by Dick Rosano
Paolo spent most of his time in the kitchen with Stefano, while Rita worked both in the kitchen and in the dining room. Nicki served tables and only appeared in the kitchen to place or pick up an order. Stefano managed the wine inventory and drew the bottles from the racks, but Nicki delivered them to the guests, cutting the capsule and drawing the cork with practiced expertise.
At times, Paolo was drawn to the front to help serve a large order but otherwise spent his orientation to restaurant work in the back. It was hard work, not the physical labor he was accustomed to at his father's side, but he spent many hours on his feet and he had to be more careful with the plates, platters, and trays than the rough-hewn farm implements he used at home. He was not always successful.
The dining room cleared a bit earlier on Sunday than previous days, and the foursome went through the usual routine cleaning up and clearing the restaurant for the next business day. In this case, the doors wouldn't open again until Thursday while Rita, Stefano, Nicki and Paolo traveled to Alba, but Rita's knack for order demanded that everything in the front and back of the restaurant be presentable and ready for its first guests four days later.
At each dinner they shared after closing, Stefano produced a new bottle of wine. Paolo was years away from gaining his mentor's level of understanding of the vinous treasure, but he was eager to use these companion dinners to explore the subject and learn more from Stefano – and from tasting the wines.
“Tasting wine is like learning to play the piano,” Stefano said, adding with a chuckle, “you have to practice.” And with that he lifted the glass to his lips and continued - - “to practice.”
On that particular Sunday night, while they enjoyed salted anchovies and Ciuppin, a traditional Ligurian fish soup, Stefano thought it best to share bottle of Pigato. This yellowish-gray-green wine was simple and straightforward, but it leaned toward a slightly salty flavor which complimented the anchovies.
For years, Paolo had followed his father's “first rule of wine-food pairing” – drink what you like – and his father used this rule to justify having a peasant red wine with every meal. There was nothing wrong with the rule, better to drink what you want than have a wine you don't like just because someone else thinks it's right for the dish.
But this approach to serving wine may also withhold much of the potential pleasure of the meal. Paolo recalled recent meals at home and admitted that he liked the wine and loved his mother's cooking, but now that he was experiencing Rita's fine food matched with Stefano's choice of wines, he realized another rule of wine.
In deference to Dito – someone Stefano respected for his age, hard work, and wisdom – Stefano was willing to call it the “second rule of wine-food pairing” – drink the region.
“Grapes are grown in the same soil and climate as the fruit and vegetables of the region, and in the same soil and climate as the grass that the animals graze on,” Stefano explained. “And,” he added with a finger pointed to the heavens, “the same soil from which the great chefs of the region are grown. The wines from each region are made to match the food prepared in that region.
“Over the centuries of cooking and eating, Italians have evolved an understanding of what flavors match well, and in each region the cuisine and winemaking practices evolve alongside one another.”
When Nicki pointed out that “drink the region” also applied to France, Greece, and other wine producing countries, Stefano only shrugged. At that moment, Paolo saw his father's own gestures come out in his countryman.
“Of course, but we have evolved farther,” Stefano replied with unapologetic national pride.
Rita was more generous to her fellow Europeans, and added a rejoinder, “Italian food relies more on fresh ingredients than the French. Where they focus on sauces, we focus on direct connection to the soil, bringing our vegetables and meats to the table in simpler form, preserving their natural beauty and flavor.”
“So the flavors of the soil are there,” Stefano said, “and so the wine matches the food more directly.”
More conversation followed, some comparing the countries that compete on the world market for the greatest wines, with a proud nod to the wines of the Italian peninsula. “It's not called Enotria for nothing,” Stefano concluded, referring to Italy's ancient name, which translates to “land of wine.”
They cleaned up the table, washed the dishes and, under Rita's watchful eye, put everything away in its proper place. She circled the kitchen one more time, surveying the stacks of plates and pots, and approved. Then they retired for the night.
