Cheesy cacio e pepe rolls, warm from the oven

For all the times that feeding yourself feels like trudging through a fog of obligation, sometimes a craving arrives fully formed, as if it’s been plotting in the background.

That happened a few weeks ago, standing at the bakery case of a local Italian grocery, my eyes scanning the glass like a pinball — trifle dishes of tiramisu, ricotta crostatas, pignoli cookies — before finally landing on a tray of cinnamon rolls, freshly glazed and audaciously perfect.

Almost like an old-school cartoon tennis match, my gaze ping-ponged between the cinnamon rolls and the sleeve of Alessi 4-Minuti Cacio e Pepe (not authentic, yes, but a surprisingly fun side when pressed for time). Back and forth, back and forth, until it landed: I want a cacio e pepe roll.

I checked out, darted to the coffee shop across the street, and sketched the thing in my notebook: a soft, sturdy pastry  — probably yeasted — layered with cheese and black pepper. Simple. Salty. Savory. Then back to the grocery for fresh yeast and the good Italian cheese, and finally, at last, to the kitchen.

The dough

I wanted something pillowy, but sturdy enough to hold a generous amount of filling. And butteriness. That was nonnegotiable. Biscuit dough felt too stodgy; puff pastry and its flakier cousins had the right spirit, but they collapsed under pressure. Brioche, though, struck the balance: rich, tender and unflappable.

Baking with yeast can sound intimidating, but this dough is disarmingly forgiving. It’s enriched with fat — a luxurious safeguard against error — and not particularly sweet. There’s just a single tablespoon of sugar, enough to let the butter taste like itself.

(Ashlie Stevens ) Cacio e pepe rolls, pre-bake

The filling

To give the filling the same silken consistency as a proper cacio e pepe — the way starchy pasta water, cheese and black pepper come together into something improbably glossy — I knew that simply scattering cheese across the dough wouldn’t do. I tried brushing the surface with melted butter and a drift of cheese, but it needed more conviction. So I gave in to indulgence and made a béchamel: one of the five mother sauces of classical French cooking, a simple alchemy of butter, flour and milk that turns heat into velvet.

And since I’ve never been much of a traditionalist, I stirred in a few teaspoons of white miso. It lent a subtle, savory funk — the kind that hums beneath the cheese rather than shouting over it.

Once the dough had risen, I rolled it into a rectangle, spread on a thin layer of the miso-béchamel, showered it with Parmesan, Pecorino Romano and a very healthy amount of black pepper. Then I rolled it up like a cinnamon bun. If slicing feels tricky, a short rest in the fridge will make the dough become more solid and behave a little better.

Want more great food writing and recipes? Sign up for Salon’s free food newsletter, The Bite.

The topping

After their second rise, the buns are ready for a gentle milk wash — the secret to that bakery-window gloss — and a snowfall of shredded Parmesan. When they emerge from the oven, bronzed and fragrant, I like to give them one last act of affection: a brush of melted butter, still sizzling at the edges and another generous dusting of freshly cracked black pepper.

Here’s how to make them at home:

This story originally appeared in The Bite, my weekly food newsletter for Salon. If you enjoyed it and would like more essays, recipes, technique explainers and interviews sent straight to your inbox, subscribe here.