Death al Dente

by Peter King

  His staff not only knew his habits but were aware of his haughty impatience. One brought him a cup of thick black coffee and another slipped a cigarette between his fingers and produced a lighter. I knew that American and British restrictions on smoking in public places had not yet seeped into Italy. Still, he did not ask if we minded and would probably have gone ahead and smoked anyway.

  “Best food in Italy,” he said, looking at me as if he expected me to argue. “I cook better Venetian food than anybody in Venice—that’s this week. Next week, I’ll be cooking food from Abruzzi that is better than any you’ll eat there. You know where Abruzzi is?”

  He sounded as if he was expecting me to say no but I was not going to get into any kind of argument. “South of here, I think. Isn’t it the high mountain country on the Adriatic coast?”

  He ignored my answer and went on. “This time of year, I cook food from a different region every week. Know any other chef who can do that?”

  “You have a rare talent,” I told him, and he stared at me as if trying to find something offensive in my comment. He looked around the restaurant, drank most of his coffee, and took deep drags at his cigarette. Around us, there was the low buzz of conversation, bursts of soft laughter, and the clink of glasses. “This was a coffee shop when I bought it. Coffee and buns, can you believe it? Look at it now—best restaurant in Europe.”

  “You’ve done a wonderful job,” I said and meant it. “Everyone knows it.”

  Francesca finally found her voice, though it was a little husky with—with what? Surely not passion?

  “It must be very hard work, keeping up such high standards.”

  “Eighteen hours a day minimum,” he said. He seemed to have seen someone across the room.

  “Doesn’t leave you much time for recreation, does it?” she said softly.

  “Oh, I manage a little—recreation,” he replied, sparing her a brief burning look then resuming his gaze across the room. “It is them!” he rapped out. “They were in a week or two ago. The stupid waiter got them mixed up with the party at the next table and switched their orders. Would you believe it, they ate right through the meal and didn’t even complain! Silly bastards! Not the kind of customers I want in my restaurant. I’ve got to go and throw them out.”

  He finished his coffee, put out the cigarette in the saucer, and rose to his feet.

  “Anything you want, just let me know,” he said, looking at Francesca.

  “There is one thing,” I said. He turned to me.

  “I’d like to look through your kitchen after we’ve finished the meal.”

  He looked as though he was about to explode, then his mood switched and he nodded. “All right. Help yourself, Just don’t get in the way. It’s pandemonium in there—controlled pandemonium,” he added quickly. “Controlled by me.”

  He grinned, the first time he had shown any expression of humor, although it was minimal. “Anyway, I have to keep on the good side of the man who’s going to recommend me for the job, don’t I?”

  Francesca had ordered crochetti di formaggio for the first course. It is a dish of Venetian origin, but Ottavio had modified it to accommodate the high production of cheese in this area. The croquettes are made with a thick béchamel sauce mixed with grated cheese and egg then cut into squares, breaded, and fried.

  I ordered the “priest stranglers.” Strangolopreti is a simple dish: gnocchi with spinach. I chose it because it is so simple, to see if a chef with Ottavio’s reputation could raise it from the mediocre. He had succeeded admirably. I identified chives, marjoram, and—in addition to onions and garlic—caraway. This was a clever touch and made a real difference to the spinach.

  Francesca was carefully silent while we ate. I was fuming but had it under control, and the Venegazzu helped. It was well bottle-aged and could be compared to a fine claret, being silky, just right on the tannin, and balanced, not too robust. When the sommelier asked, I congratulated him on his recommendation. He bowed in grave acknowledgment, and I hoped he would not break in two.

  “Did the Corriera delle Sera print the news on the front page?” I asked Francesca despairingly as the sommelier left. “Ottavio knows all about it too.”

  She dabbed delicately at one cheek where some sauce was adhering. “What else can I say? I keep telling you this is Italy. This is a terrible country for spies. There’s so little for them to spy on—everybody knows everything that’s happening.”

