Death al Dente

by Peter King

  “Long before I bought the place, this was a mill. We don’t have olive trees on this property but there are many groves in the area. They are mostly small and their owners could not afford a press of their own so they would bring their harvest here for the oil to be extracted. It is not used any more but it would have been a shame to destroy such a magnificent feature.”

  I agreed. It was a massive wooden wheel, so large that the roof and ceiling had to be raised, Pellegrini told me, in order to accommodate it into the structure of the house, which had then been expanded around it. The stream which had powered the wheel was partly dammed, and only a trickle fed a large pool about the size of a home swimming pool. A wooden walkway went over the water, around the pool edge, and into another part of the house.

  “The wheel still turns,” I noted.

  “Yes,” said Pellegrini. “It is its natural function. I could not think of stopping it. So I had a small motor installed.”

  He took me through the rest of the house then led me out into the back to a Unimog, a small German vehicle very much like a Jeep.

  “Now you will see buffalo,” he told me with a proud smile.

  We bumped over uneven ground. He drove, like all Italian men, too fast, which accentuated the irregularity of the terrain. He had to shout to make himself heard.

  “These buffalo are really bison—just like the American buffalo. These were brought here from India several centuries ago.”

  “It seems strange to think of buffalo here,” I shouted back. “They seem so natural on the American plains. In Italy, they just don’t seem to belong. Are the two breeds alike?”

  “The American buffalo is bigger and heavier than ours. It has shorter, stockier legs, a bigger head, and heavier fur.”

  We had climbed enough to be able to see a panorama spread before us. It was grassy land with frequent clumps of trees and bushes. A strange feature was the vast, whitish areas. I realized they were moving …

  “Those are the buffalo herds,” said Pellegrini.

  “I didn’t expect them to be white.”

  “Like their milk.” Pellegrini smiled. “Well, not quite as white, but no, not brown like American buffalo. These have been raised for milking for hundreds of years.”

  We were close to one large herd now, and I could see the shaggy monsters clearly.

  “I had no idea they were so big,” I said.

  “Males weigh up to a ton, females less than half of that.”

  Their great heads were lowered to the ground, and the hump that was so characteristic of them looked enormous, some of them had short horns, curved and menacing, but they paid no attention to us even as we approached to within a dozen yards.

  “They spend a third of their life eating,” Pellegrini said. “Anything that important needs their full attention. Besides, they are not curious animals. You know how the Indians in America hunted them? They simply rode their horses into the buffalo herd and shot arrows into them or speared them. They would kill or wound a number that way—as many as they needed. The other buffalo would move away, not even aware of having been attacked, leaving the wounded to fall among those already dead.”

  “You said as many as they needed—they were conservationists, were they?”

  “Without knowing it, yes. It was the white man who decimated the herds from a buffalo population of at least one hundred million so that soon they were on the verge of extinction.”

  He stopped near some small sheds, close to a dense thicket of trees. I hesitated when I saw Pellegrini climb out of the vehicle. “I suppose it’s safe?” I ventured.

  “Oh, yes, they’re harmless.”

  There were some tawny calves, but most of the herd were cows. The large bulls stayed on the outer edges. They looked like deformed monsters this close. Red eyes gleamed, although none of them appeared to be aware of us.

  Pellegrini led the way towards them. I hung behind. Harmless they may be, I thought, but their colossal size was daunting. Pellegrini stopped to let me catch up to him.

  “The Campania used to be where most of the buffalo in Italy were raised. Now, we raise more,” he said.

  I heard him, but I was nervously watching the animals nearest. “Some of them seemed to have noticed us,” I said.

  He shrugged indifferently. As he did, a bull bellowed loudly. Muzzles raised and tufty tails waved. Hooves pawed the ground. More and more hoarse roars sounded. I looked at Pellegrini. He was frowning and looking around. “Something seems to be upsetting them. I don’t understand—”

  His words were cut off by an explosion. It was followed by another then another. A movement stirred through the mass of great beasts, then a few of them broke away into a run. Others followed, until within seconds, the whole herd was on the move. Several more explosions followed, too strong to be gunshots but deep and heavy, vibrating the ground.

