Midnight Dinners

March 14, 2012 · 24 comments

It was the very late nights — years ago — that I remember as being the most delicious; they almost always involved carbs, salt, grease, spice, egg, cheese, and a violent snowstorm of coarse black pepper ground in an ancient, light wood Peugot mill that I’d bought with my Dean & Deluca discount eight years earlier.

I lived alone with my cats (what else) in a small studio apartment on East 57th Street next door to one of the best high-end French Vietnamese restaurants in the city. I was single, and an editor, and a writer, and I went out four nights a week, not including weekends. My refrigerator, packed with a combination of high food (foie gras mousse, black caviar) and low trash (sliced white bread that my mother would leave for me during her unannounced visits while I was at work), always contained some sort of pungent sheep’s milk cheese — usually Roncal or Pecorino Stagionato — and eggs and a chunk of slab bacon. Boxes of DeCecco bucatini stood in the cabinet, lined up like dominoes. I’d come home famished in the wee hours — at three in the morning —after a night at Au Bar, place a too-small aluminum soup pot of water on my 24-inch apartment stove before I even took my coat off, and set about cooking myself a late supper.

It was a long time ago, in the ’90s; my stamina was better. Today, if I eat after ten pm, I have dreams about wind-up, cymbal-playing monkeys, and the IRS, and Heinrich Himmler showing up at my house. The next day, my ankles leach out over the sides of my shoes like small, overstuffed duffel bags. My fingers plump up like cervelas, and my narrow gold wedding ring cuts off the blood flow to my left hand.

Still, the notion of coming home starving after a night out and craving something elemental is unquestionably romantic; I’m clearly not the only one who feels this way — much has been written about this deeply personal of non-meal meals. It’s been fetishized the way good bread and a hunk of cheese has, and it usually involves things like Alia e Olio, or hay and straw, or Cacio e Pepe, or simple fried egg sandwiches. Way back when, if there was nothing of substance in my refrigerator, I’d sometimes make just that — I’d fry a single egg in a cast iron pan, plunk it between two pieces of the aforementioned disgusting white bread along with a slice of whatever cheese I had laying around (it acts like glue), and press it down with another cast iron pan until the bread turned golden and tight, and smooth as skating ice fresh from the Zamboni.

Part of why I don’t eat late like that anymore is the fact that I’m asleep long before the midnight dining hour rolls around; Susan and I, together for more than a decade, spend most Saturday evenings cooking elaborate meals for ourselves. Nine o’clock finds us listening to the radio on the living room love seat, surrounded by our snoring dogs. Ten o’clock, and we’re usually dozing off. By eleven, the dogs have been walked one last time, and the lights are out. It’s a sleepy, calm sort of life, and I love it, and waited a long time to find it. But when my schedule changes — when I have to travel for work — and I wind up coming home very late, anything can happen.

I was in Santa Barbara last week, to both attend and speak at the Edible Institute, an annual meeting involving scores of regional magazine publishers who produce the outstanding Edible Communities publications. Our meetings and conversations were, as they always are, inspiring and invigorating — it’s thrilling to be in the presence of so many people who have devoted their lives and careers to issues of local food, food justice, and sustainability. After three nights away from home, I flew back to the east coast, and at ten o’clock on Saturday night, Susan picked me up at JFK. I had been in the air for hours, wedged into a tiny blue vinyl seat; by the time I touched down, I was exhausted, and so I dozed on and off for the entire car ride home, which took nearly an hour and a half. When we walked through the front door — after the dogs calmed down, after the cats stopped having intimate relations with my luggage — I realized that I was hungry. Not hungry, but crazy hungry. Mad hungry, as Lucinda Scala Quinn would say. Famished.

Famished like it was 1996 all over again.

It was nearly one in the morning.

I’ll make you something, Susan said, her eyes at half-mast. I’d already taken down our six quart soup pot from the rack — stock pots just seem too big for late night cookery — and filled it. I salted the water heavily, and minutes later, it was at a full, violent boil.

You sit, I said to Susan, pulling over the little bentwood modern chair where she usually perches while I cook dinner on normal nights.

I can’t believe you’re doing this, she yawned. Are you really that hungry? 

