Un Amico Italiano

by Luca Spaghetti

  Two days later, Giuliana and I would be leaving for Rome, but the night before our departure we spent a memorable evening with Felipe and Liz. Like it or not, Felipe and Giuliana were obliged to listen to a couple of hours of musical performances by the Luca/Liz Duo, and the limoncello probably had something to do with the fact that we sang like cats in chorus. Our set was interrupted only when Liz demanded that Giuliana and I sing “Roma, nun fa’ la stupida stasera,” a song that she fell in love with on the spot. She made me translate all the lyrics for her, word by word. I explained to her that this song is sweeter and more romantic than a love sonnet, that the singer is talking to Rome, saying, Rome, don’t be stupid tonight . . . Help me win her, help me persuade her to say yes . . . Choose your brightest stars, enlist all the crickets you can get to chirp, lend me your most mischievous and charming breezes . . . That’s right, because Rome can make you fall in love, with its magnificent starry night skies, the caress of its light evening breezes, its spring nights embellished by the chirping of its crickets . . .

  “Liz,” I told her, “this song is a hymn, a love song to Rome and the city’s incredible beauty.”

  It’s a wonderful, terribly romantic song. To explain in English what a friccico de luna is, or why er ponentino malandrino is venticello stuzzicherello, or the meaning of reggere er moccolo, was a titanic undertaking. But I know that Liz and Felipe caught the magic of the song.

  The time had come for me and Giuliana to return home, after one of the nicest holidays we’d ever spent. It was hard to say good-bye to Liz and Felipe, but I was certain we’d see one another again soon. I also knew I would sorely miss my old friend and her husband, that kind man with a sweet face who reminded me just a bit of James Taylor . . .

  Speaking of the legendary JT—you didn’t think I’d let you off that easy, my friend, did you?—I’ll never forget what happened when I tried to bring him and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love together. It was 2009, and James was once again scheduled to play at the Cavea, the open-air arena at the Rome Auditorium, just as he had five years before. It was a blistering hot Sunday in July, and while half the city was away at the beach, I was already in the Cavea, hours before the start of the concert. Luca Spaghetti, James Taylor’s single most devoted fan.

  As long as security would allow it, I wandered around like any other tourist in the Cavea, and then sat down next to the sound board, hoping I’d be mistaken for a technician and allowed to stay and watch the soundcheck. I employed the classic art of looking up at the walls, an art I’d first learned at school when I used it to avoid being chosen by the teacher, for a test, class work, anything at all.

  But this huge refrigerator of a security officer, a slab of beef with a soul patch—I’d been wondering the whole time when he would have me thrown out—suddenly ordered one of his security guards to escort me out.

  This time, though, I was armed. And I was armed with a lethal weapon: a copy of Eat, Pray, Love, which I had specially customized. I’d printed all the pictures I’d had taken of myself with James over the course of the years, and on the title page I’d written a few words to thank him. If I say so myself, they brought tears to the eye!

  If they’d only let me have a minute, I’d give him the book, show him the pictures, and tell him that I was a character in Eat, Pray, Love, a book he must have heard about—and I’d reveal that my name was Luca Spaghetti! How could he ever forget it? Capito, James? Spaghetti! How can you forget that?! If only they’d give me that opportunity, he might remember me the next time he came to Rome. And my last name would finally have served its rightful purpose.

  But it was an ordeal and a challenge. I gave the security guard my best melting, big-eyed, puppy-dog gaze, and I tried to buy time by showing him the photographs and the book.

  “I’m begging you, can’t you just take a look? This is me and him in the same picture! Just let me get close enough to talk to him for a second when he steps out of the dressing room—just let me give him the book and thank him for making his music. Then, I swear, you’ll never see me again!” (That is, not until the next concert . . .)

  Nothing doing.

  Cazzo! I’m done for! I thought.

  At that very instant, as if by miracle, James Taylor in person appeared, walking slowly toward the stage for a soundcheck.

  “There he is! Please, please, please—he’s a hundred feet away, and I’m the only person in the whole arena. Just walk me over. I swear, I’ll give him the book, I’ll say hello, and I’ll leave. If I do anything you don’t like, I give you my personal permission to punch me in the nose right in front of James Taylor!”

  The guard hesitated for a second, and then spoke quickly. “All right, let’s go. Get moving.”

  I got moving all right. A tenth of a second later, there was nothing but speed lines where I’d been standing and I was at the foot of the stage. In a hopeful, courteous tone of voice I called out:

  “James!”

  “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, I’ll just take a minute of your time. This is a small gift for you. I am a character in this book, and my name is Luca Spaghetti. You will see in the book there are also some pictures . . .”

  He hadn’t read Eat, Pray, Love, but he seemed pleasantly surprised, both by the gift and the short dedication I had written inside the book.

  “Hey, this is a picture of you and me!”

