by Dick Rosano
Chapter 29
Stories of Glories Past
After three hours spent around the table, the diners rose to leave. Rita and Stefano headed in the direction of Dario's, their favorite gelato shop, knowing that the short walk across the piazza and down the side street would be just enough exercise to make room for dessert.
Nicki slipped her hand through Francesco's arm, turned slightly to leave a gentle kiss on Paolo's cheek, and the pair wandered off for the evening passeggiata, a post-prandial stroll that most Italians feel is as important as the meal itself.
Tomaso stood on the corner smoking a cigarette, blowing cool columns of blue smoke while providing closing comments to Paolo on the magic of the tartufo.
“Most people know there are four flavors: sweet, sour, salty, bitter. The best chefs are trained to combine these impressions to achieve the great flavors of the dish. But what is the mushroom? It's neither sweet nor sour, and certainly not salty or bitter.”
He looked at Paolo as if he was waiting for an answer, but by then Paolo knew Tomaso's teaching method. He didn't expect the student to provide an answer, but he paused to let the question sink in.
With raised eyebrows Tomaso added, “And if the lowly mushroom can't be classed in this way, what can be said of the majestic tartufo?”
Tomaso cast his eyes down at the pavement, spat out a tiny thread of tobacco leaf that had escaped his cigarette, and brushed his lips with his hand. Still considering the question with his head down, he continued.
“The Asian chefs answered this question centuries ago, but we didn't listen.”
Paolo didn't know where this proud Italian was going, but stayed rapt in the description.
“They call it umami, we call it savory. A word that describes flavors to remind us of fish oil, fermented seaweed, mushrooms…and truffles. The most interesting thing about savory accents is that too much overpowers the dish. Some people think that restricting risotto, for example, to only a few shavings of fresh truffle is tirchio, cheap. But more than that would ruin the flavor.”
Paolo smiled slyly at Tomaso's knowledge of cuisine. “I thought you said to ask Fabrizio questions about cooking.”
Tomaso smiled back, and he raised his shoulders in a single gesture to mean, “What do you think? I wouldn't learn?”
With that, Tomaso waved his cigaretted hand and bade Paolo “buono sera,” then wandered off into the night. Paolo was left to consider all that he had learned, and how he was going to apply this new knowledge to his life in Sinalunga.
The thought startled him. Paolo left his home to discover the world, but he already found himself absent-mindedly applying his new lessons to his return.
He began to walk alone, not the passeggiata that Italians preferred, in linked arms with loved ones, but the cool air of an autumn night in Alba was refreshing and he wasn't ready to return to his room at the Cortiletto d'Alba just yet.
It was in moments of solitude like this that Paolo thought of home. He didn't miss it, or at least that was not how he explained the thought, but he had new respect for what his father and mother did in Sinalunga. Paolo watched the people passing by, in couples or small families with children skipping to keep up with parents. He thought about his aunt and uncle who worked hard day and night, side by side, and about the hundreds of customers in Genoa who considered the Ristorante Girasole part of their everyday experience. And he thought about the self-assured Francesco who would yield the field to his father and – though taller than the older man – seemed to take a smaller position beside him.
Paolo found himself wondering about Nicki. He didn't remember anything said about her family, and he was deep in thought when a voice called out his name.
“Paolo!” It was coming from a dimly lit sidewalk café on a side street to his right. Peering down the via, he made out a waving hand, heard “Vieni qui,” “come here,” and realized that it was Rita and Stefano relaxing at a café table.
Paolo walked past tables of lovers snuggling in the evening chill, a table of men in soccer jerseys who were celebrating the afternoon's victory, and an older couple whose comfortable closeness was evidence of many years of happy marriage. The cameriere, or waiter, was at their table when he reached his aunt and uncle, and Paolo reflexively ordered a Campari and soda, a common libation for Italians at any time of the day.
