where fish wear crowns 243 nothing real scary under my fingernails My mother raised children who feel we need to earn what this world means to give us When I sat back and relaxed on the flight to Rome, I left behind a spit-shined kitchen, a year’s harvest put away, and some unplanted garlic I’d live with it With the runway of the Leonardo da Vinci airport finally in sight and our hearts all set for andiamo, at the last possible moment the pilot aborted our landing Wind shear, he announced succinctly We circled Rome, flying low over ruddy September fields, tile-roofed farmhouses, and paddocks enclosed by low stone walls The overnight flight had gone smoothly, but now I had ten extra minutes to examine my second thoughts Would this trip be everything we’d waited for? Could I forget about work and the kids, indulging in the luxury of hotels and meals prepared by someone else? Finally the nose cone tipped down and our 767 roared low over a plowed field next to the airport Drifting in the interzone between waiting and beginning, suspended by modern aerodynamics over an ancient field of pebbled black soil, I found myself studying freshly turned furrows and then the farmer himself A stone’s throw from the bustle of Rome’s international airport, this elderly farmer was plowing with harnessed draft horses For reasons I didn’t really understand yet, I thought: I’ve come home / I am Italian by marriage: both Steven’s maternal grandparents were born there, emigrating as young adults His mother and aunts grew up in an Italian-speaking home, deeply identified with the foodways and all other ways of the mother country Steven has ancestors from other parts of the world too, but we don’t know much about them It’s my observation that when Italian genes are present, all others duck and cover His daughter looks like the apple that fell not very far from the olive tree; when asked, Lily identifies herself as American and invariably adds, “but really I’m Italian.” After arriving on the ancestral soil I figured out pretty quickly why that heritage swamps all competition It’s a culture that sweeps you in, sits you down in the kitchen, and feeds you so well you really don’t want to leave 244 a n i m a l , v e g e ta b l e , m i r ac l e In the whole of Italy we could not find a bad meal Not that we were looking But a spontaneous traveler inevitably will end up with the tummy gauge suddenly on empty, in some place where cuisine is not really the point: a museum cafeteria, or late-night snack bar across from the concert hall Eating establishments where cuisine isn’t the point—is that a strange notion? Maybe, but in the United States we have them galore: fast-food joints where “fast” is the point; cafeterias where it’s all about efficient caloric load; sports bars where the purported agenda is “sports” and the real one is to close down the arteries to the diameter of a pin In most airport restaurants the premise is “captive starving audience.” In our country it’s a reasonable presumption that unless you have gone out of your way to find good food, you’ll be settling for mediocre at best What we discovered in Italy was that if an establishment serves food, then food is the point Museum cafeterias offer crusty panini and homemade desserts; any simple diner serving the lunch crowd is likely to roll and cut its own pasta, served up with truffles or special house combinations Pizzerias smother their pizzas with fresh local ingredients in widely recognized combinations with evocative names I took to reading these aloud from the menu Most of the named meals I’d ever known about had butch monikers like Whopper, Monster, and Gulp I was enchanted with the idea of a lunch named Margherita, Capricciosa, or Quattro Stagioni Reading the menus was reliable entertainment for other reasons too More Italians were going to chef school, apparently, than translator school This is not a complaint; it’s my belief that when in Rome, you speak the best darn Italian you can muster So we mustered I speak some languages, but that isn’t one of them Steven’s Italian consisted of only the endearments and swear words he grew up hearing from his Nonnie I knew the Italian vocabulary of classical music, plus that one song from Lady and the Tramp But still, I’d be darned if I was going to be one of those Americans who stomp around Italy barking commands in everlouder English I was going to be one of those Americans who traversed Italy with my forehead knit in concentration, divining words from their Latin roots and answering by wedging French cognates into Italian pronunciations spliced onto a standard Spanish verb conjugation where fish wear crowns 245 To my astonishment, this technique served really well about 80 percent of the time Italians are a deeply forgiving people Or else they are polite, and still laughing Va bene With a dictionary and grammar book in hand, learning a little more actual Italian each day, we traveled in our rental car from Rome up the winding mountain roads to Steven’s grandmother’s hometown in Abruzzi, then north through the farmsteads of Umbria and Tuscany, and finally by train to Venice, having fascinating conversations along the way with people who did not speak English