After six hours hurtling through the air in a metal tube, I was standing in the kitchen and browning cubed slab bacon in a big cast iron skillet until clouds of meaty smoke wafted up into the oven hood. The bucatini I unearthed from the bowels of the pantry was too long to fit into the soup pot, so I broke the rules and snapped it in half; while it boiled, I ladled out a cup or so of the pasta cooking water, and beat two eggs with a fork in a small white batter bowl.

I think I might be able to eat, Susan said, hovering over my shoulder while I lifted the pasta into the skillet, poured in the eggs and the bacon, and swirled it over and over to coat every strand with creamy goodness; I showered all of it with a strong grating of Parmigiana Reggiano, a handful of freshly cracked black pepper, and a rough chop of fresh parsley.

It was one thirty in the morning when we finally sat down at the dining room table, twirling thick coils of salty, smokey pasta around our forks; we sipped small glasses of red wine while the dogs slept at our feet.

The midnight dinners of necessity I ate alone, standing up, in my tiny Manhattan kitchen, were very good.  But my late night meal with Susan, after a long ride home from the airport and three days and nights apart, was far more satisfying.

She looked up at me while she slurped her noodles.

This might be the very best thing ever, she said, sleepily. Ever.

We put our plates in the sink, went to bed, and slept until noon the next day.

Midnight Bucatini with Bacon and Eggs

Someone once said that it is not only what you eat that makes a meal great, but where and with whom you eat it, and they might be right; circumstance does count for a lot. On the face of it, the combination of pasta, eggs, bacon, and black pepper is a known quantity; ask any Roman what they eat when they want to be comforted and odds are, a version of this dish will be mentioned. But in the right conditions — late at night, when you’re starving and desperately need that combination of salt and smoke, fat and peppery warmth — it ceases being ubiquitous, and instead is utterly, mouthwateringly glorious.

Serves 2, with leftovers (which you will turn into a frittata the next day)

6 ounces bucatini

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup cubed slab bacon

2 eggs, beaten

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiana Reggiano

2 tablespoons freshly ground black pepper

flat leaf parsley, chopped (as much or as little as you like; I use quite a lot)

Bring a large soup pot of salted water to a boil, and cook the bucatini according to the package instructions, stirring it frequently.

While the pasta is cooking, heat the oil in a large cast iron skillet until it just barely ripples, and add the bacon; cook until just golden brown, about six minutes or so, and use a slotted spoon to remove to a small bowl. Wipe out all but a tablespoon of fat from the pan, and keep the pan warm over a low very flame. Ladle out a cup of pasta water from the soup pot, and reserve.

Using heavy tongs, lift the pasta directly from the soup pot to the skillet, and toss with the browned bacon. Slowly pour in the beaten egg, and combine it well, adding a tablespoon or two of reserved pasta water (or more, if necessary). Shower with cheese and black pepper and toss again, judiciously adding more water if the pasta seems too dry (the consistency should be slightly creamy).  Sprinkle with parsley, and serve immediately, with more cheese, if desired.






{ 23 comments… read them below or add one }

1 Sarah March 14, 2012 at 11:20 am

For me, the midnight pasta is cacio e pepe, sometimes with a fried egg on top if I”m ambitious…pretty much exactly what’s here but no bacon, ha.
What is it about those meals, though? You’re so right. I often find myself murmuring things like, “That fried egg saved my life,” when I eat it at 2 am. When I’m saying it, I really believe it did. That ravenous hunger reduces me to something more elemental. Fat. Salt. Quick-calorie carbs. Yes please.

(I love the admonition: “…which you will turn into a frittata the next day”. No recommendations here. Do it.)

2 Bee (Quarter Life Crisis Cuisine) March 14, 2012 at 11:48 am

Haha that meal, almost exactly, is what I made for myself ALL THE TIME in my little Boston apartment. After a long shift at the restaurant (working nearly full time and a full time student) I’d whip this up. My ingredients weren’t as fancy–99 cent store-brand pasta, buy-one-get-one-free packaged and sliced bacon, but it was just as satisfying 🙂

3 joy March 14, 2012 at 12:44 pm

Mmmm right up my alley!

4 Deborah March 14, 2012 at 2:02 pm

Oh, that sounds so good. And I”m so glad you could sleep in the next

5 Victoria March 14, 2012 at 3:58 pm

This is a beautiful post with a perfect picture!

