The Food of Love (11 page)

with him. He glanced at Tommaso for support but his friend was

already entwined with Laura, their lips glued together.

‘OK, let’s walk over there,’ he said. He looked down at the

lovers. “I expect we’ll be gone some time,’ he added reluctantly.

This is perfect, Laura thought. I’m on a deserted beach with my

beautiful Roman lover, who has just cooked me the most amazing

seafood I have ever tasted. What more could I want? They were far enough away from the road not to be seen, and in any case they

would only be two silhouettes against a fire, so she made no

protest as Tommaso’s lips worked their way down her body.

Soon after they had left the others, Judith put her arm through

Bruno’s. She’s waiting for me to kiss her, he thought awkwardly.

They reached the water’s edge and she leaned into him meaningfully.

‘Judith,’ he began apologetically, ‘there’s something I should

tell you.’

‘What?’

‘Well - there’s someone else.’

‘A girlfriend?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘A boyfriend?’

‘No, no, not that.’

‘What then?’

‘The usual thing. Just a girl who isn’t in love with me.’

Judith thought about this. ‘Well, there’s not much point in

being faithful to her if she isn’t in love with you,’ she pointed out.

“I know, but - I can’t help thinking about her.’

‘Suit yourself. But I need to cool down,’ she said decisively.

‘I’m going to swim. Want to come?’

‘Why not?’ As they plunged together into the creamy white

spume, he called, ‘Now surf!’

‘But the boards are back at the van.’

‘Who needs a board?’ He waited for a wave, then threw himself

into it, letting it carry him towards the beach.

The first half-dozen waves they tried took them head over heels

and they went under, spluttering. But it was exhilarating, and as soon as they found their feet they waded out again for more.

At last, just when Laura couldn’t bear for Tommaso to delay any

longer, he slipped his tongue into her, spreading her like a cicala, sucking the sweet flesh into his mouth. ‘Oh, Tommaso,’ she whispered, ‘that’s fantastic’ He swivelled round, working his tongue

deeper, and she felt the first small ripples of gathering pleasure. It’s like lying on a surfboard, she thought dreamily; waiting for the right wave to come along and lift you up. She breathed more deeply, willing it to happen.

Eventually they all piled into the van for the long drive back.

Unfortunately Tommaso’s driving, while perfectly adapted to

weaving a scooter in and out of endless Roman traffic, was hardly conducive to sleep. It was all right for the girls in the back: they couldn’t see the other road users, though some of their insults and the blare of their horns must surely have permeated even the

deepest dream. Bruno stared out at the darkness. In his imagination he was cooking meals for Laura, presenting her with dish after

dish, simply for the pleasure of watching her eat.

He longed to educate her palate. She had so enjoyed the unfamiliar tastes of the seafood that he began to dream of all the other

things he might introduce her to. No one knew better than he

that to enjoy a new flavour was to be changed by it for ever. But what should he cook her?

As a particularly exuberant piece of road-skating threw them all from side to side, Laura stirred. Bruno couldn’t help himself. He turned round to look at her. She lay curled up against her roommate on the back seat, the two of them wrapped in Bruno’s

sleeping bag. His heart lurched as erratically as the van itself had just done.

For you, he thought, I would cook such a wedding cake …

He shook his head to clear the thought away. She was

Tommaso’s girl, not his. What was he thinking?

Bruno suddenly realised that Judith’s eyes were open. She was

watching him even as he watched Laura. He quickly looked away,

wondering if it was now obvious that it was her friend he’d been talking about, and if so, whether she’d say anything.

At last they were back in Rome, making their way through

Testaccio, the old meat-selling district. Many of the warehouses here had been turned into clubs and bars: this was the one part of the city that never slept, and more than once they had to slow

down as groups of people spilled across the street, moving from

one club to another.

‘Look at that,’ Tommaso said as they passed a new bar. ‘We’ve

got to try that place.’

