There are as many versions of spaghetti al pomodoro (spaghetti with tomatoes) as there are cooks. This is a summer version using the sweetest plum or cherry tomatoes you can find: ripe, tight orbs that burst in your mouth. It was taught to me by a demon cook, a Roman capable of great culinary feats who tells me he would happily eat this every day for the rest of his life, give or take the odd bowl of pasta e fagioli.
You smash 2 garlic cloves against your work surface with the palm of your hand, so that the skin comes away and the cloves split but remain whole and your hand could ward off vampires. You then fry them gently in far more extra-virgin olive oil than is decent. Once the garlic is just turning light gold and its fragrance is swirling up your nose, you add some halved cherry or tiny plum tomatoes (about 1 pound for 3 people) and a good pinch of salt and let them sizzle for a minute or so. Once they start softening and releasing liquid, you squash them with the back of a wooden spoon and watch their red juices tint the oil bronze. You add a few torn basil leaves and stir the pan, still over the heat, for a minute or so longer.
While you have been doing all this, your spaghetti (probably about 12 ounces) has been rolling around a large pan of well-salted, fast-boiling water. Your timing is good, obviously, and the spaghetti is al dente as you inhale and the tomatoes’ bubbles say “ready.” You scoop the spaghetti from the boiling water straight into the tomato pan. I use tongs for this, which means that some of the cooking water clings to the spaghetti. You stir with tongs and a spoon, and the cooking water—useful stuff that it is—mixes with the oily, tomatoey juices, emulsifying and creating a thickened sauce that coats each strand.
Opinions about how best to make this simple sauce of cured pork, tomatoes, and cheese are passionately held. I’ve been caught in the middle of more than one fierce debate, most memorably in a sweaty van with seven Roman musicians driving down the autostrada del Parchi not that far from the town of Amatrice in northern Lazio, where the dish originates. Once a dish of shepherds, it is now one of the most beloved Roman primi. Everybody seems to agree on the use of guanciale (cured pork cheek). Everything else, though, is open to debate: the inclusion of olive oil, onion, chile, white wine, which pecorino is best—pecorino romano or the slightly less aggressive local one from Amatrice—the preference for canned or fresh tomatoes, and the use of bucatini, spaghetti, or short pasta.
I am with Stefano, one of the musicians in the van, a 6-foot-4-inch Roman trumpet player and great cook, who taught me how to make this bold and delicious dish. He cuts the guanciale thickly and uses lots of it. He doesn’t include olive oil, saying the guanciale has enough fat, which renders better with no oil. Nor does he add onion, which according to him is superfluous. He does add a little chile and white wine to cut through the fat in the guanciale, and happily uses fresh tomatoes if they are available, canned if they are not. His preference is for pecorino romano. As for the pasta, Stefano will defend bucatini with the same tenacity with which he holds a high C, meaning longer than everyone else. You will have opened a bottle to make the pasta, so ideally it should be one you can finish with the meal, such as an aromatic white from Lazio.
serves 4
about 1 pound ripe tomatoes or canned plum tomatoes with their juice
5¼ ounces guanciale
½ cup dry white wine
1 small dried or fresh chile, finely chopped
salt
1 pound bucatini
¾ cup grated pecorino romano
If you are using fresh tomatoes, peel and roughly chop them. If using canned, pass them through a food mill or roughly chop them. Cut the guanciale into short, thick batons. Put the batons in a large frying pan over medium heat and fry until it renders some fat, has turned golden, and is crisp at the edges. Using a slotted spoon, put half the crisp guanciale on a warm plate, leaving the rest and the fat in the pan. Pour over the wine, which will whoosh, sizzle, and evaporate. Add the tomatoes and chile, stir, taste, and season with salt accordingly. Cook the sauce over low heat, stirring every now and then, for 15 minutes, or until it is dense and the fat is coming to the surface.
Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add salt, stir, and add the bucatini, fanning it out and then gently pressing it under the water with the back of a wooden spoon. Cook the pasta until it is al dente (check the cooking time on the package and start tasting at least 2 minutes earlier). Stefano mixes it directly in the frying pan, draining the pasta and tipping it on top of the sauce, sprinkling with grated pecorino, then tossing energetically with a wooden fork and spoon and serving it quickly from the pan, finishing each plate with some crisp guanciale. Alternatively, drain the pasta, tip it into a warm serving bowl, sprinkle over the cheese, toss, then pour over the sauce, toss again, and serve with the crisp guanciale on top.
