Bucatini all’amatriciana

Roman food is not my favorite. However, among the many classic options, there are three standout pastas: Spaghetti alla carbonara, Tonarelli Cacio e Pepe, and Bucattini all’amatriciana. I am aware of the irony that I have assigned these dishes to Rome when one clearly states that it is from Amatrice, where I’ve never been, and where I’m sure this sugo (and all food) is vastly superior to that of Rome’s, but bucatini all’amatriciana proliferates in Rome like feral cats, and a good one is as germane to the experience of the Eternal City as a museum strike.

Despite the upturned attitude of my nose towards Roman food, I can assure you that a) it’s really only in comparison to the manifold delights that await in the surrounding countryside in any direction, and b) I could eat any of these three dishes all day, every day. Only one of the three does not appear in this collection, Cacio e Pepe, and that is probably because I am a staunch believer that it is properly made with Cacio di Roma, or failing that, a Caciocavallo, neither of which has yet caught on as widely available in these parts, and thus is not a staple of my kitchen, since if you can’t do it right, why do it at all? Especially when I have so many other cheesy pasta dishes I will delightedly turn to. Somehow popular wisdom has settled on Pecorino Romano as the only cheese necessary for a Cacio e Pepe, but in my book, the Pecorino only compliments the Cacio. It’s not called Pecorino e Pepe, you fucking dumbasses. I’m sure there’s an answer here and many people should feel free to leap at the opportunity to be Chief Explainer (if you’re not explaining it in Italian, though, chiudi il becco, testa di cazzo), but in the meantime, I’m going to be slurping up some Bucattini all’amatricciana, and I won’t be wearing a white shirt while doing so.

This is a spicy, porky dish, simple as simple can be. There are so many variations of tomato sauce, a fact that is not often noticed or appreciated, but this is a dark, lusty one that makes it hard to ignore. You can achieve the heat any number of ways; I generally use cayenne pepper or sometimes even dried thai chilis which have been ground into powder. A fresh serrano chili, minced or stewed whole and then removed, works well also. Red pepper flakes do not add enough heat and any type of hot sauce will impart too much of its own character. For the pork, in situations like this I tend to use bacon, since simple pasta dishes are often about using what I have on hand, and in my kitchen, bacon fits that bill more snugly than pancetta or guanciale. However, for this dish, you’re really not looking for it to be smoky, so bacon isn’t preferred. Bacon and pancetta both come from the pig’s belly – the main difference between them is the way they’re cured: bacon is smoked and pancetta is not. The more traditional cut to use for this dish is guanciale, which, while similarly cured to pancetta, comes from a different part of the animal: it’s jowl. A lot of this will come down to personal preference, and what’s available to you. You can even use unsmoked bacon if you like, but the main thing is for the dish to be porky, so that means nice big chunks of cured pig, almost like lardons, floating around in the sauce. I’m sure if you used thin-sliced, applewood smoked bacon, this dish would still elicit cheers, but to keep it the way it was intended, get your pig from the thick-cut, non-smoking section.

You may use any kind of pasta successfully, but the real fun of this dish is in the bucatini, which is a thick spaghetti-like individual that is hollow in the middle. The resultant inner tube tends to hold sauce that is easily distributed around the table and the diner as the pasta is slurped up in great heaps; do not wear a white shirt when eating this dish, or you will end up wearing a Jackson Pollack-like arrangement of tomato sauce.

I believe, although I am not sure, that it is traditional to top this pasta with Pecorino Romano. You could use a Pecorino Toscano, which I suppose I prefer, but any hard sheep cheese will do. Parmiggiano Reggiano is not quite the right accompaniment here – something I’ve maybe only said once in this collection and may never say again –  but it is seemingly a bit too rich and creamy to pair well with the heat of the sauce.

Ingredients:

• 3 cloves garlic, smashed
• 2 TBS olive oil
• 1 box of strained Pomi, or 1 28-oz can of tomato puree
• 8 oz guanciale, sliced thick
• 1½ TBS cayenne pepper
• Salt and pepper
• 4 oz Pecorino Toscano

Directions:

Put a large pot of water on to boil.

Cut the guanciale into ½ inch cubes and smash the garlic cloves, removing the skins and reserving all of the pieces.

Add the olive oil to a large sauté pan over medium heat. Allow the oil to come to temperature for about 30 seconds, then add the guanciale. Cook, stirring frequently, until it is fully done. If the edges are browning or burning faster than the fat is rendering off, reduce the heat. When it is finished, you may drain most of the fat.

Add the tomatoes, garlic, salt, pepper and cayenne. Stir to combine, then keep at a low simmer. The sauce should cook for about 30 minutes; it is probably done after 20.

Salt the water when it is ready, add the pasta, cook, drain, and toss with the sauce. As usual, you should add some of the pasta’s cooking liquid if the sauce gets too dry. You may remove the garlic cloves at this point if they’re easy to find.

Serve, of course, with cheese.