Italian Food: Serious Business

Went to watch the World Cup final last night at my friend's house near here.
She's got a massive HD TV (that always seems to work) and the comfiest sectional I have ever parked my ass in.
I could live on that sofa if she would let me.
Her house is just so homey.
Not to denigrate mine.
Mine is beautiful too. With a view to die for.
But hers is actually her home, full-time, which makes a huge difference.
She's got everything. Everything works. She knows where everything is.
A big beautiful dog lying at the front door. You know, a home.
You want to just go there, lie ALL OVER that damn sofa, say yes to her offer of another glass of chilled white Vermentino, turn on that big 'ol TV with all its English-language channels, and just never leave.
So when she said come on over for the game, yep, I'm there.
I had made an Amatriciana pasta sauce over the weekend, and had bought the bucatini pasta to go with it, so I offered to bring it for dinner.
She said sure, great.
Right before I left to drive over there, though, we talked, and she warned me that an Italian friend of hers, who was also coming to watch the game, when she told him I was bringing the pasta for dinner, had remarked: "What does she know about Amatriciana? She's American." (I told you: Italians are very direct. They don't bullshit around, especially about food. I like that).
A bit of background here.
I've met this man a few times and spoken to him in Italian always (you have to with Italians, even if they speak some English, which not many do. There's really no choice).
And I'm sure I must've bored him with 'my born in Naples, brought up in the US story.'
But at the same time, he's heard my friend and I just get all US East Coast too, talking loud, laughing loud, and being, well, the Americans we are. (Love that. She's from New Jersey. Love the Jersey vibe.)
Huh. Okay.
Now, for those of you who know, Bucatini all'amatriciana, a classic Roman pasta dish, is just not that hard to make.
That's the thing about Italian food. It's pretty simple. That's the beauty of it.
Foreigners tend to fuck it up when they try too hard, change it, add too much to a recipe, like that. Just not accepting its simplicity. And comforting repetitiveness.
I like simple. And because of my mother, Luciana, I know how it's supposed to taste.
Even though their food is deliciously simple though -- and they'll be the first to tell you that -- Italians truly believe nobody can do it but them.
Michelin-starred chef? Doesn't matter.
Not Italian? Can't do it.
Trust me on this.
So, I make the pasta. And hold my breath.
He decides when the pasta is ready (That's fine, better actually. That's what Gigi used to do too. Italian men all over the country are tasting bits of pasta every night telling their wives when is the perfect time to drain it.)
I'm stirring the sauce.
He peers at it. Seems to approve. Looks right, anyway.
Gives me a little squeeze on my arm.
"I keep forgetting you're a Neapolitan," he says.
Massive vote of confidence.
But the real proof comes later.
He eats two bowls. And then polishes off what's at the bottom of the serving dish.
Just like an Italian, a Roman even, eating bucatini all'amatriciana.
Success.
Whew.