“Oh, of course, Dino, I promise.”
* * *
—
It was the day before I was flying back to London. I needed to vacate the apartment for two weeks—Christobel and her family were visiting for Easter and I was going home to see everyone and fetch more clothes.
Dino bundled me into his car in the morning. “I take you shopping, some essentials to take home to your mamma!”
We drove to the edge of Cascine Park, the green lungs of Florence. Ahead of us was the Stazione Leopolda, an old train station that had been converted into a vast exhibition space. A large poster advertised a food and wine fair.
We entered the yawning interior of a hall set with rows of stands covered in linen cloth, filled with people. There were food producers from all over Italy, displaying their wares on stalls groaning under elaborate displays and tasting tables: giant rolls of cheese, hams hanging from hooks, rows of slim salamis and fat mortadella, the whizz of meat cutters and clatter of voices, an assortment of smells. Each region was represented, each wine demarcation had its own area, and Dino led me through it all, announcing that our lesson would start with the most precious of all Italian commodities: olive oil. He urged me first to try several types from different provinces of Italy, tutoring me to recognize the various flavors, the rougher taste of oil from the south, the more refined taste of Tuscany’s own. I tried to impress him with the knowledge I had gleaned from Antonio in the market, but he looked at me with pity. “Not too bad, but you still have much to learn,” he said. We tried different oils, dipping fat chunks of bread into saucers bearing golden liquid, rejecting a peppery oil from Sardinia, a bitter oil from Calabria, and finally agreeing on a bottle of greenish-gold liquid with a velvety texture from a farm in Tuscany. I blanched when I saw the price but Dino did not bat an eyelid, pulling out a pile of cash and refusing to let me carry the bag.
We lingered at artisan chocolates and towers of panettone before stopping at a stall with bottles in varying shades of deep brown. My next lesson was in balsamic vinegar. “This,” declared Dino, “is the best balsamic in Italy!” The girl behind the stall gave me a talk on her wares in English. I learned that balsamic vinegar—which should always be from Modena—was made from the boiled-down concentrated sweet juice of white grapes. She pointed to a small bottle filled with what looked like molasses; it was premium balsamic, aged for five decades in a sequence of barrels each made from a different wood. It was not vinegar as I knew it; the texture was thick, treacly, an exquisite blend of sweet and sour. She showed me how to identify a good balsamic: swirl it around in the bottle, looking for a consistency that was not too syrupy and not too thin. The label, she added, has to say aceto balsamico tradizionale di Modena: “Without this exact wording, they are ordinary wine vinegars flavored with caramel or sugar.” We put away the fifty-year-old balsamic in its delicate little bottle and went for something more reasonably priced, aged five years. Again, Dino pulled out his wad of notes and, taking the bottle, guided me toward the Parmesan section.
Here fortresses of cheese rose up like battlements. The smell was heavenly—I felt like Alice falling down a rabbit hole made of rich and ripe Parmesan. Golden circles of cheese sat on each stall, their sides stamped with the marking Parmigiano-Reggiano. “This is the third thing you need.” Dino helped me to a square of cheese from the samples at the front of the table. Crumbly and moist, it was creamy on the tongue, nothing like the dried-out Parmesan I was used to. “Did you know, amore, that it takes five hundred liters of milk to make one wheel of Parmesan?” asked Dino. Well no, I said, I didn’t. “That weighs thirty-five kilos,” he said, pointing to one. “That flavor comes from all that milk, and also because it’s aged for two years.” The man behind the stall chimed in with: “It’s very good for you as well—it’s a good source of phosphorus, and also protein and calcium…”
“For seven hundred years, they produce it like this.” Dino picked up the thread, not to be outdone. “They add nothing, just rennet, and then let it age for a year and a half. It has to be stamped on the side so you know is real demarcation.” I looked at him blankly. “Amore, our food traditions are old and very important to us,” he explained patiently, as if to a child. “When you have special things—like Parmesan that has to be made in certain parts of Parma and Reggio-Emilia only—they are to be respected. Not just for the history of this food, but is also respect for yourself, for the people who make it. To you English this is just to fill your stomach so you can drink more…” He regarded me mischievously. “But for us Italians, our food is an art and deserves respect, just like your body and what you put into it. Is—’ow you call it—a virtuous circle…”
He asked for some wedges of the cheese to be cut direct from the wheel, and they were wrapped in greaseproof paper, and then in a generous roll of foil—this, I was told, was how I had to store it too. “Finally,” he told me with a flourish as he produced his money again, “remember is better on pastas that use butter instead of oil, and never with seafood…”
I hugged him. “This is so generous, Dino, thank you! Why are you so sweet to me?”