The drink arrived quickly, but tasted slightly different from the Campari and soda he was used to. Noticing his questioning look, Stefano chimed in, “It's called la bicicletta, the bicycle. In Piedmont it's customary to add a bit of white wine to this common Italian aperitif.”
“Hmmm,” Paolo said, but he liked the result.
From the stout aromas of Stefano's drink, Paolo could tell that he was drinking a Negroni, something that combines gin, vermouth, and Campari, and Rita was idling over what seemed a final glass of Prosecco, Italy's famed sparkling wine from the northeastern provinces.
“What did you do?” Rita asked, pairing her maternal instincts with friendly banter.
“Non c'e nulla,” he answered, “not much.”
“Well,” she continued, “I wish you would smile at that pretty girl at the next table,” cocking her head in that direction. “Stefano thinks I haven't noticed his wandering eye.”
Stefano protested but Rita dismissed it with a wave of the hand. Flirting is so common in Italy that men can't escape being caught in the act. And women can't deny drawing the flirtatious attention in the first place.
Paolo looked in the direction Rita indicated and smiled broadly. His aunt had good taste – and, it seems, his uncle did too – and the young man did as instructed. The pretty brunette let her eyes smile first, then allowed her lips to get into the response, then turned her attention back to the other girl at the table.
“Il cameriere seems very friendly with the other girl,” Stefano told Paolo. “He's probably her boyfriend,” suggesting that the brunette might be unaccompanied. After trying to help his nephew in courting ways, Stefano let his eyes wander in Rita's direction. It took only the ironic smile etched on Rita's lips for Stefano to realize that his awareness of the chemistry at the other table gave him away.
“Busted!” said Rita smiling, using the American slang word to show her husband what she knew all along.
Stefano let out a nervous laugh and stood to go inside and pay the bill. Left alone, Rita told Paolo that they were going back to the hotel, but that he didn't need to follow right away. Then she stood, took her scolded husband by the arm, and they walked away.
Watching them leave, Paolo turned his attention back to his drink. But when he raised the glass to his lips, his upturned eyes caught sight of the brunette smiling in his direction.
It didn't take long to get her name – Lucia – and Paolo bought a bottle of Albino Armani Moscato, a light, refreshing sparkling wine to share with her and her companion. They talked for an hour under the watchful eye of the cameriere before Paolo collected Lucia's phone number and address. Another hour and more conversation, and the girls decided it was time to go. Light hugs, a kiss on the cheek, and a wink had Paolo promising to call on her the next day, while he returned to Cortiletto d'Alba.
Chapter 30
Hunting for the Hunters
With the activities of the day, an afternoon of snooping around among the trifolài, a long evening meal followed by drinks at the café, Paolo was still in a fog the next morning, so the banging at the door woke him from a deep sleep. He lifted himself up on his elbows, hazily recollecting where he was, and walked to the door. Pulling on the handle he expected to see Stefano – but Paolo was surprised to see the more diminutive Rita standing on the threshold.
“Did you forget?” she asked.
“Stefano and I are leaving today,” Rita continued, “and we want to talk to Giorgio and Bruno before going to the train.
“Si, certo,” he mumbled, sure. He knew they were leaving and remembered talking the night before about what he and Nicki would be tasked to do in th
eir absence.
“Meet us outside Cortiletto as soon as you can.” With that, Rita turned quickly and bolted down the stairs that led to her room.
When Paolo realized that he was being left in Alba with Nicki, he snapped out of the fog and raced to get showered and dressed.
Paolo swung through the hotel's breakfast room, swept a double espresso off the counter, and downed it in one gulp. By the time he reached the sidewalk, all four were present, including Francesco, whose presence reminded him that he would not be left completely alone with Nicki.
“It's important that you and Nicki keep trying to find some truffles,” Rita said, looking back and forth at the two. Francesco was listening but not looking at Rita. “Just as well,” she thought, “he had no ties to Ristorante Girasoldi.”
“We'll talk to Bruno and Giorgio,” Stefano chimed in, “and get some names of others you can talk to after we've left. It wouldn't hurt to talk to some storekeepers and chefs, to see what they've heard.”
