Death al Dente

by Peter King

  The sommelier, a jolly fat man, was a profound source of advice on local wines, and perhaps recognizing that we were not complete neophytes, said that while the Emilia Romagna region was paramount in food, that was not the case in wine too. Still, it was third in Italy as measured by volume, so naturally they had some very good wines. Most of these came from the foothills of the Apennines, he said. Many were light and bubbly, as they were drunk young, but several fine still wines were in the cellars.

  Some Trebbianos were among his recommendations as well as the Albana di Romagna, Italy’s first white wine to gain the coveted DOCG designation. A couple of Pinot Biancos and some Chardonnays from the Terre Rosso also received consideration but I eventually decided on a wine from the Colle Piacentini zone. Francesca wisely chose to leave the choice to me so that she could not be held responsible, she said with a grin.

  The pastas were excellent, as we might expect from the pasta center of Italy. “Don’t they have a funny idea about pasta in the USA!” said Francesca. “They serve it with the meat or the fish or the chicken of the main course.”

  “In place of potatoes or rice. Yes, they do. Much better to have it first, like this.”

  By the time we were mulling over possible main course dishes, several tables had been filled. Next to us, four people were enthusiastically discussing the menu. Some of them had been here before and were offering recommendations. They were presumably locals of some stature as two waiters were promptly assigned to their table.

  Francesca had suggested we delay ordering the main course until after we had had the earlier ones. “You think the first and second courses may be filling,” I suggested.

  “You told me it is two years since you were in Italy. Maybe you have forgotten that we eat heartily here.”

  I thanked her for her concern. “What are you having?” I asked her.

  She chose fish while I ordered the lamb sweetbreads with prosciutto. My choice was intended to challenge the chef to the limit, for this is a dish that is usually prepared with plenty of small white onions. These tend to obscure the delicate sweetbread taste so I had carefully asked how Giacomo cooked it, and the maître d’ assured me that it was onionless.

  The wine came and was expertly opened and served. The conversation from the next table was growing in volume as food was being consumed. When our dishes arrived, Francesca and I eagerly surveyed them. Her sole Florentine simmered gently, a sprinkling of nutmeg on the sole giving it a pleasant aroma. With it, as side dishes, she had a slice of oven-baked polenta and some tiny green beans. My sweetbreads justified the chefs reputation. We each tasted the other’s food. I wanted to confirm that the Capodimonte served a high quality sole and they did. This area has no coastline, so fish like this, caught in the Adriatic, has to be transported and handled with speed and efficiency.

  I looked at the surrounding tables to see what they were all eating and, as far as possible, confirm that the diners looked satisfied. The service tells a lot about how a restaurant is run.

  Waiters have to look around their area and be sure that a diner is not getting impatient for attention after several minutes of arm waving.

  We were just finishing eating when there was a bustle on the other side of the room and a big, bearded man in white came in, transforming the whole restaurant by his very size and personality.

  It was il patrone, Giacomo Ferrero. He looked like a well-fed Pavarotti.

  He stopped at the next table, where the diners were evidently good friends of his. One of them was a burly man with a smooth well-fed face and a voice of authority. Chef Giacomo called him Silvio. He also greeted his wife, Elena, effusively. She was a woman of stunning appearance, dark and voluptuous with a well-developed bosom and hips. Giacomo knew the other couple but to a lesser degree evidently.

  Francesca was on the side of our table nearest to them, leaning over so as not to miss a word of their conversation. I raised my eyebrows to portray a question and looked over there to denote that I was asking who they were but she frowned and gave a tiny headshake that I supposed meant she could not tell me now or she might miss something important.

  We were able to finish our meal just as Giacomo left the next table and came over to ours. He kissed Francesca’s hand, saying it was nice to see her again and remarking on the German diplomat she had been with the last time she was here. She slid past that by introducing me.

  Giacomo shook my hand enthusiastically. He seemed the kind of person who did everything enthusiastically.