He regarded me tenderly. “Because, amore, I see that you need sweetness.”
Artichoke omelet
SERVES 1–2
1 large fresh artichoke
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
2–4 eggs, depending on size (free-range and organic)
Whole milk (2 cups to each egg)
Sea salt and black pepper, to taste
Parsley, to garnish
Take the artichoke and cut away all the hard tops of the leaves. Slice the remaining heart and tender leaves. Heat the olive oil in a frying pan and toss the artichoke pieces in it until a little browned. Whisk the eggs in a bowl with the milk. Add to the browned artichoke and cook, seasoning with sea salt and black pepper.
When the eggs begin to peel away from the side of the pan, use a large flat wooden spatula or spoon to flip the omelet. Cook the other side until golden, then serve, sprinkling some fresh chopped parsley on top.
Young artichoke and Parmesan salad
SERVES 2
3 large fresh artichokes
Thin slices of very good, aged Parmesan
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
Balsamic vinegar, to taste
Sea salt and black pepper, to taste
Remove the outer leaves of the artichokes and slice off the hard tops of the remaining leaves. Finely slice the artichokes onto a serving dish and add the Parmesan. Dress with a generous amount of olive oil and a splash of balsamic vinegar, scrunch some sea salt on top, grind in black pepper, and serve.
5
MAY
·
Mangia, mangia
or HOW TO EAT AND NOT PUT ON WEIGHT
PRODUCE IN SEASON · broad beans
SCENT OF THE CITY · iris and acacia
ITALIAN MOMENT · San Niccolò is my outdoor office!
ITALIAN WORD OF THE MONTH · stringimi forte!
I settled into the seat, fastening my seat belt. I took out my phone and flipped it open, launching the camera, peering at myself in the small screen. Hair newly trimmed, skin okay for having combatted two weeks of cold in London. I slicked on some of my gold-flecked gloss and pinched my cheeks to heighten the color—a tip that Luigo had stolen from Scarlett O’Hara and passed on to me—and, puckering my lips into a kiss, I snapped a picture. I sent it to Dino.
Seconds later, a reply.
as usual you are most beautiful when kissing me. amore, I come to get u
Two weeks apart and within a couple of hours I would see Dino again. I smiled to myself as I sank into my seat—I was going back to Florence and my lover was coming to pick me up at the airport. Four months after first arriving there, unaccountably overweight, spotty, burned out, and unhappy, I was going back ten pounds lighter, a dress size smaller, with not a mark on my skin and joy in my heart. Had I not known it myself, the transformation had been pointed out to me ag
ain and again in London; even my mother had looked at my figure approvingly. They asked me what diet I had been on, which new exercise regimen had had this effect, but I was at a loss to answer them—they couldn’t believe that a daily dose of pasta, olive oil, red wine, and gelato could succeed where so many diets and nutritionists had failed. Kicca had shrugged. “Perhaps it’s happiness?” And right now, as I twitched with excitement, this seemed the most likely explanation.
The seat belt sign lit up; we were ready to land. I looked down at the lights of Pisa—somewhere down there, he was waiting for me. And in Florence, all my friends were doing the same. I had been surprised to receive a text from Beppe while I was away, reiterating his offer to come to the airport to “carry your bags.” Giuseppe had written regularly with news of San Niccolò. Luigo and I had even sung some Culture Club together over Skype one quiet night.