Bruno grunted. Even quite recently, this area had been full of

slaughterhouses and butchers. Now the meat men were being

forced out.

As far as he was concerned it was Testaccio, not the Via del

Corso or the Piazza del Campidoglio, that was the real heart of

Rome. For centuries animals had been brought here to be

butchered, with the good cuts going to the noblemen in their

palazzos and the cardinals in the Vatican. The ordinary people had had to make do with what little was left - the so-called quinto

quarto, the ‘fifth quarter’ of the animal: the organs, head, feet and tail. Little osterie had sprung up which specialised in cooking these rejects, and such was the culinary inventiveness of the Romans that soon even cardinals and noblemen were clamouring for dishes

like coda alia vaccinara, oxtail braised in tomato sauce, or caratella d’abbacchio - a newborn lamb’s heart, lungs and spleen skewered on a stick of rosemary and simmered with onions in

white wine.

Every part of an animal’s body had its traditional method of

preparation. Zampetti all’ aggro were calf’s feet served with a

green sauce made from anchovies, capers, sweet onions, pickled

gherkins and garlic, finely chopped, then bound with potato and

thinned with oil and vinegar. Brains were cooked with butter and lemon - cervello al limone - or poached with vegetables, allowed to cool, then thinly sliced and fried in an egg batter. Liver was wrapped in a caul, the soft membrane that envelops a pig’s intestines, which naturally bastes the meat as it melts slowly in the

frying pan. There was one recipe for the thymus, another for the ear, another for the intestines, and another for the tongue; each dish refined over centuries and enjoyed by everyone, from the

infant in his high chair to the nonnina - the grandmother who

would have been served exactly the same meal, prepared in the

same way, when she herself was a child.

It was known that foreigners did not always share the Roman’s

love of the quinto quarto. Even a Neapolitan, for example, could become a little squeamish when faced with some particularly

obscure byway of the gut or stomach, or a quickly seared kidney

with its sharp aftertaste of piscia. Bruno thought that Laura,

however, might be different. There was something about her

that seemed ready for new things, for adventures. And if she did have any culinary inhibitions left, his dishes would smooth them away, luring her with smell and texture and taste on a journey of the senses, step by step; an adventure into the entrails of Rome itself.

For his first dinner he had cooked her the countryside. For his

second he had cooked her the sea. For his third, he decided, he

would cook her the city - the rich, dark, intense, blood-soaked

city, in all its pungent history. If he was right, it would awaken something in her. If he wasn’t - well, at least he would have

cooked her a real Roman meal.

As they walked to their first lecture of the day, Judith told Laura about Bruno’s curious behaviour on the beach.

‘So he basically said that he was too much in love with this mystery woman to fool around with me,’ she explained.

‘Ahh. That’s so romantic’

‘Just my luck. I thought Italian men were supposed to be fickle, faithless horndogs, and I get one who doesn’t want to play’

“I didn’t realise you liked him that much.’

‘After a meal that good, I would have done it with the Pope,’

Judith said, with some feeling.

Laura’s dirty laugh caused a cat, sleeping on the seat of a nearby scooter in the sunlight, to raise its head, startled for a moment.

Then, seeing that it was only two girls animatedly discussing a boy, it settled back to sleep.

Bruno was building a house of cards. Or so it felt. In fact he was cooking a fruit millefeuille - layers of delicate pastry leaves, crushed fruit and cream. This being Templi, however, the dish had been adapted by Alain so that it was a bravura display of technical virtuosity. First, the layers of pastry were cooked between heavy weights to make them flaky and crisp. Then they were sprinkled

with icing sugar and caramelised with a blowtorch. Between each

of the three layers was a filling of the lightest, most delicate fruit souffle. Because it looked exactly like pastry cream, the diner

would only realise it was a souffle when he took a mouthful. But there were a frightening number of things that could go wrong

with this concoction. F^ach souffle had to rise with a smooth,

hydraulic motion, lifting its delicate ceiling of caramelised pastry without tilting it, so that it could provide a level floor for the next layer up. The slightest sticking or swelling would mean that the whole assembly would lean sideways like the tower of Pisa. Again, each souffle had to be just a little smaller than the one below, so that the weight of the top layers did not crush those underneath.