  “But how can I do my job? Two of them at least know why I am here. The other one, Bernardo, must know too.”

  “We’ll know tomorrow when we eat there,” she said complacently. “Anyway, is it really a problem? Evidently, you came here to recommend a chef for some new restaurant of Desmond’s. You have names of three chefs. You’re supposed to pick one of them. So go ahead and do it. Pick one.”

  She took a final mouthful of crochetti, savored it, and took a ladylike sip of wine. She enjoyed the taste so much, she took an unladylike large swallow. She met my glare with a sweet smile.

  “You’re impossible,” I told her.

  “I know. You like me though, don’t you?”

  “You’re a very efficient assistant,” I told her, but she only pouted and turned it into a smile.

  “Just how do you decide if a restaurant and a chef are good?” she asked.

  Perhaps she was just diverting my anger but I answered.

  “The service is a clue to the restaurant itself. Close your menu and someone should be there to take your order. Put down a piece of silverware and a fresh one should immediately take its place. If you leave the table, your napkin should be removed and a clean, folded one should await your return.

  “Any waiter must be able to answer any question about the food, its ingredients, and how the dish is prepared. If you eat all the sauce and food remains, you evidently liked the sauce and a good waiter will offer you more. When the bread basket is emptied, it should be refilled.”

  I would have gone on but the main course arrived. Francesca was having the branzino, sea bass grilled with a sauce of rosemary, sage, parsley, thyme, chives, and marjoram in olive oil and lemon juice. It looked succulent, the fish cut and opened, and with a long roll of pureed zucchini on top.

  As a compromise between what I would really enjoy and what would challenge the chef, I selected the crispy duck breasts with chicken liver sauce and a polenta soufflé. Barrel-shaped turnips and carrots with asparagus tips were arranged in a fan around the thin slices of duck. This is a deceptive dish, not nearly as easy as it looks.

  Chopped onion must be combined with chopped salami, chicken livers, capers, anchovies, and breadcrumbs, then stirred until the chicken livers are fully sealed. Flour is added and cooked until just light brown, then white wine goes in and the volume is reduced. Consommé is added, and then egg yolks, lemon juice, lemon rind, and seasonings. This a tedious operation and care is needed. The sliced duck breasts take only ten minutes, but it is easy to overcook or undercook them and the fat has to be really crisp.

  Ottavio had done a fine job with this, and his chef had demonstrated a delicate touch while the polenta soufflé was light as an angel’s wing. I tasted Francesca’s branzino and it was cooked to perfection. We ate leisurely enough that we considered dessert. Italians do not have many desserts. Their tradition has always been to end a meal with fruit—pastries were for festive occasions only. One of the classic desserts, however, is peaches stuffed with a mixture of egg yolks, amaretto, sugar, cocoa powder, and grated lemon rind. Baked for about twenty minutes, it is a superb ending to a meal.

  “So, do you want me to come with you tomorrow or do you want to get into trouble by yourself?” Francesca wanted to know.

  She just giggled when I told her to watch her tongue. “I want to go to Ferrara,” I said. “I’ve never been there but I’ve heard a lot about it. I’m also going to drop in on Giacomo and watch his preparations for lunch.”

  “I hope you’ll be careful. Italy is full of dangers besides buf
falo.”

  “Speaking of dangers, let’s go see how Ottavio runs his kitchen.”

  The white-tiled kitchen was cramped and hot. Ottavio, naturally, occupied center stage, standing at a stainless steel-topped table. Behind him was a range of ovens and gas-fired hot plates.

  On his right, three sous-chefs worked on a long bench above a series of refrigerator cabinets. Another young man with a fifties haircut was feeding plates, dishes, pots, and pans into an automatic washing machine. In an extension off the main kitchen, two pasta chefs were molding dough into a variety of different shapes using a battery of appliances.

