“Good. I am sure you will be very helpful.” So Lansdown had not told her the real reason I was here. Did it really make any difference? was my fleeting thought. Perhaps not.
“Desmond also sent me this list.” She handed me another fax. Eight or nine restaurants were listed. The three belonging to the candidate chefs were among them but not together. Lansdown had evidently added the others as a blind. I noted that the first name on the list was underlined. It was the Capodimonte, owned and operated by Giacomo Ferrero, one of the three chefs on Lansdown’s list.
Francesca was a sharp-eyed girl. She saw my perusal of the list return to that name at the top. “At this time of year, it is not difficult to get a table, at these restaurants, but Desmond does not want any of your time to be wasted so he suggested that I make a reservation at Capodimonte. I made this for tonight. For two, of course,” she added with a delicious smile.
“Good planning. Yes, I want to visit as many restaurants as possible. Let me see, will you make reservations at some others for the following nights?”
“Of course.” She took a tiny electronic organizer from her bag. “Which ones?”
The computer had arrived in Northern Italy. She even looked as if she knew how to use it. Sexist! I reprimanded myself, naturally she does. I scanned the list.
“In the order Desmond has put them?” she asked innocently.
The other two chefs were down the list but there was no need to be too cloak-and-dagger about this. I wanted to check out all three promptly so as to allow time for repeat visits if required.
“This one, the Palazzo Astoria in Padua,” I said casually. “Isn’t that the restaurant run by Ottavio Battista?”
Her eyes glowed. “Yes! You know him?”
“He has a reputation,” I said, “even in England. They say he is the enfant terrible of Italian cuisine … er, do you speak French?”
“Of course. I know what it means. They also say that he is absolutely divine!”
“As a chef?”
“Yes—as a chef and also as a man.”
“Well, it’s his restaurant I’m interested in,” I said, which was a partial truth at least. “Let’s go there next.”
She nodded and her fingers flew over the minuscule keyboard. She looked up before I had time to admire her dexterity. I looked back at the list. “There’s another restaurant with a wonderful reputation … I keep seeing the name … it should be next—ah, here it is, San Pietro.”
“In Verona, yes, it is one of the best at the moment.” Her fingers twinkled again. “And after that?”
I picked a couple at random, names I did not know.
She rattled them off on the keyboard and reached into her bag again. Her hand came out with a cellular phone and she was squeezing out numbers. She said a few brief sentences and nodded to me. “We’re okay for the Palazzo Astoria tomorrow night.” I did not have time to congratulate her on her efficiency before she had repeated the performance. “Alas, the San Pietro is fully booked the next night, some special function but I can make it for the following night. The others can be arranged later.”
Lansdown certainly knew how to pick a good personal assistant. “Let’s see, it’s nearly five o’clock now,” I said. “What time is dinner tonight?”
“I made the reservation for eight-thirty. It’s a little early but I thought I should allow plenty of time for you to assess the place.”
Eight-thirty is not early by American or British standards, but this reminded me that the Italian stomach operates on a later schedule. Francesca stood up. “I will go now. Pick you up about eight-forty-five. Capodimonte is not far from here.”
“I thought you said our reservation is for—”
“Eight-thirty, yes. But no Italian ever arrives on time.”
She swung her bag on to her shoulder and strode to the door. She fluttered fingers.
“Ciao.”
“B
OLOGNA THE FAT, IT
is called in Italy,” she said.
Francesca looked charming in a close-fitting dress in black shantung with a tiny shoulder cape that achieved the maximum of exposure despite a pretense at modest coverage. Ebony and gold earrings and simple black high heel shoes completed a stunning effect.
I had heard that description of Bologna before but had forgotten it. The town lies in a buffer zone between the olive oil country and the butter culture where animal fat reigns supreme. Bologna’s location in the heart of Emilia Romagna means that it accepts both styles of cooking, striving simultaneously to maintain the old traditions and explore new horizons.
