by Dick Rosano
The city's true nickname was La Superba, a moniker that honors its wondrous past and wealth of monuments. For centuries, it was the stepping off point for great expeditions, the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, and no doubt the splendor of sailing ships were inspiration for Columbus' early dreams of exploration.
It was a typical port and seaside city, with most of the avenues running parallel to the Mediterranean Sea that Genoa spreads its arms around. The city had over 1,000 years of seafaring history, served as a major trading port of the Ligurian region, and so it had many layers of streets that backed up the shoreline and climbed the rambling hills of the coastline. Genovese grumbled that too many years had cast too many problems on them and their home, but few could bring themselves to leave the city.
Paolo stood still for a moment and gathered his thoughts about direction. He knew that Ristorante Girasole was on Via del Mare, but he had not been there and certainly not without an adult's hand to hold, so steering himself in the proper direction would be a challenge.
“Scusi, signore, puo dirmi dov'é la Via del Mare?” he asked a stranger. The gray-haired man was standing on the corner, reading Il Giornale, and looked up at the taller Paolo for a moment before responding. He added the formality of a chin-rub, a quick arching of eyebrows, and then peered back at his questioner.
“Questa via,” he said, this way, pointing to his right, then offered a few more turns and suggestions, even throwing in an unsolicited recommendation for a wonderful café known for un ristretto caffé, a particularly strong mini-cup of espresso known in the city, then finished his commentary by saying, “e' giusto li,” “it's right there.”
Paolo thanked him and went on his way, smiling at the friendly greeting. He even decided to take the man up on his recommendation for un ristretto caffé.
The short walk to Via del Mare gave Paolo a chance to see and smell the city. In fact, the smells of cities, particularly those in Europe and other very old metropolises, revealed much about their character. A denizen of the farms, Paolo didn't have much of an inventory of olfactory memories to make of the smells around him that day, but he always marveled at how old cities mingled food, wine, coffee, car exhaust, and manufacturing smells into some kind of symphony. It was not always pleasant, but no newly constructed concrete-and-steel urban setting could cast such a spell on a person. This was what greeted Paolo as he walked down the streets of Genoa in search of his aunt's restaurant.
Chapter 20
Ristorante Girasole
Stepping off the curb at Via del Mare, Paolo walked into Ristorante Girasole about half past eight, just as the dinner rush was filling the dining room. Stepping through the narrow doorway into the semi-lighted room, he was enveloped with the aromas of the Ligurian coast, and the chatter and clatter of a typical Italian dining room. He let his eyes adjust to the difference in light, let his ears adjust to the din around him, and gazed across the room toward the kitchen, then to the slender man circling the tables with practiced grace.
Paolo stood at the door and waited, bag in hand, but probably looked more like a guest waiting to be seated than a family member on a visit. Finally, the dining room manager spun past one more table and approached him.
It was Stefano, his aunt's husband, and he briefly took Paolo for nothing more than the dinner guest he seemed to be.
“Uno?” Stefano asked, casting his arm wide toward the dining room. Following his own arm, Stefano's eyes searched for an open table, then he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
“Paolo!?” He quickly furrowed his brow playfully hinting that he'd been deceived, then spun around to hug his nephew.
“Che cos'é?” he asked. “How's it going? Rita didn't tell me you were expected today.”
“Well, no, I just…” Paolo replied when released from the bear hug. “It's nothing; I just came for a visit.”
For a moment the two men stood in expectant silence, then Stefano slapped Paolo on the back, grabbed his bag and threw it behind the counter, then took his nephew by the elbow back into the kitchen.
As the double-swinging kitchen doors swung inward, Rita looked up and dropped her spatula and tongs. She swung around the corner of the stainless steel prep table and wrapped her nephew in her arms. Paolo was taller than his diminutive aunt, but Rita left no doubt about her command of the embrace.
She stepped back and, grabbing him at the elbows with extended arms, Rita surveyed her new charge.
“You've grown up, you're tall and muscular. Dito must be working you hard.”
