Once, at a sagra in Capalbio, we ordered rigatoni alla buttera. It’s a popular dish in southern Maremma, where butteri (cowboys – or in this case, their wives) are local icons. It arrived, steaming, in a flimsy plastic bowl, with a plastic fork, and we sat under fluorescent lights on the long, communal table with a cheap, cold bottle of Bianco di Pitigliano. The mosquitoes were out in full force and every now and then the breeze brought over a waft of smoke from the nearby grills, where cooks charred thick pork sausages and meat of all kinds.
A blanket of pecorino cheese covered the pasta, and I swirled it in a little bit before taking a bite. I can still remember the incredible flavour. I gave a forkful to Marco and watched his eyes light up. ‘What do you think is in this?!’ I asked him. With every bite we tried guessing the possible combination of ingredients that made it so good. It was something salty. Something rich. Something umami. It was quite possibly the tastiest plate of pasta I have ever eaten, and every plate of rigatoni alla buttera eaten since has had to try to match that one.
Afterwards, we found the list of ingredients of the dishes (it’s always posted somewhere at a sagra) and we realised our guesses were, for the most part, wrong. Marco was convinced its tastiness was due to chicken livers, but it was actually something so simple. Pork sausages, pancetta, the usual battuto of onion, celery and carrot. Wine. Tomato. I had to try this at home.