  “Yes, James, it’s a picture from five years ago, on these very same steps . . .”

  “Thank you, Luca—that’s a really nice gift.”

  Luca! Cazzo! James Taylor called me by my name! How sweet it is to hear James Taylor’s voice say the word “Luca” . . .

  “James, before I go, can we take one more picture together?”

  “Sure.”

  I was so emotional at that moment that I look especially dopey in that photograph. But it wasn’t over yet.

  As I was shaking hands and saying good-bye to him, James took the pass hanging around his neck on a lanyard and removed it. Then he slowly hung it around my neck. I looked down. On it was written JAMES TAYLOR & BAND. He said: “Luca, I don’t think I’m going to need this pass for the rest of the day. I want you to have it. With this, you’re officially in the band.”

  I came this close to fainting on the spot. Now the security guard who’d escorted me down there was smiling and rooting for me.

  I wasn’t sure I understood what he’d just said: “I’m speechless. So . . . then . . . you don’t mind too much if I sit in a corner and listen to the soundcheck?”

  “Luca, you’re in the band—you can go wherever you want.”

  Now my head really was spinning. My first temptation was to go find the soul-patched slab of beef who had tried to toss me out and tell him, in a cleansing, cathartic, and deeply vindictive romanesco dialect: “A’ bello, now I’m in the band and I’m tossing you out!” But that afternoon I felt only benevolence, even toward Signore Soul Patch.

  I sat there in the front row, the only fan in the Cavea, and watched and listened to the most wonderful soundcheck in history. After the soundcheck was done, James waved his hand for me to come over. He went to get his vocalist Kate Markowitz, and asked her if she’d ever read the book. She had, so James told her I was Luca Spaghetti—the Luca Spaghetti. Kate was very kind and came down off the stage to sit and talk with me for ten minutes or so. She did her best to help me emerge from the state of dizzy concussion into which I was sliding, but I only got worse with each band member I was introduced to—as if any of them needed to tell me their names.

  After signing dozens of autographs for people out front of the Cavea, James called me and delivered the knockout punch: “Luca, come on inside with us.”

  Every time he called my name, my legs started trembling. I walked in, and this time I was authorized by the pass around my neck.

  “We’re going to go get dinner with the band members in a little while, and if you want, you can certainly come get something to eat with us.”

  If I didn’t
fall flat on my face then and there, I don’t think anything will make me faint for the rest of my life. It took me about ten full minutes to realize what was going on around me. But in that ten-minute trance something dawned on me that I hadn’t realized: they were working. Some of them were rehearsing, some were signing papers, and some were just anxious and excited about the upcoming concert.

  I’d already had so much that day, almost too much all at once. I was afraid I might be intruding, an unwelcome presence, invited because of James’s generosity, though most of the rest of the band might be thoroughly sick of me by now. So I called upon what sense of propriety I could summon, and I thanked him sincerely. And then, dizzy with joy, I finally really did go home.

  In the hours that remained before the beginning of the concert, I recounted this magical adventure in detail to Giuliana, to my brother, to all my friends who would listen. All I can remember is the vast flood of curse words they released on me for having declined that dinner invitation. I believe there were even some threats of physical harm.

  I didn’t care. I could still hear James’s voice as he called out “Luca” in the voice I’d hear singing a few hours later.

  I couldn’t help but write Liz immediately, to tell her that, thanks to her and to Eat, Pray, Love, a dream had come true for me. And she, genuine friend that she is, was as happy about it as a little girl.

  The last—or most recent—surprise that Liz gave me was last summer, in the same summer that, for a few hours anyway, Luca Spaghetti was a member of James Taylor’s band.

  In mid-August I went on vacation in Provence with Giuliana at the very same time that Julia Roberts’s dizzying smile was illuminating Rome at the start of shooting for the film version of Eat, Pray, Love.

  We came home from our French vacation relaxed and happy, and I was counting the days to when I’d be able to see Liz again. She and Felipe were due to spend a week in Rome at the beginning of September, as guests of the film’s production crew.

  Of course, I took advantage of every minute she had free for us to spend together. And then, one day, something unforgettable happened.

  I was sitting with Liz on the rooftop terrace of her hotel in the Via Giulia. We were relaxing, looking out over the rooftops of Rome, and I was thinking back over everything that had happened since we’d first met. My mind ran over all the time I had spent with her: our first meeting in Trastevere, the dinners and lunches viewed through a mist of limoncello, the unorthodox Italian lessons, the Stadio Olimpico, the churches, the streets and lanes and alleys we’d walked together in search of the most interesting places in Rome, and then Anzio, Thanksgiving dinner with turkey alla Luca Spaghetti, the tears I shed at her departure, her book, New York, and the Christmas tree farm.

