One-Pan Pasta in a Hotel Kitchenette
The pasta dish I cook when I arrive late at a hotel kitchenette with nothing in the fridge and a dead town outside, plus four more that fit the same shopping list.
Sankt Peter-Ording in February, just off the Nordsee, and I got to the Airbnb at nine in the evening with nothing in the car and a town that had already gone to sleep (or was it ever awake?).
The plan was leave Hamburg at lunch, get there in time for sunset, eat somewhere. Obviously not what happened. I left at five, hit rush hour traffic on the A23 for some reason, and pulled into Sankt Peter-Ording in the dark with the wind doing that thing that only does in the north of Europe.
Nothing was open. Even the döner place was closed. I'd spotted an Edeka on the drive in. Back in the car -ugh
The apartment kitchenette
The place was the sort of thing you rent in summer. It was a proper holiday-home setup. Kitchen corner with two small burners, a small fridge that mostly worked, a microwave mounted over the stove, no oven, one frying pan, one comically large pot that looked like it was meant for boiling a Christmas goose. The kind of pot where if you filled it you'd never lift it again.
The kitchen corner was centimeters from the bed. Closer than I wanted for my clothes, specifically, which were hanging off the back of a chair because I hadn't unpacked. Whatever I cooked was going to live on my sweatshirt for the rest of the trip. I moved the clothes into the bathroom and shut the door. Perks of small kitchens huh...
What Edeka had, for around €12
Edeka's stock is generous everywhere, and this one in Sankt Peter-Ording was no exception. I wanted something warm and straightforward after the drive, so I kept it honest: chicken drumsticks, a bag of tagliatelle, salted butter. The whole shop came in at around €12 with a casual pils, as this is Germany in the end. Less than one main course at a decent restaurant, and enough food for two meals.
My grandma's one-pot chicken tagliatelle recipe takes almost exactly this shopping list and turns it into dinner, which is why it's the first thing I reach for when I arrive somewhere with nothing in the fridge.
Full recipe: Grandma's one-pot chicken tagliatelle.
Joni
The problem with the big pot
Here's where the kitchenette gave me a problem. The big pot was absurd, way too deep for a pan-sized amount of chicken, which meant the drumsticks would be swimming in water rather than searing in fat. The frying pan was the alternative, but it's not built for simmering drumsticks in water for twenty minutes. You can do it. You just have to watch it.
I went with the pan. I melted butter, salted the drumsticks, and seared them on both sides until they had some colour. Then I added water, but only a couple of centimetres, because the pan has no height to spare, and let it simmer covered. Every few minutes I'd check and add another splash of water as it reduced. This is where the method usually runs itself; in a pan it doesn't. You babysit.
After about twenty minutes the chicken was falling off the bone. I dropped the tagliatelle in (the nests fit the pan flat without breaking, which is one of the quiet advantages of rolled pasta in a small kitchen), stirred, added another splash of water, put the lid back on, stirred again. Nine minutes later the pasta was al-dente, the liquid was a thin buttery broth clinging to everything, and the chicken had basically surrendered.
I ate it straight from the pan.
What else I'd cook in the same kitchenette
The one-pan pasta trick works for a lot more than chicken. If I would have been in a different mood, here's what else would have fit the same situation.
Cacio e pepe. The dead simplest hot pasta dish there is: pasta, pecorino, black pepper, a splash of the starchy cooking water to pull it together. Three ingredients, one pan, no sauce to make.
Pesto, tomato and burrata pasta. Boil pasta, drain, toss with pesto, top with halved cherry tomatoes and a torn ball of burrata. No cooking beyond the pasta itself. Needs a fridge that actually works.
Tuna tomato pasta with canned goods. The "what if Edeka was already closed" option. Canned tomatoes, canned tuna, garlic, pasta. Cooks in one pan, and every ingredient travels well in a suitcase.
Salmon pasta, cooking basics. If Edeka's fish counter had anything that looked decent, this is the fancier move. Pan-seared salmon flaked into buttery lemon pasta. Still one pan, just with a bit more technique.
More kitchenette dinners in the same vein: Easy meals to make in a hotel kitchenette.
What actually helps in a kitchenette pasta
Pick a pasta shape that fits the pan. Tagliatelle and fettuccine come in nests, which lay flat. Short shapes (penne, fusilli) never have a length problem. Long shapes like spaghetti and linguine are the awkward ones; if the pan is too small, break them in half without shame.
Add water in small splashes, not big pours. If you dump in a lot of water at once you slow the cook, dilute the flavour, and end up with soup. A splash, stir, see what happens, another splash. Slow down, keep up with the cooking temperature.
Salt properly. You're not draining. In a one-pan pasta every bit of salt stays in the dish. Season as you go, taste before serving. It's easier to add than to remove.
Keep the heat lower than you'd expect. The kitchenette burner is probably weak, and dropping the heat stops the pan scorching before the pasta's cooked through. A lively simmer is fine. A rolling boil in a thin pan isn't.
Move your clothes out of the way first. If your kitchen corner is close, the smell of chicken is getting into you fun clothes. Don't find out like I did.
Wasn't it easy?
A bad dinner plan in Sankt Peter-Ording turned into a decent one because grandma's recipe is hard to break, and because a pan can stand in for a pot if you're willing to pay a bit of attention. You probably can't do a Sunday roast in a kitchenette. You absolutely can do a proper chicken pasta dinner for around €12, from one store, in one pan, in under an hour.
Next time you arrive somewhere dead and cold and too late to eat out, skip the Milka and make the chicken tagliatelle. Just move your clothes first.
