246 animal, vegetable, miracle
Italian food is not delicious for its fussiness or complexity, but for the
opposite reason: it’s simple. And it’s an obsession. For a while I thought I
was making this up, an outsider’s exaggerated sensitivity to a new cultural
expression. But I really wasn’t. In the famous Siena cathedral I used my
binoculars to study the marble carvings over the entry door (positioned
higher than the Donatello frescoes), discovering these icons to be egg-
plants, tomatoes, cabbages, and zucchini. In sidewalk cafés and trattoria
with checkered tablecloths, we eavesdropped on Italians at other tables
engaging in spirited arguments, with lots of hand gestures. Gradually we
were able to understand they were disagreeing over not politics, but olive
oils or the best wines. (Or soccer teams.) In small towns the restaurant
staff always urged us to try the local oil, and then told us in confi dence
that the olive oil from the next town over was terrible. Really, worse than
terrible: (sotto voce) it was mierda! Restaurateurs in the next town over,
naturally, would repeat the same story in reverse. We always agreed. Ev-
erything was the best.
Simple cuisine does not mean spare, however. An Italian meal is like a
play with many acts, except if you don’t watch it you’ll be stuffed to the
gills before intermission. It took us a while to learn to pace ourselves.
First comes the antipasto—in September this was thinly sliced prosciutto
and fresh melon, or a crostini of toasted bread with ripe tomatoes and ol-
ive oil. That, for me, could be lunch. But it’s not. Next comes the pasta,
usually handmade, in-house, the same day, served with a sauce of truffl es
or a grate of pecorino cheese and chopped pomodoro. And that, for me,
could be supper. But it’s not, we’re still at the lunch table. Next comes the
secondo (actually the third), a meat or fish course. In the mountains, in
autumn, it was often rabbit stewed “hunter’s style” or wild boar sausage
served with porcini mushrooms; near the coast it was eels, crayfi sh, an-
chovies, or some other fresh catch sautéed with lemon juice and fresh ol-
ive oil.
With all this under the belt, the diner comes into the home stretch
with the salad or contorno—a dish of roasted red peppers, eggplants, or
sliced tomatoes with basil. Finally—in case you’ve just escaped from a
kidnapping ordeal and find you are still hungry—comes the option of des-
sert, the only course that can be turned down with impunity. I tried po-