Eric Demay

Dude, be a man and make your own pasta.
Fool, I’m serious.
They’re delicious.
They’re rewarding.
They look rustic.
And things do taste mo’ better when they’re rustic.
They da real thing, man.

So check this out.
Pasta.
Pappardelle they call ‘em.
Homemade by the homeys.
Da real thing.
And I’ll show you fools how you make ‘em.

First, you gotta make dough.
Count one egg per brotha.
Then a cup of tipo double-0 flour for each two of them eggs.
Dat’s it, mix that shit up.
Pound it good till it smooth.
Sexy smooth, brotha.

·

Then you got to roll out that dough.
But not with a machine. Uh-uh, Naw man.
We got no fancy machine.
We brothas got arms, we got a dough roller!
We rollin’, we rollin’ hard!
We do it the real way, like’em brothas do in tha eyetalian countryside.
Like the Godfather, man!
Thinnin’ it out till we sweat.
Rollin’ da pasta dough so thin you see yo big man hands through it.
And you sweating like a pig. A real pig, man.

Yeah it all be crooked.
Yeah it ain’t straight.
But dat’s what make it rustic. That’s what makes it real.
Remember: we ain’t fancy, we real, fool.

So then, we cut ‘em pappardelle.
Not with no fancy ruler. Uh-uh. Naw man.
Not with no fancy machine cutter.
Wit what? you ask. A knife.
Yeah. A. Knife.
Like them do in the eyetalian jails man, they got no pasta machines.
They even use blades, razor blades to mak’em pasta!
So we don’t cut em straight either.
We cut em good, but they’re all different.
And it’s all all’ight.
Don’t ya understand? This is so real, so pure.
Authenticity in da making for you rustic fools.
This is like… this is like raw denim.
Yeah.
Raw denim pasta.
These ain’t nothing like those pre-washed pre-ripped fllimsy designer jeans.
Those lame fakes, they don’t last for shit.
This da real raw thing.
Fo real pasta, man.

—
Ahem. Ouin.

Donc, ce soir nous vous proposons du porc braisée au lait, servi sur pappardelle fraîches, accompagné de légumes racines provençale. Bon appétit. Fool.

The wild things are in the kitchen.

Boule après boule, rien ne l’arrête.
On lui dit de se calmer, de ralentir, une pause peut-être?
Nan! répond-t-il, j’ai pas fini!
Et ce, malgré le fait qu’il n’y a plus de quilles.
Oh, pauvre Alexis.
Mais Arrête! C’est fini! Y en a pu!
Il lance sans arrêt. Il n’entend plus.
Abat, pas d’abat: il s’en fout.
Il est un peu maboule.
Et les boules, elles, elles roulent.
Boule après boule après boule après boule…