Europeans than anyone else.”
“What’s to see in Parma?” Rick asked. The Parma section of his guidebook had been rather scant.
“The Panthers!” Paolo said with a laugh.
Sam laughed, too, then sipped his wine and thought for a moment. “It’s a lovely little town of a hundred and fifty thousand. Great food and wine, great people who work hard and live well. But it doesn’t attract a lot of attention. And that’s good. You agree, Paolo?”
“Yes. We do not want Parma to change.”
Rick worked a mouthful and tried to isolate the veal, but it was impossible. The meats, cheese, and spinach blended together into one delicious taste. He was certainly no longer hungry, nor was he full. They had been there for an hour and a half, a very long dinner by his old standards, but just warming up in Parma. On cue from the other three, he began to eat slowly, very slowly. The Italians around him talked more than they ate, and a mild roar engulfed the trattoria. Dining was certainly about great food, but it was also a social event.
Nino dropped by every few minutes with a quick“Is good?” for Rick. Great, wonderful, delicious, unbelievable.
For the second course, Carlo took a break from the pasta. The plates were covered—small portions still—with cotolette alla parmigiana , another famous dish from Parma and one of the chef’s all-time favorites. “Veal cutlets, Parma style,” Sam translated. “The veal cutlets are beaten with a small bat, then dipped in eggs, fried in a skillet, then baked in the oven with a mix of parmigiano cheese and stock until the cheese melts. Carlo’s wife’s uncle raised the veal himself and delivered it this afternoon.” As Carlo narrated and Sam interpreted, Nino was busy with the next wine, a dry red from the Parma region. Fresh glasses, even larger, were presented, and Nino swirled and sniffed and gulped. Another orgasmic roll of the eyes and it was declared sensational. A very close friend made the wine, perhaps Nino’s favorite of all.
Sam whispered, “Parma is famous for its food, but not its wine.”
Rick sipped the wine and smiled at the veal and vowed that he would, for the rest of the meal anyway, eat slower than the Italians. Sam watched him closely, certain that the culture shock was vanishing in a flood of food and wine.
“You eat like this often?” Rick asked him.
“Not every day, but this is not unusual,” Sam replied casually. “This is typical food for Parma.”
Paolo and Giorgio were slicing their veal, and Rick slowly attacked his. The cutlets lasted half an hour, and when the plates were clean, they were removedwith a flourish. A long pause followed as Nino and the waiters worked the other tables.
Dessert was not an option, because Carlo had baked his special, torta nera , or black pie, and because Nino had secured a very special wine for the occasion, a dry sparkling white from the province. He was saying that the black pie, created in Parma, was chocolate with almonds and coffee, and since it was so fresh from the oven, Carlo had added just a touch of vanilla ice cream on the side. Nino had a minute to spare, so he pulled up a chair and joined his teammates and coach for the final course, unless they were in the mood for some cheese and a digestif.
They were not. The restaurant was still half-full when Sam and Rick began offering their thanks and trying to say good-bye. Embraces, pats on backs, powerful handshakes, promises to come again, more welcomes to Parma, many thanks for the unforgettable dinner—the ritual took forever.
Paolo and Giorgio decided to stay behind and have a bite of cheese and finish off the wine.
“I’m not driving,” Sam said. “We can walk. Your apartment is not far, and I’ll catch a cab from there.”
“I gained ten pounds,” Rick said, pushing his stomach forward and following a step behind his coach.
“Welcome to Parma.”
Chapter
7
The buzzer had the high-pitched whine of a cheap scooter with a missing
“What’s to see in Parma?” Rick asked. The Parma section of his guidebook had been rather scant.
“The Panthers!” Paolo said with a laugh.
Sam laughed, too, then sipped his wine and thought for a moment. “It’s a lovely little town of a hundred and fifty thousand. Great food and wine, great people who work hard and live well. But it doesn’t attract a lot of attention. And that’s good. You agree, Paolo?”
“Yes. We do not want Parma to change.”
Rick worked a mouthful and tried to isolate the veal, but it was impossible. The meats, cheese, and spinach blended together into one delicious taste. He was certainly no longer hungry, nor was he full. They had been there for an hour and a half, a very long dinner by his old standards, but just warming up in Parma. On cue from the other three, he began to eat slowly, very slowly. The Italians around him talked more than they ate, and a mild roar engulfed the trattoria. Dining was certainly about great food, but it was also a social event.
Nino dropped by every few minutes with a quick“Is good?” for Rick. Great, wonderful, delicious, unbelievable.
For the second course, Carlo took a break from the pasta. The plates were covered—small portions still—with cotolette alla parmigiana , another famous dish from Parma and one of the chef’s all-time favorites. “Veal cutlets, Parma style,” Sam translated. “The veal cutlets are beaten with a small bat, then dipped in eggs, fried in a skillet, then baked in the oven with a mix of parmigiano cheese and stock until the cheese melts. Carlo’s wife’s uncle raised the veal himself and delivered it this afternoon.” As Carlo narrated and Sam interpreted, Nino was busy with the next wine, a dry red from the Parma region. Fresh glasses, even larger, were presented, and Nino swirled and sniffed and gulped. Another orgasmic roll of the eyes and it was declared sensational. A very close friend made the wine, perhaps Nino’s favorite of all.
Sam whispered, “Parma is famous for its food, but not its wine.”
Rick sipped the wine and smiled at the veal and vowed that he would, for the rest of the meal anyway, eat slower than the Italians. Sam watched him closely, certain that the culture shock was vanishing in a flood of food and wine.
“You eat like this often?” Rick asked him.
“Not every day, but this is not unusual,” Sam replied casually. “This is typical food for Parma.”
Paolo and Giorgio were slicing their veal, and Rick slowly attacked his. The cutlets lasted half an hour, and when the plates were clean, they were removedwith a flourish. A long pause followed as Nino and the waiters worked the other tables.
Dessert was not an option, because Carlo had baked his special, torta nera , or black pie, and because Nino had secured a very special wine for the occasion, a dry sparkling white from the province. He was saying that the black pie, created in Parma, was chocolate with almonds and coffee, and since it was so fresh from the oven, Carlo had added just a touch of vanilla ice cream on the side. Nino had a minute to spare, so he pulled up a chair and joined his teammates and coach for the final course, unless they were in the mood for some cheese and a digestif.
They were not. The restaurant was still half-full when Sam and Rick began offering their thanks and trying to say good-bye. Embraces, pats on backs, powerful handshakes, promises to come again, more welcomes to Parma, many thanks for the unforgettable dinner—the ritual took forever.
Paolo and Giorgio decided to stay behind and have a bite of cheese and finish off the wine.
“I’m not driving,” Sam said. “We can walk. Your apartment is not far, and I’ll catch a cab from there.”
“I gained ten pounds,” Rick said, pushing his stomach forward and following a step behind his coach.
“Welcome to Parma.”
Chapter
7
The buzzer had the high-pitched whine of a cheap scooter with a missing
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