  “Welcome, signor! Welcome to Capodimonte!” He leaned forward to ask solicitously, “Tell me, how was your meal? Please be absolutely honest.”

  I assured him that it was one of the finest meals I had eaten in a long time.

  “Wonderful!” he boomed. “Let me introduce you to my good friends here.” He waved in the direction of the next table.

  Half an hour later, the six of us were as close as if we had just spent a week together on a cruise ship. Silvio Pellegrini was a supplier of many of the products used by Giacomo. He owned a pasta factory and buffalo farms where the milk was obtained for the manufacture of mozzarella cheese. His wife, Elena, was dark eyed and black-haired and said little. The male half of the other couple was Tomasso Rinaldo, Pellegrini’s lawyer, a striking-looking man with silvery hair and beard. He looked capable of swinging any jury, and his careful grooming and beautifully cut suit and silk cravat suggested a lucrative business. His wife, Clara, was pleasant and smiling and took an instant liking to Francesca.

  They were chatting away as I said to Pellegrini, “It’s fascinating that you have buffalo farms. I know that some mozzarella is made from buffalo milk but most people associate the animal with the open plains of middle America. It’s difficult to associate it with Italy.”

  “We make the finest mozzarella in Italy,” Pellegrini said proudly. “We export more and more all the time.”

  “Isn’t it hard to milk buffalo?” I asked. “They are such big animals—it must make it dangerous.”

  He laughed. “You must come and see them. Our cheese factory too. It is one of the finest in Europe.”

  “I’d love to,” I said and meant it.

  “What would you love to see?” Francesca wanted to know, determinedly keeping track of several conversations at the same time and within a couple of minutes, we had arranged to go out the next day and visit the Pellegrini farms and factory.

  “I have a thought,” said Pellegrini. “What are you doing the day after tomorrow? The reason I ask is that is my birthday and Bernardo Mantegna, one of our most famous chefs, is giving a big party for me in his restaurant. I would like for you to come.”

  Francesca and I exchanged glances. I saw no reason not to be truthful. “As a matter of fact, we tried to get a reservation there that night and could not.”

  “Excellent.” Pellegrini beamed. “Please come as my guests.”

  “Haven’t you had dessert yet?” asked Giacomo in concern. “We have some magnificent concoctions of mascarpone. I will send some over.”

  He shook hands with the two men, kissed all three women, and turned to me.

  “I believe you will leave here tonight, signor, convinced that I am the man for Mr. Lansdown’s restaurant.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I WAS MADDER THAN a wet hen. I was boiling over like a forgotten stew.

  We were going back to my hotel, this time with a different driver. She was a middle-aged lady with hair in a bun and the look of a schoolteacher. She drove at reasonable speeds, obeyed traffic signals, and was nonagressive.

  “How could he have found out?” I raged. “Somebody must have told him! Who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Francesca said as if she could not have cared less.

  I had found it difficult to concentrate on the magnificent sweetened mascarpone that Giacomo served us for dessert. This is the soft cheese used in the preparation of tiramisu, one of Italy’s more recent export successes. Giacomo used a more simple approach. He
mashed crushed walnuts into the mascarpone, folded in some whipped cream, and chilled. I told him he was omitting telling me something, for I detected an unmistakable flavor, and he admitted having stirred in some brandy. “I am always trying to be a little different.” He beamed.

  My stomach triumphed over my head, though, and I was able to enjoy the dessert and congratulate him on his cuisine. I had said nothing about his bombshell, saving all my anger for Francesca. It did not bother her a bit. She shrugged a curvaceous shoulder at my question about the leak.

  “You Anglo-Saxons worry too much about secrets. You are in Italy now. Here, everyone knows everything that goes on.”

  “Did you know?”

