Editor's note: This month SLM dining critic Dave Lowry reviewed (naw, raved about) Gerard Craft's Pastaria in Clayton. One of Lowry's obsessions was the canestri cacio e pepe: "You can—you must—try the “cheese and pepper” canestri cacio e pepe...the canestri are big ones, 16 millimeter jobs, that look like baskets...elegantly simple, it is undoubtedly the best dish here." He kept thinking about the dish (at left) long after. Days later, he submitted the following:
“All of humanities problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”
It was either Pascal who said that, or Tina Turner; we can never remember which.
Whatever, it applies to that most basic of humanity’s ills, the monkeying around with Simple Foods. There is the temptation, always there and all too often indulged, to dress things up a bit, to add a little personal zing to the culinary proceedings. The simpler the dish, the greater the urge for some cooks to commit various misdemeanors on it. That’s how stuff like five-spice powder ends up in lobster rolls and cream cheese finds its way into sushi.
Cacio e pepe is susceptible this sort of kitchen tinkering. It’s hard to get much simpler than this classic of Rome’s cuisine: Cheese and pepper and pasta. That’s it.
Tony Bourdain brought cacio e pepe to the attention of millions of viewers when he inflicted himself on Rome in an episode of No Reservations not too long ago, enjoying it in one of those lovely little sidewalk cafes that normal Romans and tourists alike were enjoying before a film crew and their assorted detritus descended on the place. He was reluctant to give the name of the café on air, fearing that if he did, he explained, the same viewers he’s presuming to educate on the real food of the real folks would then go there to enjoy it and thus render Tony’s experience less, you know, real.
Even this place walked a trifle on the wild side with cacio e pepe, by serving it in a bowl of Pecorino, fresh-shaven, then melted and allowed to harden in a cup shape that holds the pasta. That’s not really monkeying unreasonable, of course, because the cheese is an essential part of the dish.
If you want to try cacio e pepe—and you really should; it’s a fabulous side dish for steak or lots of other foods—the most time consuming aspect of the recipe is waiting for several quarts of salted water to boil. Sit quietly in the room while it does.
Once you’ve got the water boiling, add one pound of pasta. Traditionally, you’ll want something long and thin, angel hair is great but tagliolini is even better. And if you simply must exercise some creative flair, this is where to do it. You’ll get a different texture with different pastas, obviously.
While the pasta cooks, add maybe a couple of tablespoons of olive oil to a skillet, heat it, then toss in two tablespoons of freshly cracked pepper. It’s important the pepper’s just cracked. It adds a lot to the taste. Don’t meander around now; the pepper can burn, ruining everything. When the fragrance of the pepper starts filling the kitchen, take it off the heat. Strain the pasta, but keep some of the water, maybe ¾ of a cup. Add that to a pan and heat it until it boils, then toss in the strained pasta. On top of that, add a cup of Pecorino Romano. (In a lot of Italian eateries, they’ll also use cacio di Roma, a spectacular sheep’s cheese from Lazio and if you can get some of that, by all means, use it.) Stir. Vigorously. If the sauce doesn’t thicken up and become creamy, add some more cheese and keep stirring. Top it, once you’ve got it on a plate, with some more shaved Pecorino.
That’s it. You’re done. Don’t add butter. Don’t think about using any garlic. The cacio e pepe you have right now needs one more thing and that’s a decent Sangiovese. “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” Some Italian said that--da Vinci, maybe. Or Joe Garagiola.
