I grab a bowl to ladle some of the pasta water into, so I can drain the rest.
“Cacio e pepe,” I murmur. “It’s split twice, and I’m running out of cheese. I have to drain the pasta.”
“Don’t tell me,” he says, sounding pained. “Per carità, tell me you’re not using boxed pasta.”
“Of course I am,” I snap. “The fresh dough is having a temper tantrum, and I’m hungry.”
A beat. Then, resigned: “Fine. Do not drain it in the sink. Lift it out of the water. Keep the water.”
“I already pulled some,” I say, ladling a little more into a bowl. “And I’m turning the burner off.”
“Good. Now step away from the heat,” he says. “What cheese do you have?”
“Parmesan and pecorino,” I say. “I know pecorino is the right cheese, but Mamma always mixed them because pecorino here is stronger than back home.”
“That is right,” he says. “Is it grated?”
“Yes,” I say, pulling the bowl of cheese closer. “This is absurdly complicated for a dish with only three ingredients.”
“Cooking is mostly respect and patience,” he says. “Respect the cheese. Be patient with the water.”
“You’re very poetic for a felon,” I mutter.
“Now,” he says, “we start by toasting the pepper.”
“I did that already,” I say, pulling the pan closer. “I toasted it in some oil.”
“We can work with that.”
I hear a sound on the other end again, a rustling of some sort. Is he in bed? The thought makes my heart pound harder. I have to give my hands a little shake to make them cooperate.
“Put a little bit of water into the pan with the pepper,” he instructs.
“Then the cheese?” I ask while pouring a ladle of water in.
“No. Patience, Counselor.” He sounds amused again. “You’re not very good at being patient, are you?”
“Not my best skill,” I say, setting the ladle down.
“Let the pepper water simmer for ten seconds,” he says. “Just a breath. Then kill the heat.”
I watch small bubbles rise around the flakes. I turn the burner off. “Done.”
“Cheese paste in a separate bowl,” he goes on. “Start with pecorino. If your mother mixed, do two spoons pecorino, one spoon parmesan. Add a spoon of that warm pepper water. Stir with a fork until smooth. Small additions. Smooth first, then loosen.”
I pull the cheese bowl close and work a spoonful with a splash of water. It resists, then gives. I add a little more cheese and water, stirring until it looks like thick paint. “Okay.”
“If it clumps, you’re adding water too fast or it’s too hot.”
“Umm, it didn’t clump, no.”
“Good,” he says, pleased. “Now, continue until you’ve incorporated all the cheese, carefully adding water to it.”
I follow his instructions, jaw tight, waiting for it to seize up on me.
But it doesn’t. Somehow, miraculously, I managed to make the damn thing.
“Now put the pasta into the sauce,” he says. “Very low heat. The lowest it can go. Toss.”