  She gave me a tantalizing look, leaned back in her corner of the big, comfortable limo, and crossed her legs. She must have Roman blood in her, I thought. She looked about as unconcerned as the Empress Calpurnia on hearing that a dozen legions had been lost in the African desert.

  “Lansdown will be furious,” I told her, determined not to let her off the hook. “If it wasn’t at his end, then it must have been your people.”

  “I showed you the fax,” she said languidly. “There was nothing in it.” She straightened to a pose of hauteur as she added, “If anyone is angry, it should be me. You didn’t tell me the truth. You are only supposed to be writing a guidebook.”

  “But did you know?” I persisted.

  “What is there to know?” She was all wide-eyed innocence. “That Desmond has restaurants in London, New York, and Miami. So he is hiring a chef. What of it? What is—as you put it in English—the big deal?”

  A streetcar cut us off, bell clanging furiously. We swayed, but the powerful suspension of the limo righted us immediately, and our driver resumed her smooth control. At least we didn’t have the alpine circuit chauffeur of yesterday taking us on a mad night ride through the streets of Bologna.

  It was time to exercise what the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise call “damage control.” Perhaps it was not that serious. After all, they always survive. I was still puzzled over how Giacomo knew though—and what about the other two chefs? Did they know too?

  “Desmond will be calling in a few days—he’ll call you first, of course,” Francesca said, adding the last part as a conciliatory afterthought. “I’ll tell him that I know about the chef business.”

  “He will ask how you know,” I told her.

  She stared out at the brightly lighted shop windows as we went through what was evidently the fashion district. She giggled. Sophisticated women cannot giggle and maintain their sophistication but Francesca was the exception. “I’ll tell him you talk in your sleep,” she said and giggled again.

  We reached the hotel before I could compose an answer to that.

  “Do you want me to come with you to Pellegrini’s farms tomorrow?” she asked.

  “No, I think I’ll go alone. Why don’t you take a day off? Pick me up tomorrow evening for dinner at the Palazzo Astoria.”

  I got out of the limo. She leaned across the seat. “Are you mad at me?” she asked, her eyes large and childlike.

  “No,” I said. “I was but not now. Well, not mad at you anyway—I was so annoyed that someone knows. I still can’t figure out who and how.”

  “It’s like I told you, this is Italy. We all know our neighbors’ business. This is probably still a secret—”

  “How can it be—”

  “A secret not known to more than just a few people.” She gave me a pout that might have implied a kiss and pulled the limo door shut as the vehicle rolled away from the curb.

  The Ambasciatore Imperiale had a breakfast room big enough to serve the Italian army. It was all marble, glass, and chrome and sufficiently daunting that I walked on through and out on to the Via Novella in search of a tavolafredda. These serve snacks, drinks of all kinds, buns, and cakes, plus, of course, coffee. They have a few tables but it is mostly stand-up service. The name means cold table and distinguishes it from tavola calda, hot table, where meals are served.

  Both are busy all through the day. The food is under large glass panels, the walls are mirrored and covered with bottles, the floors are marble, and the atmosphere lively and fizzing with conversation. Just in time, I remembered one convention that baffles first-time visitors. You have to pay for your food and drink before you can buy it—and you have to buy it before you can eat it.

  Foreigners shake their heads in astonishment at what seems like a cumbersome system. First, you walk around and decide what you want. You pick a person behind the counter, using elbows and shoulders to get there. Forget order and manners. The person rings it up and hands you a sales slip. You take this to the cash desk and pay. The slip is receipted and you now take this back to the sales counter and exchange the slip for your purchases.

  There is a reason for all this—the larcenous streak in the Italian nature means that it would be financially suicidal for the owner to trust the staff. He knows that they would pocket what they consider a reasonable share of the profits to compensate for their miserable wage. The system as operated puts all the financial responsibility on the sole person at the cash desk, almost always the owner or his wife. If the books do not balance at the end of the accounting period, the finger of accusation is unerring.

