The Food of Love (6 page)

For a moment, with the clarity of hallucination, he could almost taste her in his mind, imagining on his palate the salty smoothness of her honey-coloured skin,
will talk to her, he thought. I’ll give her the asparagus. I can always buy some more.p>

His mind made up, he started towards her; but he was just a

moment too late. The girl had turned and walked away.

Bruno watched her go. On the other side of the market there

was a row of tiny shops, each barely larger than a doorway - a

minuscule hardware shop, a pharmacy, a shop selling nothing but

olive oil and another selling lingerie, all packed into about ten yards of street. The girl stood in front of the display of lingerie for a moment, then pulled open the door and walked inside.

Bruno stopped short. What are you doing, you fool? he cursed

himself. She already has a boyfriend. A lover, in fact. Why else would she be buying lingerie? And what on earth made you imagine that a girl like that would be single in the first place? He turned, heartsick, and went back to his shopping.

Laura loved to walk around Trastevere, the district where she was staying. According to the guidebooks it was a slightly seedy place, a working-class enclave in the heart of the Eternal City, but she loved the down-at-heel vibrancy of the cobbled lanes, barely wide enough to accommodate the Romans’ miniaturised cars. The

Mystic Dread Rock Steady Reggae shop stood shoulder-to

shoulder with a shop selling power tools, while the grandly named Institute of Sympathetic Shiatsu was a door crammed between a

pharmacy and a booth selling lottery tickets. Furniture workshops stood cheek-by-jowl with churches; orange trees competed with

restaurant parasols for every square inch of sunlight; and the herby odour of cannabis mingled with the smells of fresh coffee and pizza. In the squares and open spaces battered cars were parked in random chaos, like frozen traffic snarl-ups from which the drivers had simply walked away, and bright red splashes of geranium

trailed from every window ledge and doorway.

One day soon after her arrival she had found herself passing a

little shop. The window display was barely larger than a closet, but it held more than a dozen sets of the most beautiful underwear

Laura had ever seen. Thongs as fine as necklaces were arranged in cases like precious jewels. There were delicate floral camisoles edged with lace, as fine as that for any wedding dress; sassy low-slung hipsters; black suspender belts; creamy silk basques. At the time she had dragged herself away from the shop without entering, but now, preparing for her date, she found herself standing outside it once again. Carlotta’s words rang in her head: Trust me, he thinks you’re going to sleep with him.

A little light-headed, she opened the door and stepped

inside.

There were no shelves in the little shop, no racks of stock or

displays of merchandise. Instead there was an impeccably dressed Italian in her thirties reading II Messaggero, who put down the

newspaper as the door opened and scrutinised Laura with a practised eye.

‘“Momento! the woman said decisively, disappearing into a tiny

recess. When she reappeared it was with four slim boxes, which

she opened on the counter one at a time. Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, were garments even finer than those in the

window. No price tags were attached, and Laura soon discovered

why: when she eventually made her choice, a red lace basque with complicated ties that made her feel almost lasciviously decadent, the figure on the till was more than her entire living allowance for the week.

‘I’m going to teach you how to chop,’ Bruno told Tommaso.

‘That way, when she arrives you’ll look as if you’re doing the

cooking.’

‘Sure,’ Tommaso said confidently. Bruno took an apple and

placed it on the work surface. Then he unrolled his canvas knife bag.

‘If you damage my knives,’ he said, ‘you’ll be dead.’

“I won’t damage them.’ Tommaso picked up the biggest, a

steel Wiisthof. ‘Christ Jesus, it’s heavy.’

Bruno gently removed the cleaver from his friend’s hand. ‘Uh

uh. Too big for you. You should start with this one.’ He passed

him the smaller Global. ‘It’s Japanese. Made of vanadium steel.’

Bruno poured a little olive oil on to a carborundum stone. ‘First, I’ll show you how to sharpen it.’

After five minutes of sharpening, Tommaso was bored. “It must

be ready now.’

‘Nearly.’

When he was satisfied, Bruno took out a diamond steel. ‘And

now we hone it.’

