Pork jowl. Cured.

In the battle of East vs. West, West has won this round.

I stopped in my favourite West-end butcher a few weeks ago on my way to a friend's house for a dinner date, and noticed a mysterious pork product hanging from the wall. "What's that," I asked, "not prosciutto." (They were much smaller than haunches.) "No," smiled the butcher, "Guanciale."

Now, I had never actually had guanciale before, but it's been haunting me like a ghost. I keep seeing it referenced in cookbooks as "difficult to find outside of Italy." The cookbooks sigh with pity, look superior, and explain that we mere mortals can substitute bacon or pancetta.

If these are the substitutes, you know guanciale's a winner.

The guanciale (pork jowls, by the way) weren't ready yet. Wouldn't be for a week. Luckily, I've got a standing dinner date in the West end, so I was there the following Monday. Picking up my guanciale. Paying eight bucks for a 2-lb jowl. Crazy.

So that was two weeks ago, and I've only just now gotten around to using my precious pork product. The verdict? Out of this world. Here's what I did (faking my way through a Bucatini all'Amatriciana).

Around 1/3 lb guanciale (random guess - go with a 1/4, go with a 1/2, no worries) cut into little squares or sliced, as you wish.
1 fat onion, sliced thinly (I must insist).
Around 1/2 can tomatoes (for the record, I picked these up on sale at No Frills a hundred years ago, and they're a good choice, with a thick puree).
Dried chillies (I used two, broken into halves).
Around 1/4 cup of cheese - apparently it should be Pecorino Romano, which I usually have (but didn't). All I had on hand was Parmigiano Reggiano. Personally, I think there's no shame in that.
1/3 a package of pasta. Don't feel compelled to use bucatini. I used my obsession, Mafalda corta by Garofolo (highly recommended) (incredibly highly recommended).

Throw your chopped or sliced guanciale into a heavy-bottomed pot (I used a cast-iron dutch oven) over medium or even medium-low heat. Render the fat. Just let 'er go. When the guanciale has released enough delicious fat, throw in the onions. Oh, but if you were frying slices, rather than squares (aka "lardons"), pull them out to slice them. Or not. It would probably be delicious with long strips of guanciale, but I enjoyed mine with little bites dispersed through the sauce. So you want to cook the onions for a good long time, to get them nice and sweet. So cook them for a while, throw in your dried chilli(es) and meanwhile, back on the ranch, heat up your pasta water.

Throw in your tomatoes (and the guanciale, if you had to pull it) with the onions and crank the heat up a little to simmer. This should go on for maybe ten or fifteen. Which is perfect, since the pasta will be cooking at the same time. Then throw in some cheese. Take your sauce off the heat. Taste it. It will be more delicious than you anticipated. Now the pasta is ready. Drain it and toss it in the sauce. Sit down, pour yourself a glass of wine, and enjoy.