Being the media whore that I am, I spent Sunday afternoon trying to emulate something that Bourdain ate off the coast of Sardinia with his Italian in-laws: spaghetti all bottarga, which is pasta with garlic, olive oil and dried, cured mullet roe. An ideal, simple project for somebody who burns his grilled cheese.
After I strolled into Monsieur Marcel, which is actually a good cafe and high-end foodstuff dispensary, I realized why I haven’t eaten this stuff before: bottarga costs $128 a pound. One-hundred-and-twenty-eight-mother-fucking-dollars-per-pound. Why don’t people eat bottarga more often? Because most people like to enjoy pasta without feeling like an assholish version of Ricky Schroeder in Silver Spoons, thats why. What should I eat for dessert? Perhaps blueberry pie with gold flakes? Or how about a napoleon imbued with the unfulfilled dreams of impoverished African orphans? And don’t forget the hazelnut coffee infused with the essence of Haitian earthquake victims. Mmmnn, aristrocratic indifference - thy name is overpriced fish egg products.
Not to be deterred, I purchased a quarter pound, which is actually more than enough for many, many servings. And oddly enough, it was worth it. There is a nice, distinctly salty flavor and texture the bottarga contributes to the pasta. And it is also an easy condiment for the culinarily-challenged. So I enjoyed my pasta in my 102 degree apartment. Then I went outside for a breath of fresh air and to kick homeless people in the balls.