It was several more minutes before Bruno allowed his friend to

start on the apple. ‘You use the heel of the knife for thicker

objects, the point for finer work,’ he instructed. ‘Work across the apple at an angle, like so. Don’t wait for the first slice to fall before you move on to the next one. And keep your fingertips tucked in.

This blade can slice through a pig’s trotters, so your little digits won’t be much of an obstacle.’

While Tommaso practised chopping, Bruno baked. Unlike

many chefs, he did not despise baking. He loved meat and vegetables, too, but there was another, different kind of pleasure in

spinning artificial, dazzling confections of sugar and flour, or baking a tray of simple biscuits.

The dolce itself, after so much rich food, was to be a straightforward one - the ricotta, with honey and a sprinkling of

cinnamon, and a glass of vin santo - sweet white wine - into

which would be dipped tozzetti, handmade hazelnut biscuits.

Bruno was just putting the biscuits into the oven when his friend came over.

‘Here,’ Tommaso said, pulling a little packet out of his jeans,

‘some extra herbs for the tozzetti?

‘You don’t put herbs in tozzetti,” Bruno began. Then he saw

that the little packet actually held about an eighth of an ounce of dope.

‘Trust me,’ Tommaso said, winking. ‘It’ll taste even better with this.’

‘Uh-uh,’ Bruno said firmly, pushing his friend’s hand away.

It’ll ruin the taste of the hazelnuts; and besides, you won’t need any more stimulants after a meal like this. How are you going to do justice to this girl if she’s in the bedroom and you’re out on the balcony?’

Bruno had decided to serve the asparagus with a warm zabaione sauce; not the complex version he prepared in the restaurant but a simple, sensual froth of egg yolk and white wine. What

he hadn’t yet told Tommaso was that finishing the zabaglione

would have to be done at the last moment, just before it was

served. Learning to use a knife was the easy part. Before the end of the day, his friend was going to have to learn how to use a

double boiler as well.

At the Residencia Magdalena, the apartment block where the

American students were housed, Laura was starting to have

second thoughts about the basque. It was undeniably beautiful,

but there was something almost fetishistic, not to mention impractical, about the dozens of tiny hooks and ties with which it

fastened.

‘What do you think?’ she asked her roommate, Judith. ‘Too

much? Too complicated?’

Judith surveyed her through narrowed eyes. ‘Put it this way:

you’d better hope he’s good with his hands.’

“I have been led to believe that he’s quite dextrous,’ Laura

said. She blushed.

‘Well, if he can get that thing off you, he must be. I’d say

you’re in for a great night.’

Tommaso was struggling with the concept of a double boiler.

Time after time he started to whip up the egg yolks, only for the froth to collapse into a sticky mess.

‘You’re being too brutal,’ Bruno told him. ‘Here. Move the

elbow as well as the wrist. Like this.’

Tommaso tried again. This time he was too energetic and the

mixture flew off the end of his whisk.

‘Be patient,’ Bruno said. ‘Now, one more time.’

‘It’s hopeless,’ Tommaso said, wearily putting down the whisk.

‘I can’t do this.’

‘It’s necessary. Now, one more time—’

‘Ah, but it isn’t necessary, is it? Not really,’ Tommaso said

craftily. ‘After all, we’ll be sitting at the table, so what’s to stop me from pretending to come in here and whip the zabaglione, while

really you do it?’

Bruno thought about it. ‘But where would I be?’

‘In here, of course. Laura needn’t know. Then, when it’s all

plated, you could just creep out.’

‘Well, OK then,’ Bruno said reluctantly. It certainly had to be

easier than teaching Tommaso how to cook.

At eight o’clock Laura found the address Tommaso had given

her, a dingy door beside a scooter shop. She rang the bell.

Tommaso’s face appeared high above her head. ‘Come up,’ he

shouted. ‘It’s open.’

She stepped into a dark courtyard and trudged up endless

flights of stairs until she got to the top. Here, too, the door was open, and she stepped inside. The apartment was tiny and by no

means smart, a nest of four little rooms festooned with old film posters and pictures of seventies rock stars. But the view took her breath away.