I was most surprised by Dino, whose ardor had not been cooled by our separation. He had called me every morning as he drove to his “hoffice”—the family apartment he used for his business—and during the day when he was alone at his desk, he would seek me out on Skype. Our messages often gave way to video calls, and I would shut myself in my room at my parents’, enthralled by his face on the screen. It had taken a day or two before our banter had taken a sexual turn, and he had started to demand that I strip for him. I had complied only when he promised to do the same, and from there it was a small step to the inevitable—video sex. This soon became a regular interlude in our days apart, a compulsion neither of us could resist. I would emerge from my room afterward, flushed, feeling like the naughtiest girl in school. One day he had regarded me closely across the continent. “Amore, your nails are black!” he exclaimed.
None of my previous boyfriends had looked at me so comprehensively, so exhaustively; none had been so vocal on my appearance, so involved with what colors I wore or what I should be eating.
I held out my hands to the camera. “Do you like it?”
“Hmmm,” he pondered. “I preferred the one you had on before. You should get some of the Chanel beige, is so elegant, would look marveloooooous on you, amore.”
“Yes, but this color is very fashionable right now,” I countered.
He held out a hand. “Amore, I cannot discuss fashion with an Englishwoman!”
I burst out laughing. His most arrogant declarations always made me laugh the most. I challenged him. “Oh, come on, give us Brits our due. Look at Vivienne Westwood,” I pointed out. “No one cuts a suit like her—”
“No, really, amore mio, I cannot have this conversation. I am Italian…”
Now, on the plane, I looked at my hands, my nails painted classic Chanel beige. He was right, it was more elegant, but I had packed my black nail polish anyway.
But first I needed to arrive, to see him, to reconnect with him after our disembodied talks and removed intimacy. My stomach was churning with anticipation. I jiggled impatiently through landing, disembarkation, while waiting for my luggage and passport control. Through to the arrivals hall and there he was, standing right in front of the door, small and compact in jeans, a polo shirt and coral cashmere sweater, his hair flicked off his face. Dino! In all his glory, his chestnut-brown hair a little shorter than before, his absurd sideburns a little fatter, his eyes glittering with welcome. He opened his arms and I fell into them, burying myself in the intoxicating cashmere softness of him, the warmth of his skin, the hardness of his body. He crushed me into him, kissing my neck, my cheeks, my lips over and over again, holding my face in his hands and drawing back to look at me, examining every feature.
“Amore, you are so much more beautiful without pixels,” he exclaimed, and my nervousness disappeared. “Now,” he said, picking up my cases, “I think first you need a good Italian meal to help you recover from tasteless British tomatoes.”
* * *
—
“Baciami!” I leaned toward Dino, lifting up my face to his.
We were in Nello, a plain country restaurant in a village twenty minutes south of Florence, where we were now regulars, and Dino had started my Italian lessons.
“First, the first person singular of the verb avere?” he said, pointing to a paper place mat that he had filled out with columns of Italian verbs and some phrases he considered essential:
baciami—kiss me
non smettere di baciarmi—don’t stop kissing me
abbraccia mi—hug me
stringimi forte—hold me tight
I couldn’t be bothered to conjugate verbs when it was so much more fun to tease him. “Abbraccia mi.” I sidled up to him.
“No, conjugate essere, I insist!” he tried again.
“Stringimi forte…” I leaned my head on his shoulder.
He shrugged dramatically and wrote out another phrase on the place mat: vorrei un po’ di pane.
“I would like some bread,” he said. “This one is more useful.”
“Stringimi forte…” I said again, leaning in to him.
“If you are not going to take this seriously”—he pretended to be cross—“how can you expect to impress the baker?”
“But Dino, what use do I have for bread when I could live on baci? If only you would non smettere di baciarmi.”
