselves as excellent and two were clearly the worst.

I’m not even counting Classico’s sauce since it just seemed like salsa, but Ragù’s option had a muddy, syrupy aftertaste, and Prego’s tasted a bit too recognizable and cheap.

Bertolli’s formula stood out with its rougher puree, lovely tomatoes, and fresh basil flavor, and Barilla’s Vero Gusto sauce sported a unique and distinctive basil variety, forward tomatoes, and an overall complexity.

Most of the fancier options lived up to their hype and proved to be superior. 

Michael’s of Brooklyn was the best if you like clean, fresh, and sweet tomatoes that trill like the finest soprano. But Rao’s followed as a close second or tie, with layered flavors and a miraculous meatiness for a vegetarian recipe.

This story was originally published in October 2021 and most recently updated on October 21, 2o24.