Death al Dente (8 page)

He greeted us at the door, a lean, spare man with sad but wise eyes. He was almost bald but had a trim short beard and resembled one of the hermits depicted living in caves in early Italian paintings. He was probably at least ten years younger than his appearance suggested. His wife, Vanessa, was small and dark, gentle in speech and movement. She handled the “front,” the reservations, the publicity, and the finances.

Bernardo’s influence on the decor was obvious: sparse and simple, it just avoided the grim and serious. The light gray walls had a subtly silver tinge that kept it from being austere, and a fresh bouquet of wild flowers at the reception desk gave a personal touch. Handsome glass vases adorned shelves, and antique glass horses, dolphins, and birds in exotic colors, probably from Murano, near Venice, stood discreetly in wall niches. Largely hidden light sources made them glint and shimmer, giving the whole place a soft warm glow.

A banner over the entrance to the kitchen wished Silvio Pellegrini a happy birthday, and a large photograph of him in a happy mood adjoined it. The party was already under way, and we greeted Pellegrini and his wife, Elena. Pellegrini’s lawyer, whom we had also met at Giacomo’s restaurant the first night, was there with his wife—Tomasso and Clara Rinaldo. The lawyer, distinctive with his silvery hair and beard, said he hoped I was enjoying my stay in Italy. I did not think it was appropriate to tell him that there had already been two attempts on my life.

I wanted to tell Pellegrini, though, and at least set his mind at rest that I was the target and not him. The festive atmosphere and the proximity of other people made it difficult, and I decided to wait until later. In the meantime, I was kept busy meeting friends of the Pellegrinis and tasting Bernardo’s antipasti. Trays were being carried around the room by Bernardo’s staff, and the first tray to catch my eye was piled with violet-colored delicacies. “Ravioli potentina,” the waiter explained. “They are filled with ricotta and pecorino cheese and chopped prosciutto is added.”

“But the color—” I protested, and the waiter smiled.

“Bernardo adds violets to the dough after it is kneaded and rolled. The famous Parma violets.”

I should have remembered that Bernardo was passionate about the use of edible flowers, surpassing even the famous Frenchman Marc Veyrat who was a shepherd until he came down from the mountains and opened the famous Auberge de l’Eridan in Annecy, experimenting with the inclusion of wild plants and flowers in the dishes of his native Savoy. Another tray came by containing grilled shrimp with yarrow, the plant with known antibiotic and anti-inflammatory qualities and now being used to treat arthritis. “Many plants currently being used in cooking have medical values also,” explained the waiter.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to like Bernardo’s food,” Francesca confided in a low voice as she demolished three more shrimp in rapid succession, “but it really is delicious. What else is there?”

The answer came at once in the form of bite-sized pieces of salmon steak. We both tasted and Francesca gasped in delight. “I’ve never had salmon that good! What is on it?” The waiter explained that it was nasturtium butter and suggested we try the chickweed salad that was going the rounds in tiny bowls. Bernardo himself was circulating, recommending, advising, and acknowledging compliments with a modest dip of his head. He came over to us. “Have you tried the scallops yet?”

He waved the waiter to us. Small scallops from the Adriatic were added to simmering butter, vinegar, cream, and chopped shallots, he told us. Shredded leaves of wood sorrel were added, cooked quickly, then the scallops were put on a plate and more sorrel sprinkled over them. Eaten with a toothpick, they had a rich taste yet allowed the slight prickle of lemon to come through. We agreed they were superb.

“Do you have to go far afield to find all your herbs and plants?” I asked him.

He smiled a gentle smile. “No, indeed. Let me tell you a story. My friend Jean-Georges Vongerichten, who is as fanatical on this subject as I am, was lured to Manhattan to be head chef at the Trump Tower. Wandering through Central Park, he found no fewer than twenty-five edible plants and flowers. So you see, wherever you are, you can find them in your own backyard.”

“But you can’t collect them all year,” protested Francesca. “Don’t different ones bloom only at certain times?”

“That’s true,” said Bernardo. “Spring is, of course, the time to pick most of them but they can be freeze-dried and used throughout the year.” He stopped another waiter. “Taste these. We call them
sambucus.
” They looked like golden corn fritters and were scrumptious. “I make them from elderberries.”

