Death al Dente Read Online Free

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.”

CHAPTER THREE
    “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,