Red-tiled rooftop after red-tiled rooftop stretched away below

her, a chaotic jumble of houses, apartments and churches all

crammed together, tumbling down towards the Tiber. On her

left, along the long ridge of the Janiculum Hill, lights twinkled in the distance. In front of her, beyond the river, the palaces and churches of old Rome were floodlit islands among the darkness of the surrounding buildings.

‘Wow,’ she said reverently.

The window gave on to a sloped roof, which had been

adapted into a makeshift and rather lethal-looking balcony by the addition of two battered old armchairs and a few pots of herbs,

scattered among a thicket of television aerials. Tommaso was

getting out of one of the chairs to greet her, impossibly beautiful, his sculptured face crowned by an explosion of curly ringlets

as thick as the twists in a telephone cord. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘How are you, Laura?’

‘I’m great.’ Even better than the view, however, was the smell

emanating from the kitchen, which almost knocked her off her

feet. ‘My God,’ she breathed. ‘What is that?

‘Dinner,’ he said simply.

‘It smells -‘ she inhaled deeply ‘- fantastic.”

‘It’s pretty good,’ he said modestly. ‘Needs another twenty

minutes.’

‘Twenty minutes!’ She wasn’t sure she could wait that long.

She wanted to taste it now, right now.

‘Sure. Don’t worry. It will be even better if we have to wait a

little. The anticipation will be part of the pleasure.’ He ran one hand down her back as he kissed her cheek in greeting.

Laura gave a tiny, secret shiver. Carlotta had been right.

After a glass of prosecco, Laura was completely relaxed. Tommaso was an excellent host, attentive and interested - at least he was once she had persuaded him to turn off the atrocious music he

had playing in the background.

‘You don’t like the Ramones?’ he said, surprised. ‘But they’re

American.’

‘So’s Mariah Carey,’ she pointed out. It seemed strange that

someone whose taste in food was so highly developed could be

completely deficient in any musical taste whatsoever.

With the Ramones ushered politely out of the apartment, the}7 chatted happily as Tommaso sliced tiny spring vegetables for pinzimonio, a dip of olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. The kitchen was

full of professional-looking chef’s equipment and some of the

most ferocious knives Laura had ever seen.

‘When did you learn to do that?’ she asked, watching

Tommaso’s knife dance over the chopping board.

‘Oh, it’s easy. And,’ he added, more truthfully, I had a very

good teacher.’

The wonderful smells from the oven were making Laura’s

mouth water. ‘So what are we eating tonight?’

‘Here.’ He handed her a menu with a flourish and a bow, like

a waiter.

She looked at the card and read: Antipasto: verdure in pinzimonio.

Primo: spaghetti aWamatriciana. Secondo: abbacchio alia

cacciatora. Contorni: carciofi alia romana, asparagi con zabaione.

Dolci: ricotta dolce; vin santo, biscotti. ‘My God. We’ll never eat all that.’

iQuanto basta. Just enough. They are very small amounts, just

enough to waken the palate. Not like American steaks, which sit

on the stomach and make you—’ He mimed exhaustion.

There was the sound of a door closing. ‘Who’s that?’ Laura

asked.

‘Just my roommate. Don’t worry, he’s going out.’

‘Is he a chef as well?’

‘Bruno? Not exactly. That is, he’s a trainee. Just a bottle

washer, really. Now, shall we eat?’

Laura had never eaten food like this before. No: she had never

eaten before. It was as if these flavours had always existed, had always been there in her imagination, but now she was tasting

them properly for the very first time. Each course was more

intense than the last. The spaghetti was coated in a thick sauce of meat and wine; rich, pungent and sticky. The lamb, by contrast, was pink and sweet, so tender it seemed to dissolve in her

mouth. It was served without vegetables, but afterwards

Tommaso brought the first of the contorni to the table: a whole rtichoke, slathered in warm olive oil and lemon juice and sprinkled with chopped mint. Laura licked every drop of oil off

her fingers, amazed by the intensity of the flavour. Her stomach kept telling her that it was full, stretched to bursting point, but her appetite kept telling her she could take a little more, just another mouthful, until she felt quite dizzy with the excessive ness of it all.

Tommaso left her while he went to finish the asparagus. After