Spaghetti all’Assassina

I am a pasta fanatic. Death-row meal. Desert-island meal. If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life… pasta. Pasta, always pasta.

Growing up it was spaghetti and tomato sauce (sometimes meatballs). Tony’s Baltimore Grill: scant sweet-meaty sauce, limp noodles, screw-the-top-off parm, mountains of cheese — my familiar.

Marsha made a solid pot of “doctored” Ragu. Seriously — she’d drop hunks of pepperoni and her stellar meatballs into that smooth supermarket sugo and suddenly it had a pulse. Swoon.

She would make vats of sauce and store them in the freezer, especially when my Zeyda came to visit. Morris — my grandfather for the goyim — would eat spaghetti every day. I kid you not. I can see him now, framed by the colorful wallpaper print in our very 70s kitchen, standing in his onesie jumpsuit, cooking his daily bowl of red. Then, without hesitation, topping it with a mountain of crushed red chili flakes — a taste I proudly inherited.

In my first attempt at romance, I cooked my girlfriend Ronnie a feast of chicken parm and spaghetti. I learned Marsha’s tricks. I was ready to shine. The night was made slightly less romantic when my weed wizard dropped by to hook me up. Everything tasted better after that. But more importantly, I realized something: cooking was my love language. Pasta was my superpower.

When I studied in Italy, the obsession leveled up. Living in Rome exposed me to the holy quadrumvirate: amatriciana, carbonara, gricia, and cacio e pepe. Traveling around the country every weekend, I discovered more treasures — proper bolognese, lasagna, arrabbiata — and a universe of shapes: penne, agnolotti, ravioli, orecchiette, farfalle, and on and on.

In adulthood, I kept the faith. In San Francisco I found my own West Coast version of Tony’s at Gaspare’s. Judah’s first taste of food other than his mother’s milk was a dab of red sauce on my finger. Gaspare himself became part of our extended family.

Then the pasta renaissance hit and I was all in. Places like Flour + Water, SPQR, Quince, A16 — legit regional pasta, California seasonality, chefs taking noodles seriously in a way that felt like religion. This was the golden age.

One of the craziest decisions I ever made was opening my own meatball-themed food truck. Red Sauce was my attempt to enter the fray: a tongue-in-cheek revival of old-school East Coast Italian hangs, with a modern twist. It was intended to become a full-service restaurant with a heavy focus on pasta. The truck was just to test the waters.

It also broke me — and with it, my desire to be in the restaurant business. Lesson learned.

In the years since, I’ve made countless trips back to Italy. Every province, every region, every local specialty. So many memories. So many great plates of noods. But tonight I’m writing because there are a few dishes that stand above the rest — head and shoulders — and I want to sing their praises.

Agnolotti del Plin

I’ve had this dish many times, and it’s been on a short list for years. But it wasn’t until Judah and I found ourselves in Piemonte four years ago that I experienced the truly sublime.

I can confidently say the single best plate of pasta I have ever consumed was the agnolotti del plin from Guido Ristorante in Fontanafredda. Words don’t do it justice. The umami of that braised-meat filling, the silkiest, meatiest, butteriest sauce ever to grace a plate… superlative beyond superlative.

Mama mia. What a fucking bowl of food.

Tonnarelli Cacio e Pepe

It might be the simplest ingredient list in all of cooking. Even more minimal than aglio e olio, which still wants garlic, pepperoncini, parsley, oil, and pasta water.

Cacio e pepe is just pecorino, pepper, and pasta water. Basta così.

And yet, when it’s done right, it becomes this smooth, creamy, sharp-but-nutty, round-and-peppery coating on bitey tonnarelli that feels like a magic trick you can eat.

And there is no place that does it better than Roscioli Salumeria e Cucina. I don’t care if it’s crowded. I don’t care if the staff can be sassy. I don’t care. Their cacio e pepe is the Platonic standard by which all others are measured.

Fight me.

Spaghetti all’Assassina

And thus we arrive at the titular dish. Why name this post after an obscure pasta that’s really only made properly in one town, in a handful of restaurants, and in the kitchens of some nonnas? It’s not even the most popular pasta dish in Bari, where it originated. Orecchiette is way more popular. Barely anyone even knows about this dish.

So why?

Last night I had a realization.

I’ve been cleansing, cutting, dieting — getting to fighting weight since late December. I’m down 35 pounds, you’re welcome. Don’t judge me. I eat very well when I travel. Then I come home for the holidays and eat some more. Then some more. So every winter I reset: I cut, I fast, I go lean and mean and high protein.

Back to last night. Focus, Adam.

Once I feel like I’ve earned a cheat meal, my brain immediately goes to pasta. And while those dishes above tickle my fancy, this time around I realized the one that has my heart — the one I dream about when she’s not around — the one I lust after, with her spicy bite and crispy edges…

…the one I can finally admit sits at the top of my pasta totem pole…

is all’Assassina.

What makes her so special?

Counter to all that is holy in Italian pasta, you don’t boil it first. You cook it in a cast-iron pan like risotto. You start with oil, garlic, chili, and tomato — and you feed the spaghetti gradually with a pepperoncini-spiked tomato broth as it cooks down. Slow. Patient. Very al dente.

But here’s the trick: you let it dry out. And then you let it burn a little. Not “oops.” Not “saved it at the last second.” I mean you commit to it. Black char. Crispy edges. A little menace. Mama mia, che stronzo.

To me, it’s a level up from my Zeyda’s chili-flake spaghetti. Morris would have gone gaga over this. It’s extra spicy because the chilis cook down with the oil and tomatoes, becoming something deeper and meaner. But it’s the char that gets me.

My favorite part of lasagna — like Massimo Bottura — is the crispy part. Here we’re recreating that sensation in cast iron. And to cap it all off, this isn’t one of those pasta dishes where Italians take your first-born if you put Parmigiano on it.

It’s okay. You can have your cheese.

You hear that, Marsha?

So I’m here to shout it from the rooftops: I’m in love with spaghetti all’Assassina. I will take her to my deserted island. I will take her to death row.

And if you haven’t had it, I have an idea.

We haven’t done a cooking demo since the pandemic. I think it’s time — and this is the dish. So grab your cast-iron skillets and mark your calendar. I’m ready for my next cheat meal on Sunday, March 8th. I’ll share a Zoom link and we’ll cook a proper Sunday supper.

And if you’re in San Francisco… you might just get an invite for a live demo if you’re lucky.

Comment or DM me if you’re interested. (And if you got this far, you better be.)