  Ottavio was meticulously chopping and paring the choicest filets and cutlets out of great slabs of beef, veal, and lamb piled along the front of his table. He worked very fast, pausing occasionally only to brush the sweat from his eyes or push back his long forelocks. When he had finished that task, he went to work on an array of plucked pheasants, slashing and ripping. It looked like haphazard fury at first, but a few moments of observation made it clear that every cut was accurate. A minimum of edible meat was thrown away, while only skin, fat, and an occasional bone went into the garbage barrel.

  Ottavio’s bony fingers were covered in blood, and some was spattered on his apron. His bare forearms had red burn marks from the ovens. A young apprentice came in with a crate of scallops, and Ottavio went to work opening each shell with a twist of his knife, scraping the contents into a large steel bowl. Another helper came in carrying a tray with several salmon, some sea bass, and turbot, and Ottavio, finishing the scallops, came hurrying over.

  He evidently preferred several different implements for this chore. He stood imperiously, waiting for his helpers to put them one at a time into his right hand like some master surgeon in an operating room calling for scalpels and clamps and saws.

  Steam was rising from half a dozen pans on the hot plates. Ottavio paused in his task of trimming the fish to dip his fingers in the water and suck them. He waved a commanding hand and a can of salt was promptly pushed into it. He threw the salt in from a height, a technique used by many chefs, and went back to complete his cutting.

  He pushed the tray of fish at a sous-chef and went bounding around the kitchen, hair flying, shouting instructions, cursing a young man who dropped a dish, tasting a sauce here and a soup there, yelling invective at everyone within range. “I told you to put the ——ing mushrooms on top!” he shouted at a squat, dark-complexioned unfortunate who looked as if he had just heard his death sentence pronounced.

  Francesca was taking in this scene of carnage and profanity with her mouth open, although on her that looked good. Her eyes glistened with admiration as she stared at this pyrotechnic display of culinary skill and macho mayhem. Her expression changed, though, when the great chef screamed, “Get out of the ——ing way!” and almost knocked her over as he pushed past with a large basket of fruit. I missed the adjective he used here, and also the one that he had used to describe the mushrooms. Presumably they were a profanity that had materialized from the language since my last visit to Italy.

  “Thanks for letting us come into your kitchen,” I said. “I know it’s inconvenient. Hope to see you again soon.”

  He didn’t appear to hear, being too busy castigating an unhappy underling who was slicing vegetables too thin for his liking. I steered Francesca to the door with a hand under her elbow and she did not resist. The bloom seemed to be off the rose now that her wide-eyed veneration had been shattered by being almost bowled over by the master chef and his basket of fruit. She had a stern set to her face and was probably about to hurl some Mediterranean epithet at him, but I got her out the door in time.

  We were out in the street when the door opened behind us and a voice shouted, “Don’t forget! I’ll make it worth your while if you get me that job in London!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT HAD BEEN ANOTHER inquisition all the way back to the hotel. “How could these chefs know?” I asked Francesca again. She shook her head in perplexity.

  “How many people in your office knew about this assignment of yours?” I demanded. “One of them must have spilled the beans.”

  “Beans?” In my recalcitrant mood, I preferred to believe that she was stalling rather than that she was not familiar with the expression.

  She explained that she had an independent role in the agency that came from having a small investment in the operation. In this case, Desmond had called and requested her directly. The fax information had given nothing away and only supported the cover story that I was gathering information for an eating guide.

  “It’s much more likely that it’s someone in Desmond’s organization,” she said in that languid tone that disdained such trivial details.

  “How well do you know him?”

  She turned in the wide limo seat to face me at this change in direction of the conversation. “What do you mean?”

  I picked my words carefully. If I used the wrong ones, I would learn nothing.

  “There is a third possibility. Maybe Desmond is up to something.”

  It was another colloquialism, but she was not baffled by this one. Nor, to my surprise, did she reject it at once. She looked thoughtful. I prompted her.

  “I don’t what his motive could be,” I told her, “nor do I think he’s a devious person. But people with money and power are apt to have a lot of irons in the fire.” I paused, but her expression did not change so I assumed she knew that one too.

