Victor Sack
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Pasta Carbonara, an Unlikely Stand-In
By IAN FISHER
International Herald Tribune
CALVIN TRILLIN does not like turkey. He has called it "basically
something college dormitories use to punish students for hanging around
on Sunday." In 1981, he suggested in The New Yorker that Americans
gather around the Thanksgiving table for an unlikely substitute: pasta
carbonara. He imagined that it was served at the first Thanksgiving,
confounding both the Indians and the Pilgrims, who declared it
"heretically tasty" and "the work of the devil."
This has yet to catch on. But he did capture something of the spirit of
carbonara.
Unlike healthy but often bland turkey, it is not a puritanical dish; it
is a deli egg-bacon-and-cheese-on-a-roll that has been pasta-fied,
fancified, fetishized and turned into an Italian tradition that, like
many inviolate Italian traditions, is actually far less old than the
Mayflower. Because America may have contributed to its creation,
carbonara is Exhibit A in the back-and-forth between Italy and the
United States when it comes to food.
Carbonara also inspires strong, almost religious, passions, particularly
about what exactly it is. Mr. Trillin's recipe -- pancetta, fontina and
prosciutto -- would be scoffed at in Rome. But according to one Italian
food historian, there are at least 400 versions, from the most classic
Roman to variations that are delicious but drive traditionalists mad.
Though Mr. Trillin did not address the subject, carbonara can be tricky
to make well, partly because it is so simple: at base, egg, cheese,
cured pork, pasta and black pepper. There is little margin for error. I
learned this to my great embarrassment at a poolside party a few years
ago with a bunch of posh Italians and their sunburned, hungry children.
My wife has more confidence in my cooking skills than I do. When we were
posted in Italy (I was the New York Times correspondent in Rome), she
volunteered me to make carbonara at a party one summer afternoon in
Tuscany. The host was a contessa, the mother of one of our sons' school
friends. I am American, and I could tell most of the guests did not hold
much hope.
I hadn't made much carbonara before and told her, "I'm nervous."
She said, "You should be."
It all went terribly. It was too hot for most Italians to enjoy heavy
carbonara. I didn't bring enough guanciale, the cured pig cheeks that
for many Italians have become indispensable for carbonara. I had to
chuck in some pancetta (pork belly as opposed to cheek) that the host
had in the fridge. For this crowd, pancetta simply was not done. I
botched the eggs to the point that they were scrambled.
No Italian adult would touch it, except the contessa, who did so with
well-bred, fork-plucking politeness. But the children gobbled it down
because -- and this is the curse and the key to carbonara -- eggs,
bacon, cheese and pasta taste great, almost no matter what. It's worth
the effort, though, to get right, and that's what I've striven for
since, to the point of curing my own guanciale at home, which is less
difficult than it sounds. No obsession here, I swear.
"If I had to pick five dishes I would take to the grave with me, this
would be one," said Fred Plotkin, the food historian and author of
"Italy for the Gourmet Traveler." "It's so good, and if I'm going to the
grave I don't have to worry about cholesterol."
We can stipulate that carbonara is not health food, but now and then,
it's hard to resist. The harder question is which carbonara you would
take to the other side. One with guanciale, pancetta or plain bacon?
Only pecorino cheese, made from sheep's milk? Or is a bit of Parmesan
O.K.? Peas or not? Onion? Whole eggs or yolks?
Or, heaven forbid, the ingredient that most divides devotees of a dish
that, above all, aims for creaminess: actual cream?
"No cream!" barked Andrea Dal Monte, a Roman and the owner of Campo de'
Fiori in Brooklyn, who used to be a manager and sommelier at the
celebrated Del Posto in Manhattan. These were the first words out of his
mouth, followed by many, many more.
One problem is that the exact origin of carbonara is unknown, which
leaves room for endless variations and opinions.
What seems clear is that carbonara, like many so-called old standards in
Italy, is a fairly new invention. Al dente pasta became the benchmark
relatively recently. Pizza was often considered revolting, some food
historians say, until Queen Margherita of Savoy sanctified it in a trip
to Naples in 1889, inspiring the name of the most famous pizza. Some old
Italian cookbooks treat even garlic with suspicion.
