The Food of Love (3 page)

‘And I can buy the meat here?’ she asked, looking around her

doubtfully.

‘No,’ he said. ‘They only supply delicacies like hare to those

they know well. But for you -‘ He went over to his box, took out a hare and presented it to her proudly on the flat of his hand. ‘It’s a gift. So that you will never make Bolognese sauce again.’

She seemed to recoil a little. ‘Don’t they sell them skinned?’

‘Ah, skinning it is easy,’ he said happily. ‘It will take you two minutes.’ He called to the assistant for a paper bag.

‘And is it - gutted?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Of course not,’ he said, sounding a little offended. ‘Gigliemi

wouldn’t sell a hare with the best bits removed.’ He dropped it in the bag and swung it round to close it. ‘Here,’ he said, pressing it into her hand. ‘And - here.’ He took out a pencil with a flourish and wrote his mobile phone number on the bag. ‘If you need any

help with the recipe, any help at all, just call me. My name is

Tommaso Massi and I will be delighted to assist you.’ He swept

the box of hares up on to his shoulder before she could ask him

about the recipe in any more detail.

‘You mean that? I can really call you if I have a problem?’

He almost laughed out loud. The American girl was actually

asking if she could phone himl ‘But of course. You can call me any time.’

‘Well, thank you. I’ll do that. If I need help, that is.’

‘Ciao, then.’

‘ Ciao. For now.’

Ciao for now! He liked that, it had a good sound. And the

way she was looking at him - he had definitely made an

impression.

He had, indeed, made an impression.

He’s nice, Laura thought. Like a character from a Michelangelo

drawing, with his big extravagant features and his hands waving in the air all the time like that. And, ah, undeniably easy on the eye.

But he didn’t hit on me, which is refreshing. Refreshing, and a little bit annoying. Because if he doesn’t hit on me, how am I supposed to say no? Or, as the case may be, yes? Which it isn’t, of course. The case is definitely no. Because you don’t just bump into people like that, do you? Not people you’re going to go out with.

Mind you. A chef. How weird is that? Carlotta and I had that

joke about me going out with a chef, and then here one is. A good one too, he says. A beautiful one, says I.

Serendipity?

It was only much later, when this internal reverie had finally

played itself out, that she realised she was walking along the Via Aracceli with a smile on her face and a paper bag in her hand containing a dead baby hare.

Tommaso strapped the box of hares on to the back of his Piaggio

and sped off through the traffic. Uanema, he was late. He had

been told to be quick, and here he was wasting time yet again with girls. He wondered if anyone would notice that one of the animals was missing.

He took the Via Aurelia past the Vatican, his little scooter chugging up the hill towards Montespaccato, weaving expertly through

the endless traffic jams and hold-ups. Finally he came to a part of the city that was higher, cooler, and calmer, where the buildings were larger, and where even the cars drove past each other in

unnatural silence, with barely an insult or a gesticulation to

smooth their interaction.

He parked the Piaggio around the back of a large white building, making sure that it was precisely in line with all the other

scooters, then carried the box of hares shoulder-high through a

Pair of double doors into a vast room full of steam and heat.

There was no sign outside the big white building to announce it, but this was the kitchen of Templi, one of the most famous gourmet restaurants in the world.

Tommaso took the box of hares over to the head chef, Karl,

who wordlessly picked up one of the dead animals to inspect it,

sniffing its mouth and anus for decay before pronouncing himself satisfied with a nod. Only then did he say, ‘You’re late.’

‘Traffic. An overturned lorry on the Ponte Garibaldi.’

‘And one of the hares is missing. I ordered a dozen.’

‘That’s right. There was one that wasn’t quite dead. Suddenly

it jumped out and ran back to its mother. Through the traffic. Do you know the extraordinary thing? It was just as we were going

past the Vatican. And they say the Holy Father is in residence.

Perhaps it was a miracle. Yes, a miracle, that’s it.’ He was just warming to his theme when Karl, with a faint sigh, said, ‘Go and help with the glasses, Tommaso.’ He nodded towards the sink,

where the bottle-washer, Amelie, was working her way through a

mountain of glass.