  I thought to myself just how generous life had been when it gave me the gift of this friendship, and I was about to whisper in her ear: “Liz, you’ve got a friend.”

  But just then, she looked me in the eye and with a fond but slightly mischievous gaze, she asked: “Luca, would you like to go to the movie set and meet Julia Roberts?”

  Smiling, I wrapped her in a bear hug. “Okay, Lizzy, esageriamo!”

  Glossary of Italian/Roman Dishes

  Ammazzacaffè—Literally, “coffee killer.” A liqueur enjoyed at the end of the meal, after espresso.

  Bucatini all’amatriciana—Thick, hollow, long pasta with a sauce of guanciale, Pecorino cheese, and tomato, native to the Lazio region.

  Caffè alla valdostana—A mixture of grappa, coffee, sugar, orange, and cloves, from the alpine Val d’Aosta region in northwestern Italy. Often drunk in the grolla or coppa dell’amicizia.

  Cannonau—A Sardinian red wine made from the Grenache grape varietal, known by this name on the island of Sardinia.

  Caprese—The traditional appetizer of sliced tomatoes, mozzarella di bufala, and basil.

  Coda alla vaccinara—A Roman tomato-based stew made of beef or veal tail and vegetables.

  Coratella (Coratella d’agnello con carciofi)—Lamb innards with artichokes.

  Cornetto—Crescent-shaped bread pastry. The Italian version of a croissant.

  Fettuccine al ragù—Long, flat pasta with meat sauce.

  Fettuccine alla papalina—Long, flat pasta with a more refined interpretation of a Carbonara sauce. Supposedly made at the request of Pope Pius XII, hence its name. Frattaglie—Entrails and offal.

  Gnocchi alla Romana—Unlike traditional potato dumpling-shaped gnocchi, these are more like disks, made with milk and semolina.

  Grattachecche—Grated ice and fruit juices.

  Il ragù della domenica—Literally, “Sunday meat sauce.”

  Involtino—Roulade, usually meat.

  Limoncello—Lemon liqueur, mainly from southern Italy, usually served as an after-dinner digestif.

  Maialino al forno—Oven-roasted suckling pig.

  Melanzane alla parmigiana—Fried slices of eggplant baked with tomato and cheese. Actually not a dish from Parma, but from southern Italy, possibly named for its use of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.

  Orata al forno con patate—Mediterranean sea bream, oven-roasted with potatoes.

  Orecchiette con asparagi e gamberetti—Literally, “little ears.” Small, rough, dome-shaped pasta disks with asparagus and shrimp. This pasta shape originates in the Puglia region in the south.

  Orecchiette alle cime di rapa—“Little ear” pasta with rapini (or broccoli rabe).

  Pajata—Small intestine of a milk-fed calf, seared and stewed in wine and tomato, traditionally served in Rome with rigatoni.

  Pasta con le sarde—Pasta with sardines. Traditional Sicilian dish.

  Pasta e fagioli—Small pasta and beans, usually in a soup or stew. Found in all regions with local variations.

  Pastarelle—Pastries.

  Penne all’arrabbiata—Literally, “furious” penne, with hot red pepper and tomato sauce.

  Pici—Thick, hand-rolled long pasta, originating in Tuscany.

  Pizzoccheri—Short, flat ribbons of pasta, originating in the Valtellina valley of Lombardy, near Switzerland.

  Porceddu—Sardinian roast suckling pig.

  Saltimbocca alla romana—Literally, “jumps in the mouth.” A typically Roman dish of breaded and fried veal and prosciutto, with a sage and white wine sauce.

  Spaghetti al cacio e pepe—Classic Roman spaghetti dish with Pecorino Romano cheese and coarsely ground black pepper.

  Spaghetti all’aglio olio e peperoncino—Spaghetti with garlic, oil, and red pepper.

  Spaghetti all’amatriciana—Spaghetti with a sauce of guanciale, Pecorino cheese, and tomato, native to the Lazio region.

  Spaghetti alla carbonara—Literally, “coal miner’s wife spaghetti.” Made with eggs, Pecorino Romano, cured pork, and black pepper. Another Roman favorite.

  Spaghetti alla gricia—Spaghetti with crispy cured pork (usually guanciale) and Pecorino Romano.

  Spaghetti alla norma—Spaghetti with a sauce of tomatoes, eggplant, ricotta salata, and fresh basil. A classic Sicilian pasta sauce.

  Spaghetti con la bottarga—Spaghetti with dried, cured fish roe. A traditionally Sardinian dish.

  Spezzatino al sugo—Lamb (or veal) and tomato stew.

  Strozzapreti—Literally, “priest stranglers.” Hand-rolled pasta strips, twisted and cut into smaller pieces.

  Trofie al pesto—Thin, rounded strips of hand-rolled pasta, served with the famous basil sauce. The pasta and the sauce both originate in the Liguria region.