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By Root 970 0

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 politely 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