Tommaso reached for a pair of polishing gloves. The glassware

at Templi was all lead crystal, and there was never a single speck of lint or dust on it, let alone a smear of dirt or detergent. Every single one was polished by hand.

There are three kinds of restaurant in Rome. There are the local trattorie and osterie, most of which serve only cucina Romana, Roman cooking. It is a tradition firmly rooted in the ingredients available from the markets and slaughterhouses, with no part of

the animal wasted. From the ears to the tail, there is a proper and correct recipe for everything, handed down from generation to

generation. Then there is cucina creativa, the cuisine which takes that tradition and experiments with it. Many ordinary Romans

remain deeply suspicious of experimentation, not to mention the

increased prices that go with it, believing firmly that piu se spenne, peggio se mangia - the more you spend, the worse you eat.

And thirdly there is cucina gourmet - the awkward collision of

French and Italian indicating that this is a concept that doesn’t quite fit comfortably in this region. The ordinary Roman loves his food with a passion but, however wealthy he is, he will probably pass his entire life without ever setting foot inside one of the handful of Michelin-starred establishments dotted around the

Eternal City. The presence of major American and European corporations, however, many of whom have their local headquarters

nearby, not to mention the stream of wealthy gastro-tourists doing the modern equivalent of the Grand Tour, means there is a small

but steady demand for an international style of cooking the equal of that found anywhere else in the world.

Standing at the very apex of these restaurants is Templi, the

three-star establishment of Alain Dufrais, the great Swiss chef and internationally acknowledged master of nouvelle cuisine.

Polishing glasses is boring work, particularly when you are in love.

Tommaso relieved the tedium by whistling to get the attention of his friend Bruno, who was making zabaione nearby.

‘Ueh, Bruno. Psst. I’m in love.’

‘That’s good,’ Bruno said. He was concentrating on his

zabaglione, which he was making in a traditional, round

bottomed copper pot, directly over a flame. ‘But nothing new.

You were in love yesterday as well.’

‘This is someone else. An American girl. Blonde and very cute.’

Bruno grunted.

‘ Ueh, Bruno. How do you make sugo di lepreV

This question, being about food rather than about women,

did make Bruno glance up briefly. He was not good-looking like

his friend Tommaso, being thick-set, heavy, and slightly awkward.

His eyes, which tended to shy away from direct contact with

others, only really settled when he was visualising something to do with cooking, as he did now. ‘Well, you fry the hare with some pancetta; he began.

‘PancettaV Tommaso clasped his forehead. T knew I’d forgotten

something.’

‘Then you remove the hare and pancetta and you soften

some onions and garlic, very gently. Add a bottle of red

Sangiovese, some cinammon, cloves, rosemary and plenty of

thyme—’

‘Thyme! Damn!’

‘—and then you put the hare back and simmer it for at least

two hours, until the hare starts to collapse into the sauce, which becomes so sticky it coats the pasta like glue.’

‘Two hours!’ Tommaso couldn’t remember if he’d actually told

the girl to cook it for that long.

‘And, of course, just before serving you remove all the bones.’

‘Shit!’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Damn!’

‘Tell me what happened,’ Bruno said gently. He spooned the

zabaglione into ramekins and slid them into the fridge. They were to form part of a complex assemblage of warm and cold, consisting of a fresh peach gelato, just starting to thaw; then zabaglione

made with Barolo wine, slightly chilled; then a warm froth of

more zabaglione, a thicker one this time, made with the yolks

of goose eggs and rich, sherry-like Marsala; and finally a topping of crisp, fried mint leaves and freshly roasted espresso beans,

arranged like the petals and seeds of a flower on top of the other ingredients.

When Tommaso had finished explaining, Bruno said neutrally,

‘So you gave her a hare.’

‘Yes. One of Gigliemi’s finest.’

‘That was romantic of you.’

‘It was, wasn’t it?’

‘Other men give flowers. But you, Tommaso, give dead animals.

