Death al Dente Read online

  I walked past a medieval hospital, little changed since the time of the Borgias. Its gray walls bore its five centuries well, testimony to the oft-voiced criticism that Italians are overwhelmed by antiquity. They love it and refuse to change it, which is why they have so many ancient buildings in a state of disrepair. Many of them are amazingly still in service, and this hospital was no exception. Women were hurrying in with covered bowls and trays, for in Italian hospitals it is expected that the patient’s family bring in meals.

  Modena’s duomo is one of the most glorious buildings in Lombardy. Built in the eleventh century, it is impressive in its Romanesque style, and the restoration work that has been necessary over the years has been done with great care and taste so that it appears the same as when it was built. I admired the vaulted ceiling and an outstanding piece of sculpture in which four great stone lions support a long gallery. A rose window threw carmine stains across a floor worn bone white from millions of feet. The place reeked of dust, that unmistakable smell of the past.

  I checked the ancient plaques under the statues around the walls, passing batteries of guttering candles, supplications for help or relief plastered above them. Grotesque paintings hung high in dark alcoves. They showed grinning devils jabbing forked spears into pale flesh while, above, winged creatures swooped, herding the damned into the tunnels that led to the underworld. The smell of incense was heavy in the air and the footsteps of a few sightseers clattered on the flagstones. The structure resonated as a bell began to chime ten o’clock.

  San Giorgio is a different saint to the Italians. He is not England’s mounted knight, who is usually depicted slaying a dragon. This one stood in a niche, blue and white flowers planted around his feet dripping fresh water. A nun, pale face almost hidden in gray and black robes, stood below the saint. She saw me stop and look around. She took a step forward. “You are looking for Brother Angelo?”

  I nodded. “He told me to tell you that he would be waiting for you on the bell tower platform,” she said softly. I looked up to see an iron staircase winding upwards in a dizzying spiral and thought that he must have something very confidential to impart. My feet clanged on the metal steps. The only lighting came from high on the cathedral walls, and the small bulbs shed only a dim glow.

  The handrail was worn smooth and bare. I climbed higher and higher and eventually reached the top—a wide platform which led to a circular stone-slabbed balustrade going all the way around the outside of the tower. Two diametrically opposed archways led out there from the platform. Sunlight came streaming in through these, welcome after the clammy coolness of the cathedral interior.

  I heard a voice but could see no one, nor could I distinguish the words. I went out through the nearer of the two archways. The daylight was dazzling and the warmth almost physical, but still there was no one in sight. Perhaps Brother Angelo was on the other side, so I started out to walk around the circular walkway. On the outside was a metal rail and I looked down involuntarily. My stomach lurched—I had forgotten that the tower of Modena’s cathedral has a pronounced tilt. The fact is that Italy has many leaning towers but we tend to ignore all the others as the famous one at Pisa has hogged all the publicity.

  Vertigo is not something I am usually susceptible to, but looking down almost directly at the ground instead of at the horizon, I came close to a feeling of utter terror. I squeezed back against the inner wall and slid along it as I completed my circumnavigation of the tower. Still no Brother Angelo.

  It was as I went back through the archway that I had the stabbing thought that this might be a mistake. After becoming accustomed to the brilliant sunshine, I could see nothing coming back inside. Combined with not finding Brother Angelo as I had expected …

  There was no further time to speculate. I heard a shuffling sound in the gloom in front of me and a figure materialized as my eyes adjusted. Then I could see brown robes and I asked, “Brother Angelo?”

  I realized I was not going to get an answer to my question when I saw the thin-bladed knife protruding from the brown-sleeved robe. I was mesmerized as the deadly-looking weapon moved menacingly towards me. I had the fleeting impression of a pale face largely concealed by a brown cowl pulled well forward, but the knife held the full focus of my attention and no other detail registered.

  Backing up hastily was not exactly heroic but it was my first reaction. The knife jerked forward again. I almost lost my footing but I recovered and retreated out on to the balustrade so hastily that my back slammed into the railing and for a sickening second, I thought I was going to topple over. I grabbed the rail to steady myself and a strange thing happened.