  She went back to my first question. “I got to know him very well when he was here. I don’t think he does a lot of—what is your word?—shenanigans?” I smiled.

  “That’s the word and that’s how he seemed to me.”

  “He is very loyal. When he was here, one of his people got into trouble with the police, and it was only Desmond’s efforts that kept him out of prison. I can understand what you are thinking though,” she said, being surprisingly reasonable. “He is not only a world-famous movie star, he owns restaurants and now he is financing this eating guide. He has his finger in a lot of pots.” She smiled. “We say that too—so there may be some angle here that you and I don’t know about.” She cocked her head on one side in a pretty gesture. “But I don’t think so …”

  I was still thinking about this as I brushed my teeth. The phone rang. A voice, a man’s, verified my identity. “This is Brother Angelo. I am a Dominican monk temporarily attached to the cathedral in Modena.” He spoke in English, heavily accented but accurate. “I am sorry to bother you this late at night but it is an urgent matter.”

  I sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “Urgent! What is it?”

  “In the confessional, we hear many things. It is not often that one of them is serious. But now, I have one of these. This is very serious indeed—”

  “Yes,” I said quickly, “what is it?”

  “It is a matter of murder.”

  His voice sank to a sepulchral level and vibrated with intensity.

  “How does this involve me?” I asked, although I had a feeling I was not going to like the answer.

  “One attempt on a life has already been made. There is to be another—and this time, it may be successful.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I told you, the confessional—”

  “But I thought you could not divulge anything you learned there.”

  “Not everyday sins, no,” he said indignantly, “but we are talking about murder.”

  I made a mental note not to accept everything I heard in the movies, even if it came from Hitchcock. I took a breath and asked, “Whose murder?”

  There was a pause and in the background, I could hear a low chanting. I assumed it to be Gregorian as I don’t know any others. When he answered, Brother Angelo lowered his voice.

  “It is difficult to talk. Can you come here to the cathedral tomorrow?”

  “In Modena? Yes, I suppose so.”

  “After morning prayers, ten o’clock. I will meet you by the statue of San G
iorgio in the west transept.”

  I barely had time to agree before he hung up hastily, just as the chant was rising to a glorious crescendo.

  Sitting thinking about this provocative conversation, I had pangs of alarm. Brother Angelo must know about the buffalo charge, when Pellegrini and I had a narrow escape. I was still not clear which of us was the target of that attempt and I had noted that Brother Angelo had said “an attempt has already been made on a life,” not on my life. Pellegrini had no idea who would be trying to kill him and I could not believe that my simple mission of evaluating three chefs singled me out for extinction. So who and why?

  After the alarm came doubt. If it was me in somebody’s sights, this might be a trick although surely a Dominican monk must be a rarity in a suspect line-up. Was he really what he claimed to be though? I picked up the phone and enlisted the aid of the hotel operator in getting through to the presbytery of the cathedral at Modena.

  “Can I speak to Brother Angelo?” I asked.

  There was a muttered side conversation and the man answering said, “He has just gone in to evening prayers. He can not be disturbed. Can I give him a message?”

  I thanked him, said no, and hung up.

  I strolled along Modena’s Corso Canale Grande next morning, a thin sunlight trying to build up its energy for a bright and warm day. The city has an extraordinary number of art treasures and is not too well known, so getting around is easy. Its fame lies mainly in the location here of the factories where Ferraris and Maseratis are made and these, sadly, attract most of the tourists.

  The lady limo driver had looked a little surprised when I told her that a change in plans meant we were heading for the duomo in Modena instead of the Corso Ercole in Ferrara. Then she nodded and headed for the autostrada. Both cities are less than an hour from Bologna and we were early arriving, so I made my way in the direction of the cathedral, admiring the pink stucco palaces and the beautiful gardens, ablaze with pink hydrangeas, behind magnificent wrought-iron gates.