week 11: ‘the only pasta worth making is angel hair’

April 9, 2009

gluten is the “protein” in wheat. i learned this the exhausting way during day two of cooking methods when we kneaded and pressed our own fresh pasta with Chef Bryan. he began by making a pile of the flour with a few pinches of salt in the middle of the demonstration table. with his left hand he carved out a small groove in the top of the pile, into which he slid a beaten egg. he folded the flour and egg together and began to knead for the next 10 minutes or so.

“…as … you … develop the … gluten … the pasta dough gets … more stretchy,” he huffed between kneads. tiny beads of sweat had formed at his temples as he continued kneading in a fluid motion, pushing down and out on the dough with his whole body and quickly rolling it back toward himself, all the while showering the counter liberally with flour. “what we are doing is basically straightening the wheat fibers–as they stretch, they will become elastic,” he said.

the way to tell that you’ve kneaded long enough is to press a finger or two into the ball of dough. the dough should bounce back, causing your imprint to almost disappear after a few seconds.

once the dough was sufficiently elastic, Chef Bryan stretched it into a long, thin rectangle. he set the pasta maker to a fairly wide setting and cranked the dough through the wide slat, which smoothed and flattened the dough slightly.

he repeated this step several times, each time narrowing the slat through which he threaded the long sheet of pasta and all the while keeping the dough well floured. “it will keep getting smoother as you run it through the machine,” he said. when the sheet was thin enough (less 1/16 in.), he fed the satin-smooth dough through a toothed setting on the machine in order to cut the pasta into individual noodles. and lo and behold, we had fettucini. he tossed it with a liberal amount of flour.

at station that night, in between quips about my skinny arms and shoulders, pete and i kneaded until our pasta dough became tightly elastic like a thick rubber band. “well, what kind of pasta are we making?” i asked. “the only pasta worth making is angel hair,” he replied definitively. his maryland accent was strongest whenever he got defiant. “whatever you say, pete,” i said.

what i liked best about making pasta was the wooden dowel rod we secured on the shelf above our workspace where we hung the long ribbons of pasta so they wouldn’t get tangled. it is a fine way to admire your hard work and conjures romantic images of a cafe tucked somewhere in a tiny tuscan village that makes fresh pasta each day. i’ve never visited a place like this, but seeing a kitchen filled with dangling pasta ribbons will make you feel that way.

i brought my little bag of fresh pasta home that night. the following day for lunch, i cooked it, and dressed it simply with a little extra virgin olive oil, arugula, lemon zest, pecorino romano, salt and freshly cracked pepper. i stood alone at my black tile kitchen counter in bare feet and ate, savoring every bite. naturally, my shoulders were a little sore from the night before.