  The cowled head twitched as if looking past me. The shiny blade of the knife dipped marginally, then the monkish figure turned as if suddenly terrified and ran for the stairs. I could hear sandaled feet rattling on the metal rungs. I turned to see what had frightened my assailant so much, afraid of what I would see.

  There was nothing. Blue sky held a little late-morning haze. A few pigeons sailed past and the sun shone. Otherwise, nothing. I went in and stood on the platform, looking down. I could see a figure getting smaller and could hear the patter of hasty footsteps, sounding as if their owner could not get away fast enough.

  I felt a profound relief then wondered if I had been too quick to jump to a conclusion. I circled the balustrade again, very carefully but there was no one and no trace of anyone or anything to account for the would-be assassin’s abrupt flight. Well, I thought, I really scared him off. I wonder how I did it?

  I was in no hurry to get down to ground level and stood for a while regaining my composure and pondering, still baffled. I had a momentary palpitation when I heard footsteps on the staircase from far below, but the voices quickly crystallized into female and childish tones. They were speaking excited French and were surprised to see me up there alone. A grandmother and three grandchildren, they took a lot of photographs of the city below. Before they started on a downward journey, a small German group had made the climb and we all went down together.

  Outside, I looked around carefully but there was no sign of any brown-robed figures. I saw a sign over an adjacent door that said “Cathedral Offices,” and I went in. An elderly man in clerical habit looked at me questioningly. “Do you have a Brother Angelo here?” I asked.

  “Why, yes, we do,” he said, turning to point. “He’s here right now.” He indicated a venerable-looking man, very tall and gaunt, who was surely pushing the age of ninety.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I must be mistaken.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS FORTUNATE THAT Francesca was Italian. She loved opera she had told me, and what is more dramatic? Being accustomed to opera, she did not burst out laughing when I told her of an attempted murder in a cathedral—she had probably watched that scene on the stage a dozen times. She did show the right amount of concern too, making sure I was unmarked by that wicked-looking knife.

  “Now that I think about it more objectively,” I said, “I don’t think his intention was to stab me. I think the knife was supposed to frighten me into backing into the rail and falling over it. That way, it would look like an accident.”

  “Then stampeding the buffalo must have been an attempt on you and not on Signor Pellegrini.”

  “But why? You don’t usually try to kill off writers of eating guides, do you? Not until after you see what they have written anyway.”

  “Very strange,” she murmured, still looking very solicitous about my health. She looked almost regal in an ivory linen sheath with high-heeled sandals and chunky gold designer earrings. Her hair shone and her eyes were alluringly bright.

  We were on our way to the Ristorante San Pietro where the owner-chef was Bernardo Mantegna, “the philosopher of food” as the Italian media liked to call him. His fame was already spreading to other countries, and I had seen him in a guest appearance on BBC television in a program on Italian food. If he was the man for Desmond Lansdown’s new restaurant, now was th
e time to sign him up before he grew to be even more famous.

  He greeted us at the door, a lean, spare man with sad but wise eyes. He was almost bald but had a trim short beard and resembled one of the hermits depicted living in caves in early Italian paintings. He was probably at least ten years younger than his appearance suggested. His wife, Vanessa, was small and dark, gentle in speech and movement. She handled the “front,” the reservations, the publicity, and the finances.

  Bernardo’s influence on the decor was obvious: sparse and simple, it just avoided the grim and serious. The light gray walls had a subtly silver tinge that kept it from being austere, and a fresh bouquet of wild flowers at the reception desk gave a personal touch. Handsome glass vases adorned shelves, and antique glass horses, dolphins, and birds in exotic colors, probably from Murano, near Venice, stood discreetly in wall niches. Largely hidden light sources made them glint and shimmer, giving the whole place a soft warm glow.

  A banner over the entrance to the kitchen wished Silvio Pellegrini a happy birthday, and a large photograph of him in a happy mood adjoined it. The party was already under way, and we greeted Pellegrini and his wife, Elena. Pellegrini’s lawyer, whom we had also met at Giacomo’s restaurant the first night, was there with his wife—Tomasso and Clara Rinaldo. The lawyer, distinctive with his silvery hair and beard, said he hoped I was enjoying my stay in Italy. I did not think it was appropriate to tell him that there had already been two attempts on my life.

