the perfect Pasta
Pasta is my favorite food. This is the granddaddy of 'em all, the single most important recipe to my personal identity, the meaning of life itself. I'm not a fan of food blogs that have long stories which, frankly, aren't very compelling. But this dish makes up the very fiber of my being, and if I don't write about this, there's no point in posting anything at all. It won't happen again. I promise.
When I was a freshman in college I went to Italy to visit family. We were an inter-generational cadre, accompanying my great uncle on his final trip to our ancestral homeland. One night, in Rome, sitting in a street car on Via Veneto decorated in white Christmas lights, I ordered my first bowl of Amatriciana. When the sauce made contact with my mouth, the heavens opened. A light shone down and a choir of Gregorian monks began to sing. From that point on, pasta would never be the same. I returned to Rome three years later to study abroad.
In the time between my first trip to Italy and when I boarded a plane to go abroad, I learned to cook. My godfather taught me how to make his mom's sauce and legendary meatballs. They were so legit, she used to give them away at family gatherings, stacks of egg cartoons, each with a dozen meatballs inside, sauce spilling out over the edges. I developed a reputation as the cook in my fraternity. I'd make sauce in huge pots, and with the help of others, oversee a meatball assembly line designed to feed 80 people. It was with this experience that I returned to Rome. Ready to conquer amatriciana.
A local specialty, it was on every menu. Anytime we ate out, I ordered amatriciana, on the look out for the best in town. Finally, in a back alley in the Medieval section west of the Piazza Navona, I found it. Dangerously convenient, Il Fico on Via Monte Giordano was a temple. Tucked away in narrow, winding cobblestone streets, amidst buildings haphazardly constructed in the Middle Ages, it was a refuge from the pure insanity of Rome. Getting lost in the Medieval thicket was no difficult task–even for a local.
At first, I was going once a week, then, twice. By the end of my stay, my days numbered, I could be found eating lunch on four different days! Most often I'd go by myself as no one else could match my religious devotion. Fernando, my waiter, would always put something on the house. Wine, dessert, appetizers, all were in rotation. When I wasn't with the other pieces of furniture, I was in my apartment experimenting. Everyone will tell you; Italian food is all about ingredients. I had access to the best. Yet, trial after trial, I couldn't get it to taste like Il Fico's sauce. Finally, I asked Fernando.
In my stupidity, I listened carefully. What I should have done was march back to the kitchen and watch the cook prepare my order. Epic fail. I was practically paying the utility bill myself. I had every right to demand an audience with the chef! Thanks to that little mistake, I ended up occupying myself for six years, filled with one feudal attempt after another.
When I returned to the US, I started to have dreams about Il Fico's amatriciana. This is 100% true, and also, 100% pathetic. Never the same dream, I'd get them at least once a week. I'd be in Rome, wondering, lost, desiring above all else to see the doors of Il Fico, and to know I was back. At first, the situation would be dire, but the dream would always end with a neatly resolved plot and me strolling towards my place of worship. It's a dream, alright, they never make sense to begin with. As time went on, they became less frequent, and more desperate. I'd find the trattoria, but it would look different. I'd order my favorite dish, and to my horror, they'd be out, or worse, it tasted nothing like it once did!
And now, with a strong suspicion that I was crazy, we come to the present day. I moved to NYC after college and the single most important ingredient in amatriciana, guanciale, was at my disposal. Thus began years and years of tiny iterations, proving without doubt that I am, in fact, a lunatic. My roommates have eaten so much of this over the years, it's become a joke around the apartment. The remarkable thing about this, there are literally three ingredients, not including pasta.
Maybe I was chasing something that wasn't. Maybe I've forgotten what it actually tasted like. Maybe, I conjured an image of intangible perfection, one impossible to achieve. Just like that incredible lover of your dreams, that seems to always elude you. Just like that, except I'm taking about a pasta sauce. Yikes. But alas, my obsession was vindicated. I found what I had lost. Be it never lost again!
WHat's in it
Named for the town of Amatrice in Lazio, the province that surrounds Rome, the original dish didn't have tomatoes. They were only added in after Columbus' discovery of the New World, where they originated. Once in Europe, they were a hit. Apart from the Beatles, it's safe to say this was the most loved import of all time. Can you even comprehend the idea of Italian cuisine existing without tomatoes? A dark and troubling thought, indeed.
Guanciale: This is the keystone. It's pig jowl, it's fatty, and it's so, so beautiful. I can feel a tear running down my cheek just thinking about it. Some people will substitute in pancietta, and those people are nuts. No guanciale, no Amatricana. If you want to get really nitpicky, like some of us do, the type of guanciale can matter. The type I like to use is rubbed in a black pepper.
Mezze Maniche: Believe it or not I'm weirdly OCD about a few things. Shocking, I know. One these things is pasta shape. Growing up my dad loved perciatelli and I hated them. It felt like I was eating worms. In Rome, bucatini all'amatriciana is all the rage, and that doesn't still well with me. Bucatini is very similar to perciatelli and I don't play that game. At Il Fico, I'd order "pasta corta" (short pasta). They used Mezze Maniche. I really like the shape, texture, and the way sauce and crispy bits of guanciale get lodged inside. It's the best little surprise you'll ever get. It's not easy to find outside of Italy, so mezzi rigatoni is a good substitute.