Retiring as restaurateurs usually did – late – it was a short night.
Chapter 24
The Heart of Le Langhe
The next morning they met early at Genoa Piazza Principe and boarded the train for Alba. It was a local train and would make more stops than the rapido that connected larger cities, but the company was genial and they had lots of stories to keep them company.
Stefano regaled the group with fabulous stories of the wine and truffles from Piedmont, specifically le Langhe, the Langhe hills known for these treasures. He talked spiritedly about the muscular Barolo and elegant Barbaresco wines, adding much detail that showed his appreciation for the lesser-known red wines made from the same grape, nebbiolo.
“It's named after the fog,” he said, la nebbia, “because without the cooling effect of the morning fog this magical grape might not reach the pinnacle of wine.” Stefano admitted to his love of other Italian wines, but “nothing, nothing at all, can compare to those from Piedmont.”
And he swooned when discussing the hidden wealth of truffles in the soil of le Langhe. Rita was accustomed to her husband's passionate attachment to the tuber, and shared his love of cooking with truffles, but Stefano's enthusiasm and eagerness to join the truffle hunt was unparalleled.
As the wheels of the train clicked down the track and the foursome considered his stories, Stefano added, “It's like sampling a savory bit of heaven.”
Paolo doubted the true worth of these “mushrooms” as he called them, but Stefano just said, “You wait.”
They arrived at the train station in Piazza Trento e Trieste outside of Alba just after noon and emerged from the train among the crowds of people drawn to Alba every year during the truffle harvest.
Rita and Stefano had regular accommodations at Locanda Cortiletto d'Alba, on the Corso Michele Coppino in the heart of the city, and arranged for two more rooms for Paolo and Nicki. Cortiletto's floor plan was simple but inviting in a very Italian design. The office was small, recognizing the little importance attached to that function in Italian hotels. But its size left room for more important accoutrements, like the enclosed terrazzo and below-ground cantina that served as both its wine cellar and restaurant.
Rita and Stefano climbed the stairs to their room while Paolo and Nicki rose one more flight to their separate rooms on the next floor. Paolo enjoyed the closeness of this possibility, but Nicki was curt about shutting her door, curt enough to make a clear point to her male traveling companion.
They had agreed to tarry only a few minutes, then meet again on the terrazzo to explore Alba. Rita and Stefano knew it well; Nicki had some familiarity with the town afforded by visiting Francesco. Paolo was new to the town and was anxious to begin a tour of the streets.
They exited the Cortiletto and took an immediate right turn onto Via Gastaldi, a side street that led them to the center of Alba. Paired off on the sidewalk, Paolo had another opportunity to get to know Nicki, and began to appreciate her wit and stories of life in Genoa. They angled through the streets based on Rita and Stefano's knowledge of the town and wound up in the Piazza Risorgimento, the center of town that sported several restaurants, the office of tourism, and a grand church that dominated the piazza with its façade and bell tower.
Passing through the piazza and taking a right turn at the northern corner of the square, Stefano made a sudden stop and spun on his heel toward a door. Pulling it open just as Pao
lo recognized that it was a restaurant, Stefano called out to a man just inside, and they shared a warm embrace. Fabrizio, a stocky man with the girth of a successful chef, was obviously the owner of Antico Caffè Calissano. He immediately turned his attention to Rita who received a gentler hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
Looking directly at Stefano, Fabrizio said, “Don't ever come here without her,” pointing to Rita. “I'll treat you nice and serve you the best food in Piemonte, but not without bella Rita!”
Rita smiled and another hug followed, then Fabrizio looked over her shoulder and saw Nicki standing in the doorway. Rita's back was to Nicki, but she could tell by the look on the owner's face what he was seeing. Rita pushed him away and, with a playful slap on the shoulder, said, “You unfaithful pig!” then laughed at her joke while Fabrizio blushed.