“Basically,” Rita summed it up, “we want to you to meet the hunters and set up the sales – even start working on the prices – by the time we return.”
They started off down Corso M. Coppino toward Via Gastaldi and Rita waved to a person up ahead.
“Giorgio is over there,” she said, pointing at a middle-aged man with scruffy clothes, mildly unkempt hair, and a canvas hat pulled close upon his ears. They crossed the street to meet him, and were soon joined by Bruno, another hunter who was close friends with Giorgio. Bruno was slightly better dressed than Giorgio, but there was no mistaking that both of these men made their living from the earth.
“Buon giorno. Come stai?” asks Rita, “how are you?” “We bought truffles from you last year,” she said, addressing both Giorgio and Bruno.
“And the year before that,” added Bruno.
“What is the price this year?” Stefano asked. Both of the men regarded him with sheepish looks and seemed reluctant to reply.
Finally, Giorgio responded, quoting a price that was nearly three times last year's. Haggling began immediately, with Stefano acting suspicious and Rita responding like she had been stung by the price.
The trifolài, tried not to lose the deal altogether, explaining that they had mouths to feed and, with so few truffles this year, the price must go up.
“Scarcity names the price,” said Bruno, lifting his shoulders to reinforce the point that he was not completely in control of the price of truffles this year.
“What happened?” Rita grilled. “Are we supposed to think that Alba, home to the greatest truffles in the world, has suddenly lost its crop?”
Giorgio looked at Bruno, a move that Stefano pounced on as an inept effort to conspire.
“Don't look at him for the answers,” he stormed, and addressing Giorgio with a finger pointed at his chest, he asked, “How much did you bring in this year?”
Giorgio looked like a man caught on a witness stand, testifying against his brother.
“Maybe two kilos, looking down at his fingers, and last year it was 5.5 kilos.”
Bruno leapt in to support his friend.
“And I have only three and a half kilos this year, only one-fourth of my crop from last year.”
Stefano peppered them with questions: “Where did you look? Were the plots the same? What was the harvest like? And other queries that trifolài would not have had the temerity to ask one another. And with that, Giorgio and Bruno both responded with offense.
“Signore, we know our business,” Bruno pushed back. “We are trifolài, the best in Alba,” although his boast would be hard to corroborate. “We know where to look and what effect the weather will have. Don't ask us insulting questions. I tell you the crop is down!” he added with emphatic tones.
This retort gave Giorgio some time to compose himself, and his reply was more subdued.
“Stefano, we want to sell tartufi to you and Rita for your restaurant, and we would rather sell more than less, but they're not there.”
The exchange went from hot to tepid, and all tempers cooled a bit. Paolo was a mere bystander, and Nicki knew enough to keep her place as hired help. Only Francesco stayed close to the debate, though he remained an observer.
The back-and-forth argument raged for about thirty minutes, some new information was shared, but Giorgio and Bruno had no option but to admit the truth: They had precious few truffles this year and had to make a living. When the conversation slowed a bit, Rita looked first at her husband, then at the ground. Stefano stared at the two hunters before him, as if he hoped that standing stubbornly there on the street would make the truffles magically appear.
Rita touched Stefano's arm and he looked at her. They exchanged some quiet words while Giorgio and Bruno stood waiting. Paolo watched all this with admiration. It seemed like a standard bartering session, one in which each party got some of what they were aiming for, and the result would be a slightly reduced price and a slightly smaller exchange of truffles. Which is why he was surprised at Rita's next statement.
“We can't buy them,” she said, while Stefano looked on impassively. “We can't afford that. We don't buy solely for our own pleasure. We buy truffles for our restaurant. Basically, we buy truffles to resell them to our customers, and at this price, we would have to raise our menu prices so high that no one would come in.”
Stefano wanted to put all this in perspective. “As hard as it is for us here, and you, all of us standing here in Alba to understand the crisis with truffles this year, our customers don't know – they wouldn't be able to understand – why the Ristorante Girasole was charging two or three times as much for the same dishes we have made our reputation on in the past.”
