The Guanciale Caper has been accomplished. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that The Guanciale Caper accomplished us. I can hardly claim any sure agency over the events that transpired last night. Here is what happened. At six o'clock, A.F. arrived. We greeted each other with the fervor of people about to uncover the mysteries of swine cheek. A bit earlier I had done some thinking, and as we stood in the kitchen I told A.F. that, as I saw it, we could do two things this evening. We could make some pasta all'Amatrciana and consider ourselves happy and stable men. Or, we could prepare a very involved six-course Italian meal of beauty, idiocy, and excess. As I knew he would, A.F. did not hesitate in choosing the latter option. We smiled broadly, as if we had already accomplished something. I put on a Townes Van Zandt album, and showed A.F. my cookbook research. We celebrated with some excellent beer.

Soon we began making pasta, and this is when things became difficult. Goaded by the examples of the cookbooks, I suggested we abandon the pasta machine in favor of good old fashioned physical exertion. In a matter of minutes, A.F. and I found ourselves leaning into our dough, sliding on the floor, and grunting like depleted wrestlers. Our dough was unyielding. We kept drinking. I put on 'Surfer Rosa' by the Pixies in order to give us strength and speed. We eventually managed to create two moderately flat, round sheets thanks to a special technique suggested by Marcella Hazan. Basically, we stretched the dough on our rolling pins, and against the side of the table.

Around 8 o'clock A.F. and I became very decadent and lost track of ourselves, time and perspective. This coincided with the arrival of S.B., who began to film our efforts. Humbled by the pasta and diminished in sobriety, we began to spend more and more time theorizing and less and less time cooking. A.F. pointed out that he and I seemed to be in a different temporal sphere than S.B. The Violent Femmes came on. I somehow lit my nose on fire, blackening the left nostril fully and melting the tips of my left eyelashes. Actually, that happened before S.B. arrived,  I think. That I do not know for sure is not a good sign.  Still, we somehow made a fiesty Amatriciana sauce, and showed the menu--which we had typed up just prior to our dissolution--to S.B. She approved, and very helpfully called attention to items on the menu we had already forgotten about. 

Antipasto | Olive

Primo | Bucatini all'Amatriciana

Secondo| Carne con carne con carne

Contorno | Carciofi

Insalata | Insalata

Dulce | Sorbet de Cassis

Obviously, there is some magical realism in our menu. The bucatini was not precisely bucatini, and we may have gotten carried away and inserted one too many carne in the name of our carne dish. L.J.Y., with impeccable timing, arrived exactly at the beginning of the vegetarian stretch of the menu, and also just in time to watch A.F. and I flail around with vocabulary. She brought news from the outside world. We opened a bottle of pinot grigio. We poured sherry. We reached the dulce, which cut through all the savory remnants on our palates and reduced us to quivering. Talib Kweli played. Unable to stop, we added more courses, each time updating the menu with a pen.

We ended in a great, gauzy recline. Some of us proudly wore a guanciale musk. We took off our shoes and talked for a good long time. And then, as the evening came to an end, I lost functionality and shattered a glass on the kitchen floor. Time became apparent. It ended.

Oddly, I have never written about my unsuccessful imported tomato scheme. Nine months ago I coordinated a substantial purchase of San Marzano tomatoes from an importer in New Jersey. They only sold them by the case, and not wanting sole possession of 48 cans of tomatoes, I got about six other people involved. R.J. Apple, the venerable New York Times food writer, had this to say about San Marzanos:

The best variety [of tomatoes] originally came from a village near Pompeii named San Marzano sul Sarno. These San Marzano tomatoes, which gave birth to the Italian canning industry in the 1800's, are now grown throughout Campania, as the region surrounding Naples is known. There is a lot to like about The San Marzanos. Their skins slip off easily. Just like fresh San Marzanos, they have an ideal equilibrium between acid and sweetness. And because they have less juice than most American tomatoes they cook down more quickly, preserving more of the fresh clear summery taste.

My shipment, however, was a disappointment. Though the cans were awfully pretty (see figure 1), the tomatoes were acidic to the point of tasting metallic, and required a shit-ton of salt to calm their bilious tendencies. None of the friends who ordered them complained, but from time to time I notice the cans in their apartments serving a decorative function rather than a culinary one. Selah.

figure 1. | the can:

But as alluded to before, my overly complicated food distribution days are back: I am now embarking upon a Great Pork Face Caper. Moments ago, I placed an order for guanciale, which is at this very moment being air-mailed to me from Seattle. Seattle! Guanciale is cured pig's jowl, a central ingredient in numerous Italian dishes that's not easily found in America. It's what's used in all'amatriciana. It's inimitable. And this weekend it's going to spur some homemade pasta. The dough shall be rolled. More later.