Pasta con la Bottarga. Two Chefs And A Sardinian Masterpiece In Puglia

Cooking dinner in the heart of Puglia was our communion, our own personal celebration of friendship, culture, and the unapologetic joy of living well.

The road in front of my windscreen stretched ahead like an undulating ribbon. Ages-old faded asphalt wound its way through the heart of Puglia’s countryside as I took one sharp curve after another. I gripped the steering wheel of my cherry-red Fiat firmly as I hugged each turn, pushing the tiny car to its limit. This sporty, little Italian automobile felt more like an accomplice than a vehicle as I pushed it gently along the SP96. The late evening sun hung low in the sky, slowly descending towards the horizon behind me. Even at this speed, I could see the setting sun casting long shadows over olive groves and stone walls that seemed to whisper their secrets to me as I sped past them, taking this tiny car through its paces. The air that blew through my open windows was warm and smelled faintly of wild fennel and dust. The bumps, shudders, sudden thuds, along with the occasional sudden pothole reminded me that Puglia’s roads were as rugged as its charm. Rough around the edges. Worn. Shabby. But classically beautiful and visually stunning.

Driving through the heart of Puglia was an experience that bordered on the cinematic. The SP96 continued to stretch endlessly ahead cutting through the sun-drenched southern Italian countryside. The highway was flanked by endless olive groves and the occasional whitewashed village that added a scene of serenity and local immersion. The car hummed along the narrow highway, its engine purring in harmony with the cicadas noisily thrumming outside. Every curve of the road teased glimpses of the Adriatic in the distance. The sea shimmered like a promise, pulling me forward, but still out of reach. The air was thick with the added scents of wild rosemary and salt, the intoxicating aroma whipping through the cabin around me through the open windows.

Massimo’s villa was tucked away in a secluded corner of the countryside, shyly hiding behind a grove of ancient olive trees, their gnarled trunks twisted like arthritic fingers hiding the stunning home from prying eyes. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as I pulled into the driveway. It was a sound that felt oddly satisfying after hours on the road, almost like busting packing material balls between my fingers. The house was only accessible by the private drive, my tires announcing my arrival like a drumroll, the graveled rocks popping and pinging in every direction. The house was a masterpiece of rustic elegance and local charm. Even though the construction was fairly new, Massimo did an amazing job picking a design that looked like it had been standing here for generations. It blended beautifully into the landscape, its stone façade glowed amber in the fading sunlight. As I pulled up to the front, I could see that Massimo was already outside, alerted to my noisy arrival, two glass of what I could only guess was a 2009 Tenuta San Guido Sassicaia in hand. His hands were outstretched holding both glasses like a bachelorette party animal as he smiled wider than the horizon. We embrace like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years but whose bond remained unbroken, forged in wineries and kitchens across Europe. We toasted instantly, as if it was always part of our normal greeting in any setting. I could always count on his love for Tenuta San Guido Sassicaia to lubricate any meeting we had. While ridiculously pricey, the bottle was absolutely worth every penny. Sipping on the front porch of his estate, in the heat of the Puglian summer, the wine was velvety and complex, much like Massimo himself—a chef whose passion for food was matched only by his love for the flavor and the experience of life.

“You’re late,” Massimo said with mock indignation as he filled my glass with more wine before I could even respond. Let me say this. The Sassicaia was fucking expensive. However, it was exquisite, and Massimo knew it and loved it. The texture was velvety with notes of blackcurrant and tobacco. It tasted like the kind of luxury you don’t ever question. Your only job when poured a glass was simply to savor it. And say “Oh! Sassicaia?! Why yes! Yes please. And while you are pouring, I’ll take another glass. Actually, as long as you’re here, just leave the whole bottle my good man.” I’ve had many vintages of this incredible bottle, but this 2009 Bolgheri Sassicaia was the richest and darkest edition in my recent memory. This super-charged Sassicaia boasted enormous power and concentration thanks to its impressive phenolic foundation. Black currant and blackberry confit were immediately supported by spice, leather, and black truffle. It had hints of licorice and crushed minerals that just danced on my tongue. Massimo knew me well. He smiled as I closed my eyes, taking another sip. It was one of those wines that wrapped thickly over your palate delivering tight textural firmness and integrated structure. “What do you think,” Massimo asked knowingly. I smiled. “You can absolutely taste the sweetness of the fruit and the depth of the oak tannins. Honestly, no matter how you approach it, this wine is ridiculously intense,” I said. Massimo chuckled. “For the record my friend, the Tenuta San Guido General Manager Carlo Paoli expressed a lot of concern about the integrity of his particular vintage, but I assured him that I remained extremely pleased by the gorgeous this wine. You can almost say there is nothing better,” he smiled.

