When the carbonara starts to scramble, your egg is already cooked.
At that point, adding pasta water and pulling it off the heat are your only options to save it. But if you’re aiming for the silky-smooth texture of a perfect emulsion, you’ve already missed your window.
Life is filled with regrets.
I could have tempered the eggs with more pasta water. I should have let the pan cool down more. I would have slowly brought the heat back up.
* * *
From the hostel terrace, we can see the Basilica of St. John Lateran, its imposing statues of Christ, John the Baptist, and John the Evangelist rising above the rooftops.
It’s a beautiful summer evening to be outside for dinner. My dinner guests — fellow backpackers — set eight places at the table with an assortment of mismatched silverware pulled from kitchen drawers. At the window, ready to be served: insalata estiva, a tangle of arugula with pistachios, figs and blue cheese, dressed in lemon and pecorino. The main course: sea bass roasted with lemon and herbs. Seared zucchini on the side.
I love cooking. It’s both a practical skill, to feed oneself and others — and a kind of alchemy. Simple ingredients transform into explosions of flavor. But there’s also a magic in bringing people to the table, in food and conversation folding together into something larger than the meal itself. I’ve seen my mother do it countless times in our home on Long Island. At every opportunity, she’d invite friends, old and new, to gather around a table laden with soulful flavor. It was an expression of love. She taught me to speak in the same language.
Kitchens are often the site of merriment. It’s a cultural trait shared by most, if not all, of humankind. Complete strangers can become fast friends over a good meal. That commonality is well understood among backpackers, and when I travel, I relish in fueling those memorable experiences. But that wasn’t my original intention.
Rome was the last stop on my whirlwind summer in Europe. I had sailed from Kalmar, Sweden, to Saint-Pol-de-Léon, France. I had met up with friends from other far-flung adventures in Paris and Barcelona. The cheapest flight home was out of Rome, and BCN to FCO was only about $70.
When I checked into the Osso Busso hostel, I was already impressed by the rooms, the common areas, and the complimentary happy hour drink token. But when I scouted the kitchen, I was blown away.
We need your help to stay independent
Perhaps I should have predicted that the kitchen would be at the heart of a hostel in Italy. Food is revered here, a cultural touchstone for the whole nation. Even still, I didn’t expect shelves stocked with pasta and tomato sauce. Fresh, seasonal fruits and vegetables stacked in hampers. Wicker baskets stuffed with alliums and aromatics. All for free. Two ovens, eight induction tops, two sinks with four basins. Three types of oil, two kinds of salt, two full-size refrigerators. I could cook dinner for a 16-bed room without even leaving for groceries.
Luxury can be simple.
I was inspired. Early the next morning, I rented an e-scooter and rattled through cobblestone streets to a market. Back home, I’m strict about shopping with a list. If I forget something, I spiral into negative self-talk on the way back to the store. But here, buoyed by the well-stocked cupboard, I could trust my senses of smell and taste, the recommendations of vendors and a touch of intuition.
The first stop was the fishmonger. I admired but disregarded the octopus — too much of an ordeal. I considered the monkfish, the mackerel, the cockles. Fresh seafood on ice reminded me of my childhood. My mom would take my younger brother and me to Flushing, Queens, for groceries, depositing us in front of the fish tanks while she moved with snappy efficiency through produce and specialty goods. We gawked at the sea creatures — lobsters, soft-shell turtles, wriggling live eels — while she filled the cart.
The fishmonger and I haggled over the sea bass. She assured me of its quality, and I confirmed it: shiny eyes, bright red gills, firm, smooth skin. She agreed to clean it and keep it on ice while I finished shopping.
Lemons in Italy are wonderful, and in the summer, they’re at their best. They were destined to be stuffed into the sea bass, along with parsley, oil, and garlic. Roasted in the oven on a bed of onions, the fish would be perfect.
The foreboding carbonara was brewing in my mind — enticed by ingredients of splendid quality; guanciale, pecorino and fresh eggs. How could I not spar a round with one of Rome’s four great pastas when I was at its doorstep?
"How could I not spar a round with one of Rome’s four great pastas when I was at its doorstep?"
I pondered the squash blossoms — delicate, delicious, undeniably seasonal. I could have stuffed them with meat, cheese, and herbs, battered them lightly, and deep-fried them. But despite the hostel’s well-equipped kitchen, I wasn’t sure I wanted to mess with a huge pot of hot oil.
Instead, figs. Green, sweet, crunchy. The vendor handed me a sample, and I was charmed. I bought two boxes.
I added a scoop of pistachios — another Italian specialty — and tossed arugula and a wedge of blue cheese into my bag. The salad would balance sweetness with crunch, bite and funk.
The kitchen was chaotic, as kitchens always are, but many hands made for light work. Hungry travelers were eager to contribute. Like a conductor, I set them to manageable tasks. Wash produce. Grate cheese. Refill my Aperol Spritz.
The fish went into the oven quickly. The salad, easy enough. But the carbonara? The true test.
I mixed eggs and pecorino to a wet sand consistency. I added the rendered guanciale fat for extra flavor and set the toasted bits aside. The pasta was a touch underdone—perfect timing. But the pan was too hot. The eggs should have been tempered with pasta water, or combined off heat. I swooped in with corrective maneuvers, but alas. Lament! Passable.
When it all came together, relief.
Guests brought bottles of wine to share. We served generous portions. I always make extra — food never goes to waste in a hostel.
We gave a portion to a curious Brazilian woman. She returned with a clean plate and a ravenous appreciation. She spoke rapid, expressive Portuguese, and another Brazilian translated.
“She says you cook with the same love as her grandmother.”
We hugged. I was a touch bashful. There is no greater compliment than to be compared to a grandmother.
She insisted, full of passion. I was delighted to accept.
After the meal, hands reached out to help wash dishes. I gratefully — and gluttonously — relaxed, accepting a cigarette, a lighter, another pour of wine. We chatted about our hometowns, our past travels, the adventures yet to come. We boasted. We joked. We flirted. We lit more cigarettes.
Food has an incredible place in our hearts. Across cultures, beyond language, at the core of all humanity, there is a plate of warm food at a table with warm people. Cooking in other countries has taught me about a nation’s values, its history, its way of life. Cooking for strangers in hostels has taught me that kindness is appreciated. What is given returns.
Heart is an international currency, and its conversion rate is highly favorable in the kitchen.
Next time you travel, consider cooking as a way to experience the broad, foreign flavors and the vast, familiar depths of human generosity.
As for me? I’ll be back in the kitchen to practice. When I return to Italy, I want to be ready.
Shares