Rome, Trastevere. We’ve learned our lesson: only guanciale that crunches between your teeth, yolk that binds, sharp pecorino that stings. No cream. End of discussion. This is the real Carbonara. We took the recipe of the charcoal burners from the Apennines—born among coal smoke and humble saddlebags to bring you back to life after a day of toil—and we’ve nailed it to our bread. Unforgettable and eternal, like Rome.