Spaghetti Carbonara

The Pre-Recipe Bullshit:

I was introduced to carbonara when I was about ten years old. I like to say that it was the first dish I ever learned to cook—it was actually scrambled eggs, but that’s not quite as neat to brag about. I pissed my sister off by making carbonara every single time I’d “babysit” her at the house (she’d watch tv while I spent the whole night dirtying the kitchen floor), which ended up being at least three times a week. Hopefully you’ll become as obsessed with carbonara as I was, and still am, and maybe get a similar reaction out of your family, “This is the fourth time this week! Please, for all that is good and holy, make something new!” I never would.

Notes:

-              Please, please shred the cheeses yourself. The less stale the cheese, the creamier the sauce will become as it emulsifies with the fat of the guanciale.

-              Look for Parmigiano with white, crystally specks scattered throughout. The less uniform the parm looks, the more flavorful it’ll be—most of the time.

-              Guanciale, while highly recommended, is not a must-have. If you’re looking to substitute the delicate, fatty, cured pork jowl for a similar cut, look for pancetta. In a third, last-ditch effort, grab the fattiest bacon you can find.

-              “The eggs are raw!” No, they aren’t. Stop being a pussy.

Mise en place:

-             ½ lb of Spaghetti

-              1 whole egg, plus two yolks

-              1 cup Parmigiano Reggiano, shredded

-              1 cup Pecorino Romano, shredded

-              1 Bunch of Italian parsley, chiffonade

-              A splash of reserved pasta water

-              Salt to taste

Tools:

-              1 medium METAL mixing bowl (a bowl that can’t transfer heat properly won’t deliver the desired custardy consistency)

-              1 wooden spoon

-              1 sharp knife

-              Pasta strainer or chinois

-              1 strong forearm

The Recipe:

Start a pot of water with a shitload of salt (at least two tablespoons per quart) and bring to a boil.

While you’re waiting, cut the guanciale into ¼ inch slices, then into rectangular batons. Chiffonade parsley. Then add spaghetti to boiling water.

Crack the egg and two yolks into a small mixing bowl. Grate in cheeses; set aside extra for garnish. When stirred, the mixture should turn to a relatively thick paste. Salt and taste. Saltiness should punch the tip of the tongue.

As the pasta cooks (check tenderness frequently), toss the guanciale in a preheated, un-oiled metal saucier, sauté pan or saucepot. Stir around until just crispy and brown, usually 3-4 minutes.

When pasta is done, drop it in the guanciale pan with a splash of pasta water to deglaze. Add the pasta and guanciale to the egg and cheese bowl and, with no wasted time, start whipping the hell out of the pasta with the handle of a wooden spoon.

Garnish with a heap of chiffonade parsley and leftover shredded cheese. If you like, sprinkle a bit of freshly ground “restaurant grind” black pepper—not the powdery bullshit.

Eat.