Vivaldi, Carbonara, and That Little Extra Something

People love to ask me what is my favorite dish. For as many times as I've tried, I've never been able to come up with an answer to that question. There are dishes I love to eat, dishes I love to cook at home, and dishes I like to make for crowds. There are sentimental favorites, technical accomplishments, and flat out comfort foods. Then there are dishes that are so common that it almost seems trite to mention them, but that have a small secret that, when discovered, makes them sublime. Any of these could be my favorite dish on a given day, and a few have even been my answer when I've felt particularly decisive. But the truth is, I don't have one favorite dish, I have a lot of favorite dishes.



The same could be said for music. I have a large collection of albums, but to pick a favorite would be nearly impossible. There are songs that remind me of a time or a place, or maybe a person, and songs that are just fun or have always struck me a certain way. Then, like with cooking, there are those common pieces that almost seem silly to mention, as though something ubiquitous is somehow not the right answer.

That's how I used to feel when I'd tell people I love "The Four Seasons" by Vivaldi. Honestly, though, it is one of my favorites. Part of it is that it is one of the first "classical" pieces I remember hearing and liking as a kid. Part of it is that, to state the obvious, it is an amazing and enduring piece of music. And, for me, there is one little part in there that I always anticipate hearing, a few seconds in a full concerto that I'd hush my own mother to hear.

I picked this video for purely musical reasons.

My lack of musical acumen will hinder my description of these few moments, but they come about a minute into the third movement of Summer (the movement starts around the 7:30 mark in the video) . The entire first 60 seconds is a fury, then there is this measure or two where the violins drone a bit, and the lead violin plays notes that, compared to the rest of the piece, seem to hold forever. There's a dissonance to it, and I always wait to hear it. It's probably a compulsion, but it definitely adds to my experience when I hear it played. It's that little something, and maybe nobody else would mind if it wasn't there, but I miss it if it isn't - and yes, I've noticed.

(Full disclosure - there are lots of these little things in music that I love/make me neurotic. The first that comes to mind is a little guitar lick in "My Guy" by Mary Wells. It comes a little over halfway into the song and I'd probably have a nervous tick most of the day if I heard that song and it wasn't there.)

So what does this have to do with what my favorite food is? Well, one of my answers I give is Pasta Carbonara, one of those recipes that is so basic and well-known that it would almost seem disingenuous as an answer. I have some history with the dish, as it is one of the first I did for a dinner party some years ago, and I also have a little bit of OCD about a small detail that makes a big difference: lemon.

The funny thing about this is that lemon probably wasn't anywhere near the original recipe. Legend has it that the dish was a was created by the charcoal (carbone) workers of Rome, and that it was a way to extend what little meat they had. Even if that isn't true (and it's doubtful it is), it isn't likely that the original version of this dish has any lemon in it at all. The Silver Spoon, for all its Italian wisdom, doesn't even mention lemon as an accompaniment. So how did this become something I obsess over?

It goes back to an article in La Cucina Italiana about a farmer raising heirloom pigs and selling chicken eggs for $4 each. The farmer, Paolo, really does a better job explaining why the lemon is critical, but here's my version. Carbonara is amazingly rich, being made of cured pork and pasta bound together with eggs and cheese. It needs something in the background, a little acid, a little dissonance if you will, to make it work. Yes, there are plenty of recipes that are good that do not include lemon, but once you've had it with lemon, even if you didn't know it was there, you'll miss it the next time around.

I'm still not ready to say that Carbonara is my absolute favorite recipe. But I will admit that it has all of the elements of a recipe I love: history, simplicity, and a little secret that I'll always obsess over now that I know it is there.

Pasta Carbonara
8 oz spaghetti
3 oz pancetta (good), jowl bacon (better), or guanciale (best), cubed
1 Large egg, the fresher the better
1 oz grated Parmesan, plus more for garnish
1/2 teaspoon dried marjoram
1 clove garlic, minced
Zest of one lemon
Black pepper and olive oil to garnish

Paolo doesn't cook his guanciale at all, but he also has $4 eggs and better supply chain visibility than the rest of us. So saute the pork for a few minutes (in a little oil if needed) until slightly colored but not crisp - you are just heating it to render some fat and make it safe. Set aside and cook your pasta. In a large bowl, combine egg, cheese, marjoram, garlic, and a generous pinch of lemon zest and whip until the eggs are well blended and slightly frothy. When the pasta is al dente, remove with tongs directly to the egg mixture, and toss to coat. The heat from the pasta will cook the eggs and make a beautiful, slightly shiny sauce. Add the pork and a splash of olive oil, and toss one more time to combine. Plate and garnish with lots of black pepper, more cheese and, if you feel adventurous, a wee bit more zest. Serve hot.

This recipe will double up pretty well, and you can throw an extra egg in as well. Beyond that, if you need more for a bigger crowd, make it in batches. It is much easier to deal with, and much better when served steaming hot.