Cacio e pepe is your grocery list: Pecorino Romano and black pepper. Think of it as mac and cheese’s cooler, better-smelling Roman cousin. In nineteenth and early twentieth-century Rome, before trattorias dotted every block, taverns served as local hangouts where people brought their own food and drank with lifespan-threatening enthusiasm. To keep the crowd going, tavern keepers would whip up this quick, cheap, and carb-loaded snack. It sounds simple, but getting that silky, creamy texture is notoriously tricky. The internet myth about mixing cheese with hot pasta water is a lie—it causes the cheese to "break," making a clumpy mess. Instead, finely grate your Pecorino Romano on the punched holes of a box grater and mix it with cold or room-temperature water to form a paste. Some chefs take it even further: At Cesare al Casaletto, Leonardo Vignoli uses ice to make his emulsion, keeping the cheese from breaking while delivering maximum creaminess. In Rome, there’s only one acceptable pasta shape for this dish: tonnarelli. Most dining establishments use extruded noodles, but if you’re going handmade, reach for a chitarra. I break down the process for homemade tonnarelli in the following pages. If, as I do, you’re using the very salty Fulvi brand of Pecorino Romano (available in the US), cut the savoriness with a bit of Parmigiano-Reggiano, as chef Nabil Hadj Hassen does at Baccano. With other brands of pecorino, you can replace the Parm with more Pecorino Romano. I reach for Sarawak pepper when making cacio e pepe. This fragrant Malaysian variety brings complex aromas to the dish. If you can’t track it down, just be sure to use very fresh black pepper.