We wandered through Massimo’s olive grove, strolling with glasses of wine in hand. The grove felt sacred. Like a confessional. We walked between the trees and simply caught up on each other’s adventures. Massimo however did carry the bottle with him on our stroll, so both of his hands were still full. After all, how was he going to refill our glasses? The olive grove was stunning. It was a labyrinth of ancient trees whose gnarled trunks dug deep into the ancient landscape keeping centuries of the land’s secrets tightly packed beneath the soul. Massimo told me about his latest culinary venture as we continued to sip and stroll, occasionally interrupting the setting sun with bursts of laughter that echoed through the grove. The olives here were not only fruit. They were culture. They were sustenance. They were history that all pointing back to ancient Rome. As we slowly turned between the olive trees, hunger began to gnaw at me. The very loud rumbling in my stomach could be heard over the noise of the cicadas, made us laugh and was a solid reminder that I arrived late and dinner was way overdue.

The sun slowly disappeared beyond the distant horizon signaling to us that we needed to head back for dinner. By the time we made it back to the villa, my hunger gnawed at me like an impatient child. The kitchen that appeared in front of me was vast, but warm and inviting. It had this rustic charm that was enhanced by copper pots hanging from wooden beams and jars of preserved lemons lining the shelves. As expected, Massimo handed me an apron. It was a gesture that signaled both dinner preparation and expected participation that was something sacred between chefs and friends. “Tonight,” he announced with theatrical flair, as he threw his hands outward “we’re making Pasta con la Bottarga.” This was a dish that I had enjoyed many times, but sadly, had never prepared myself. However, I knew better than to question Massimo’s choices. Massimo might have had a flair for the dramatic, but his culinary instincts were unarguably impeccable. Bottarga, or cured fish roe, was one of those ingredients that could intimidate the uninitiated chef. However, the ingredient could transform into a magical potion under skilled hands. Massimo tilted the bottle of Sassicaia he was holding into his glass, saw it was empty, and reached for another full one. “It’s been open for several hours. Definitely ready to drink,” he said and poured more wine as we set to work.

Pasta con la Bottarga was deceptively simple to make, but its execution demanded precision and attention. And maybe a little practice as well. Massimo grated the bottarga with expertise. He had performed this action so many times, he didn’t even need to look at what he was doing. He chatted animatedly as amber shavings fell like golden snow onto a waiting plate. Meanwhile, Massimo told me to heat the olive oil in a pan until it shimmered like liquid sunlight. I tossed garlic cloves that I had just peeling into the oil-filled pan. Instantly, the garlic aroma exploded in the kitchen and bloomed into something primal and completely irresistible. Massimo reached over and tossed in a pinch of red pepper flakes over my shoulder while sipping from his wine glass. It was a small and extremely fiery addition that promised to wake up our taste buds. I reminded him that heat might ruin the taste of the wine, but he just shrugged and said “Trust me.” He was the expert in his kitchen and I was the sous chef.

Massimo whipped up fresh, homemade spaghetti earlier while he was waiting for me. He scooped it up from the rack that he had draped it over and tossed it into a pot of boiling water on the stove with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before. “Al dente,” he reminded me. I smirked as I raised my wine glass to take a sip. As though I needed reminding. I pulled a strand out of the pot to taste and handed it over to Massimo to try. We both nodded. “Al dente,” we chimed together. I lifted and drained the pasta, then slid all of the stingy stands into the pan with the garlic-infused oil as each strand of pasta soaked up the golden essence like a sponge. Massimo added lemon zest to bring out a bit of brightness for the dish. He explained “The lemon is going to provide a sharp counterpoint and balance. The bottarga is going to be deep, briny, rich. This is going to make it pop.” “And parsley,” I asked? “ Italian magic sprinkles,” winked Massimo, “to bring a touch of freshness that is going to tie it all together.”

