I am not a strict cook. I want things to taste very, very good but if what I make wanders beyond the pale of antique rules and regulations, dictums from notable chefs, and even the advice of my butcher, I really couldn’t care less. I suggested a simple dinner to my friend, an exceptionally good cook himself and a slightly tyrannical disciple of regional Italian cooking. The idea was to have a quick delicious meal, go to bed early (back in our own houses, I hasten to add) and read a book; that kind of an evening. So I decided on a wild and crazy arrabbiata sauce on spaghetti, some grilled Tuscan bread rubbed with garlic, and a gentle Boston lettuce salad as sometimes arugula is just too exhausting. Dessert was anise-scented custards (more on those another day). He arrived early and we hung out in the kitchen. The table was laid, a suitably peppy wine (via Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl’s Drink This: Wine Made Simple) was opened; we were happy. The arrabbiata sauce was keeping warm on the stove. My friend tossed the salad with the simplest sprinkle of green olive oil, vinegar, sea salt, and pepper. I strained the pasta into large, sunny Moroccan bowls and to finish the sauce stirred in a tablespoon of 12-year-aged balsamic and a big handful of chopped basil. My friend’s steely voice snapped, “What did you just do?” Aaagh! Brain working like lightning, “Alright so it isn’t REALLY an arrabbiata it is just a very nice spicy tomato sauce with a finish of balsamic and basil which of course…[...]

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The Faux Arrabbiata…Good Grief, Just Eat It!