The Food of Love (5 page)

‘So you have the hare, which you have cooked for twenty

minutes, and the pappardelle, which you have cooked for - what?’

he said into the phone.

‘Fifteen,’ Laura said. Through the door of the kitchen she

could see her father and Cassie, his odiously young personalassistant-cum-girlfriend, glancing at their watches.

‘Fifteen,’ Tommaso repeated, looking at Bruno significantly.

Bruno winced. ‘Fresh pasta,’ he murmured.

‘You’ll need to cook another lot of pappardelle,,’ Tommaso said

to Laura.

‘But not yet,’ Bruno added hastily. ‘First we need to deal with

this hare.’

‘But first, we need to deal with the hare.’

‘Does she have a frying pan?’ Bruno wanted to know.

“Is there a frying pan?’ Tommaso asked.

Laura, at the other end, said, ‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’ Tommaso relayed to his friend. Laura looked at her

phone, a little puzzled. Either there was an echo, or Tommaso was repeating everything she said to him.

Bruno nodded. ‘Good. Now let’s take a look at what’s in her

fridge. We won’t be able to do proper sugo di lepre, not if she

wants to eat before midnight, but we may be able to do something a little bit similar.’ He picked up a lemon and began to dice the zest into tiny pieces with a paring knife as he talked Tommaso, and by extension Laura, through the preparation of a simple meat

sauce. He had always been able to do two things at once if they

Were associated with food. It was only when it was nothing to do with cooking that he became all fingers and thumbs again.

It was midnight before the two young men left Templi. They had

a nightcap at a small bar before walking home through the warm,

quiet streets to the tiny apartment they shared in Trastevere.

Tommaso had stored Laura’s number in his phone when she

called. As they walked he dialled it.

Hey, Laura, it’s Tommaso. How was your meal?’

‘Oh, hi, Tommaso. It was wonderful. I can’t thank you enough.”

‘Where are you? I can hear a kind of reverberation.’

‘Oh, I’m in the bath, soaking. I was just going to bed.’

‘She’s in the bath,’ Tommaso whispered to Bruno. ‘It’s a good

sign.’

‘That thing with the hare and the tomatoes was just inspired.’

Laura said. There was the sound of splashing. ‘Though I guess my sauce wasn’t as good as you’d do it,’ she continued. “I mean, if I hadn’t messed it up in the first place …’

Tommaso grinned at Bruno. ‘You know, I’d like to cook something

for you, Laura. Properly, I mean.’

‘Really?’

‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’

Laura paused. She didn’t want to appear too keen, but that

hare really had been delicious.

‘Nothing much,’ she said.

Tommaso ended the call and let out a whoop that echoed down

the narrow street. ‘She wants me to cook for her!’

‘Fantastic,’ Bruno said dryly. “I will be interested to see what you decide to serve.’

‘Ah. Well, I thought you might give me some advice there, my

old friend.’

LHai voluto la bicicletta …*’ Bruno shrugged.

‘Aw, come on. You know I’d do the same for you.’

‘You could hardly do the same for me,’ Bruno pointed out,

‘seeing as how you can’t cook for shit.’

‘You know what I mean.’

They walked on for a few moments. Bruno said carefully, ‘Just

so I’m clear, what are you asking me for?’

‘Just to come up with some ideas. Something so fantastic, so

sumptuous and sexy that it will make Laura, the beautiful Laura, swoon with love and fall into bed with me.’

Bruno thought about this. ‘But which?’ he said at last.

‘Because, you know, to make someone horny and to make someone

fall in love are two very different things.’

‘How so, philosopher?’

‘If you want to make someone cry,’ Bruno said slowly, ‘you

give them an onion to chop. But if you want them to feel sad, you cook them the dish their mother used to cook for them when they

were small. You see the difference?’

Tommaso shrugged.

‘And to make someone horny,’ Bruno continued, ‘well, that’s

harder than crying, but certainly not impossible. Seafood, of

course, has aphrodisiac qualities. Molluscs, too - like lanarche ajo e ojo, snails in oil and garlic. Perhaps some carciofioni - baby artichokes cooked with mint, pulled apart with the fingers and dipped

in soft, melted butter. Wine, obviously. And then, to finish, a

burst of sugar, something light but artificial, so that you feel full of energy and happiness … but that’s only one side of the story. If you wanted someone to fall in love with you, you would cook

them something very different, something perfectly simple but

intense. Something that shows you understand their very soul.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, that’s the difficulty. It will vary from individual to individual.

