Death of an Italian Chef

I have always loved pasta from as far back as I remember. I can easily crack open an old photo album and find baby pictures of me at two years old sitting in my high chair covered from head to toe with marinara sauce while shoving fistfuls of spaghetti noodles in my mouth.

For most of my formative years, into my teens in fact, my addiction to pasta was basically confined to mass quantities of boxed mac and cheese or canned Chef Boyardee, or if Mom was especially ambitious, pasta shells with a simple meat sauce. That all changed my sophomore year in high school when I was invited to New York with my best friend Liddy and her mother. Mrs. Crawford, or Celeste as she insisted I call her while in New York so she could feel like one of the girls and not so old, took us to her favorite Italian restaurant downtown in Little Italy for a late-night dinner following my first Broadway show, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream-coat at the Minskoff Theatre. When people asked me what I thought of the show, I gave an honest answer. “It was nice, but it paled in comparison to the spaghetti carbonara that changed my life that night in Little Italy!”

We arrived at Capri Ristorante on Mulberry Street after eleven o’clock at night, which to me was the most glamorous thing in the world. At home we usually were done eating by five-thirty. As the maître d’ led us to a table inside, I swooned at the aroma of garlic and spices that permeated the air. I actually bumped into a table, knocking over a man’s wineglass because I was so distracted by waiters passing by, loaded up with plates of antipasto, focaccia bread, and every kind of pasta imaginable. But one dish delivered to a woman at the table next to us as we sat down caught my eye above all the others: Stringy spaghetti piled high on the plate and covered with a thick, rich, decadent, creamy white sauce. It was a work of art and I knew I just had to have it!

The time between pointing it out on the menu for the waiter to write down and him setting it down in front of me was interminable. I had to endure both Celeste and Liddy’s maddening indecision on what they should order, the salad course, Celeste sending her white wine back because it tasted “vinegary,” but finally, the main courses were delivered to our table, and I could barely contain my excitement as I snatched up my fork and began twirling the noodles around on it. I can recall in exquisite detail that smooth, silky Parmesan sauce with the pieces of crispy pancetta clinging to the noodles as I drew it closer to my wide-open mouth.

It was love at first bite.

And I have been hooked on spaghetti carbonara ever since.

The first thing I did when I got home was set out to re-create that magic that I had discovered in Little Italy. I thought it would be a cinch: Just follow a similar recipe I cut out of People magazine, but it turned out to be an ongoing process that required a lot of failures and a tremendous amount of patience.

For months, I remained frustrated that I was unable to produce a batch of spaghetti carbonara that even came close to my experience at Capri Ristorante. Finally, as I was about to run away from home and go to New York so I could personally grill the chef at Capri Ristorante on his secret ingredient, Liddy’s mother Celeste suggested the cup of grated Parmesan I was using might possibly be my fatal flaw. A good carbonara doesn’t rely on store-bought, processed cheese from a green container. No, fresh blocks of Parmesan you grate yourself was the key! That had to be it! My mother tried convincing me store-bought was just fine; the blocks in the gourmet food section were too expensive and unnecessary. She reminded me that Liddy’s mother Celeste never had to worry about money, ever! But I was on a singular mission, so I took the money I made scooping ice cream that summer and bought a huge block of fresh Parmesan that would feed . . . well, our whole block.

That did the trick. Well, it got me closer, anyway. It took a lot of tinkering with my own recipe throughout the years, adding my own little twists along the way, but now I can finally say with confidence, my spaghetti carbonara is pretty darn special.

So special, in fact, it’s usually the first dish I prepare whenever I want to impress a date. Of course, now I’m married, and my husband Bruce will eat just about anything I put in front of him, so I don’t have to try so hard.

Things were quite different during the years between my first husband Danny and when I finally got it right with Bruce. There was one dinner date a few years back with—Well, I am going to withhold his name for privacy’s sake, but let’s just say he worked with animals (I can hear you all guessing as I write this!). I invited him over for dinner, hoping to impress him with my culinary skills, specifically my spaghetti carbonara. Of course, I knew food alone would not do the trick, so I also took the time to fix my hair, slap on some makeup, and do my nails.

The way he lit up when I answered the door immediately built up my confidence, and things just got better from there. The Manhattan cocktails also certainly helped, and he appeared quite happy as I led him out to the candlelit table on my outdoor deck. He excitedly tore into my homemade focaccia bread, moaning with pleasure as he dunked it in the plate of olive oil and balsamic vinegar in front of him and continued sipping his Manhattan.

Enough of the preshow. It was time for the main attraction. With great fanfare, I breezed outside from the kitchen and presented him with Hayley’s Famous Spaghetti Carbonara.

He dug in with gusto, and I could tell from his euphoric expression, he was not disappointed. As I sat back to enjoy my resounding victory, silently raising my Manhattan to toast myself for a job well done, that’s when things took a dark turn. He was on his third or fourth bite, shoveling it in so fast it was as if he had just been plucked from a desert island, half-star ved, when I heard a loud crunching sound. That was followed by another in quick succession. My date sat back in his chair, a confused look on his face. He placed his napkin up close to his mouth and spit out something that looked plastic. He looked down at his napkin, dumbfounded, then back up at me.

“Are you missing something?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so. What do you mean?” I replied.

That’s when he held his hand out and I could see one of my press-on nails in the middle of his palm. Oh no! I had been so focused on my cooking I didn’t have time to visit the salon and have my nails done professionally that day, so at the last minute as I was preparing dinner, while hurrying to get ready, I went with my fallback position of just slipping on some press-ons. I looked down at my right hand. Three of them were now missing! Were they all in the pasta? I wasn’t about to take any chances. I jumped up, grabbed his plate off the table, ran inside to the kitchen, and scraped the rest of his carbonara into the trash. Then I grabbed the pan off the stove and emptied what was left into the trash can as well.

I will admit, he was remarkably understanding, and he did hang in there with me for quite some time after that ill-fated evening, although eventually we mutually agreed that we were better off as just friends. I also learned a valuable lesson. Never wear press-on nails when cooking for a date. It sounds like common sense, but I learned that one the hard way.

Today, I’m sharing my nail-free spaghetti carbonara recipe with you so you can impress a loved one too with a memorable meal, as well as one of my favorite cocktail recipes, which will add pep to any special date night.