He excused himself to greet a newcomer who, judging from their conversation, was another chef. Pellegrini hailed him and they embraced, evidently old friends. “Pellegrini knows a lot of people,” I commented. “He has many big businesses,” Francesca said. “He supplies products to most of the restaurants in the area and even further away.”

As more and more people arrived, the flow of antipasti increased. Tapas and meze are considered the equivalents of antipasto in other countries but there is a difference—in Italy, the antipasto is considered to be restaurant food and is not eaten in the home except perhaps on special family feast days.

Small triangles of pizza—that culinary symbol of Italy— came round, bringing a fresh aroma of hot tomatoes and spices. In America and England, nutritionists rightly protest the fast-food pizza, piled high with saturated fat, sugar, and sodium. In Italy, pizza is a well-balanced meal: a complex carbohydrate (the dough), dressed with vegetables (onions, tomatoes, and peppers), a little protein (anchovies, ham, sausage), and some unsaturated fat (olive oil). Bernardo had added rampion and pimprenelle in this case, said the waiter, two plants that had been known for centuries for their herbal properties. Yet another tray came sailing along, its carrier informing us that it was mushroom pizza flavored with hyssop. This is a widely found plant that in Biblical days was the symbol of purification from sin. It had long been used as a disinfectant on wounds, the waiter told us, before it was discovered that the mold that produces penicillin grows on hyssop leaves.

We sampled
fritelli,
two voluptuous puffs of dough enclosing tender leaves of artichoke, which I reminded Francesca is really a flower. Tiny sausages followed, deliciously flavored with basil, garlic, and orange peel. Several thinly sliced cheeses were squeezed together in a breadless sandwich, attractive as each cheese was a different color: blue, green, yellow, and white.

A familiar face joined us. It was Giacomo, owner-chef of the Capodimonte where we had had the first dinner. He seemed bigger than ever in the crowded room, his beard seemed fuller, and he was bursting with good humor. “I wouldn’t be here in this coffee shop,” he told us in his booming voice, “if it weren’t for Pellegrini’s birthday.” He moved on, spreading more humorously critical comments on Bernardo and his “bits of grass” as he called the edible plants and flowers.

Francesca moved closer to me. “I suppose this food is all right, isn’t it?” she murmured.

“Of course it is. What do you mean?” Then I realized that she was not referring to the dangers of Bernardo’s plants and flowers. “No,” I said firmly. “This isn’t the kind of place where there would be any murder attempts.” She looked dubious and I caught a whiff of her suspicion but pushed it away. “We’re all eating the same food,” I said confidently.

Some kind of disturbance was occurring at the door. “It’s Ottavio,” said Francesca in a breathy voice, promptly forgetting my potentially perilous position. It was indeed the terror of the kitchen at the Palazzo Astoria. Lank hair flopping, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was managing to cause a commotion in his first thirty seconds through the door.

“Don’t know why I’m here,” I could hear him saying petulantly. “My kitchen crew need somebody to use a whip on them all the time, otherwise the place falls apart.”

He was obviously a good customer of Pellegrini, who went to thank him for coming. “Give me a drink,” Ottavio barked, waving away a tray of delectables. “No, I don’t want any of that flower stuff—birds have been shitting all over it.”

“Ola!” Bernardo called out, going to him with an outstretched hand. “Ottavio! Glad you could come!”

“Not staying.” He ignored Bernardo’s hand. “What do you have to do to get a drink here, for God’s sake?”

Bernardo took care of that promptly. He was apparently familiar with Ottavio’s hedgehog mannerisms and his own innate gentility made him tolerant of them. Two women hurried over and Ottavio put an arm around each. Francesca looked on hungrily. “Go on over,” I needled her. “You already met him. Ingratiate yourself.”

She watched him, being her haughtiest. “I’ll wait.”

“Neither of those two women is competition for you.”

“True,” she agreed, eying them disdainfully.

“I’ll circulate,” I told her. “You’re on your own—temporarily.”

She gave me her condescending Cleopatra nod and I chatted for a while with Vanessa, Bernardo’s wife. She was supportive of his enthusiasm for edible plants and flowers but not as expert as Bernardo.