Dead baby animals. To an American.’

A thoughtful expression passed across Tommaso’s face.

‘Still,’ Bruno continued, ‘at least she wasn’t a vegetarian. Many of them are.’

‘You think the hare might have been a mistake?’

Bruno shrugged.

‘She did ask me how to gut it,’ Tommaso said, remembering. “I

thought that was strange. I mean, most women know how to gut

game, don’t they?’

‘Maybe not Americans.’

Tommaso smacked his fist into his palm. ‘Don’t their motners

teach them anything? What do they learn at school, for Christ’s

sake?’

‘How to give great blow-jobs, apparently,’ Bruno said dryly. “I

wouldn’t know.’

‘Shit! Shit! Shit! The hare was a mistake. I should have given

her some tortellini. Even an idiot can cook tortellini. Even
can cook tortellini. If only I’d been picking up something different, this would never have happened.’p>

lSi nonnema teneva ‘o cazzo, ‘a chiammavamo nonno*,” Bruno

agreed calmly. ‘Too many ifs. Why don’t you call her and give her the right recipe?’

‘I don’t have her number. I gave her mine and told her to ring

me if she had any problems.’

‘Well, if she does call you, at least it’ll prove she isn’t in the mortuary with a hare bone stuck in her throat.’

A faint pinging sound came from beyond the swing doors that

led to the restaurant. Someone had just struck a glass, softly, with a knife.

‘You’d better go,’ Bruno said gently.

‘Shit!’

Tommaso raced to get into his uniform. Black trousers, white

Literally: ‘If my grandmother had a dick, we would have called her grandpa.’

shirt, black tie, black jacket. Franciscus, the maitre d’, didn’t like to be kept waiting.

When Tommaso told Laura he was a chef, he wasn’t exactly telling the truth, or indeed anything close to it. Tommaso wasn’t a chef, or a sous chef, or even a commis chef. Tommaso was a waiter, a very junior waiter - a waiter so lowly that even Amelie the bottle washer was allowed to give him orders.

The ritual about to take place in the restaurant was the same one that took place on the first day of every month. It was time to fill Templi’s libro prenotazioni, the reservations book.

While the waiting staff stood round in a semi-circle, three or

four vast bags of post were emptied on to a round table. One by

one each letter was opened and handed to Franciscus, who

perused the contents, gave a curt nod or shake of his head, and

passed it to one of the two waiters to his left. One of these put the rejections into a rubbish sack while the other carefully wrote the names of those accepted into the reservations book, a leather bound volume as weighty as a church ledger. Tommaso’s job

was to take the full sacks and replace them with empty ones,

thus ensuring that the ritual, like everything else at Templi,

proceeded with the smooth, uninterrupted solemnity of a state

occasion.

It is not enough, of course, to telephone Templi and simply ask

for a reservation. Even if you could find the number, which is ex directory, the waiter who answers the phone would explain to

you very politely that, due to excessive demand, reservations are only accepted in writing, on the first day of each month, for the period three months in advance. Even so, there are more applicants than places, and thus a great deal of care has to be taken

when writing your letter to make sure you are one of the lucky

ones.

It is rumoured, for example, that it helps to give some indication when you write that you are the sort of person by whom the

legendary cooking of Alain Dufrais will be truly appreciated; a sort of brief resume, detailing other restaurants you have eaten at though you will wrant to acknowledge that they cannot be as good

as Templi - or perhaps your appreciation of the philosophy outlined in one of Monsieur Dufrais’s many books. Do not be

tempted to go on at length, however, because this may indicate

that you are a chatterbox - and if there is one thing Alain Dufrais does not appreciate, it is a chatterbox. Talking is not actually forbidden at Templi, but excessive conversation is certainly

discouraged, it being assumed that you are there to concentrate on the flavours in your mouth, not to adulterate them with unnecessary verbiage. Mobile phones, cigarettes and children are forbidden - the latter not in so many words, but you will have been sent a discreet note well in advance of your meal which

clearly states that Monsieur Dufrais cooks only for well