  The herd had been heading away but these fresh detonations came from a different source and the herd wheeled … and came thundering towards us.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A HAND GRASPED MY arm and dragged me roughly to the Unimog. There was no time to get in and drive. We had barely taken shelter behind it when the herd hit us like a tidal wave of heaving flesh. Buffalo are evidently not very bright, but they sensed enough not to want to run headlong into a Unimog, so the impact was not as colossal as it might have been. The nearest animals tried to avoid the vehicle, but they were packed so tightly that some of them hit it. It rose into the air, crashed down, and bounced, rocking and creaking. Metal splintered and breaking glass crackled.

  The Unimog was pushed towards us and we backed away further, still trying to use it as a shield. Bellowing roars and the pounding of hooves filled our ears, and a cloud of dust swept over us. We retreated again as the vehicle heaved and almost turned over, but it landed on all four wheels. By then the herd had split into two streams and they thundered past us, eyes gleaming wildly and muscles rippling under the dirty white skin. The earth rumbled and vibrated.

  It was over as abruptly as it had started. The herd was less than a hundred yards away when the lead animals slowed. Others behind them spread out. The herd was scattered, but a few had already resumed grazing and all had stopped. Some of them were looking around with a Why-did-we-do-that? expression that might have been laughable—only it wasn’t.

  Pellegrini and I stood there, the dust settling around us. The earth seemed to be still shuddering. He walked around the Unimog, checking the damage. Fenders were bent, the headlights were shattered, and one door was twisted, but it was probably driveable. Pellegrini was shaking his head.

  “I can’t understand it—those explosions …” He walked to the sheds, searching the ground, and I followed him. Suddenly, he stopped and picked up a twisted piece of burnt cardboard. He found another and handed one to me. “Fireworks!” he said furiously. “But who would be setting off firecrackers here?”

  He drove back to the house, rattles and screeches causing him to swear in Italian, but the engine seemed intact. He stopped with a jolt, ramming the brake pedal hard in his fury.

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” he said between his teeth, then he started to recall his duties as host. “I am sorry. We were going to have lunch and then take a tour of the mozzarella factory—”

  I noted his use of the past tense. “That’s all right. We can do it when you have had the chance to make some inquiries.”

  He nodded grimly. “I intend to do that. Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I’m pretty shaken up too. If I can phone this number and have the limo pick me up …”

  Ten minutes later, Bella drove up and I shook hands with a stern-faced Pellegrini, who left me in no doubt that his staff was in for a rough day.

  Bologna is a compact city and perhaps the easiest of all in Italy to sightsee. Everything worth visiting is in or around the Piazza Maggiore, the heart of the city, so I had Bella drop me there. Some tourists complain that there is no Uffizi or Doges Palace, but it is a
spectacle of marbled walkways and churches, fountains and towers.

  I recalled seeing the leaning towers some years ago and walked there to find that they were still leaning, just as they had been since the twelfth century. There were dozens of them in those days but only these two remain. They are not as famous as their rival in Pisa, but the taller one is twice as high and appears to lean just as much. I visited the Church of Saint Petronius—still not completed after five hundred years—and the Fountain of Neptune, a never-ending source not only of water but of debate between those who deem it vulgar and those who say it is magnificent.

  It was time to eat after that much culture, and near the town hall I found a small trattoria, the Da Mario. The trattoria is a wonderful institution. Mostly family owned and operated, they fill the requirements for a cafe or a small restaurant. Food is fairly simple, ample in volume, and reasonable in price. Service is friendly and fast, ambience is casual and happy.

