Death al Dente Read Online Free Page B
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
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