I was never really a rice eater. I have a very vivid memory of our sunny kitchen and those butt-scratchy rattan chairs where I was with my eldest brother, Joey. I was eating a bowl of farfalle pasta, or bowties, as I liked to call them, with just garlic and butter. I can no longer recall if we were talking about aliens or Greek mythology (my favorite topics — I was a strange child) but I do remember him pointing out that pasta was what the Italians ate, and just plain and simple with butter or olive oil. I thought to myself that I must have been Italian in a past life because I really loved my pasta.
There is something about the texture, that soft bite that fills the mouth with just the right amount of pressure against your teeth to make you feel fulfilled. There are enough kinds of pasta shapes and sizes to have practically a different one every day. For me each one is special and I cannot explain how on some days only this one kind will do. Each one is to be loved like an individual for a different purpose, a different palatable destiny.
I love how pesto climbs up the winding spirals of fusilli, jampacked with fresh, garlicky-basil flavor. Little bits of Parmesan cling to it like fruits on a tree. Or perhaps rigatoni with a creamy porcini mushroom sauce … each one hiding delicious secret pockets of flavorful cream and precious mushroom that burst forth pleasurably as you bite into it. Oh, the languid linguine, slippery in the white wine and olive oil, mingling in a bowl of clams and parsley! Orecchiette that cups cubes of roasted squash and crumbled feta! Lasagna that envelops goodness, baked with a creamy béchamel and gooey mozzarella! My little bowties, so pretty and yet perfect for a ravenous moment as you lovingly stab four or five at a time with a fork! The spaghettini that piles high like Mt. Etna, a statuesque volcano with a Bolognese ragu lava that spills over its sides … micro-plane shavings of Parmesan ash…
On a really gloomy day I just want to dive into that wonderful mess and wish that I could lay my head on the bowl and slurp each little noodle lazily. One of my best friends, Rocio, calls me Garfield because of my “Banzai!” jump into the lasagna fantasies. I empathize with the orange cat, the excitement he feels when he sees that steaming hot dish … except for me it’s all kinds of pasta. I eat it a minimum of three times a week. Atkins diet? No way. Will forever be miserable! I get pasta dreams, I get pasta cravings, I get pasta withdrawal symptoms… Come to think of it, I want pasta now.
You can imagine my excitement when I receive an invitation stating that the King of Pasta is in town. Oh, and it’s another white truffle festival. I was so excited, sitting in my office thinking about it for the whole week, utterly excited. I showed up 15 minutes early. My heart was pounding and I was thrilled to meet Vincenzo Spinosi. What a rock star. Funny, loud, cheesier than a wheel of Parmesan, the man was proud of his product and had every right to be. His pasta, Spinosini — oops! “Non e pasta, e Spinosi!” he scolded — was of a heavenly texture. Perfectly al dente and as firm and smooth as a baby’s bottom. Coupled with Vanda Angelotti’s fresh shavings of white truffles, chef Daniele Turco’s know-how and Shangri-La Makati’s service, lunch was a happy feast. To borrow Charlie Sheen’s words, the meal was truly of “epic proportions.”
The simplicity is mind-blowing. Start with a good product (Spinosi pasta is made only with fresh organic eggs) and add no more than three or four other good products and you have something spectacular. Spinosi’s signature dish, with prosciutto and lemon zest, was excellent and extremely achievable at home. Nothing complicated, no cream, no fancy hoo-hoo stuff, just a few good ingredients.
But of course the highlight of my day was something truly special, and ironically stark and extravagant all at the same time. Cooked quickly for two and a half minutes in water that’s as salty as the ocean, then quickly drained and finished off in the pan with vivid green extra-virgin olive oil, rich butter and pasta water. That’s it, pancit. (Yes, pun intended.) You have an amazing dish. Shave some fresh truffles and it’s heady and truly — dare I say it? Orgasmic. The slivers of delight that send chills up and down my spine. I was like those crazy teenagers in the old black-and-white Beatles concert videos that would swoon at the sight of John Lennon. Four ingredients. All of five minutes to make. But wow, one bite and you’re Lucy in the sky with underground diamonds. I was on that boat, in a river of butter, with Parmesan walls and marvelous white truffle skies… and in my eyes was a kaleidoscope of glorious egg noodles swirling about.
Sigh.
If there is a Beatles song for life’s every moment, just like there is a pasta dish for every occasion, the summery pesto would be Here Comes the Sun, the familial lasagna In My Life, the breakup Bolognese Hey Jude, the indulgent cream and mushroom Come Together. I still have the photo of the dish in my phone. And I look at it lovingly from time to time, a constant reminder of how perfection should be — a bowl of pasta with one’s favorite ingredients that has its own soundtrack: “Everyone smiles as you drift by the flowers, that grow so incredibly high.”