  I had a fasioi called pasta e fagioli in some parts of Italy and known in the United States as pasta fazool. It is not a difficult dish to make but the better creators of it take out a portion of the cooked beans and blend them into a paste which is then put back to thicken the sauce. It takes good judgment to get that portion just right and this was. Nevertheless, after I had eaten it, I wished I had selected instead a less common soup—the jota, perhaps. This has beans, sauerkraut, and bacon and is usually only encountered in the Trieste region.

  While I was waiting for the main course, Mama brought me a saucer with a small taster of bianchetti coll’uovo which she was serving to a large party at the next table. This consists of newborn, jellylike sardines with anchovies in a creamy sauce of lemon and egg. I had heard of this but not tasted it and it was most unusual, a specialty of Tuscany, said Mama.

  For the main course, I had the bocconcini di cinghialetto—pieces of wild boar marinated and cooked in a rich red wine sauce. A small side dish of sautéed potatoes sprinkled with rosemary accompanied it. Surprisingly, for a country with a huge agricultural production, Italy’s restaurants do not serve vegetables unless ordered. I enjoyed a half bottle of Tignanello, which combines Sangiovese with Cabernet Sauvignon and is aged in small oak barrels.

  Mama had said, “What! No pasta?” and brought out an old Italian saying, something about a day without pasta being a day without sunlight, but then the French said that about wine. I told her that I was eating lightly today as I had to attend a banquet that night. I didn’t want to mention the name of the Palazzo Astoria though she would probably not have even raised her eyebrows.

  A meal like that needed plenty of walking to ensure complete digestion, and I had not been in the medieval museum for many years so I started there. The weapons of the Middle Ages are fascinating combinations of metallurgical ingenuity and murderous intent while the glass, ivory, and Gothic sculptures are unsurpassed even in Italy. Posters strung across the street advertised the art show in the town hall so I took that in next. Contemporary artists all want to eschew tradition and be as contrary to the old masters as possible. This show was no exception.

  After that, I strolled around the city aimlessly, discovering endless delights of narrow alleys with artisans cutting, filing, painting, grinding, polishing, and finally completing reproductions of furniture of which some percentage no doubt were offered as originals. Smells of cooking hung in the soft air, and laundry fluttered gaily from windows.

  I was able to do some thinking as I meandered through the old town. Pellegrini had been genuinely shaken by the incident we had just been through. Firecrackers were common in Italy; it did not need to be a holiday for people to set them off. To do so in a buffalo pasture, though, was another matter. No responsible person would do that … unless, of course, they knew the consequences and wanted to—wanted to do what?

  Kill or maim Pellegrini? Or me? Or both?

  Whichever of those, why?

  It was not surprising that Pellegrini should be disturbed by the occurrence. He seemed to be more than just disturbed though—he seemed deeply troubled by it, almost as if he knew more than he was telling me. Did he have some suspicion of who had set off the firecrackers and why? If so, it would indicate that he knew the attempt was directed towards him. That was a comforting thought for it meant that I was not the target.

  But I could not be the target of any murder attempt unless it had something to do with my mission here, something that involved the task of selecting one chef from among the three candidates.

  That was unlikely … wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER SIX

  FRANCESCA’S EYES WERE AS big as saucers by the time I had finished telling her of the morning’s excitement. “But who would do a thing like that?” she demanded, and I told her that if Pellegrini didn’t know the answer, I certainly didn’t.

  She shook her head reprovingly. “As soon as I let you go on your own, you get into trouble.”

  “You think that was it? That I was the one in trouble?”

  She caught my meaning immediately. “You? You mean it might have been an attempt on you and not on Signor Pellegrini?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely, I know.”

  “Of course not. All because of hiring a chef! Don’t be ridiculous. Oh, chefs are important people, yes, but—”

  “But I’m not.”

  “Well, to you, you are—not as important as a chef though.” There was a tiny light dancing at the back of those beautiful eyes that suggested she was teasing me, but I played it safe and changed the direction of the conversation.