Stefano introduced Nicki and Paolo, pointed out that Paolo was Rita's nipote, and Fabrizio immediately launched into an exaggerated welcome for Nicki's benefit. She smiled, familiar with the attention, but deferred to Rita and Stefano.
“I'll feed you the best truffle dish you've ever had,” he promised, never pausing to doubt his own superlatives.
“Truffles,” Stefano asked with amused uncertainty. “This early in the day?”
Clapping him on the shoulder, Fabrizio told the others, “He'll eat truffles for breakfast too, if I opened Antico Caffè that early, and probably with his Ratafià at night!” exclaimed Fabrizio, referring to a fruity distilled liqueur enjoyed by Piemontese as a nightcap.
Rita stood quietly smiling while the men played out their game, then told Fabrizio that they would return later that night, for the best dinner he could serve! Fabrizio smiled, accepting her acknowledgment and picking up her subtle challenge.
“Si, stanotte,” he said, “tonight!”
They emerged from Antico Caffè Calissano to join the crowds gathering in the late afternoon. They caught hints of German and Japanese among the boisterous Italian voices, and they saw children running through the square with parents in quick pursuit. Banners were strung across several of the side streets announcing the upcoming Truffle Festival, and they saw various shops that specialized in culinary goods had begun to shift their products to truffles.
Rita couldn't resist the magnetism of the tartufo. She stopped occasionally and peered at the products in the windows and came away with a disappointed look.
“They're small, and there aren't many of them,” she said.
“Well, it's early in the season, so the tartufi would be smaller, but I don't think the shopkeepers would be holding out on us,” Stefano said, with a light chuckle.
As they walked along, they picked up bits of conversation that often centered on truffles. There were more than a few comments about the crop, how small it was, and how unusual that was. Rita and Stefano knew they wouldn't be able to talk to the trifolài until the next morning, so they would have to wait to get more definitive information on these rumors.
Chapter 25
Paolo's First Time
That evening they returned as promised to Antico Caffè Calissano. Fabrizio was busily breezing through his dining room, ostentatiously waving his arms and beaming his smile across the room, acting more like a visiting celebrity than a chef.
Stefano looked at his wife, and smiled reassuringly. He knew she was better in the kitchen than Fabrizio, but she didn't make such a show of it in the dining room.
She saw his smile and, in response, said, “But you have to admit, he's good.”
Fabrizio swept over to the door and seated his new guests in a favored spot by the window and then disappeared into the kitchen.
Soon afterward, a young man delivered a clay pot of bagna cauda – a sauce made of butter, olive oil, garlic and anchovies – and a platter of cut raw vegetables and rustic bread for dipping. An unlabeled carafe of white wine accompanied this first course and the diners were quieted by the largesse. Soon, Carne all'Albese – thinly sliced veal with drizzles of lemon juice and olive oil – arrived and was served around the table, devoured along with another bottle of white wine.
By now, with the appetite initially sated and the wine serving to relax them, the conversation began again.
“Fabrizio probably does make the best food in all of Piemonte,” said Rita, “but I will never admit it to him.”
“Why not?” asked Nicki. “If he's that good.”
“You see how big his head is already!” Rita remarked with a smile and a wave in the direction of the kitchen. “If he only knew that the best chef in Genoa thought he was the best chef in Alba …” and she let her voice trail off with the self-congratulatory quip.
With a bite of food in his mouth and the wine glass in his hand, Stefano grinned at his wife. She was still so beautiful and so lively. He wondered at times how he could have landed such a perfect partner.
Their stomachs slowly filling up, the foursome began to relax just as a large platter of pappardelle arrived. Paolo's eyes grew wide as saucers before the waiter was even halfway to the table.
“It's Pappardelle Tartufo,” said Stefano, with the look of a child on Christmas morning. “Pasta is not as common in the north as it is elsewhere in Italy, but tossed in butter and only a touch of salt, it is the best way to enjoy the savory brilliance of truffles.”
