Bucatini all'Amatriciana
A famous chef once suggested, publicly, that a clove of garlic sautéed and then removed before serving was his own small secret for this dish, and the town of Amatrice, where it comes from, issued an official response informing him, politely but unmistakably, that he was wrong. There is no garlic in a real amatriciana. There is no onion either. My mother has strong feelings about people who add either and still call it by this name.
Ingredients
- 400g bucatini
- 150g guanciale, cut into strips
- 400g San Marzano tomatoes, crushed by hand
- ½ teaspoon chili flakes
- 60g Pecorino Romano, finely grated, plus more to serve
- Fine sea salt
Serves 4.
Cookware Required
- la pentola grande (large pot, for the pasta water)
- la padella larga (wide skillet)
Method
Cook the guanciale in a dry skillet over medium heat until the fat has rendered and the pieces are crisp and golden. Remove the guanciale with a slotted spoon, leaving the fat behind in the pan.
Add the chili to the rendered fat, then the crushed tomatoes and a pinch of salt -- go easy on the salt at this stage, since both the guanciale and the Pecorino still to come are salty in their own right. Simmer for fifteen to twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, cook the bucatini in well-salted water until just short of al dente. Scoop out some pasta water, drain, and return the guanciale to the sauce along with the pasta. Toss with the Pecorino and a splash of pasta water until glossy. Serve with more Pecorino.
Quando Va Storto
If the dish tastes greasy rather than rich, the guanciale's fat was never balanced against enough tomato, or the pasta wasn't tossed enough to properly emulsify the two together. If the guanciale turns chewy instead of staying tender, it went back into the sauce too early and cooked a second time for too long; add it back only at the very end. And if the sauce tastes flat, it needed longer at a simmer to concentrate -- there are only four ingredients here, and each one has to actually do its job.
Una Storia dalla Sala
A well-traveled guest announced, at some length and to his entire table, that a proper amatriciana absolutely includes onion and garlic, and that he had researched the matter thoroughly before his trip specifically to avoid being served an inferior version. My mother let him finish completely before mentioning, mildly, almost as an aside, that the town of Amatrice itself had once issued a public correction to a rather famous chef for saying precisely that same thing.
The guest went quiet, finished his plate without further commentary, and came back the following month to order it again -- without a word of complaint this time, which my mother has chosen to interpret as a small, entirely silent concession.