Paolo smiled and shrugged his shoulders, without responding. He didn't want to dissuade his aunt from complimenting him, but didn't want her to hold onto the image of him as a farmer either.
Rita reached over the counter, pulled a loaf of bread, aromatic and herb-scented right from the oven, and gave it to Paolo. He was ready to yank off a hunk and enjoy it, when Rita shook her finger at him.
“You're not here to eat, you're here to work.” She tossed him an apron and told him to grab a knife and slice the bread, then put it in a basket for the table near the door.
“It's too busy right now to visit properly. We'll talk later.” Leaving Paolo in Stefano's charge, Rita took her turn in the dining room – she and Stefano liked to work both the “front” and the “back” of the restaurant – to greet guests and take orders to be delivered to her husband and Paolo in the back.
Paolo was truly hungry after such a long day, but the pace of life in a restaurant kitchen quickly vanquished any thoughts of a leisurely meal. He took up his first assignment and quickly followed additional instructions from Stefano. In what passed for only a minute or two, he got into the work – just as the kitchen door flew open and a young woman barged into the prep area. She was spectacularly beautiful, with green eyes and long raven hair that tumbled down her back. She was not family, Paolo knew, so her presence here suggested she was an employee.
“Ciao, I'm Nicola,” she said, “who are you?” busily managing her own chores and showing little respect for hierarchy here in the kitchen.
Momentarily speechless, Paolo wished for the moment that he had Dante's swift wit.
“Okay,” Nicola threw in to fill the dead air, “I need one order of Trenette al Pesto, Cima, and Burrida… and a platter of antipasto di casa.”
Paolo smiled, muttered something “bella!” just as Nicola swung around and glided back out to the dining room. Stefano heard Paolo's comment and smiled knowingly in return.
Stefano was familiar with the effect that Nicola had on men and knew that Paolo was doubly confounded by the list of these typically Ligurian dishes.
“We call her Nicki.”
Continuing, Stefano explained, “Trenette al Pesto is one of Liguria's most famous dishes. Other people think they can make it but not the way we do,” headed with evident pride.
“I'll make it,” Stefano said, “but I could use your help with the Cima. I have to stuff the veal with eggs, peas, cheese, and marjoram. Perhaps you could chop the herbs for me,” he said as he slid a branch of marjoram over to Paolo at the cutting board.
“And don't worry about the Burrida either. Rita started it hours ago, cutting and stewing a dozen fish and shellfish and herbs. Our customers call it “Burrida di Rita” since her version is known throughout Genoa, and she won't let anyone touch it.” At that, Stefano laughed, and added, “When Rita decides the recipe is hers, leave it alone, that's all I can say.”
The dining room was full at Ristorante Girasole, a common occurrence at most restaurants on weekend nights such as this one, but Rita and Stefano's establishment was very popular and busy nights stretched into the week as well. They focused on food that was typical Genovese fare, adding ingredients from nearby regions as appropriate for each dish.
The pace of restaurant work was unlike anything Paolo had experienced in the quiet solitude of the vines, and more rushed than he witnessed at Il Bar Spiriti in Sinalunga. He may have scoffed at restaurant work in earlier days, assu
ming confidently that work in the vineyard was infinitely more physically demanding, but responding to the demands of sometimes impatient guests put greater stress on the pattern of work than did grapes that – mostly – just hung quietly on the vine.
But it was also energizing, and he quickly learned to contribute. The hours swept by, the tables were filled, cleared, and filled again, then as midnight approached and the last guests lingered over espresso and biscotti del lagaccio, the sweet fennel-scented cookies known well in Liguria, Paolo was able to catch his breath and take in the expanse of the restaurant.
Later in the night, as kitchen work switched from preparation to clean-up, Paolo helped Rita and Stefano and Nicki work the dining room and tend to the remaining guests. After the last table had been cleared, Nicki brought the plates and glasses in for washing, all the while sensing that Paolo was watching her. This brought a satisfied smile to her lips; enjoying the attention of men was a familiar experience.
