Nightclubs, mechanics, restaurants, a theatre, a wholesale butcher and an Apostolic church occupy some of the network of caves and tunnels that, over the centuries, were burrowed into Monte Testaccio, an ancient rubbish dump hill in the middle of Rome that’s made entirely of broken amphorae. Some places make a feature of their situation, revealing sections of pots not dissimilar to the cross section of snapped wafer biscuits, while others have smoothed the curves with plaster.
A few use the caves as originally intended – that is, as natural warehouses offering steady low temperatures and good humidity. In short: the ideal temperature for storing certain foods and wine. Most recently, Vincenzo Mancini, whose project DOL distributes artisanal products from small agricultural realities in Lazio, has taken over a deep cave behind door 93, reclaiming it as an urban ageing space for cheese and cured meat. I visited a few months ago with the chefs from Trullo in London, to do a cheese tasting – and to eat an unexpected cacio e pepe.
Cacio and formaggio: two words for cheese. The older of the two is cacio, from the Latin word caseus, which may well come from cohaesus (cohesive), describing the transformation of milk into curds. Formaggio came later, from the medieval Latin formaticum (form), which in turn comes from the Greek φόρμος, the name given to the wicker container in which curdled milk was placed in order to drain and shape.
Writing in about AD50, the agronomist Columella noted: “The best cheese is the one made with the least possible amount of medicine!” No change there, then. His treatise on agriculture, De Re Rustica, also includes detailed instructions of cheese making, and in particular how fresh sheep’s milk was heated with lamb or kid rennet until it coagulated into clotty curds and watery whey. The curds were drained in baskets, sprinkled with salt and then left in a cool, dark place. At the time, cheese was also the daily consequence of numerous flocks travelling with legions – which brings us to what the food writer Eleonora Baldwin describes as la barretta energetica (the energy bar), received daily by the marching men. That is, a stick of cheese.
The name pecorino in relation to cheese came later, from the Latin pecus pecŏris (sheep). Like cacio, pecorino was (and is) a generic term applicable to infinite forms, which historically didn’t need any qualification or geographical identity because they were the local cheese (cacio). It is only when products moved beyond where they were made that they needed to be identified, protected, marketed, which is why we have pecorino sardo, pecorino romano, pecorino siciliano, pecorino toscano, pecorino filano, pecorino crotonese … And these are just the ones with official status – there are hundreds more.
While pecorino romano is far from the only pecorino in the story of the food of Rome and Lazio, it has since ancient times been the cacio. (Also important to note is that following laws created in the late 1800s and the effects of urban growth in the 1950s, more than 95% of pecorino romano has been produced on the cheesemaking island of Sardinia, the rest in Lazio and the Tuscan province of Grosseto.) Focusing on Lazio, Vincenzo works with Deroma dairy in Torrita Tiberina, taking wheels of 12-month pecorino romano, their rinds still the colour of pale straw, and ageing them. It is not just the microclimate of the cave; the bacterial microflora within the walls plays a part in the development of flavour, seeing the creamy, sheepish and sharp (salty) flavour deepening, both mellowing and becoming more opinionated at 24, 36, 48 months and beyond. The rounds themselves also develop carefully controlled mould coats, ranging from mottled clam brown to dark moss green.
The next cave along is occupied by a restaurant called Flavio al Velavevodetto, so when the conversation turned to how best to transform pecorino romano (cacio) and black pepper (pepe) into the creamy sauce so fashionable today, Vincenzo went from one cave to another. He returned with a cloth full of just-cooked tonnarelli, into which he tossed many handfuls of grated 36-month pecorino and black pepper, gathered it up, shook, rubbed and served. The performance was interesting because this is likely how shepherds, with their cheese-making apparatus and daily supplies, once made the dish – also how clever innkeepers once got clients to drink more. It was even more interesting because the soft, sandy molecules of cheese clings to the fresh pasta like sand. And it is worth trying: estimate 150g of fresh pasta, 50g of grated pecorino and a heaped teaspoon of freshly smashed pepper per person. Personally I have never enjoyed cacio e pepe more.
Cacio e pepe in a cloth (in un panno)
Serves 2
Salt
100g pecorino
2 heaped tsp whole black peppercorns
1 very large napkin or cotton tea-towel
300g fresh tonnarelli, or tagliatelle
Bring a pan of well-salted water to the boil. Grate the cheese on the star side of the grater so it’s soft and sandy – avoid a microplane if possible. Smash the peppercorns with something heavy until coarsely crushed.
Prepare the cloth: it must be big enough that you can gather up the ends and form a bag to shake.
Cook the pasta according to packet instructions until al dente. Use a spider slice or tongs to lift the pasta on to the cloth, spreading it out a bit so it dries a little. Sprinkle the cheese and pepper over the top, then gather up the ends of the cloth so they form a bag. Shake and rub the fabric so the cheese distributes in an even, sandy way.
Open up the cloth and, if are in a field, eat directly from the cloth, otherwise lift it on to plates. Serve with plenty of wine or water.