There are several stories and myths about the origins of this happy combination of ingredients commonly known as spaghetti alla puttanesca, or “whore’s spaghetti.” The story I’ve been told most often suggests that it was invented at the beginning of the twentieth century by the proprietor—let’s call him Ciro and imagine he is very rotund and with an exuberant nature—of a brothel in the Spanish Quarter of Naples who would make this simple and tasty dish for clients and his working girls between appointments. A smart flourish to the story is the suggestion that the colors of the sauce (the red of the tomatoes, the vibrant green of the parsley, the gray-green of the capers, the deep violet of the olives, and the burgundy of the peperoncino) mirrored the eye-catching colors of the clothes and undergarments of the girls working at the brothel.
Others say that the sauce was created just after World War II on the island of Ischia, which lies about 30 miles off the coast of Naples, by an eccentric and notoriously hospitable painter called Eduardo Colucci. During one of his summer retreats to a tiny, simple cabin that nestled among the olive groves at Punta Molino, he’s said to have made an improvised supper for his various and eclectic group of friends who lounged on the terrace. It was based on his speciality, the classic marinara sauce, but as it evolved he renamed it puttanesca, the exact reasons for which are not clear. But who wants clear?
The third story I’m often told is that the dish was invented in the 1950s by a certain Sandro Petti, co-owner of the famous restaurant and nightspot Rancio Fellone on the island of Ischia. One evening, just as the restaurant was about to close, Petti found a group of hungry friends sitting at one of his tables. He shrugged his shoulders; it was late, he was low on ingredients, and he didn’t have enough to make them a meal. But they raised their hands in despair and cried, “Mamma mia! Abbiamo fame, facci una puttanata qualsiasi!” (“Mamma mia! We are hungry, make us any kind of garbage!”) Used like this, puttanata is a noun meaning “rubbish” or something worthless, even though it derives from the Italian word for whore, puttana. Petti, the story continues, had nothing more than four tomatoes, two olives, and some capers, the basic ingredients for the sugo, so he used them to make the sauce for the spaghetti. From that day forth, Petti included the dish on his menu as spaghetti alla puttanesca.
Anyway, whatever the origins, it is a most fiercely delicious and opinionated combination of flavors. It’s useful and practical, too, because we always have the ingredients in the cupboard, and because the sauce takes about the same time to make as it does to bring the water to a fast boil and cook the pasta. A pasta with such strong and particular flavors has to be a very personal thing, so this recipe is a loose guide and not a set of rules; you can experiment. If you like anchovies, you might like to add more; if you find capers overwhelming, add less or leave them out completely. How salty are your olives? How hot is your chile? You know better than me. Choose a wine that can stand up to such a formidable pasta, one with taste and body, such as a red from Campania like Aglianico.
serves 4
1 garlic clove
6 anchovy fillets packed in oil, drained
5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 small fresh or dried chile
1 tablespoon salt-packed capers, rinsed
3½ ounces black olives, ideally Gaeta or Taggiasca
6 ripe tomatoes, or 14 ounces canned San Marzano tomatoes with their juice
salt
1 pound spaghetti
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
Bring a large pot of water to a boil and warm a serving bowl if you’re going to use one. Finely chop the garlic along with the anchovies. Warm the olive oil in a deep frying pan over low heat and add the chopped garlic and anchovies, mashing them gently with the back of a wooden spoon so they disintegrate into the oil. Chop the chile and add it to the pan. Cook for another couple of minutes. Roughly chop the capers, olives, and tomatoes and add them to the pan. Stir and cook over medium heat for 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, salt the boiling water, stir, and add the spaghetti, fanning it out and pressing it gently into the water (without breaking it) with the back of a wooden spoon. Cook, stirring occasionally, until it is al dente (check the cooking time on the package and start tasting at least 2 minutes earlier). Drain the pasta and, having pulled the sauce off the heat, toss it with the sauce, sprinkle with the parsley, and serve immediately. Alternatively—and more correctly—transfer the drained pasta to a warm serving bowl, tip over the sauce, toss with a spoon and a fork, sprinkle with the parsley, and serve.