The Real Thing

I am not obsessed with accuracy. I don't always go by the book. I do not dress in period costume and go to renaissance fairs. I won't always follow the rules. I don't stay in the lines, nor listen to my mother, nor walk the straight and narrow, nor pay much attention to the instructions.

This does not mean I am an anarchist. I simply wanted to give a general sense about my lackadaisical attitude towards “getting it right.”

Now I'm going to attempt to reconcile this attitude with my great love of cooking foods in manner that could be called “historically accurate.” On the surface, the above two might seem diametrically opposed.

You see, I love reading about how different dishes were prepared over time. I enjoy the historical context, for sure, but I am enamored, for example, with the idea of preparing some of Carême's meals precisely the way he did for Napoleon, and I would love to host an ancient Roman feast based closely on Apicius' cookbook. Not only that, but I am curious as to what a “real” nicoise salad consists of, according to the people of Nice, and likewise want to know the proper ingredients in Beef Stroganov and thus make one correctly. I insist that any such replication be as accurate as possible, a seeming contradiction to my prior assertion of laziness.

What saves me then, from hypocrisy? Well, a fine distinction, I suppose. Namely, that my facination in historical accuracy is not nit-picking but a genuine interest in how things were once made. I want to know, before modern chefs sunk their teeth in, what the real thing looked like. Once I have satisfied this curiosity I am in no way opposed to interpretations. For example one of my favorite desserts – tart tatin – was classically made with shortcrust pastry, while most modern versions are made with puff pastry, a vast improvement.

All this nosing around in old cookbooks and reading up on regional specialties has it's advantages. Every now and again I get back to basics, cook a dish the way it was meant to be done, and have a bloody revelation.

Specifically I'm thinking of that Italian restaurant favorite, Spaghetti Carbonara. Outside of Rome, where it was invented sometime around the second world war, the ingredients read something like this: pasta, bacon, eggs, parmesan, cream, and pepper. Inarguably, when put together they make a delicious dinner.

A little reading reveals that the Carbonara, according to Romans, should consist of pasta, guanciale, eggs, parmesan, and pepper. Note two key distinctions: guancale (salt-cured pork jowl) in place of smoked bacon, and the omission of cream. Curiosity compels me to try the original.

Leaving the cream out is easy, finding guancale is not, as it is not produced in any quantity outside of Italy. Not to be deterred, I made my own.



It took a couple of months of dry-curing, but it was worth the wait. Sweet, salty, MEATY, fatty, not smokey at all. When cut into small chunks and crisped up, each little bite of guancale is a tiny explosion of savory-sweet pork fat and chewy, rich, cured flesh. It's not that this is better than bacon, it's just nothing at all like bacon, and using it changes the dish considerably. The end result is a lovely balance of salty cheese, rich egg, sweet pork, and the bite of pepper.



I am so won over by the characteristics of cured pork jowl I don't think I'll ever make carbonara without it again.

This is, after all, The Real Thing.



The addition of water helps prevent the eggs from scrambling when they hit the hot pasta and the hot pan, so that each noodle is coated with a thick, silky sauce.

2 eggs, room temp, lightly beaten
1 Tbsp warm water
100g guanciale (see below), 1 cm dice
50g parmesean, grated
freshly ground black pepper
200g dried spaghetti

Pour a teaspoon of olive oil into a small, cold pan and then toss in the diced guancale. Place the pan on low heat and cook slowly until much of the fat has rendered out of the meat and the cubes are lightly colored and crisp. Remove from heat and keep warm.

Lightly beat the water and eggs together.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of heavily salted water to a rolling boil. Cook the pasta until it is al dente and strain.

Return the hot pasta to the pot and place it over medium heat on the stove. Working quickly, tip in the guanciale and all the rendered fat, the eggs and water, and half the parmesean. Stir vigorously until the eggs thicken a bit and form a sauce. Remove from heat, season to taste with black pepper, and serve with the remaining parmesean on top.

Note that I didn't mention salt. Your guancale is likely to be quite salty, as is the parmesean; make sure you add these two things before you add any additional salt.

This brings me to a second point: for those of you who add mountains of parmesean to your pastas – try a bit more salt. It's most likely that the meal you are eating is not meant to taste solely of cheese (after all, it is a condiment). Very often a pinch of salt will satisfy that need-more-parma-itch.

Guanciale
1k pork jowl (2 medium jowls)
300g salt flakes
300g sugar
2 cloves garlic, cracked
1 tsp black peppercorns, lightly toasted
6 sprigs thyme

Mix all ingredients, except pork. In a glass dish just large enough to hold the jowls, spread half the salt mixture. Press the jowls into the dish and cover with the remaining mixture. Cover and refrigerate for one week, turning the jowls over every second day. The salt will pull moisture out of the meat forming a brine that will cure the pork.

After one week, check the jowls. The meat should be quite firm and no longer feel raw. If it is still soft in places, leave in the brine for a few additional days.

When the meat is ready, remove it from the brine, rinse off the salt and spices, pat it dry, wrap it in muslin or cheese cloth, and hang it in a cool, dry place for at least three weeks. Over this time the meat will dry a bit and become quite firm, but not hard (a sign it has been hung in too dry of an environment). Given the right conditions, this meat can be hung for quite some time and improves with age.