Tradition is often invoked in Italy, but often it means what you kind of
like or what Mamma made.
There is a lovely story that carbonara was created by fetching Roman
ladies hoping to lure American soldiers at the end of World War II,
whipping up an American breakfast into pasta. There is, alas, not much
evidence, and much dispute that America had anything to do with it. As
Mr. Plotkin notes, many dishes in Roman cooking are close to carbonara,
if not in that exact combination.
Emilio Dente Ferracci, an Italian food historian and son of a great
Roman cook, Anna Dente of Osteria di San Cesario outside Rome, has
collected scores of stories of how carbonara came to be: He doesn't
believe it existed before 1944, based on cookbooks and Roman menus. He
does think that, in the deprived days after the war, Romans used
American food aid (bacon and powdered egg yolks) to gussy up pasta
dishes.
"The Americans left, and the Romans perfected the recipe," Mr. Ferracci
wrote in an e-mail. "Instead of bacon, pancetta or still better,
guanciale; in place of powered egg yolks, fresh eggs; and for the
cheese, pecorino Romano."
"While in other parts of Italy and the world, garlic, onion, butter or
cream are added, in Rome these ingredients are forbidden," he said.
"There are only five permitted ingredients: pasta, guanciale, egg yolk,
pecorino Romano and black pepper."
And so, "tradition," or so it seems, was born. And the starting point
for an argument: as much as many Italians love their connection with
America (what would their cooking be without New World crops like
tomatoes, potatoes and corn?), many are mightily skeptical that we can
offer more than raw materials.
"The suggestion that Americans had something do with it is enough to
inspire frustrations, among other things," said Mark R. Ladner, the
executive chef at Del Posto.
Mr. Ladner is largely a traditionalist. But his carbonara deviates with
a half-and-half mixture of pecorino and Parmesan. For reasons he is not
sure of, he also adds scallions at the end. When Mr. Dal Monte worked at
Del Posto, he refused, as a proud Roman, to touch it with anything
green.
Andrew Carmellini, the chef and owner of Locanda Verde in Manhattan,
studied cooking in Italy but has gone his own way, while keeping true to
the dish's nature. In his version, which he calls Spaghetti Friuliano,
after the region in Italy where part of his family comes from, he uses
speck, which is like prosciutto, as well as onions, cabbage, eggs,
smoked pecorino from Sardinia and, yes, cream. He even finishes it with
a little grappa.
An unapologetic apostate ("I'm going to get angry e-mails," he said as
he made it one recent night), he invokes science for the use of cream:
it makes it less likely, he said, for the eggs to scramble under the
heat of the fat and pasta. That is vital, he added, in a dish that is
either great or wrecked right at the end.
"This dish really is about the last three minutes," he said.
Here are a few other tips for making this simple but difficult dish,
from experts and years of trying to redeem my contessa debacle.
Remember: the main goal is creaminess, with or without it.
- As with everything in Italian cooking, use the best ingredients you
can afford.
- Carbonara is best made in small batches, probably no more than four
servings. This, by the way, makes it an unlikely Thanksgiving meal.
Sorry, Calvin.
- Bring the eggs to room temperature.
- Spaghetti is the choice of traditionalists, but any pasta that holds
the sauce, like rigatoni or bucatini, can work.
- Slice the guanciale, pancetta or bacon to about the size of your
pinkie's nail. Let it sizzle over medium heat just until the fat
renders. Do not let it get too crispy.
- Some experts suggest not oversalting the pasta water. It is often used
to moisten the pasta, and guanciale and cheese are plenty salty.
- Avoid scrambling the eggs. Chefs use various techniques, and this is
mine when cooking for more than one: Warm a large serving bowl with hot
water, then empty it just as the pasta is ready. Turn the heat off the
guanciale, and stir in the drained pasta, covering with the fat and meat
and cooking for a minute or two. Add all this to the warmed bowl, then
quickly stir in the eggs and cheese. Add pasta water if needed.
- Don't skimp on the pepper.
- Eat right away. Part of the dish's mystery is that it's good for only
a few minutes. For all the fuss.