San Marzano Tomatoes: Must have. Bright, bold, and beautiful, just how I like my women. They need a ton of salt to balance the flavor but are simply the best. Don't comprise.
Also, use a food mill. It leaves behind the seeds and skins, producing a tomato puree of uniform consistency. This makes cooking down the sauce not only possible but a dream. If you don't mill it, you'll get this weird mix of watery fluid and solids. I'm all about flavor concentration and there's not much you can do if you're working with a substance you can't properly cook down.
Salt: Salt salt salt, salt, salt salt. Use it.
Black Pepper: This is what Fernando told me that was different about Il Fico's sauce. HIGHLY unorthodox. However, if you want to stand out, you need to take risks.
Onions: Never red.
Pecorino Romano (Sheep's milk Romano): In general, Italians use, pecorino romano with red sauces, parmigiano in other instances. It comes from sheep's milk not cow's, and is a storied tradition in Roman cuisine. You might be thinking, "Hey Ben, what about chicken parm?". Well that isn't actually an Italian dish. It's Italian American. Just like the cast of Jersey Shore, not actually Italian, just annoying.
Also on that list of Not-Actually-Italian, meatballs, Alfredo sauce, and garlic bread. I don't pass judgement on any of these except for Alfredo sauce, I really dislike that stuff. Eggplant parm is a thing but its more like eggplant lasagna, using the sliced vegetable as the sheets of noodles. It's loaded with cheese and freaking great, as is everything loaded with cheese.
Garlic: Funny story about this one. I was actually asked about this in an interview. On my resume, I listed that I liked cooking. My interviewer asked...
"What's your my favorite dish?"
Me: "Pasta all'amatriciana."
"Garlic or no garlic?"
Me: "How do you know about this!?"
I don't use garlic, but unlike pepper, this is a hotly contested ingredient, with experts lining up on both sides of the aisle. This was a very sophisticated question, not one that would be asked by the casual, or even serious Italian food enthusiast, hence my surprise. I got the job, and this story continually came up more times than I could count.
What you need
- 1/2 pound of guanciale, cut into lardons
- 4 onions, diced (4 small or 1-2 big depending on yield)
- 2 28-oz cans of whole pealed San Marzano tomatoes
- Salt
- Pepper
- Olive oil
- 1-pound box of Mezzi Rigatoni (Mezze Maniche if you can get it)
- Block of pecorino romano
- Great bread, for scarpetta
Cooking Time!
Finally...
1) Coat a sauce pan with olive oil, on low, and render the lardons until they are browned. Take your time! Low and slow gets the fat into the pan. Too hot and you hit the smoke point. You do that, you get bitter sauce. Just don't. Low and slow. It could take 20-25 mins, maybe more!
How do you know you screwed up? What you don't want to hear, see, and smell, is sizzling, smoke, and smoke. If you experience these, your sauce is ruined. Clean the pan and start over.
Another problem with a high, searing the meat. This traps the fat, and we want to extract as much as we can! FYI, this cut makes bacon look lean. Liquid fat should be pooling in the bottom of the pan. You won't be removing any on it. Keep calm and carry on...
2) Once rendered, remove the guanciale, and hold to the side. Add the onions, throw in a dash of salt, and cook low and slow until caramelized. This will take 20 min or more. Don't rush it. And remember, if you cook the fat at too high a temp, you're gonna have a bad time.
**Note: The onions are cooking in a pool of fat. Deep breaths, everything will be fine. You're right on track to absolutely crushing it in the kitchen, and becoming a legend. Stay the course.
3) Run the tomatoes through a food mill. You're left with a consistent, uniform tomato puree. If you don't use a mill, you get tomato water with chunks. Not good. I'm also OCD about sauce constancy. I strongly believe that for cooking, and just taste in general, this contraption makes a huge difference.
4) Add the tomato puree and reserved guanciale to the onions. Bring to a boil, once there, reduce to a simmer. Add salt and a few cranks of the pepper from the grinder. Keep tasting as it cooks, you will need to add decent amount of salt. Do it in stages so you don't overdo it. But be warned, if you're not used to cooking with San Marzano you might be a little shocked just how much you end up adding. I'm not sure exactly how much I use, but I'd ballpark it around three hefty pinches. Cook for 45 min.
This is might take a few times to get the hang of, especially if you're new to cooking, or were taught to under-salt things. Rely on taste.
4) Boil the water in a separate pot. It should be very well salted, tasting like the ocean, but not so salty you can't sip it. If you don't salt enough, your pasta will taste like nothing. Not good. You've spent so much time getting to this point. Don't mess it up.
5) Cook the pasta until its almost al dente, drain it using a colander.
6) Place pasta pot back on the stove and ladle sauce back in the pot. Turn heat on low.
7) Return pasta to the pot from whence it came, letting it simmer with the sauce. Finish cooking the pasta, infusing it with deliciousness. 2 min.
8) It's time. Apply cheese and eat yourself silly.
9) SCARPETTA. This step MUST not be skipped. It's the all important act of using bread to wipe your plate clean of remaining sauce.
Namaste friends, namaste...
