Rigatoni alla Gricia

Before there was Carbonara, before there was Amatriciana, there was Gricia. This is the mother pasta, the one that existed when shepherds in the hills of Lazio had only cured pork, hard cheese, and pepper to season their evening meal. No eggs. No tomatoes. Nothing but what could survive weeks in a saddlebag.

Americans want to add things. They see four ingredients and assume something is missing. Garlic, perhaps. Onion. Cream. I tell you now: add nothing. What you keep out is as significant as what you put in. The genius of Gricia is that it needs nothing else. The rendered fat from the guanciale, emulsified with starchy pasta water and sharp pecorino, creates a sauce more luxurious than any cream could provide.

The technique is everything. You must render the guanciale slowly, coaxing out its fat without crisping it into bacon. You must work quickly when combining pasta and cheese, using the heat of the pan and the starch of the water to create an emulsion that clings rather than clumps. Simple does not mean easy. This dish will teach you that.