Every food writer worth their salt has written about aglio e olio at least once. It is the dish that defines late nights in the kitchen, the meal that requires nothing but pantry staples and the willingness to stay up a little longer. It is pasta at its most essential, its most honest.
The name tells you everything: garlic and oil. That is the foundation. What elevates it from student food to something worth writing about is technique and restraint. The garlic must be sliced paper-thin and cooked slowly until it turns golden and sweet. The pasta water, starchy and salted, becomes the sauce when combined with good olive oil. The chilli flakes add heat without aggression.
This is the dish you make when you come home from a dinner party still hungry, when the fridge is empty but the pantry is full, when you need something immediately satisfying that does not require thought or planning. It is the dish that says: I know how to cook, and I know what matters.
The Late Night Classic
I first made this at two in the morning in a share house kitchen in Newtown, slightly drunk and completely starving. I had watched Fellini films all night and wanted something that felt Italian and romantic and impossibly simple. What I got was a lesson in how good food does not need to be complicated.
The technique is everything here. Do not rush the garlic—burned garlic is bitter and acrid. Do not skimp on the pasta water—it is what binds the sauce. Do not forget to save some pasta water before draining; you will need it. And for the love of all that is holy, do not add cream. Anyone who tells you to add cream to aglio e olio does not understand the dish.
Eat it straight from the pan if you are alone. Pour yourself a glass of something cold. Put on music that makes you feel alive. This is midnight pasta, and it is perfect exactly as it is.