Death al Dente Read Online Free Page A

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