Stefano was stacking plates on the sideboard and shot a glance in Rita's direction, cocking his head in Paolo's direction and getting a knowing nod and raised eyebrows from Rita in return. Paolo was working hard but struggling to adapt to the pace in a restaurant kitchen, with its strange menu items and wordless signals between the others that had been honed over many nights of teamwork.
For her part, Nicki was well adapted to the routine. They had hired her a year earlier, a little concerned at the time that she may not be able to handle the long hours and physical nature of restaurant work that escaped the attention of most people who remained on the other side of the kitchen door. But she fit in nicely, worked hard, and had become a fixture in Ristorante Girasole, and a welcome sight to their male guests.
Chapter 21
Late Night Repast
When everything was cleaned and put away, Rita lit the gas burners and prepared a quick platter of Gasse, a butterfly-shaped pasta, and dressed it with artichokes, onions, and garlic, and a splash of white wine. Stefano arranged a platter of cheese and some slices of fresh vegetables that had been grilled and marinated in olive oil, thyme, and balsamic vinegar, left over from the night's dining room service.
Nicki took down four plates and four glasses and set the table in the back of the kitchen with these and the utensils they would use. The three experienced restaurateurs moved smoothly through the kitchen with well-practiced motions, without comment or verbal communication, as if they were actors in a silent play.
Paolo knew they were fixing their own dinner but got no direction from his aunt or uncle, so he went back to help Nicki with her chore. She accepted the assistance, occasionally pointing to another table article that she wanted Paolo to retrieve and set, then the four converged on their late night repast. Once the meal was set and all the food was delivered to the table, Rita, Nicki, and Paolo sat down, but Stefano went back into the closet for one more ingredient.
He returned with a bottle of Ceretto Barolo. Setting it carefully on the table, he pulled a cavatappo, corkscrew, from his back pocket and went to work on the willing cork. Paolo had seen many bottles opened and listened to the pop of many corks, and at first he shrugged off the ritual and focused his attention on the food at the table. But following the expected “pop,” the room was immediately filled with a fragrance he was not accustomed to. Stefano poured a half glass of the deep red wine for everyone then set the bottle down in the middle of the table, within reach of each of them. This dinner was family style, where everyone was expected to help themselves to wine and food. Nobody got served back in the kitchen.
Paolo took a sip of the wine and paused. After letting the full body of the liquid glide down his throat, his mouth slowly opened as if he had something to say, but he couldn't find the words. He stared at the glass, as if waiting for the wine to speak to him, but the man-wine conversation would take place in silence. In that moment, Paolo discovered wine in a way he had never known it.
Of the hundreds of wines Paolo had enjoyed, many of them good, they were mostly peasant stock. His father sold their grapes to local wineries and the dell'Uco family received some wine in return with the payment. Paolo knew the local Tuscan wines were good – who could argue with the success of region's wines on the world market – but he did not often have access to the best of Tuscany. Here, in this bottle of Ceretto Barolo, he discovered what it was to enjoy the best wine a region had to offer.
The moment – and the wine's affect on Paolo – was not lost on Stefano, for whom this legendary “grape juice” was a passionate undertaking. He glanced at Paolo, mused silently about what he was thinking, and took a sip from his own glass. Just then Stefano smiled, realizing that this wine was the only thing so far that evening that had taken his nephew's attention off of Nicki.
Rita and Nicki were too interested in the food on their plates to bother with Paolo's thoughts or Stefano's ruminations. The women handed the platter of antipasti back and forth and drew their portions of Gasse that Rita had prepared.
When her immediate hunger pains were satisfied, Nicki turned to Paolo.
“So, you're Rita's nephew. How old are you?”
The question seemed a bit impetuous and left Paolo feeling a bit like a child, so he straightened up and spoke in a manly voice, saying he was twenty-three years old.
“Hmm,” Nicki said, adding in a teasing tone. “The same as me,” although Rita and Stefano knew she was just twenty.