And finally, the very top layer had to accept a spoonful of coulis without breaking or sagging.

There was always a certain amount of wastage, and Bruno

habitually cooked more than had been ordered, just in case one

didn’t turn out right. Dishes like this couldn’t be made in advance.

Each souffle spent just seven minutes in the oven, and had to be served within three or four minutes of being cooked, before the

mixture started to sag. Coordinating this with the orders of a

whole table of diners, some of whom might have ordered lengthy

oven-baked dishes such as tartesfines auxpommes, was a logistical nightmare.

Bruno had taken an order for two millefeuille and as usual had

cooked three, just in case. He had not been thinking about pastry, though. In some part of his mind he was thinking about offal about dark, sticky sauces of braised calves’ liver; about combinations of mushrooms and kidneys, sweetbreads and artichokes;

turning over and over in his mind the various possibilities of his next meal for Laura. Back in the real world, his timing faltered.

Two of the souffles collapsed and he was obliged to halt the delivery of the dishes to the table while he started again from scratch.

To save time, he didn’t make a spare. His arm went numb as he

frantically folded the sieved fruit into the egg white, which meant that he couldn’t tell from feel alone whether it was just stiff

enough to produce the light, airy consistency Alain required.

There was no time to wait and check. He eased the second batch

of souffles into the oven and turned immediately to make the coulis.

A few moments later there was a faint popping sound from the

oven as an air bubble in one of his imperfectly folded souffles

exploded, sending shreds of half-cooked egg mixture in all directions.

‘ Un ce pozzo credere,’ Bruno cursed. On the other side of the

kitchen, Alain raised his head. Knowing he was now being

watched made it even harder for Bruno. He also knew that there

was no way Alain would allow the one souffle that hadn’t

exploded to go out - it would be past its best by the time the

other one was ready. He started again from the beginning on two

more souffles. Sweat was trickling down the small of his back as he whipped and folded and sieved. Eventually the replacements were

ready, and this time he was lucky. They weren’t the best millefeuille he had ever made, but they were acceptable - or so he thought. When he finally carried them, with shaking hands, over

to the pass, he had to suffer the humiliation of having the sous-chef inspect them, wordlessly, for several long moments, as if Bruno were a commis on his first job. To make matters worse, Alain himself came over to take a look. For another agonising moment both

the chef de cuisine and the sous peered at his dessert like doctors examining an open wound. Then Alain glanced at the clock, and

Bruno’s cheeks flushed with shame. Alain was communicating to

the whole kitchen, as clearly as if he had said it aloud, that he would have liked to redo the dishes completely but Bruno had

taken up so much time that it was not possible. At last he nodded reluctantly, and the waiter quickly placed the substandard dishes on to a tray.

A subtle shift had taken place in the pecking order of the

kitchen. Bruno could sense it. He hadn’t thought he cared about

being Alain’s favourite, but he realised now that was only because he was so accustomed to it. He saw that, in fact, Alain’s approval could come and go as quickly as the heat on a hob, and that most of the young chefs had to compete desperately for their share.

There was only one person whose work Alain seemed consistently

pleased with: Hugo Kass, the newly appointed saucier. A handsome young Frenchman with a sleek mane of floppy black hair,

Hugo had worked under Ducasse in France and Beck in Italy

before coming to Templi. He was only twenty’-two years old and

already people were talking about him as a future Michelin winner.

Alain treated Hugo almost as an equal, and once that afternoon

even asked his advice on a marinade, holding up a spoon for the

younger man to taste. Bruno was too far away to hear what Hugo