He laughed, giving up on Italian lessons, and kissed me instead over our simple dishes of spaghetti with the zucchini that had just started appearing in the market.
Dino and I were a couple. We had been inseparable since I had promised to kiss no one but him, notwithstanding my time away, and indeed, I had kissed no one but him. He rang as soon as he woke up in the morning and my day was peppered with his texts and calls until we met in the evening. This, I was sure, was love. No one had ever paid such intense attention to me before, and if there was even a small crack left in my heart from its shattering by Nader, it had been healed a hundred times over.
One Saturday morning at the beginning of the month soon after I got back, Dino called.
“Amore, I am at my tennis club, but I shower and I fly to you,” he said. He was often at his tennis club—his toned arms and abs bore testament to this—and his favorite activity had become flying to me. “Be ready in half an hour,” he ordered.
He had grown bossy outside of bed too and I adored it. It made me feel feminine, wanted.
Half an hour later, as promised, I found him waiting for me by my door, smoking. Across the road stood Old Roberto, also smoking, and glaring. I waved to him. “Come on,” I said to Dino, “there’s someone you should meet.” We crossed the road and I introduced him to the old man, who looked him up and down with naked animosity.
“Ah,” he said accusingly, turning to me as if he understood at last. “So, you have a younger Roberto?”
Dino looked at me quizzically, and bidding the old man a good day, we jumped into the car and zoomed away into the hills.
I filled Dino in on how one day while visiting his garden, Old Roberto had proposed marriage to me, and how I had laughed in his face. “But he was being serious, Dino—can you imagine?” I had picked up this verbal tic from Dino—the constant amazement at things that were unimaginable. In fact, my whole life right now felt like something that until lately was unimaginable, and I truly was in an almost constant state of amazement.
He nodded sagely. “Yes, I am not surprised.”
“Dino! It’s absurd, he’s a hundred years old, how could he have been serious?”
“Let me explain to you, amore,” he said. “Of course he was serious; Italian men will always try for a beautiful woman; we appreciate beauty, age has nothing to do with it.”
“But for goodness’ sake—” I protested.
“Listen,” he interrupted me. “I tell you about Italian men. Love and beauty for us is not a joke, is very serious. Maybe the only serious thing. I see you have been kind with that sad old man, you are such a sweet girl. But of course he hopes that he can have you, this is just logical. It’s the law of averages.”
“Well, that doesn’t mak
e me feel very special.” I laughed.
“No, no, you misunderstand,” he cried. “A woman’s beauty for us is always compelling. So we try. With everyone. And like this, someone will say yes!”
I chewed this over. “Now I feel bad I hurt his feelings.”
“No, piccolina, mai!” he assured me, squeezing my knee. “We take rejection very well. We are very used. If she says no, vabbé, maybe the next one will say yes!”
“Dino—so if I had rejected you,” I pressed on, “you would have just shrugged and tried with the next girl you saw?”
“Nooooo, amore, certo che no!” he cried dramatically. “If you had said no, I would have crawled home and died of a broken heart.” He smirked, flaring his nostrils, flicking his hair.
I started laughing. “Yes, okay, you would have wasted away on a pile of cashmere and your sideburns would have wilted…”
He was laughing too now. “Ah, amore, you know me so well.”
I needed to know more.
“You know what they say about Italian men,” I asked him, “that they are all vain mommy’s boys who just lie and cheat on their women and care more about how they look than being a responsible partner—is it true?”
Without missing a beat, he replied, “Ma certo!”
I was taken aback. “What, you too?”
He was looking at me with a grin I couldn’t read. “Amore, ma si, is true of all. Of course I am a terrible liar. I told you before, never trust an Italian man!”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking and my heart was suddenly beating very fast. “Are you lying to me now?”
He laughed uproariously as he pulled over to park. “Dai, piccolina!” He took my head in his hands and dropped light kisses all over my face. “No, I have never lied to you, and I will not lie to you. But I am telling you how it has been…”
Bella Figura Page 11
