Italian Food: Serious Business

Went to watch the World Cup final last night at my friend's house near here.
She's got a massive HD TV (that always seems to work) and the comfiest sectional I have ever parked my ass in.
I could live on that sofa if she would let me.
Her house is just so homey.
Not to denigrate mine.
Mine is beautiful too. With a view to die for.
But hers is actually her home, full-time, which makes a huge difference.
She's got everything. Everything works. She knows where everything is.
A big beautiful dog lying at the front door. You know, a home.
You want to just go there, lie ALL OVER that damn sofa, say yes to her offer of another glass of chilled white Vermentino, turn on that big 'ol TV with all its English-language channels, and just never leave.
So when she said come on over for the game, yep, I'm there.
I had made an Amatriciana pasta sauce over the weekend, and had bought the bucatini pasta to go with it, so I offered to bring it for dinner.
She said sure, great.
Right before I left to drive over there, though, we talked, and she warned me that an Italian friend of hers, who was also coming to watch the game, when she told him I was bringing the pasta for dinner, had remarked: "What does she know about Amatriciana? She's American." (I told you: Italians are very direct. They don't bullshit around, especially about food. I like that).
A bit of background here.
I've met this man a few times and spoken to him in Italian always (you have to with Italians, even if they speak some English, which not many do. There's really no choice).
And I'm sure I must've bored him with 'my born in Naples, brought up in the US story.'
But at the same time, he's heard my friend and I just get all US East Coast too, talking loud, laughing loud, and being, well, the Americans we are. (Love that. She's from New Jersey. Love the Jersey vibe.)
Huh. Okay.
Now, for those of you who know, Bucatini all'amatriciana, a classic Roman pasta dish, is just not that hard to make.
That's the thing about Italian food. It's pretty simple. That's the beauty of it.
Foreigners tend to fuck it up when they try too hard, change it, add too much to a recipe, like that. Just not accepting its simplicity. And comforting repetitiveness.
I like simple. And because of my mother, Luciana, I know how it's supposed to taste.
Even though their food is deliciously simple though -- and they'll be the first to tell you that -- Italians truly believe nobody can do it but them.
Michelin-starred chef? Doesn't matter.
Not Italian? Can't do it.
Trust me on this.
So, I make the pasta. And hold my breath.
He decides when the pasta is ready (That's fine, better actually. That's what Gigi used to do too. Italian men all over the country are tasting bits of pasta every night telling their wives when is the perfect time to drain it.)
I'm stirring the sauce.
He peers at it. Seems to approve. Looks right, anyway.
Gives me a little squeeze on my arm.
"I keep forgetting you're a Neapolitan," he says.
Massive vote of confidence.
But the real proof comes later.
He eats two bowls. And then polishes off what's at the bottom of the serving dish.
Just like an Italian, a Roman even, eating bucatini all'amatriciana.
Success.
Whew.

The Girls

     Had my girls lunch today. It was pretty successful, I think. The food was fresh and tasty, like I knew it would be (thank you, Italy). The ladies who didn't know each other really seemed to hit it off. And it was a lovely, diverse, and interesting group of women from four different countries. All of which kinda made me sad.

     What?

     First of all, I couldn't even approach a lunch like that in London, which is allegedly where I live. Don't have a dining room -- not to mention a terrace with an astounding view of a lake. Kitchen table isn't big enough for the number I had -- and the food I laid out -- not even close. And after you're sitting in the kitchen there, what do you look at, the stove?  

      And then there's the limited guest list. Who would be on it?  

      At the end of the meal, a group of the women were excitedly exchanging cellphone numbers and email addresses to start a book group.  

     Great. Yet another book group I'm going to miss out on. I already have the one I started where I used to live in the States, which I think is going fabulously without me. It almost killed me when they dropped me from their email list (why did they do that?).  

     Now my lunch guests here on my side of the hill are gonna start one too. And I get to miss that as well. 

     Jealousy is not pretty. 

     Because the ladies are all lovely and sensitive, though, they quickly noticed how I felt. And since I was the host, and introduced them all to each other, they felt bad. 

     One of them put her arms around me and and said, "you're going to be part of it too, whenever you come, whenever you're here," she said to me. 

     I stuck my lower lip out in a pout. 

     "Aw," another one piped in, also hugging me. "We're going to put you on the email list and tell you everything we're reading. So when you're not here, you can read it too, in London. And email us what you thought."

     Wonderful. Can't wait.

                     

             

                   

Alfresco Lunch

     I've invited a few women over for lunch on Thursday -- a combination of British, American and Australian women, all smart and interesting, all expats who live around here. 

    That's a post in itself, or even a book, how they all have made their lives around this lake, but they might not like it and I wanted to tell you about the food anyway. (Sorry. I know.)   