Not too new though … Lean Cuisine? Forget it. Diet? That’s for invalids. The Italians are not stick-in-the-muds in food, however, and are well aware of the trend towards more healthy eating that is still sweeping much of the Western world. That is to say, they are apprised of the trend but their reaction to it is cautious. Extra virgin olive oil has replaced lard and the harshest description they apply to a food is to call it
pesante,
heavy. Beyond that, their venturing is tentative—a contrast to the French who leapt eagerly on to the Cuisine Minceur bandwagon only to have a wheel or two fall off. Now they are trying to find a way back to some middle ground.
“In the inimitable way of Italians, you manage to keep abreast of modern trends in cuisine without emulating them,” I told Francesca. “You hold on to tradition without being a slave to it.
“It is also called Bologna the Red,” she said. “It threw away political tradition in the fifties and sixties and became the center of Italian communism.”
“A change that the rest of the world found baffling,” I pointed out.
“That was understandable,” she agreed. “No one expected a predominantly Catholic country to embrace Communism. But that was only the viewpoint of foreigners who did not have a deeper knowledge of the Italian temperament. We Italians are too realistic to expect a revolution to eliminate poverty, hunger, and inequality. We did not want a revolution, but we love the role of strutting rebels. We love the bands, the parades, the noise, the posturing, the food, the spectacle, the fireworks.”
I smiled at her exposition. “You like the trappings of revolution but not the ideology. You know, Francesca, you have a sound comprehension of the Italian people—for an Italian. Most nationalities do not see themselves as clearly as that. Patriotism usually gets in the way.”
She shrugged delightfully. “I have lived in America and in England. That helps.”
“To come back to Bologna the Fat. Do Italians still consider this region as dominant in cuisine?”
“Oh, yes,” she said firmly. With a smile, she added, “Unless they are Sicilian or Piedmontese or Tuscan or Lombardian …”
“The old rivalries still exist?”
“Of course. They do not die. But overall and from an objective point of view—”
“If such a thing exists with food—”
“Yes, then Emilia Romagna still reigns.”
She had been only twenty minutes late picking me up so it was nearly nine-thirty when we arrived at Capodimonte. An hour late was nothing. She swept in as if she were the Queen of Sheba and was doing the restaurant a favor by appearing at all.
The sommelier appeared and invited us to have an aperitif.
“I’ll have a
Rabarba,”
I said.
Francesca clapped her hands in delight. “You know Rabarba?”
“An Italian friend introduced me to it years ago. I’m still not sure if I like it but I always order one.”
“I’ll have one too,” she said.
The Italians have a bewilderingly large selection of aperitifs. Many are made from unlikely vegetables and fruits. Rabarba is made from rhubarb and has a unique taste, sort of sweet and bitter fruity at the same time.
The aperitifs and the menus arrived. I studied the latter carefully, for I was at work already. There are several things you can learn about a restaurant from its menu. For instance, you should be suspicious if the menu offers crab bisque but no crab dishes. It probably comes from a can. Skepticism concerning quality is justified when the menu is as thick as a magazine, for it means that many of the products are frozen.
Francesca engaged in a detailed conversation with the maître d’ about several of the menu items and then ordered different ones altogether. First she had tiny squares of smoked eel on a bed of cooked Treviso radicchio while I had the
bocconcini,
a Bolognese specialty—vol au vents filled with chicken giblets and truffles. The tiny puff pastries literally melted in the mouth. We both went for pasta dishes for the second course. The region around Bologna is the pasta center of Italy, the maître d’ reminded us, so it was an inevitable choice. Francesca preferred the
crosetti,
rounds of egg pasta, while I had the
frittalloni,
which I had never encountered before. Small pasta cups were filled with spinach, cheese, and sultanas, the sweet seedless raisins, then deep fried. Francesca said she liked them sprinkled with sugar so she could eat them as a sweet course.
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.