Never Trust a Thin Cook and Other Lessons from Italy’s Culinary Capital Other Books by Eric Dregni Published by the University of Minnesota Press In Cod We Trust: Living the Norwegian Dream Midwest Marvels: Roadside Attractions across Iowa, Minnesota, the Dakotas, and Wisconsin Minnesota Marvels: Roadside Attractions in the Land of Lakes Never Trust a Thin Cook and Other Lessons from Italy’s Culinary Capital Eric Dregni University of Minnesota Press Minneapolis London Earlier versions of these essays were published in the Star Tribune, Modena e Modena, ICI Campus Gazette Milano, and Tutto Vacanze, as well as in the book Grazie a Dio non sono bolognese! Un americano a Modena, published in Italian by Il Fiorino in 2003. Copyright 2009 by Eric Dregni All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy- ing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Published by the University of Minnesota Press 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290 Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520 http://www.upress.umn.edu Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Dregni, Eric, 1968- Never trust a thin cook and other lessons from Italy’s culinary capital / Eric Dregni. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-8166-6745-1 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-8166-6746-8 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Food habits—Italy—Modena. 2. Cookery, Italian. 3. Cookery—Italy—Modena. 4. Restaurants—Italy—Modena. 5. Dregni, Eric, 1968- 6. Americans—Italy—Modena— Biography. 7. Food writers—Italy—Modena—Biography. 8. Modena (Italy)—Social life and customs. 9. Modena (Italy)—Description and travel. 10. Modena (Italy)—Biography. I. Title. GT2853.I8D74 2009 394.1'20945421—dc22 2009017800 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer. 201918171615141312111009 10987654321 For Piccola Katy, the siren at the Leaning Tower of Pizza, who took a ride on my Lambretta and dropped everything to go on this adventure. Contents Preface / ix Vicolo Forni / 1 Permesso di Soggiorno / 7 A Page Boy in Pavarotti’s Restaurant / 10 Sleeping with Nuns / 13 Il Cappuccino / 18 Lord Arnold and the Knight / 23 Terror and Courtesy at the Esselunga Supermercato / 29 Foiling the Cheese Thieves / 33 Mold Makes a Good Salami Great / 35 “The Poor Meatball!” / 38 Rats in the Canals, Peacocks in the Piazza / 42 The Bicycle Thief / 49 Treachery and Treason amid the Subcommittee of Vespa Paint / 55 Norman the Conqueror / 59 Eat Your Hat, Cowboy / 65 A Night at the Opera / 68 Four, Five, Sex . / 71 Lessons from Guido / 75 Arrangiati! / 86 A Risky Subject / 90 Casino or Casinò? / 97 Commie Pigs? / 102 Never Trust a Thin Cook / 105 Angry Noodles / 109 Walking over Death / 113 Super Pig Trotter / 115 Reggio’s Blockheads and Bologna’s Baloney / 119 The Secret World of the Balsamic Vinegar Elite / 124 Pet Pigs / 129 Buon Natale! / 133 Sunny Italy / 137 The Hot Springs of Ischia / 144 Naples at New Year’s / 148 San Geminiano and the Festival of Fog / 157 Soccer Season / 161 Truffles and Cotechino / 169 Porn and Puritans / 173 La Tivù / 176 Politics, Italian Style / 179 The Art of Eating / 184 Eating Venus’s Navel / 188 Back to High School / 191 La Ferrari / 196 Touch Your Balls for Luck! / 205 Why Would You Ever Leave? / 209 Parli Italiano? / 219 Acknowledgments / 227 Preface simply want to live in the place with the best food in the I world. My scope has been narrowed to Italy: the country of beautiful chaos, the land of the dolce vita. But where in this nation of nearly sixty million people can I find the ideal meal? I learned the language by living in Lombardia for almost two years, attending high school in Brescia and then staying in Milan. I ate excellent food but know I can find better. I traveled up and down il bel paese, or the “beautiful country,” as the Italians like to call it. I could find great res- taurants in Rome, Milan, Florence, or any of the big cities, but I paid dearly for it and was surrounded by throngs of tourists unwittingly including me in their snapshots. Or per- haps it was intentional and they thought I was a typical Ital- ian glutton. Although I love the hustle and bustle of Milan, I am shocked to find it is one of the few places in Italy where the nine-to-five workday does not allow for the essential three- hour lunch break at home to enjoy excellent food: risotto alla milanese, osso buco . Bars in the center of the city serve meals that