I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers In this case they were kind enough to dumb down their explanations and patiently unscramble a romance language omelet So we didn’t expect English translations on the menu No problem Often there was no menu at all, just the meal of the day in a couple of variations But restaurants with printed menus generally offered some translation, especially around cities and tourist destinations I felt less abashed about my own wacky patois as I puzzled through entries such as “Nose Fish,” “Pizza with fungus,” and the even less appetizing “Polyps, baked or grilled.” It seemed “Porky mushrooms” were in season everywhere, along with the perennial favorite (but biologically challenging) “bull mozzarella.” The fun didn’t stop with printed menus: an impressive sculpture in the Vatican Museum was identified as the “Patron Genius of Childbirth.” (So that’s who thought it up.) A National Park brochure advised us about hiking preparedness, closing with this helpful tip: “Be sure you have the necessary equipments to make funny outings in respects of nature!” One morning after breakfast we found a polite little sign in our hotel room that warned: “Due to general works in the village, no water or electricity 8:30 to 11:00 Thank you for your comprehension.” Comprehension is just what was called for in these situations Sooner or later we always figured out the menus, though we remained permanently mystified by a recurring item called “oven-baked rhombus.” We were tempted to order it just to put the question to rest, but never did Too square, I guess / 246 a n i m a l , v e g e ta b l e , m i r ac l e 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 eggplants, 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 confidence 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 Everything 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 olive 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 truffles 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, crayfish, anchovies, or some other fresh catch sautéed with lemon juice and fresh olive 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 dessert, the only course that can be turned down with impunity I tried po- where fish wear crowns 247 litely declining other courses, but this could generate consternations over why we disliked the food, whether the damage could somehow be repaired, until I was left wondering what part of “No, grazie” was an insult to the cook Once when I really insisted on skipping the pasta, our server consented only on the condition that he bring us, instead, the house antipasto, which turned out to be a platter of prosciutto, mixed cheeses, pickled vegetables, stuffed mushrooms, fried zucchini flowers stuffed with ham, and several kinds of meat pastries (The secondo was still coming.) Also nearly obligatory are the postprandial coffee and liqueur: grappa, limoncello, meloncello (made from cantaloupes), or some other potent regional specialty I was not a complete stranger to meals served in this way But prior to our trip I’d expected to encounter such cuisine only in fancy, expensive restaurants Silly me Whether it’s in the country or the town, frequented by tourists or office workers or garage workers or wedding guests, a sitdown restaurant in Italy aims for you to sit down and stay there Steven and I immediately began to wonder if we would fit into the airplane seats we had booked for our return in two weeks How is it possible that every citizen of Italy doesn’t weigh three hundred pounds? They don’t, I can tell you that By observing our neighbors we learned to get through the marathon of lunch (followed by the saga of dinner) by accepting each course as a morsel City dining is often more formal, but the rural places we preferred generally served family style, allowing us to take just a little from the offered tray If a particular course was a favorite it was fine to take more, but in most cases a few bites seemed to be the norm Then slow chewing, and joy Watching Italians eat (especially men, I have to say) is a form of tourism the books don’t tell you about They close their eyes, raise their eyebrows into accent marks, and make sounds of acute appreciation It’s fairly sexy Of course I don’t know how these men behave at home, if they help with the cooking or are vain and boorish and mistreat their wives I realize Mediterranean cultures have their issues Fine, don’t burst my bubble I didn’t want to marry these guys, I just wanted to watch The point of eating one course at a time, rather than mixing them all on a single loaded plate, seems to be the opportunity to concentrate one’s ... people Or else they are polite, and still laughing Va bene With a dictionary and grammar book in hand, learning a little more actual Italian each day, we traveled in our rental car from Rome up the... speak some languages, but that isn’t one of them Steven’s Italian consisted of only the endearments and swear words he grew up hearing from his Nonnie I knew the Italian vocabulary of classical... known about had butch monikers like Whopper, Monster, and Gulp I was enchanted with the idea of a lunch named Margherita, Capricciosa, or Quattro Stagioni Reading the menus was reliable entertainment