By now, Francesco had receded from the immediate circle to become just a listener. Nicki brushed her shoe back and forth on the sidewalk, and Paolo stood transfixed. He was new to the magical powers of the truffle, and he was already witnessing the tuber at a crossroads. His early life and general background hadn't prepared Paolo to care so much about food, but in an epiphany that morning, he realized that he had already been drawn so far into the circle of Italy's grand cuisine that he was nervously wondering what this could mean for the next generation of food lovers.
Giorgio and Bruno made another feeble attempt to get the restaurateurs to reconsider. All four realized that Rita and Stefano weren't holding out simply for advantage; they were right – higher menu prices could doom the fall dining season.
Soon, the group disbanded. Muttering between themselves, Rita and Stefano tried to decide what they would do next. Francesco excused himself from the others, explaining that he had to help his father at the farm. And Paolo and Nicki fell in behind Rita and Stefano heading back to the hotel.
At the door of the Cortiletto d'Alba, Rita turned to Paolo to say that they were going upstairs to pack and would head to the train station to return to Ristorante Girasole, and reminded him that he would remain in Alba with Nicki and try to sort out this mess with the truffles.
“We'll bring our cousin in to help in the restaurant this weekend. She knows her way around the kitchen,” Rita said. “You two stay in Alba and see what you can find out about the truffles. Remember, we still need them; we're just not going to pay that kind of price.”
Chapter 31
Alba at Night
That afternoon, following Rita and Stefano's departure for the train station at Piazza Trento e Trieste, Paolo and Nicki walked off to tour Alba and find out more about the missing truffles. There were many questions, but few answers. For their part, the trifolài were ambivalent. They didn't want to diminish the excitement about the truffle harvest, but they also couldn't deny the scarcity and the impact this had on the prices they must demand.
Most of the tourists who were now crowding Alba's streets knew very little about the problem and, if they did know, it seemed to matter little to them. Tourists were not the main market for the trifolài, who sold most of their crop to the restaurants, markets, and other Albese.
When it was time for dinner, Nicki and Paolo chose La Savona and settled in at a small table in the front corner by the window. They asked for a bottle of sparkling water, followed by a request for a bottle of Altare Barbera d'Alba.
The waiter delivered the wine bottle and pulled the cork, poured two glasses, but then put the bottle and both glasses on the sideboard next to their table. He departed, then returned with a bottle of sparkling water in his right hand, and two glasses grasped in his left. First he put the bottle down with a clunk at the edge of the table, then he quickly set the glasses down beside it. With a deft wrist action, he twisted off the cap from the bottle, and filled a water glass for each of them. In seconds, they were arranged next to Nicki and Paolo's settings, and the waiter spun around and left without a word.
Some truffle hunters came into the restaurant and sat at a table near the window. Their conversation was animated and occasionally punctuated by an Italian swear word, but since most Italians communicated with gusto, there was no reason to assume that this conversation was raking over the circumstances of the sudden disappearance of the truffles once more.
Nicki ordered dishes for both of them, and boldly veered off the printed list, knowing that a restaurant such as this was capable of making more than just what the menu recommended to uninitiated guests.
Cucina Borghese means local cooking, and anyone who knows their way around restaurants and Italian regional food knows how to find interesting dishes not offered to the tourists.
A small pot of bagna caôda arrived, surrounded by steamed vegetables. This was accompanied by a basket of rolls and oven-hot slices of biova, the large loaves of fresh bread common in this region. Paolo and Nicki both reached for bread to dip into the bagna caôda.
“So, what happens now?” Paolo asked.
“About what?” replied Nicki. She knew that he meant the matter of the truffles, but she combined the words with raised eyebrows and a flirtatious glance, just to get Paolo to blush. It worked. Nicki sometimes scolded herself for such acts of random flirting, but she justified it by reminding herself that practice makes perfect.
