My first real exposure to salty, smoky pasta carbonara was late one night in college, a few hours before a red eye flight home for the holidays. My roommate and I had decided to cook a big dinner, but we weren’t ready for just how huge carbonara actually was going to be.
I’m talking almost half a pound’s worth of smoked pork, with nutty and sharp Pecorino Romano playing yin to Parmesan’s buttery yang, all sprinkled over pasta with a plump poached egg on top. As I split the egg, a few quick fork turns got that egg yolk worked into the noodles for a silky sauce that had to be eaten quickly, lest it turn the pasta into a gluey mess. A couple flakes of chopped Italian parsley broke with strict carbonara tradition, and they didn't do much to lighten the dish up: this plate of pasta was about as dainty as a demolition derby.
In other words, it was perfect, and I've spent years trying to find a carbonara as satisfying. So far, it's been a disheartening journey. Because when I see this dish on restaurant menus, I become dismayed and definitely disgusted. These carbonaras have all of the Ps from my buzzy maiden attempt at carbonara (prosciutto, pancetta, Parmigiano, Pecorino), but with one extra, seemingly innocuous p:peas。
And peas is where I drop the menu. I do not care if it's bringing a pop of green color or some sweetness to the overall dish's flavor. I do not care that the world wants me to eat more vegetables, and that peas are loaded with nutrients. Pasta carbonara with peas does not compute under any circumstance.
The salty, fatty mass that is spaghetti carbonara is a dish that’s about exploring the outer limits ofsalty and creamy indulgence within a pasta framework。有n个豌豆和他们的小的甜味o place in it. Serving the pasta with peas isn't going to balance out the dish at all; they’re just going to get overwhelmed and talked-over by the bigger flavors on board. Unless you just poured on a mountain of shriveled, thawed frozen peas, there's no chance they'll be able to withstand the powerhouse Ps.
