Entry 4: Three Italian Meals

As I had feared, there was no call from any of the group on Tuesday (don't worry, it gets better from here). Being more or less on my own after work, I enjoyed my solitude and continued my reading.

I'm beginning to adapt to my European surroundings, at least to the point where I am dining later in the evening. Without my chauffers, I decide to go back to the restaurant (more properly, a trattoria, though the differnce escapes me at the moment). I bring my Benjamin Franklin biography with me, and the waitress remarks on the size of the book.

The normal Italian dinner consists of several courses -- first is the antipasto, or appetizer. This is usually followed by a pasta course, then a meat or fish course, then salad, and finally dessert. Since I wish to save as much of my per diem as possible (and since I have no wish to gain back the weight I've lost since January), I don't have all the courses, just two and dessert, with a half-liter of wine.

Tonight it will be an antipasto of prosciutto (Italian ham, sliced tissue-paper thin) and slices of mozzarella cheese. Those of you who read last year's log will recall my fond praises of the Spanish serrano ham. After eating prosciutto I still have to give the nod to Spain on this one. Afterwards, I skip directly to the meat course -- in this case, grilled lamb chops. The meat is juicy if a little overspiced. No vegetables come with the meat course, but I use my bread to sop the juices. I remember a story of an Italian cook informing his mother that Americans put butter on their bread. Her response? "Why don't they just make better bread?" This, I can vouch, is true. Italian bread is simply incredible, but not for the weak of jaw.

For dessert, I ask if they have any cannoli -- pastry shell stuffed with a cheese/cream mixture. Unfortunately, no, and the waitress suggests a dessert known as tartufo, which I order in chocolate flavor.

A tartufo is similar to ice cream, in the sense that a BMW is similar to a Yugo. It is not as high in butterfat as, say, Ben & Jerry's, and is much denser and less sweet than American ice cream. It is also a labor intensive dessert, since it appears to be a small ball of chocolate ice cream, which is frozen solid and wrapped somehow in a larger ball of vanilla ice cream, which is itself wrapped in a final ball of chocolate ice cream. The whole concoction is then dusted with cocoa powder, and served in a dish with a little itty-bitty spoon.

The total bill for this relative feast is a little over 15 euros, with a 10% gratuity included. I leave another 10% anyway. I will later learn that this makes me an incredibly good tipper in Italy, which may explain why the waitess is so friendly to me on my next trip. That or my dashing good looks. Nah.

Wednesday after work, I hit the gym and spend nearly an hour working with the weight machines. The present scream I feel in my shoulders reminds me why I hate weight training so much, but I am resolved to return on Friday. Dinner, accordingly, is a bit later, around 8:45.

Same trattoria, same waitress, but different menu. Now, I start with the pasta course. I order the pasta with eggs that Jaime enjoyed our first night, and it is indeed good. The meat course tonight is grilled beef. Darcy will tell you that as far as I am concerned there is nothing like a good steak,and believe me, this was nothing like a good steak. Tasty, to be sure, but thin and well done. Bread and the ever-present half-liter of wine round things out.

Dessert? Yes. I ask for tiramisu, my favorite Italian dessert -- lady fingers soaked in espresso and baked on a custard made with whipped mascarpone cheese, topped with chocolate. Nope, no tiramisu, no cannoli, apparently this is just one big misprint. Chocolate tartufo it is. If you don't know what tartufo is, go back a few paragraphs, and pay attention this time. Another 15 euros, another excellent tip.

Back at the hotel, I run into Ben and Liz, who have returned and are doing laundry. We talk for a while. Liz is miffed because her tour today was canceled. There is a minimum attendance of 6 people on the USO tours, and person number 6 had to back out, thus inconveniencing persons 1 thru 5. We have a few glasses of sangria that I had purchased earlier. Ben mentiones that he and Liz will be going to a seafood restaurant tomorrow night, and would I like to come? Glad for the company, I readily agree.

Thursday, work. My client caseload is rapidly filling up, and 4:30 is a long time coming. Marcy calls -- her command took her for a day trip to the local spas, so she has not been able to call before now. She mentions that she is working until 7:00, a twelve hour shift. I offer that Ben Liz and I are going to dinner and if she is not too tired to make the drive, she is welcome to join us. She declines. She does mention that the group has signed up for the day cruise of the Amalfi coast on Saturday. I head to the USO to sign up as well, along with reserving a spot on the tour to Mount Vesuvius on Tuesday. Marcy also extends an invitation to join her for a drive along the coast on Sunday, which I readily accept, as it promises to have good shopping. Back at the apartment I clean up and wait for the appointed time to meet Ben and Liz. I am, to say the least, blown away by what awaits.

It turns out that the restaurant (an actual restaurant, not merely a trattoria) is owned and operated by the husband of the local reserve liaison officer. Where I had thought we would be just a trio, we are actually a group of ten, including Marcy and Jaime. This will turn out to be one one of the best meals I have had, certainly the best meal I hope to have in Italy this year. We order nothing, it is simply brought to us.

All the courses are here, starting with five separate antipasti, heavy on the seafood. A salad of calamari and shrimp, bruschetta toasted bread, fried calamari, steamed mussels, and potato dumplings. Marcy, it turns out, has at least one thing in common with Darcy -- she balks at the shrimp on her plate, which still retains its shell, head and legs. Since I have already peeled mine, we trade. As each course is consumed, waiters deftly pick up old plates and silverware and place new ones. The pasta course is rigatoni with tomato and mussel sauce. The main course is baked fish. Here is the only low point of the meal, because the fish, while delicious, is not boned, so most of us spend a good portion of each bite picking bones from our mouths.

All of this is, including the tiramisu we get for dessert, is accompanied by bottomless bottles of water and wine, both red wine and a white wine with peaches that Marcy insists we try. She and I consume most of the wine at our end of the table, since Ben and Liz are not drinkers. We make sure that the other person's glass is always at least half full. The remarkable thing about Italian wine is that, while it is intoxicating, I have yet to have the merest glimmer of a hangover the next day. We speculate that the hangover is not caused by the alcohol, but by the sulfites in American wine.

Marcy and I discuss changing our Sunday plans during dinner. She wants to take a train to Florence, but doesn't wish to do so alone. She points out the downside of having to catch a pre-dawn train, but the prospect of seeing one of the most beautiful cities in Italy is too great to pass up just because of a lack of sleep. She says she will call to confirm the train schedules and will call me tomorrow to confirm.

The bill comes. The price for this banquet? An obscenely low 20 euro (about $24.00) per person. If I had known this was my fate tonight, I would have paid attention to how to get to the restaurant. Now, I fear I will never find it again.