Aldo was eight years of age when his family home and restaurant in Rome were bombed by the Americans in an attempt to flush out the German troops as the Allies worked their way northward into the city. With the exception of him and his father, his entire family was killed in the blast. Fortunately after the war the neighbors helped them rebuild both their home and the restaurant. Aldo is now in his eighties, and he and his restaurant are still very active and consistently turning out what is probably indeed the best spaghetti alla carbonara that I’ve ever tasted. Hence my profane outburst earlier.
As with most recipes, it is the quality of the ingredients that makes this dish greater than the sum of its parts. Guanciale （cured pork cheek） from local breeders, eggs from naturally raised chickens, traditionally made and aged Pecorino or Parmigiano, and high-quality dried pasta （Aldo recommends Cav. Giuseppe Cocco spaghetti, which can be easily found online） are the only ingredients necessary to create a meal that somehow manages to be as elegant as it is rustic. I have a recipe for carbonara in the cookbook that Felicity and I wrote together years ago, The Tucci Table, and even though it is tasty, like many recipes, it is something of a bastardization of the dish. In a true carbonara, only guanciale is used and never pancetta. There is no onion or garlic and certainly never, ever any cream or butter. People often think that the latter two ingredients are necessary in order to give the dish its proper creaminess when in fact this effect is achieved by not only the combination of egg yolks, cheese, and pasta water but the timing of when they are incorporated.
Aldo’s daughter made this classic dish so effortlessly for me the day we filmed. To watch her do so was revelatory. Gorgeous fatty, peppery strips of guanciale are sautéed in a deep saucepan. Once they have rendered, al dente spaghetti is placed into the pan with them. The heat is turned off as a mixture of whole eggs and egg yolks is poured in. Everything is then gently tossed together with handfuls of Parmigiano and some of the starchy pasta water.
When I tasted it I could not help but hug Aldo. The flavor had such depth that it practically penetrated my soul. It was like I’d met a wonderfully kind long-lost sibling I never knew existed and with whom I could now spend time for the rest of my life.
Okay, maybe my reactions are a bit extreme.
But I dare you to go to Pommidoro, eat the carbonara, and not just shout something like:
“FUCK!”
One can even make carbonara within a hollowed-out wheel of Parmigiano. After combining the guanciale, egg, and pasta, place the mixture into the hollowed-out wheel and toss gently with a large fork and spoon, scraping the cheese from the bottom and sides of the wheel as you do so. The hot pasta will melt the cheese, making this action very easy, and create a silken viscosity that makes for a great bit of culinary theater, besides being a cheese lover’s wet dream.
Spaghetti alla Bottarga
Sicilia
Whenever I am traveling for work, especially to places with which I don’t feel an affinity, finding any affinity with anything is crucial. It will not surprise you to know that I attempt to find an affinity with the food. I usually seek out small restaurants that are well practiced in preparing classic dishes. Obviously I am always drawn to an Italian menu, but I may find a French, Japanese, or Chinese place that serves up well-prepared old standards. After long days of filming in odd locations and too many weeks alone in hotels, a good restaurant with consistently well-cooked classic fare is as close to home as one can get. One of my go-to comfort dishes is a rather odd one, and not often easily found: spaghetti alla bottarga.
Bottarga is dried fish roe, usually from red mullet or bluefin tuna. It’s used in abundance in Southern Italy and Sardinia, where those fish are plentiful, and grated onto pasta or sometimes sliced thinly and served on bread. It is pungent and salty with just the right amount of fishiness to lift a bowl of spaghetti to new places, not unlike truffles do to anything they encounter. Like all things salty, bottarga is quite addictive. Whenever I have splurged （it’s not cheap） and procured a chunk, I find myself not only making pasta alla bottarga but grating it on any-and everything. I’ve rained it upon eggs, shrimp risotto, and spaghetti alle vongole, and all are delicious. （In Sardinian restaurants its presence is practically inescapable.） If there’s a precious block of it in front of me I struggle to stop myself from slicing it paper-thin, popping that wafer of concentrated roe in my mouth, and just letting it melt. Of course you can only eat so many of these briny biscuits before you become completely dehydrated. Whenever I end up in Los Angeles （always against my will）， I often head directly from the airport to Madeo, a wonderful Italian restaurant on Beverly Boulevard, and order spaghetti alla bottarga because they make it so well.II I don’t know why I find it so comforting. Yes, the salt is appealing, but maybe it’s the utter simplicity of the dish that attracts me.