Though the ancient origins of pasta are likely Egyptian, it was inside the eternal Saturnalia of fifteenth-century Napoli where the simple stuff began its story as an everyday comfort against the hungers of the southern Italian poor. Crafted and cooked and dispatched from painted wagons spirited through the city’s boisterous alleyways— they were exuberant vehicles of rescue enrobed in garlicky vapors, for nearly everyone could sport the price of a portion of il carrettiere’s belly-warming wares, hence thwarting the troll for yet a few more hours. Typically, il carrettiere prepared his long, thick cords of dried pasta by dragging them through a warmed coalescence of olive oil, ravishingly perfumed with garlic, oregano, and peperoncino. Should one have been so flush as to call for cacio, his dose would have been handsomely dusted with the piquant pecorino of Crotone in Calabria. The formula stayed safe through time, its solace radiating north and south, where still some one or another version of pasta all’ aglio, olio, e peperoncino prevails as cure for surfeit now as much as for want, but always, one hopes, with homage to il carrettiere. As rudimentary as this dish is, don’t mistake it for one whose elements might be collected without care. One needs crisp, sharp, juicy garlic and a fine extra-virgin oil. That little bottle in the cupboard with the blue or red top that is older than the Flood and smells only of dust is no longer oregano. And the pure, clean fire that comes from a small, whole dried chile pepper crushed between your thumb and fingers can rarely be had from flakes of them long-ago collected in jars.
Ingredients
serves 4
Step 1
Over a medium flame, heat the oil in a small, heavy saucepan. Crush the chile peppers—better two than one—into the warming oil. As the oil approaches a simmer, add the oregano, fennel seed, and garlic, removing the pan from the heat. If the oil is sufficiently hot, a great sputtering will ensue. Stir, permitting the garlic to take on the palest of gold color. Anything darker will result in a bitter sauce.
Step 2
Now for the pasta. In abundant, boiling, sea-salted water, cook the pasta to al dente, draining it and turning it out into a warmed, shallow bowl, tossing it about energetically with the scented oil. It needs only an honest red wine and a heel of bread to chase the smudges of oil left on one’s plate.
Step 3
Perhaps the most significant point of the warm-hearted rite of il carrettiere, though, is that one prepares it and eats it with those for whom one feels affection and whose presence at table is enriching. If they’ve scattered for the moment, better to perform the ceremony only for one. Its goodness would be lost in the company of buffoons.