“He is out at five o’clock some mornings,” she said. “Some plants and flowers need to be picked just after the morning dew has left them.” We talked about the various steps that her husband believed to be essential before cooking. “Flowers have to have their pistils and stamens removed and only the petals from the flowers are used,” she told me. “Bernardo is meticulous too about how plants and flowers are prepared. Some must be chopped with a sharp knife, others need to be torn, some can only be used whole. Some need to be macerated in water, others must be dry. Many must be used the same day they are picked.”

She beckoned to a waiter passing by with a tray of succulent-looking slices of terrine with tiny purple, white, and yellow flower petals sprinkled on top. “Have you eaten one of these yet?” I confessed that I hadn’t and she explained that the slices were herb and flower cheese terrine. I tasted one and it was superb. “It is a terrine made with cream cheese, provolone, and parmesan cheese,” she said. “The parmesan must be absolutely fresh—Bernardo uses only it only when made and eaten the same day. The flowers are called
viola tricolor
—in English you call them pansies. They are mixed in with the cream cheese and more flowers are laid on top.” They had a most unusual flavor, hard to identify and almost, but not quite, a minty aftertaste.

The birthday boy, Silvio Pellegrini, had worked his way through the still-thickening crowd. His smooth, well-fed face had a prickle of perspiration and he had a glass of champagne in his hand which was surely not the first. He caught sight of me and approached.

“Ah, amico mio, are you enjoying yourself with all these wonderful people?”

Ottavio’s biting comments about somebody’s wife were raising shouts of critical disagreement but I wasn’t going to spoil Pellegrini’s birthday by pointing out that “wonderful” might not apply universally. Instead, I told him that I was having a great time.

“Some of Bernardo’s plant and flower antipasti are really excellent,” I added. “Do you supply him with any of those?”

“No, he forages for those himself. Before dawn sometimes,” he said with a smile. “A very dedicated man,”

“It’s good of him to throw this birthday party,” I said.

“Oh, several chefs in the region do this—taking it in turns. They are all my very good customers.” He looked around, making sure that no one was in earshot. Some were but the noise level was spreading like a blanket. Satisfied, he went on, “Have you thought any more about the buffalo incident?”

I hesitated, then told him of my encounter in the duomo at Modena. His eyes widened. “Extraordinary! Then perhaps it was you that the buffalo were intended to trample!”

“Can’t imagine why.”

He looked at me slyly, tapping the side of his nose in that typically Italian gesture that implies secrecy. “The chefs,” he said, “that must be the reason.”

I tried to look as if I didn’t understand. He continued, taking a different tack. “I examined the few charred remains of the fireworks. No clues there—you can buy them anywhere. I could find nothing else in the area.”

“Have you told the police?” I asked casually.

He looked away. “No. It would not be good for my business.”

“Is there anyone who might want to kill you?”

He smiled, slightly uneasily. “Several, I suppose. A man in my position has enemies in business—that is inevitable.”

“But none specifically?”

He shrugged. “I am involved now in negotiations to buy some rice fields and that is causing some anger but no, not murder.”

“It’s a puzzle,” I said, trying to draw him into further references to the chefs, but he moved on to another topic. “It is a shame you did not get to see my cheese factories,” he said.

“I’d like to see them very much.”

“Good. What about tomorrow?”

We agreed upon the details and he pushed back into the throng, receiving claps on the back from the men and kisses from the women. I spied a tray of what appeared to be a close relative of Mexican tostadas. The mashed beans were mixed with olives and avocado slices and the waiter told me that the leaves and petals were borage and lilac.

The lawyer, Tomasso Rinaldo, and his wife, Clara, struggled out of the crowd. Clara was a tall coppery-haired woman who might have been a singer for she had a strong, well-modulated voice. “How goes the quest?” Tomasso wanted to know with a conspiratorial wink.

RAI, the Italian television network, must have run a program on my mission. Everybody seemed to know about it. “My quest at the moment is to get a refill on this excellent champagne,” I replied. It was an Italian version of champagne, I knew, and as such not strictly entitled to be called champagne, which must come from the Champagne region of France. But Italians (and some winegrowers in other countries) poo-poo such trivialities and are belligerent in defense of their right to produce sparkling wines which they feel should be judged on their merits and not according to where they are produced.