  “Maybe it was a warning of some kind.”

  “Maybe.” She sounded dubious. “But whoever set off the firecrackers could have no control over the herd. They might have killed you. Buffalo are not very intelligent, you know. Nor are they lenient on foreigners.”

  We both smiled at that. “Anyway, enough of that. We are here to enjoy ourselves.”

  “I thought this was business.”

  “It is for me. If all I have heard about Ottavio is true though, there should be a lot of enjoyment too.”

  The Palazzo Astoria was almost stark in its design, clearly inspired by the geometric, monochromatic approach of the Viennese. The period when Italy and Austria were closely intertwined politically and each was sending its armies to help crush the other’s revolutionaries, coincided with the Biedermeier style of architecture. This had a strong influence in Italy, particularly during a time when alternatives were being sought to balance the country’s own heavily classical styles.

  Many restaurants followed the Biedermeier pattern, and even when Austria’s power declined after World War I, the clean, almost severe lines continued in popularity. In the entryway, walls of racked wine bottles set an opulent tone to offset the strictness. The tables were large, the chairs were comfortable, and the lighting aimed to focus on the food.

  We were in Padua, one of the great centers of learning in Italy. Galileo and Petrarch attended the university, and although a number of its treasures were destroyed by bombing in World War II, many still remain. The Palazzo Astoria, just off the Via Squarcione, had several famous and popular restaurants within minutes—”Although a lot of Padovans consider this the best,” said Francesca.

  As an aperitif, we were both drinking a Bellini. With Venice less than thirty miles away, the influence of this drink naturally prevailed, so closely was it associated with Harry’s Bar, where it originated. The richness of the peach juice is cut by the slight acidity of the sparkling prosecco.

  The waiter came with a silver salver that he set in the middle of the table. Grancevola alia Veneziana was the first course, also from Venice, where these spider crabs are caught in abundance. It is not called a salad but to Anglo-Saxons it is, since lettuce leaves line the crab shells, which serve as a bed for the crab meat. The chef had cleverly left a little of the pink coral with the pristine white meat. The sauce contained mayonnaise, cream, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, and cognac, and the dish was served with diced potatoes and celery s
talks.

  Francesca and I had agreed on a red wine, even though she said she was determined to have fish. The sommelier, an intense young man, fragile as an Italian bread stick, advised us that as we were having Venetian dishes, we ought to drink either Merlot or Cabernet, the two wines that dominate the region. I thought I detected some caution in his use of “ought to drink,” and I said that we had plenty of those among Italy’s extensive wine exports. Here, I felt, we should have something more specifically local. He suggested Venegazzu, which came originally from a classic blend of Bordeaux grapes, and he brought it now. We tasted and approved wholeheartedly. As we put our glasses down, Francesca gasped, staring across the room, and murmured, “Here he comes.”

  He came at once to our table. Francesca had told me she had not met him, but Ottavio gave her the full treatment: a small bow, a hand kiss, and that sweeping Italian glance that undresses the mind as well as the body of any female.

  “And this is the signor from England. Welcome to the Palazzo Astoria.”

  I thanked him for his welcome and we all sat, a waiter appearing as if by magic with a chair that Ottavio sat on without even looking to see if it was there.

  He looked terrible. His skin was pimply and his face gaunt. The hollow eye sockets were gray, and he had four or five days growth of wispy beard. His hair was long and dangled below his collar, and his lackluster curls were unacquainted with shampoo. If he had not been one of Italy’s foremost chefs, he could have modeled for ads depicting the ravages of drug addiction. His wolfish smile was still on Francesca, so I promptly broke that up.

  “I am glad you are having an emphasis on Venetian food this week,” I said. “I may not be able to go there this time, so instead you’re bringing the food to me.”

  He tore his gaze away from Francesca’s charms. She was looking at him with parted, breathless lips and I made a mental note to ask her what she saw in him, although I long ago learned that is a pointless question to ask a woman.