people gulp in piedi come un cavallo, or standing like a horse. On the weekend, the Milanesi rush out of town to the countryside for the tastiest Italian dishes. Why not just live at the source? What’s the point of living in Italy if I’m not eating fantastic food at every meal? ix x Preface I have searched for years and eaten many mediocre meals to reach this conclusion. I have written about eating beef brains in Brescia and garlic ice cream in Lecco. I have learned that basil and oregano are enemies, that arugula is social- ist, and that if I dare cut my spaghetti, all the flavor goes away, or at least that’s what my offended host told me as he clenched his steak knife. I know I am close to culinary nirvana when I go to Bologna—the town that many Italians consider to have the best Italian cuisine. Still, hectic modern life has enveloped Bologna as well, so I scour its region, Emilia-Romagna, for smaller cities with authentic charm un- spoiled by polluted air, where people take the time to cook and enjoy their meals. And I have found the perfect town. At last, my quest is over. Modena is plunked down on the flattest fog-covered plain of northern Italy, but, boy, can they cook! I convince my girlfriend Katy that we should quit our jobs and live abroad for two years. Katy may be hesitant to live in a coun- try where she doesn’t speak the language or know the cul- ture, but at least we’ll eat well. After all, this is the best place on earth for food. Katy will teach Italian kids English, and I will have a part-time job writing a column for a local Modenese weekly about an American living in Italy. I’ll try to infiltrate the secret balsamic vinegar societies, get behind the scenes at the Ferrari and Maserati factories in town, and be properly caffeinated with thimble-sized shots of espresso. Most of all, I hope to reveal the tricks of making tortellini, indulge in generous helpings of prosciutto and Parmigiano-Reggiano, and write about the good life in Italy with restaurant re- views of all the fanciest trattorie. My friends in Milan laugh when I mention that we’re moving to this small provincial city. “They’re too open and Preface xi friendly in Emilia-Romagna. Even their accent is open sound- ing!” my friend Anna says. “So where did you meet Katy?” Giovanni asks. I explain that we haven’t been going out very long, but she is going to quit her job and move to Italy with me. We met at the Leaning Tower of Pizza. “Pisa. It’s in Pisa,” Giovanni corrects me. When I tell him that it’s a pizzeria in south Minneapo- lis, he responds, “It’s always about food with you, isn’t it?” This page intentionally left blank Vicolo Forni he little street below the new apartment Katy and I Tare living in is a miniature Italy. The older women in mothball-smelling minks cordially greet each other, then stop for a look into the jewelry store. The shopkeepers from the market, dressed in their white smocks, dotted with blood if they’re butchers, gulp their coffee and discuss last night’s soccer game in front of Maurizio’s bar, Il Cappuccino. A couple of women walk by showing off the latest skintight fashion—this year everything is lavender—and act as if the men at the market aren’t staring at them. Ermes leans his bicycle on the wall and shouts “Ciao bimbi” as he runs into the market to do the daily shopping for his trattoria. The sig- nora from upstairs pulls at the leash of her two eager dogs, which have stopped to drool over goodies in Franco’s pet store. Students with blue hair that matches their backpacks run to school munching on fresh focaccia. Mothers push their strollers with little bambini so bundled up that they can’t move, and other mothers mercilessly coo over them and pinch their fat cheeks. The gypsy woman with the screaming baby has been replaced by a bearded bum, who holds court over the alley as if everyone has come to visit him. “Buon giorno, signori,” he greets with a booming monotone to every new guest to the street. He puts a whistle to his lips to get people’s attention, 1 2 Vicolo Forni then breaks into a political speech against the mayor, inter- rupted only by an occasional swig from his carton of red wine and a musical interlude of liscio (polka) music on his tape deck. A huge van from the market turns down Vicolo Forni and spoils the scene. The pedestrians have to line up with their backs against the wall while the big truck insists on fit- ting down the vicolo, or alley, with only millimeters to spare.