ROME — I consider myself an adventurer, especially on the culinary front. I have consumed livers, kidneys and brains. I have eaten an Amazonian herb that numbs your tongue, which sort of nullifies the point of eating, and I have tried shrimp that were still alive — still wriggling — until the downward chomp of my incisors.

But on a recent visit here, I had pasta alla gricia on the first night, then pasta alla gricia on the second night, then pasta alla gricia on the third and fourth. There’s only one possible explanation, which is of course Donald Trump.

Before I elaborate on that, I should explain pasta alla gricia. It doesn’t enjoy the fame outside of Italy that it deserves. It’s essentially pasta alla carbonara minus the egg: less gooeyness, less guilt. “Lighter than carbonara” is how I often describe it, although that’s like saying “humbler than Trump.” The bar is low, and everything’s relative.

It can be made with bucatini. It can be made with rigatoni. It could probably be made with shoelaces and still be worth ordering. It’s proof, like many Italian delicacies, that the communion of fat (it’s studded with crispy bits of pork cheek) and salt (it’s deluged with pecorino cheese) is the most reliable ticket to heaven. And it was one of my go-to dishes when I lived here many years ago.