The Soul of Pasta

Gringos - including food expert gringos - don't "get" tacos. Tacos aren't a dish. They're a format. Only Mexicans understand this.

Everything is eaten with tortillas. Because, of course it is! Tortillas are the staple. What rice is in (southern) China, tortillas are in Mexico. Eating food consists of tearing off bits of tortilla and wrapping food in it. If you're in a hurry to pack food to go or want "finger food" for a party, you might pre-wrap. That's what tacos are. It's the entire world of food (which of course is eaten with tortillas), but pre-wrapped. Sandwiches are an exact equivalent. We eat bread with meals, but for reasons of convenience, portability, modernity, and/or change of pace, we might "do it as a" sandwich. "Sandwiches" isn't a dish, it's a format. Most anything can sandwich.

Once you understand what tacos are, you understand that anything's potentially a taco. Not in the fusion sense, or some chic experimental sense. Any Mexican grandma would recognize and approve of my seemingly radical tacos. Because whatever she eats might be pre-wrapped, because why not? If you grok this, you're spiritually Mexican. And being spiritually Mexican, everything you make will taste Mexican, further anointing your tacos. You can't go wrong!

Same for pasta. Pasta is not a set of recipes or ingredients. It's not a special corner of cuisine; it is, like tacos, a wide-open means of interfacing carbs and protein. If you grok this, you're Italian, and if you're Italian, your pasta will taste Italian regardless of what's in it.

I'm Italian enough to combine (per photo below) watercress, garlic, avocado, farofa (Brazilian toasted manioc flour), and red pepper flakes with ghastly supermarket cheese ravioli, and have it taste 1. good and 2. Italian. And you could, too. You just need to reframe!