  I wanted to tell Pellegrini, though, and at least set his mind at rest that I was the target and not him. The festive atmosphere and the proximity of other people made it difficult, and I decided to wait until later. In the meantime, I was kept busy meeting friends of the Pellegrinis and tasting Bernardo’s antipasti. Trays were being carried around the room by Bernardo’s staff, and the first tray to catch my eye was piled with violet-colored delicacies. “Ravioli potentina,” the waiter explained. “They are filled with ricotta and pecorino cheese and chopped prosciutto is added.”

  “But the color—” I protested, and the waiter smiled.

  “Bernardo adds violets to the dough after it is kneaded and rolled. The famous Parma violets.”

  I should have remembered that Bernardo was passionate about the use of edible flowers, surpassing even the famous Frenchman Marc Veyrat who was a shepherd until he came down from the mountains and opened the famous Auberge de l’Eridan in Annecy, experimenting with the inclusion of wild plants and flowers in the dishes of his native Savoy. Another tray came by containing grilled shrimp with yarrow, the plant with known antibiotic and anti-inflammatory qualities and now being used to treat arthritis. “Many plants currently being used in cooking have medical values also,” explained the waiter.

  “I wasn’t sure I was going to like Bernardo’s food,” Francesca confided in a low voice as she demolished three more shrimp in rapid succession, “but it really is delicious. What else is there?”

  The answer came at once in the form of bite-sized pieces of salmon steak. We both tasted and Francesca gasped in delight. “I’ve never had salmon that good! What is on it?” The waiter explained that it was nasturtium butter and suggested we try the chickweed salad that was going the rounds in tiny bowls. Bernardo himself was circulating, recommending, advising, and acknowledging compliments with a modest dip of his head. He came over to us. “Have you tried the scallops yet?”

  He waved the waiter to us. Small scallops from the Adriatic were added to simmering butter, vinegar, cream, and chopped shallots, he told us. Shredded leaves of wood sorrel were added, cooked quickly, then the scallops were put on a plate and more sorrel sprinkled over them. Eaten with a toothpick, they had a rich taste yet allowed the slight prickle of lemon to come through. We agreed they were superb.

  “Do you have to go far afield to find all your herbs and plants?” I asked him.

  He smiled a gentle smile. “No, indeed. Let me tell you a story. My friend Jean-Georges Vongerichten, who is as fanatical on this subject as I am, was lured to Manhattan to be head chef at the Trump Tower. Wandering through Central Park, he found no fewer than twenty-five edible plants and flowers. So you see, wherever you are, you can find them in your own backyard.”

  “But you can’t collect them all year,” protested Francesca. “Don’t different ones bloom only at certain times?”

  “That’s true,” said Bernardo. “Spring is, of course, the time to pick most of them but they can be freeze-dried and used throughout the year.” He stopped another waiter. “Taste these. We call them sambucus.” They looked like golden corn fritters and were scrumptious. “I make them from elderberries.”

  He excused himself to greet a newcomer who, judging from their conversation, was another chef. Pellegrini hailed him and they embraced, evidently old friends. “Pellegrini knows a lot of people,” I commented. “He has many big businesses,” Francesca said. “He supplies products to most of the restaurants in the area and even further away.”

  As more and more people arrived, the flow of antipasti increased. Tapas and meze are considered the equivalents of antipasto in other countries but there is a difference—in Italy, the antipasto is considered to be restaurant food and is not eaten in the home except perhaps on special family feast days.

  Small triangles of pizza—that culinary symbol of Italy— came round, bringing a fresh aroma of hot tomatoes and spices. In America and England, nutritionists rightly protest the fast-food pizza, piled high with saturated fat, sugar, and sodium. In Italy, pizza is a well-balanced meal: a complex carbohydrate (the dough), dressed with vegetables (onions, tomatoes, and peppers), a little protein (anchovies, ham, sausage), and some unsaturated fat (olive oil). Bernardo had added rampion and pimprenelle in this case, said the waiter, two plants that had been known for centuries for their herbal properties. Yet another tray came sailing along, its carrier informing us that it was mushroom pizza flavored with hyssop. This is a widely found plant that in Biblical days was the symbol of purification from sin. It had long been used as a disinfectant on wounds, the waiter told us, before it was discovered that the mold that produces penicillin grows on hyssop leaves.