  The quality of the food is surprisingly high in such places. Pastry is fresh every day and most of the consumption is sweet pastries. Coffee is always fresh and excellent while, particularly at breakfast time, the flow of customers is heavy. A typical way for an Italian to start his day is a glass of brandy, two or three cups of strong black coffee, and a sweet, sticky bun covered with icing and sugar.

  I drank a cappuccino and ate an Italian equivalent of a croissant. These are less sweet than most of the other offerings, though not as flaky as the French version. The seat by the window that I had selected gave me an excellent view of the passing parade. People watching is a great pastime in any foreign city but when the city is Italian, it is triply rewarding.

  Italians are always active, purposeful, and vital. Every scene portrays the vivacity, the throbbing, pulsating life with its noise, its movement, and its excitement. Anyone observed strolling is certainly a tourist. The streets are jammed with cars, honking loudly and frequently. The sidewalks are crammed with pedestrians, always seeing a friend across the street. Conversations are conducted in loud voices and with expressive gestures. Every opportunity is seized to dash across in the most dangerous places and between impatient cars. Motor scooters dart in and out like wasps, oblivious to signals, narrowly missing pedestrians, and sneering at the angry motorists.

  Mothers admonish, scold, praise, cajole, and encourage children watched by admiring relatives. Men lounge, smoke, talk, gesticulate. Voices call from open windows. Snatches of opera drift out from radios. Scales are practiced, smells of cooking flow out on to the sidewalk.

  An Italian can stretch a cup of coffee out for an hour but, as entertaining as it was, I strolled back to the hotel and within a couple of minutes, the Perseus limo rolled up to the curb. I was glad to see that Francesca had paid attention to my request and Bella, the driver of the evening before, was at the wheel.

  We headed out of town in a northerly direction and picked up the autostrada. On the green hillsides, herds grazed in the shade of leafy chestnut trees. The valley of the Po River is rich in wheat, said to be the best in Italy. We passed through a region where giant trucks loaded with sugar beet hurtled past us at eighty miles an hour. Apple orchards lined the autostrada then fields of many of the other products of this fertile area whizzed past: pears, strawberries, peaches, asparagus, zucchini, and potatoes.

  A huge roadside sign declared that we were approaching the Pellegrini farms, and after some minutes, Bella exited from the autostrada and followed a local road for some distance. Pulling onto a private road, she turned through a massive wooden arch, again with the Pellegrini name in gigantic letters. We drove up a winding incline, past a long fence, and finally stopped before an imposing s
tructure.

  In front of it, Silvio Pellegrini sat at a long wooden table talking volubly into a cellular phone. He gave me a wave and resumed his verbal onslaught on the party at the other end who, it seemed, had not delivered on time. He closed the conversation with a blast of orders, shut off the phone, and dropped it into his pocket.

  “So, my friend, welcome to the Pellegrini enterprises!”

  He was wearing casual clothes today, a gray shirt and blue jeans with ankle boots, but he still looked like the wealthy, powerful landowner and business executive. The smooth, well-groomed face, a little full from good eating, and the sleek black hair seemed more suited to a boardroom than a ranch. His affable manner was obviously one reason for his success—he even seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

  He took me into the farmhouse, which had evolved a long way from that humble origin. A large rambling building, it had been enlarged, modernized, and almost rebuilt. Pellegrini had a penthouse in Bologna where he lived most of the time, he told me, but he loved this place, which he had bought when it was a barely livable habitation.

  In the added rooms, ceilings were high, with skylights letting in a yellow sun. In the main living room, expensive carpets lay on floors of massive terracotta tile while oil paintings and faded tapestries covered the walls. “I use this room most of the time.” Pellegrini said. Just inside the door was a table with an elaborate coffee maker, gleaming chrome and glass. “I drink a lot of coffee.” He smiled. Next to it was a drinks cabinet and above it glass shelves filled with bottles of all colors. The outstanding feature by far, though, was the waterwheel.