My midnight supper is Marcella’s Spaghetti Aglio Olio, sometimes with breadcrumbs and a fried egg perched on top.

I got your book Big Food, which will tide me over until your new one comes out.

6 Elissa March 14, 2012 at 3:59 pm

Thanks so much Victoria—appreciated. It’s definitely time to update Big Food. Long tale of woe about that book.

7 Rocky Mountain Woman March 14, 2012 at 4:59 pm

I love midnight food, only now I usually eat it at 8…

This looks like the perfect thing to eat at 8 or midnight. or even right now!

8 Glamorous Glutton March 14, 2012 at 6:51 pm

What a great story. I rarely eat really late now, but on those evenings I do want a midnight snack it’s a glass of red wine really fresh bread and wonderful Italian cheese. But I always share with Mr Glam and that’s part of the pleasure. GG

9 Sarah @ studiofood March 14, 2012 at 10:16 pm

I love the way you write about food. It’s glorious – as is that pasta! It looks so soul-satisfying.

When I used to come home after 9 hour shifts followed by a solid few hours in the pub, my go-to meal was spaghetti with a handful of frozen peas and corn, a tin of salmon, some chopped herbs from the kitchen sill and a good whack of whatever cheese was around – cottage cheese in a pinch, but the best was ricotta and parmesan.

10 Elissa March 14, 2012 at 10:38 pm

Cottage cheese is a gift from the gods, Sarah!

11 Dianne Langeland March 15, 2012 at 2:36 pm

That’s what we should have done when we got back from Santa Barbara a few nights after you instead of toddling up the street to a local Italian joint. Would have been far cheaper and much better tasting. I guess we just didn’t get in late enough to force a home-cooked meal. Good to see you at the meeting.

12 Elissa March 15, 2012 at 2:55 pm

You too Dianne—

13 molly March 16, 2012 at 12:09 pm

The best meal I’ve ever eaten was a turkey sandwhich, the sort made with fluffy supermarket sourdough, awful Jennie-O turkey, January tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, and enough French’s mustard to stain my fingers yellow for days.

That was 18 years ago. I’d had pneumonia for a week, and the man I adored made it for me, once I finally regained consciousness. We celebrate our 17th this June. Company, circumstance, absolutely.

Welcome back. My editors just returned from the same Edible event, brimming with enthusiasm and ideas. A fine group, these Communities we create.


14 Elliott March 19, 2012 at 10:33 pm

Holy little, baby, jesus. DROOL. LOVE.

15 Juhie March 19, 2012 at 11:13 pm

Congrats on the James Beard nomination! I was thrilled to see that you earned the honor since you are without a doubt the most inspiring blogger I read. And this post, as do all of your stories, makes me want to shout “THIS is what food writing is!”

16 Elissa March 19, 2012 at 11:15 pm

Elliott, I have no idea who you are,but you made me laugh my ass off.

17 Fred March 21, 2012 at 3:09 am

You must have been tired! A handful of cracked pepper? Congrats on the nom’. And good luck!

18 Imen March 22, 2012 at 6:06 am

You realise this post is unbelievably seductive……are they all like this? I’m new here and must admit, thoroughly raptured. Going to tuck into a few more posts before feeding the calves. Thanks for the morning inspiration…xx

19 Elissa March 22, 2012 at 6:24 am

Hey Fred…I have very small hands!

20 Tracy March 22, 2012 at 10:11 am

Bucatini. I like to think my twirling skills are quite adequate, but I find the strands cooling quicker than I can eat. No matter. I love it so. We usually pair it with tuna, capers and cream.

21 Jill~a SaucyCook May 26, 2012 at 1:18 pm

I do hope that Susan and my husband are ok when I say that I think I love you!! This is my first visit to your wonderful blog, but it won;t be my last. I find myself struggling to determine which I love more: the scrumptious pasta with bacon and eggs and cheese (oh, please do excuse the drool), or your sensuous writing?

22 Elissa May 26, 2012 at 2:31 pm

Thank you so much!

23 Lawyer October 21, 2012 at 4:13 pm

There is a place in Atlanta that serves only between 11pm-4am. I like eating late as well. That’s why my Wife and I came up with MidniteMeals.com

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