  We sampled fritelli, two voluptuous puffs of dough enclosing tender leaves of artichoke, which I reminded Francesca is really a flower. Tiny sausages followed, deliciously flavored with basil, garlic, and orange peel. Several thinly sliced cheeses were squeezed together in a breadless sandwich, attractive as each cheese was a different color: blue, green, yellow, and white.

  A familiar face joined us. It was Giacomo, owner-chef of the Capodimonte where we had had the first dinner. He seemed bigger than ever in the crowded room, his beard seemed fuller, and he was bursting with good humor. “I wouldn’t be here in this coffee shop,” he told us in his booming voice, “if it weren’t for Pellegrini’s birthday.” He moved on, spreading more humorously critical comments on Bernardo and his “bits of grass” as he called the edible plants and flowers.

  Francesca moved closer to me. “I suppose this food is all right, isn’t it?” she murmured.

  “Of course it is. What do you mean?” Then I realized that she was not referring to the dangers of Bernardo’s plants and flowers. “No,” I said firmly. “This isn’t the kind of place where there would be any murder attempts.” She looked dubious and I caught a whiff of her suspicion but pushed it away. “We’re all eating the same food,” I said confidently.

  Some kind of disturbance was occurring at the door. “It’s Ottavio,” said Francesca in a breathy voice, promptly forgetting my potentially perilous position. It was indeed the terror of the kitchen at the Palazzo Astoria. Lank hair flopping, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was managing to cause a commotion in his first thirty seconds through the door.

  “Don’t know why I’m here,” I could hear him saying petulantly. “My kitchen crew need somebody to use a whip on them all the time, otherwise the place falls apart.”

  He was obviously a good customer of Pellegrini, who went to thank him for comin
g. “Give me a drink,” Ottavio barked, waving away a tray of delectables. “No, I don’t want any of that flower stuff—birds have been shitting all over it.”

  “Ola!” Bernardo called out, going to him with an outstretched hand. “Ottavio! Glad you could come!”

  “Not staying.” He ignored Bernardo’s hand. “What do you have to do to get a drink here, for God’s sake?”

  Bernardo took care of that promptly. He was apparently familiar with Ottavio’s hedgehog mannerisms and his own innate gentility made him tolerant of them. Two women hurried over and Ottavio put an arm around each. Francesca looked on hungrily. “Go on over,” I needled her. “You already met him. Ingratiate yourself.”

  She watched him, being her haughtiest. “I’ll wait.”

  “Neither of those two women is competition for you.”

  “True,” she agreed, eying them disdainfully.

  “I’ll circulate,” I told her. “You’re on your own—temporarily.”

  She gave me her condescending Cleopatra nod and I chatted for a while with Vanessa, Bernardo’s wife. She was supportive of his enthusiasm for edible plants and flowers but not as expert as Bernardo.

  “He is out at five o’clock some mornings,” she said. “Some plants and flowers need to be picked just after the morning dew has left them.” We talked about the various steps that her husband believed to be essential before cooking. “Flowers have to have their pistils and stamens removed and only the petals from the flowers are used,” she told me. “Bernardo is meticulous too about how plants and flowers are prepared. Some must be chopped with a sharp knife, others need to be torn, some can only be used whole. Some need to be macerated in water, others must be dry. Many must be used the same day they are picked.”

  She beckoned to a waiter passing by with a tray of succulent-looking slices of terrine with tiny purple, white, and yellow flower petals sprinkled on top. “Have you eaten one of these yet?” I confessed that I hadn’t and she explained that the slices were herb and flower cheese terrine. I tasted one and it was superb. “It is a terrine made with cream cheese, provolone, and parmesan cheese,” she said. “The parmesan must be absolutely fresh—Bernardo uses only it only when made and eaten the same day. The flowers are called viola tricolor—in English you call them pansies. They are mixed in with the cream cheese and more flowers are laid on top.” They had a most unusual flavor, hard to identify and almost, but not quite, a minty aftertaste.