     It is just so easy to do an alfresco lunch like that here.    

     It's the food, stupid. 

     It's all so fresh -- and tasty, and ripe. Cannot go wrong.

     That single, indisputable fact may be why Italy has to ultimately be home. Because food is just so important.

     What will I serve at my ladies lunch? Nothing that fancy. Nothing that hard. Yummy, nevertheless.  

     I may pick up some thinly sliced prosciutto crudo and serve it with a perfectly ripe melon and some juicy little bite-sized figs.

     Or a big tomato or two (at their prime, natch) with a  big old hunk of mozzarella di bufala drizzled with olive oil and basil.

     I could do bresaola, a thinly sliced cold cut, with rucola and fresh parmesan. 

    For a vegetable, I could pick up some french beans, thin and curly, in season of course, perfect not too cooked with just some olive oil and lemon. 

     A nice big salad with rucola, fresh parmesan and chick peas?  

     A few mussels, maybe?  

     A long piece of pizza bianca to go with it all -- freshly baked plain pizza with bits of salt on it from the bakery down the street. 

     A mouth-watering watermelon for dessert? A medley of berries with lemon and sugar?  

    Or some homemade fruit gelato? Melon? Kiwi? Lemon?

    Not sure. Will decide when I go to the grocery store Thursday morning.

    Mmmm.

             

                               

                  

Caffe

     Un caffe, per favore.  

     Corto, lungo, macchiato, corretto, al vetro -- thick, thin, with a spot of milk, a dash of whisky, or in a glass. Those are just five ways I can think of quickly that Italians order espresso. There are more. Those are just the most obvious.   

     Not one of them is "con panna", or "doppio," which are the two variations on espresso you usually can get in the States, with whipped cream or a helluva lot of it. I know this from experience, because well, I've had lots of espressos in the States.  

     Had to. No choice. Unshakably lodged in the DNA.

     Even more so in the Neapolitan gene pool, a subtle distinction I learned more about yesterday.

     Stopped at my local for a mid-morning cappuccino on the fly. My husband and I have now firmly chosen the bar (I'm just talking coffee) at the bottom of our hill, the bar closest to us, as our local. 

     All Italians have their local -- the bar they go to every day for caffe (day after day, year after year, all together now, the comforting, rigid rhythms of Italian life).  

     And this bar has won out for us. The caffe -- however you order it -- is always perfect (and when I say perfect, that's what I mean) and the family who owns it has finally warmed to us. Many Italian shopkeepers can take a long time to warm to a new customer, because seriously, I mean, who are you and where do you come from? And what do I care?   

    But when they finally do warm up, it's like the sun's come out. 

    So. Went in, started to order cappuccino (long before lunch, so still okay) but then noticed an attractive, older, smartly dressed woman standing at the bar (that's the only way to have caffe), with the most sublime little caffe macchiato al vetro  -- espresso with a spot of milk in a glass -- in front of her.  The black caffe sat in a distinct line at the bottom of the squat little glass with its silver handle, and on top of it, a small, perfectly-formed dollop of milk. 

    A still-life painting more than a beverage. 

    Had that. Was there a choice? Two other people came in and ordered it too. This is what you have at that bar at about 11:15 a.m.   

    Started talking to the barrista (son of the owner). And explained to him that even though the Americans and the Brits have all bought the latest espresso machines (don't think his was the latest, just any old one), they didn't have a clue how to make coffee. Espresso especially. Any of it really, though.

    It's the grind, he says. They don't have the right grind. 

    The grind? That really seemed an unlikely culprit. How about the proportion of milk? The bitterness of the blend? The fact they don't even like small, short coffee -- that inimitable jolt of java -- and so have no idea how it's supposed to taste? That it's too watery, too hot, too bitter, has whipped cream on it or they've given you a boatful of it?   

    Doesn't Lavazza, Illy, or whoever manufactures Italian coffee for these big industrial machines just sell the same stuff? And so if you buy the stuff the Italians buy, the grind the Italians want, then you can do it too? 

   Nope. Seems not. There's the international grind for export. And that's the only grind you can buy overseas, he says. 

   And then for Italy, there's three different grinds -- Northern, Central and Southern. A looser grind for northern Italians, getting more compact as you move down the boot. Neapolitans are very fussy about their coffee, he says. They like it forte. With a small glass of water beforehand to clear their mouths.  

   I think of my Neapolitan father and the tiny swivel-top coffee maker, called la Napoletana, that my mother used to make his caffe at least twice a day when I was growing up.  

   Hmm, okay. He goes on.

   I only buy the central Italian grind, he says, because we're in central Italy, of course. 

   Of course. That makes sense.

   I've got a few Neapolitan customers, though, he explains. 

   I can still make it how they want it, of course.

   Of course.