That's a slightly harsh take on it, but it's widely considered the purist's take. It should be a marriage of three simple products: eggs, cheese and pig. Somehow, somewhere, cream crept in to the picture like an insidious pair of training wheels. I assume this happened because getting the consistency of the eggs just right can be hard, and requires fairly precise timing and control. Some might even get squeamish at the idea of slightly undercooked eggs in their meal (even though this is actually not as much of a health risk as they might think). Some believe that the cream is simply a regional thing, where subtle shifts in the landscape and palate nudged experimentation along different paths. I'm all for making something your own, although that still doesn't excuse the abomination that the Americans have turned it in to (I'm looking at you, peas). Whatever the reason, there is only one kind of Carbonara for me, and that's the one I'm going to write about.
The actual origins of the name Carbonara are typically mysterious, though theories abound. The most commonly held theories are unsurprisingly discovered on Wikipedia:
Like most recipes, the origins of the dish are obscure, and there are several hypotheses about it. As the name is derived from carbonaro (the Italian word for charcoal burner), some believe that the dish was first made as a hearty meal for Italian charcoal workers. The etymology gave rise to the term "coal miner's spaghetti", which is used to refer to spaghetti alla carbonara in parts of the United States. It has even been suggested that it was created by, or as a tribute to, the Carbonari ("charcoalmen"), a secret society prominent in the unification of Italy.[13]It's a rich, sumptious and surprisingly filling dish, so I can totally understand the association with coal miners. Regardless of its origins though, it's similar to most other classic Italian dishes in that there is no one exact way to prepare it. You can find hundreds of recipes for bolognese (hint: the best ones use milk and white instead of red wine), and arguments rage across Italy and the rest of the world as to how to make the perfect version of any of their dishes. Even my beloved Silver Spoon, that weighty tome of simple, authentic Italian cuisine, cannot claim to hold the definite article in many cases. For me, I grew up with my mum's version of carbonara which was farfalle in a cream sauce with bacon. I know, I know. But it was her version, and she did it well, just like many of our mums. In fact I still like her version today, I just don't think of it as carbonara. Why? Because I've had the purist's version, and quite frankly they bear almost no resemblance at all.
The best Carbonara I have had to date, was at a traditional roman restaurant called Perilli, in the Testaccio district of Rome. I actually first went there this summer, while visiting dear friends of mine who now live in Rome and who have appropriately scoped out some of the best eateries in town. I had heard from them that this place does the best carbonara on earth, and while I had cooked the purist's carbonara myself before, their version was indeed superior on every front. The sauce was a luscious golden yellow, the pasta a perfect al dente the way you can only really get in Italy, and the cheese perfectly balanced and blended. It was immediately obvious to me that this dish was the culmination of decades of practice and refinement. You could practically taste the thousands of hours that have gone into mastering this one single dish. And as a cook, one of the things I love the most about this particular recipe is that your work is never done. It can always be better. There are always little things to tweak, to improve. Even now, when I made this recipe most recently, I rabbitted on to my girlfriend about how to try and get it even closer to Perilli's masterclass. Thankfully, while it will take many more moons to master the fine details, I took one giant leap forward when I discovered the secret ingredient: Guanciale.
Literally translated as "pillow", guanciale is basically smoked pig's cheek. It is almost entirely fat, with a small line of meat running through it, like the pig equivalent of a credit card. It's made by rinsing the pig cheek in red wine, seasoning it with salt, pepper and spices, and then leaving it to marinade and cure for 40 days. After that it's basically good to go, and pretty much never spoils. It has a much stronger, meatier taste than pancetta, and a depth and smokiness that comes from the delectable fat. I was lucky enough to find some when I was in Italy this summer, so I brought it back.
I should mention at this stage that guanciale is not easy to find, even in Italy. I've certainly never seen it in London, but never fear - decent pancetta makes a fine substitute. It doesn't quite have the richness or unique texture of guanciale, but it's a massive improvement over standard bacon (especially in the UK). So go with what you can find.
Purist's Carbonara
This is an incredibly simple dish, but it requires a bit of practice to get it exactly right. I've combined a couple of different recipes that I've found online into one that works for me, but even I will occasionally screw it up a bit. Keep at it, and for god's sake don't give up if you mess it up the first time. Eventually you'll be able to enjoy a hearty, simple meal that you can whip up in a flash with just a few basic ingredients.
Ingredients500g pasta (linguine, spaghetti and rigatoni are my favourites for this)
150g guanciale or pancetta
3 cloves of garlic, finely diced
1/2 cup of parmesan cheese (avoid grated cheese like the plague, buy a chunk. You will use it, trust me)
1/2 cup of pecorino romano
2 eggs
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Put a large pot of water on to boil, be generous with the water so that you can deep boil the pasta (a little tidbit I learnt from the French Laundry cookbook my friend showed me). Add a punch of salt and dash of olive oil.
While the water's coming to a boil, cut the guanciale into small cubes ('lardons'). Don't make them too thin, you want a little bit of substance there. About the size of your fingernail should do.
Grate the pecorino and parmesan into a bowl (or shave it, if so inclined), and whisk the two eggs into a separate bowl. Mince the garlic and have it ready.
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| Garlic goes in..... |
As the water comes to a boil, put a frying/saute pan on medium heat, add a small glug of olive oil, and chuck in the guanciale. Pop the pasta into the water and set a timer (generally between 8-12 minutes, depending on the pasta). Keep the guanciale moving around every so often, and let the fat start to render. If the fat becomes too much and the guanciale is literally swimming (which is entirely possible), spoon off the fat into a jar for safekeeping - that stuff is gold dust. Make sure you leave a couple of tablespoons of fat in the pan.
Here's where the timing gets important, so focus. One minute before the pasta is ready (taste the pasta to check doneness), turn the heat down on the guanciale and throw the garlic in. It will brown very quickly, so keep it moving. Turn the heat down to a minimum once it's golden to keep it warm.Now before you strain the pasta, get a half-cup of the pasta water and put it to one side. Drain the pasta, and toss into the guanciale pan. Add the pasta water, and mix it all together.
Now take a large bowl (salad bowl is the best option I find), and pour the eggs and the cheese in. Whisk them together, then dump in the contents of the guanciale pan. Mix everything together vigorously for 1 minute - the egg should form a lovely, smooth consistency, and all the pasta should be coated and glistening in lovely cheesy egg sauce.
Season with some freshly cracked black pepper and a tiny bit of salt, and serve. Eat immediately.
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