Nicki was self-assured and confident in her handling of men; she apparently had much experience in fending them off. She matched her extraordinarily good looks with a keen intelligence. Not one that had been honed in the classrooms of the university but one that was enlightened by life's experiences. She was bright and quick at math, but even quicker at appraising men's attentions.
Turning to Rita, Nicki said in an offhand manner, “Francesco will be there next week.”
“He's my boyfriend,” Nicki explained to Paolo, tossing off a slight smile to convey the message to Paolo.
“He'll be where?” Paolo asks.
“In Alba,” said Rita. “For the truffle season. Francesco's father is one of the best truffle hunters in Piedmont, and they all gather in Alba to sell their treasures and take part in the truffle festival.”
Paolo was quickly lost but tried to catch on. He'd heard of truffles, but had never tasted any. Stefano turned into the “foodie” that he was and launched into a story about the legendary tuber, a subterranean growth that was so aromatic that a single shaving can make an entire dish come alive.
“The scent of truffles is so wonderful that, in an entire room, I can tell when even a single dish has used it.”
Rita laughed doubtfully, wanting to spare her husband embarrassment, although secretly she had to admit that the fragrance of fresh truffles is so remarkable that even she can pick up the scent from far away.
Together, they educated Paolo with wondrous sighs and wild stories of the hunt – “Italians use dogs,” Stefano noted sensibly, “not those obstreperous pigs of the French.” Then Rita explained that they close the restaurant for three days in mid-week this time of year to go to Alba. Two trips are usually enough, she explained, so they would be closing the restaurant the first and second week of October, from Monday through Wednesday.
“Of course,” Rita begins, “you will join us.”
Nicki sat quietly, following the tales of the truffle festival with obvious interest. When Paolo asked if she is also going to Alba, she answered yes. Nicki was not with Ristorante Girasole in the previous year's truffle season, but she had her own personal reason to go this year.
“I'm looking forward to some time with Francesco,” she said, then sipped again from the glass of Barolo.
Chapter 22
Piazza Risorgimento
After sleeping through most of his days since coming to Alba, he welcomed the evenings more than ever. Most Italian towns come alive after sunset, the lights of the cafés twinkling back at you from side streets, the sounds of music mingling from op
posing corners of the piazze, the clink of plates and glasses at sidewalk tables, and the lively chatter of the people walking by.
Life was something like this back in his country, but stiffer and less friendly. The Italians had a way of making life sparkle. They took misfortune in stride – ever since the heyday of the Roman Empire, they've had their share of misfortune – and they reveled in good fortune. But through it all they laughed, loved, and played, as if enjoying each day was itself a victory.
He relaxed at a table in the Piazza Risorgimento with a satisfied smile and thought about the truffles that he – they – had secreted in the warehouse outside this humble city. And he wondered whether the Albese knew yet what had happened to them. He had heard some vague comments on the street, but couldn't make it out in Italian. It sounded like they were talking about truffles; in any case, it was always the men, always dressed in rough clothes, and always with the sound of concern in their voices.
But he also wondered how her end of the plan was going. She said her part was done early, getting the program, and she was just helping him with the harvest because they needed to move quickly.
The man had to admit he needed help because she wanted so many of the damn truffles.
“Why do we need so many?” he asked her once.
“They're part of the plan,” was all she'd say. He knew the plan, and could piece together a strategy as well as she could, but she insisted that they collect more truffles than seemed necessary.
It was as if she wanted to damage the annual crop, whether they needed to or not.
That's the part that didn't seem to agree with the plan: “We were in it for the money, right?” he thought.
Chapter 23
Last Night in Genoa
Rita, Stefano, Paolo, and Nicki worked hard at Ristorante Girasole, as Paolo picked up lessons in the front and back of the restaurant. His experience with consumables was at the raw end of production, growing and picking grapes, and it didn't matter what he thought of the buyers and the end while he was still back at the farm. But people who spend hard-earned money to eat a fine meal expect to be treated to good food and friendly service.