You’d have to really know the person concerned: their

history; their background; whether they are raw or refined, dry or oily. You would have to have tasted them, to know whether their

own flesh is sweet or savoury, salty or bland. In short, you would have to love them, and even then you might not truly know them

well enough to cook a dish that would capture their heart.’

Parla come t’hafatto mammeta*,’ Tommaso laughed. ‘This is

From ‘Hai voluto la bicicletta? E pedala!’ A saying meaning, literally: ‘You wanted the bicycle, so pedal it.’

34

“Speak as your mother showed you’,
i.e.
cut the bullshit.

too much thinking for me. Just get her into my bed and your

cooking will have done all that I ask of it.’

“My cooking? I thought I was just providing a few ideas.’

‘Ah.’ Tommaso looked a bit shamefaced. ‘It’s just that - think

how terrible it would be if I ruined your wonderful menu. You’d

be unhappy, and then I’d be unhappy, and then I wouldn’t be able to make Laura happy, and that would be a terrible thing to have

on your conscience, wouldn’t it? Besides,’ he added craftily, ‘how often do you get the chance to try out your dishes on a real live American? Your own dishes, I mean?’

‘That’s true,’ Bruno said sombrely. ‘I’m just a factory worker

up there at Templi. A very high-quality worker in a gilded factory, but it’s a production line all the same. Every day I make Alain’s pastries, Alain’s dolci, Alain’s famous creme caramelwith the baked vanilla pod in the centre - even when I could do something better, he doesn’t want it. And as for Roman ideas …’ He mimicked the chef’s Swiss accent, ‘“We don’t want any of those peasant recipes here, thank you.” It’s Michelin, Michelin, Michelin. Foie gras,

white truffles, champagne sauce. Why? When a simple Roman coda alia vaccinara is more satisfying than any of them? And—’

‘So you’ll do it?’ Tommaso said quickly, having heard his friend make this particular speech many times before. ‘You’ll cook something fantastic I can pretend to Laura I prepared myself?’

Bruno laughed and punched his friend lightly on the arm. ‘Of

course. I’ll get you your bicicletta. Just make sure you know how to pedal it, OK?’

Braised oxtail. Vaccinara is the old Roman word for butchers, whose favourite dish this was said to be.

Laura phoned Carlotta the next morning and told her the

news.

‘I’ve found a chef. And, cara, he’s so good-looking. Like a

Michelangelo. He gave me a pasta recipe already and talked me

through how to cook it. And I’m going round tonight for him to

cook for me—’

lLentamente, Laura. Slow down. You’re going to his apartment?

On the first date?’

‘Well, yes. Where else would he cook for me?’

‘Are you going to sleep with him?’

‘Of course not. I’ve only met him once.’

‘If you go to his apartment, he’ll think you’re going to sleep

with him,’ Carlotta said flatly.

‘He didn’t seem like that.’

Siamo in Italia, Laura. We’re in Italy. Trust me, he thinks

you’re going to sleep with him.’

Laura sighed. ‘You’re the one who’s always telling me to follow

my heart.’

Sure. Just as long as you’re clear where it is you’re following it to. Do me a favour - take some goldoni, will you? That’s something else Italian men aren’t always good at.’

‘Well, I’ve had plenty of practice at fending off unwanted attentions,’

Laura said, a little huffily. ‘Besides, I told you, he’s nice.

And he does have an apartment, so at least we’re not talking about a grope in the bushes.’

‘Aha. You are going to sleep with him.’

‘Maybe,’ Laura admitted. ‘I haven’t made up my mind. But a

wild fling is certainly on the cards.’

‘Then you should definitely take condoms. And remember whatever

you do, no sneakers.’

