A few months ago I hosted a few gents at my place for some dinner and sauna. I cracked open the secret weapon: spag bol. It’s a stealth bomber, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If it could talk, it would do so softly, between loving, brutal cudgel strikes.
Everyone thinks about their mum’s half-assed, under seasoned pile of tomato puree and grey mince, or the uncanny proto-dishes served to melancholy kids at the kind of Spanish resorts where thin sachets of vinegary, hot-tap warm ketchup sprout from sun bleached pots atop grease smeared plastic lounger side tables. Out of respect for (and fear of) a nation’s retribution, I shall not name the friend’s mum who, in my youth, offered up a spag bol with – I kid you not – the unholy addition of baked beans stirred through the sickly sweet ragu.
My spag bol is a Hattori-Hanzo blade. Forged across decades through thousands of iterations, repetitions, red-faced oaths screamed into teacloths, miniscule but meaningful tweaks. It’s the acme of umami. A golden ratio of protein, sinuous carbs, heat, and time. To offer a Portnoy-ism, it knocked their dicks off.
It was the catalyst for the greatest compliment I have ever received as a cook – not a chef mind you, I couldn’t run a kitchen. I’m a once man band. After an unctuous moment of silent mastication, sauce soaked twists of meaty noodles filling greedy maws, one of my guests stared at me and said, ”Do not fear the man who knows 1000 kicks. Rather, fear the man that has practiced one kick a thousand times.”
I won’t lie, it gave me a kick.