We plated the dish with the carefree ease of two experienced chefs and culinary maniacs who had seen the inside of a kitchen, or two. We garnished without pretense, with no perfection. Massimo layered the bottarga, grated finely like Parmesan but infinitely more luxurious, liberally over the pasta. Even at arm’s length I could smell the aroma of this marvel creation’s briny depth. Massimo, in a simple gesture of sprinkling the key ingredient on top of the spaghetti, transformed each strand into something gastronomically transcendent. The masterpiece was complete. We stared at the plates in front of us for a moment as Massimo grabbed his glass. I mirrored his action just in time as he toasted my capabilities and assistance with bravado and a friendship that spanned decades. This dish was simple. It was elegant. But mostly, it local. It was full of culture and history. Eating it, however, would be all about pleasure.

Massimo grabbed his plate, turned on the spot, motioned for me to grab the full bottle of Sassicaia, and headed outside. I grabbed my plate and followed him out for an evening under the sky. Dinner, as it happened tonight, was served outdoors under a canopy of stars so bright they seemed almost intrusive. Massimo set a table that was simple, elegant and unpretentious. The table was wooden and worn as it was constantly exposed to the elements of Puglia’s salty air and summer sun. It was rustic. And, it was perfect. We had everything that we needed right here. Plates brimming with pasta. Wine glasses filled with Sassicaia, with a full bottle standing by for refills. And a private patio in the heart of Puglia. Every was fucking sublime.

I twirled the pasta with my fork. By this time in my life, I had learned that if you used a spoon or a knife when eating pasta in Italy, you would be immediately arrested by the Pasta Carabinieri and escorted out of the country with extreme haste. Pasta was only ever eaten with a fork. That being said, my first bite was transformative. Mind you, I have had this dish so many times before in America, and honestly all over Italy. But this dish, our concoction made fresh by a master chef and his happy-go-lucky assistant, was something truly spectacular. The bottarga’s saltiness was the first punch to the palate. It was followed by the garlic’s warmth that rang across my tongue in waves. And then, there was the lemon’s zing. And just following that, lingering, gently, there was a small and almost floating hint of heat. Massimo was right, as always. I closed my eyes for a moment as I took another sip from my wine glass. It was a waltz of flavors that danced on my tongue without stepping on each other’s toes. “You look ridiculous,” Massimo joked between bites, echoing wisdom that felt timeless. He smirked. “This dish,” he mused, “was ageless. My Nonna taught me to make it. And now, I have taught you. So, when I visit you in California next time, I’ll drink and you cook.” We both laughed and toasted again.

Puglia at night came alive around us as we sat, ate and drank. Cicadas rhythmically sang their nightly chorus while distant waves of gentle breezes whispered against the grove’s olive branches. The normally hot summer air was cool this evening, but carried hints of summer’s lingering warmth. It was a gentle reminder that this region existed in perpetual balance between indulgence and restraint. And it was a place that hugged the Mediterranean with love. We talked about everything and nothing all evening as we worked to finish the bottle of Sassicaia. After all, we couldn’t let it go to waste. We spoke about friends, both distant and close. The people that we have lost and found. The dreams that we both deferred and realized all at once. And the great recipes that we managed to perfect as well as triumphantly ruin the fuck out of. The wine continued to be poured, our conversations only promoting fits of deepening laughter until time itself became completely irrelevant. By midnight, only crumbs remained on our plates and drops in our glasses. We leaned back in our chairs, satiated by food and by our many years of connection. Our’s was the kind of friendship that two people could only achieve after standing exhausted, covered in sauce, in the middle of a Michelin kitchen at 1:30 in the morning, after turning many tables and tweezing many servings into perfection. This dinner was our communion. It was our own personal celebration of friendship, culture, and the unapologetic joy of living well.