It was Bruno’s morning off, and he spent most of it at the

Mercato di San Cosimato, Trastevere’s main food market, looking

for ingredients for Tommaso’s great meal of seduction. He had no menu at this stage, and no plan. He simply walked around, seeing what was available, listening to the competing shouts of the stallholders and letting an idea of the seasonal delicacies sink into his

mind. The carciofini were good at the moment, particularly the romagnolo, a variety of artichoke exclusive to the region, so sweet and tender it could even be eaten raw. Puntarelle, a local bitter chicory, would make a heavenly salad. In the Vini e Olio he found a rare Torre Ercolana, a wine that combined Merlot with the local Cesanese grape. The latter had been paired with the flavours of

Roman cuisine for over a thousand years: they went together like an old married couple. There was spring lamb in abundance, and

he was able to track down some good abbacchio - suckling lamb

that had been slaughtered even before it had tasted grass.

From opportunities like these, he began to fashion a menu, letting the theme develop in his mind. A Roman meal, yes; but more

than that. A springtime feast, in which every morsel spoke of

Condoms.

resurgence and renewal, old flavours restated with tenderness and delicacy, just as they had been every spring since time began. He bought a bottle of oil that came from a tiny estate he knew of, a fresh pressing whose green, youthful flavours tasted like a bowl of olives just off the tree. He hesitated before a stall full of fat white asparagus from Bassano del Grappa, on the banks of the fast

flowing river Brenta. It was outrageously expensive, but worth it for such quality, he decided, as the stallholder wrapped a dozen of the pale fronds in damp paper and handed it to Bruno with a flourish like a bouquet of the finest flowers.

His theme clarified itself the more he thought about it. It was to be a celebration of youth - youth cut short, youth triumphant, youth that must be seized and celebrated. He wouldn’t tell Tommaso that, of course. His friend got a nosebleed whenever Bruno tried to explain the deeper patterns he saw in cooking.

The point was that it would work, at some subconscious level.

At the end of his tour of the market he came across an old man sitting in a dilapidated deckchair, snoozing. At his feet was a creased old carrier bag. Bruno crouched down and opened the bag carefully. Inside, like eggs in a nest of straw, were half a dozen ricotte. The old man opened his eyes.

‘All from my own animals,’ he said proudly. ‘And made by my own wife.’

Bruno eased one of the cheeses to the surface and inhaled.

Instantly he was transported to the tiny pastures of the Castelli Romani, the hilly countryside around Rome. There was a touch of silage in the scent of the cheese, from winter feed, but there was fresh grass, too, and sunlight, and the faintest tang of thyme where it grew wild in the meadows and had been eaten by the sheep along with the grass. He didn’t really need any more food, but the ncotta was so perfect that he knew he would find a place for it somewhere in his meal, perhaps served as a dessert with a dusting of cinnamon and a dab of sweet honey.

He was on his way to the pasta shop across the square when he

saw the girl again. Bruno stopped, his heart in his mouth. He had no idea who she was, but he had seen her half a dozen times over the last few weeks, wandering round Trastevere; particularly here in the market, where she seemed to stare longingly at the stalls piled high with dozens of different vegetables: radicchio, cime di rapa, cardoons, bruscandoli - the little green hop shoots that

appeared in the market for just a few weeks in springtime; borragine, barba difrate, even lampascione, hyacinth bulbs, and of

course the baskets filled with tenerume, the first tiny courgettes, each one tipped with a veined, sunset-coloured flower. He had

never seen her buy anything, though. Once he had been close

enough to see that she had in her hand a plastic carrier bag containing a jar of Skippy peanut butter, from a food shop on the

other side of the market that sold imported stuff. From this he

deduced that she was American or Australian, and that she was

homesick sometimes for the tastes of her own country. But the

way she looked so hungrily at the piles of unfamiliar vegetables made him long to cook them for her, to show her what she was

missing. Once he had got as far as walking up to her and saying, ^Buongiorno? but the moment she turned to him, those wonderful grey eyes lighting up with interest as she waited to see what he would say, he lost his nerve and pretended he simply needed to

reach past her for some tomatoes. ^Scusi^ he had mumbled, and

she’d stood back to let him pass.

Today she was wearing a white halter top. He stood and drank

in the way her shoulders were dotted with orange-red freckles

beneath the swirl of blonde hair, like a scattering of chilli flakes.