#
“Is that all they can talk about, truffles?” He was sitting at a table just ten feet from these self-important foodies and heard every word. He had to admit truffles are good, but – well, who was he kidding. He'd never had real truffles before.
“Perhaps on this trip,” he muttered to himself. “I can afford it.” The thought brought a smile to his face.
“Oh, yes,” he whispered, “Soon I will be able to afford it.”
#
It was the aroma of these exotic treasures that had caught Paolo's attention and turned his eyes in the direction of the approaching waiter. It was true, he thought, you could smell them from across the room! As with his first scent of Ceretto Barolo, Paolo's attention was drawn away from Nicki and focused on the food on his plate. She had enjoyed the wonders of truffles before, but was not the expert that Rita and Stefano were.
It is never easy matching a wine with truffles. The potent aromas called for a rich wine, but the subtle affect the truffles had on the dish called for a more balanced, possibly lighter wine. Stefano was all too familiar with this duality of flavors, and he smiled in Paolo's direction and knew that Dito's “first rule of wine-food pairing” was appropriate here.
A big Barolo or even an elegant Barbaresco would have overpowered the essence of this dish, so Stefano asked instead for a bottle of Altare Barbera d'Alba, another Piedmontese classic red wine but lighter in body.
The meal lasted nearly two hours and Rita, Stefano, Nicki, and Paolo were ready to retire to their hotel for a light siesta. A gulp of espresso assured that they would make it back to Cortiletto d'Alba without falling asleep, and they bid goodbye to Fabrizio.
“I'll see you domani, tomorrow, when we are competing for truffles in the piazza,” he said, and he shook hands and shared hugs all around.
They walked back to the hotel a bit more slowly than they had walked in anticipation of the midday meal. At this point, they were full of food and pleasantly appeased with wine. Rita and Stefano held hands and walked close to each other.
Cortiletto d'Alba was quiet at this hour; its American guests were still exploring the nightlife of the town while its Italian guests had decided to turn in for the evening. Stefano buzzed the foursome into the locked terrazzo and all bade sweet dreams for a long-awaited night's sleep.
Chapter 26
A Civilized Hunt
All four of the visitors from Genoa had no trouble falling quickly to sleep that night. They were still tired from their own work at Ristorante Girasole and counted on this first night in Alba to catch up.
The next morning, Rita and Stefano awoke relaxed and rejuvenated. They were here on a mission, and it was one of their favori
te missions on the calendar. Here, that day, they would “harvest” their own truffles and set up a fall menu that the people of Genoa would cheer for months to come.
Nicki awoke restless. She had not yet connected with Francesco, her real reason for the trip to Alba. She showered and slipped into comfortable clothes and even more comfortable shoes, knowing that the day would mean much walking and standing.
Paolo slept fitfully and was as energized as his aunt and uncle. He had never been to Alba, nor even the region of Piedmont, and he was discovering wines and food he had only heard about before. He paced the room for a few minutes, counted his new discoveries and compared this life to what he had at home. His cell phone rang in his pocket.
“Pronto,” he said lifting the small flip phone to his ear.
“Paolo,” came his mother's voice. “Come stai?” she asked, how are you?
“Bene, bene.”
“Are you eating well? Have you arrived in Alba yet?”
“Mama, the food is wonderful, and the wine, oh, this is the best wine I have ever tasted. Mama…” he continued, until Catrina cut him off.
“Si, si, Paolo. I know the food is good. Rita is one of the best chefs there is. But I want to hear about you.”
“Mama, we're going to meet the truffle hunters this afternoon, and it's been a long trip, and I need to get some sleep.”
Then he added, “Is papa there?”
“Si,” his mother replied, knowing that Dito was still torn by Paolo's departure and didn't want to talk to him. “He's here but he's out in the shed,” she lied.
But she didn't lie well enough. Paolo heard it in her voice. His father was probably sitting in the room with her, listening to only half of the conversation, and Paolo quickly replayed his mother's words hoping that they were phrased in a way that would comfort his father.