Guanciale. Pecorino. Bucatini. Three words that hadn’t entered my classroom vocabulary before living in Rome but demand your immediate acquaintance when first sitting to peruse a Roman menu, on a chair perhaps balanced between uneven cobbles that pave a humming piazza, gearing up for the evening ahead. These three ingredients shout ‘Rome’ or, indeed, ‘Lazio’ louder than any other product and, when combined, create the Madonna of all Roman dishes: Pasta all’Amatriciana.
It is the precisely this link to the local that makes this dish special, the ingredients containing a particular history and identity of western Italy, that unify in flavours and peoples alike. Born, like many dishes, from workers taking their meals out into the fields, shepherds around the town of Amatrice used to take blocks of sheep’s cheese and strips of pork cheek and fry up this wondrous combination to accompany a simple form of pasta made from flour and water wrapped around a piece of wire. And here the bucatini/guanciale/pecorinobombshell began – the original ‘white Amatriciana’ – its red sibling we know today created only after tomatoes were brought to Italy in the late 18th century.
After this first fateful taste in those early September days, my obsession for Amatriciana only intensified, with guanciale, pecorino and bucatini often weedling their way onto the weekly shopping list at the market.
“Vorrei del guanciale, ce l’ha?” I once asked.
“Ma, certo!” Replied the butcher, baffled. I never asked again. The obviousness of this question is like asking if a Greggs in the North East sells steak bakes – don’t be daft. He sliced a piece from a peppered slab in the corner, hooked among loops of salsicce and tiers of prosciutto. Packet in hand, next stop was the cheese counter. Endless blocks and lumps and hunks were piled high, making choice a daunting prospect. But, now rid of my English tentativeness, the ordering process went a little smoother and I crossed ‘pecorino’ off my list. I wandered on, the crunchy paper packets increasing, until the air grew thick with a heavy scent of basil and I found myself among the vegetable stalls. Heaps of exuberant greens and herbs in wicker baskets lay beside aubergines, courgettes, peppers, tomatoes, innumerable in variety and colour. Into my bag went tomatoes, the kind that hold sunlight beneath their skins, a different being altogether to the poor insipid pellets sold in English supermarkets. Sorry Tesco.
I had only one ingredient remaining on the list, and, turning, it was the yellow that caught my eye. The pasta had been freshly cut that morning, and the thick, elastic cords lay in mounds, an intense yellow gleaming through light dustings of flour. I ordered my bucatini portion along with some ravioli.
Quanti ne vorresti? The man asked.
It was now my turn to be baffled. Doing a quick calculation, I blurted: ‘Dodici’. And at my command, exactly twelve ravioli were whisked into a polystyrene box along with the bucatini. My bag bulged. My arm ached. Market trip complete, I struggled back up to my flat in Pigneto and began the great preparations for an epic culinary Odyssey.
It’s hard to believe that these words were so unfamiliar to my wide-eyed self all those months ago. Now, these quintessential ingredients that create Pasta all’Amatriciana are inextricably linked to Rome, its voluptuous crunch and zingy tangs set to haunt my imagination for years to come.
- Ottilie Tabberer
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