Rotini al Borracho

Back in 2002, when Sarah and I were still dating, we had come back to my New York City apartment after a night of drinking perhaps a bit too much. And, for some reason, we were wired. More importantly, we were hungry. Being the un-domesticated man I was at the time, I didn’t have much going on in terms of food in the apartment. We quickly decided that, out of my limited sundries, pasta was the best choice. There was a problem, though: I didn’t have any red sauce.

Though a fact like missing red sauce normally would have prevented us from making the dish, in my drunken confidence, I proclaimed that I’d try to make something even better than red sauce by making a sauce out of butter and spices. Whether it was prescience or hubris, or a bit of both, my bold prediction actually proved true. The butter-based sauce we had that night was transcendent. It was creamy, spicy, piquant, and (best of all) not too heavy. And it was super easy to make! We raved about it that night and swore that we’d use this recipe all the time instead of red sauces. It was a brilliant plan, except for the tiny detail that I was so drunk when I made it that I didn’t remember what ingredients I used, or how much of each ingredient went into the sauce. And, as with all great recipes, I didn’t write down a single thing.

In the weeks, months, and years following that night, I took many stabs at recreating that lovely dish, but like the unicorn, it proved elusive. Something always was missing. I began to think I would never taste such accidental goodness again. Until today.

Due to the extreme heat, I decided it was easier for me to work from home than schlep all the way to the office. Sarah and Amelia were out during lunch time, and I was left to fend for myself for lunch. Seeing as how I was “on the clock,” I decided to look for a quick and easy lunch option. My two major options were: (1) a bowl of cereal; or (2) figure out something to do with a Tupperware of cooked, but unsauced rotini sitting in the fridge. I chose option (2), and I am glad I did. I quickly heated up a sauté pan over medium-high heat with 2 tablespoons of butter and about 1 tablespoon of crushed red pepper chili dipping olive oil. Into the quickly heating pan, I added the following dry ingredients: approximately 2 teaspoons each of garlic powder, onion powder, oregano, and black pepper; 1 teaspoon of salt and crushed red pepper; a few strands of lemon zest; and a half teaspoon (or maybe less) of nutmeg. I stirred around the butter, oil, and spice mixture until it had reached a nice, buttery potpourri appearance. Then, I dropped in the cold pasta from the Tupperware straight into the pan, stirring it in to ensure the pasta was coated with the sauce. As the pasta began to cook, I took about 1/3 cup of grana padano and stirred it into the pasta, which was now beginning to glisten with the buttery spice of the sauce. Then I covered the pasta up, turned down the heat to medium/medium-low, and let it sit for one-to-two minutes. When I couldn’t wait anymore, I plated the dish, finishing it off with a little bit more of the grana.

Now, I’m not the best at artistic plating skills, so I realize that the dish may not have been a lot to look at, but the smells in the room as I watched the pasta fall onto the plate evoked a blurry image in my mind’s eye that I couldn’t quite grasp. When I took my first bite, everything became clear. The creaminess of the butter mixed with the grana, the tang of the garlic powder, the gentle warmth of the red chili flakes and chili oil on the back of my throat, the zip of the lemon zest and oregano on the tip of my tongue, and the subtle sweetness of the nutmeg in my nostrils took me back to my Manhattan apartment on East 77th Street on that fateful night. Add to these flavors the unexpected, occasional gooey, chewy crust of fried grana that coated many of my rotini, and I was almost drunk with the memory, even though I sat there cold stone sober nearly ten years later. For me, the dish certainly was worthy of the name: “Rotini al Borracho” (Drunk Man’s Pasta).

To be fair, I have no idea if the sauce I made today was exactly the same—or even close—to the one I made nearly 10 years ago in a drunken stupor. But, given the fact that my mind was so vividly transported back to that night after one bite, I’d say this recipe certainly was close enough. Close or not, though this recipe sure made an easy, flavorful, and extraordinary dish out of ordinary leftover pasta! If you’re ever in a pinch, I highly recommend it. It’s fast, easy, and only involves one pan and three utensils (knife to cut the butter, spoon to stir the pasta, and a zester). What could be easier or better?