Never Trust a Thin Cook and Other Lessons from Italy’s Culinary Capital

The Art of Eating

“ Please don’t be offended if I ask you something,” one of my students said shyly. “I’ve heard that in America sometimes the people—not you, of course—take the food home that you don’t eat in restaurant. You call it ‘doggy bag,’ but these American people—other people, not you—don’t give this food to dog but eat this old food. Is it true?” When I tell him it’s very common, he’s awestruck, “You Americans—I mean they Americans—are animals!” When I explain that sometimes Americans eat sitting on the couch watching TV rather than at the dining room table, he exclaims , “No, no. This I cannot believe.” I’m constantly corrected about my eating habits. We were given a beautifully designed bowl that we use for sugar. When we show an Italian friend, he exclaims, “Sugar bowl? No, this is a cheese bowl! What if someone puts sugar on their pasta? Their whole meal would be ruined. I think it’s best you put cheese in here.” The explanation that grated Parmesan looks vastly different from crystal sugar doesn’t hold water. We are forced to replace the sugar with cheese or face questioning and warnings whenever guests come over. “What is the typical dish of America?” one of my students asks. While I list many things, the other students rebut that these are European foods. “Hamburgers are from Hamburg in Germany. French fries are French, or Belgian.” They The Art of Eating 184 think I’m holding back information when I tell them we eat food from all over the world. In Italy by contrast, it’s difficult to find food other than the specialty of the area, and visitors expect they can get ravioli , chicken Parmesan, spumoni, and other supposed Italian staples wherever they go. When an American couple visits, they want to relax after a rough trip driving down from Milan. “Once we get a nice bowl of spaghetti, things will be fine,” Warren exclaims. He’s not happy to hear it’s almost impossible to find that on the menu in Modena. “What? They don’t even serve spaghetti here? We’re in Italy, aren’t we?” Despite many Italians’ love of food, I rarely see anyone who is fat (Pavarotti being the exception that makes the rule). The only overweight woman I met in Modena moved to North Africa because, as a friend told me who has been there, ”Gli piacciono i ciccioti” (they like ’em chubby). She has become a successful lounge karaoke singer at an African resort. My students constantly barrage me with the question Perché gli americani sono così grassi? (Why are Americans so fat?). Perhaps a better question is why Italians aren’t fat even though they spend so much time at the table. When I’m invited to people’s houses, they consider themselves good hosts if I eat everything in sight, but then they worry that they didn’t have enough food for me to eat. It’s a battle. If I don’t eat enough, they’re disappointed; if I do eat enough (according to their standards), I’m so painfully full I feel sick and never want to eat again. I’ve discovered my culinary heaven, but I’m required to indulge in so much of this angelic food that I pray for a respite. This is why I’m worried when my parents come to visit. When Ermes learns my mother is in town, he insists I bring her to his trattoria so he can feed her. After much fuss she The Art of Eating 185 finally does go for lunch, but Ermes doesn’t really have anything to say to her. Instead, he sits her in the place of honor. La mamma is to be respected, after all. My mom says she feels as though she’s been put on display, like she’s a cardinal holding court. “Buon giorno, signora. Buon giorno. Piacere,” the other diners politely say to her as they pass in front of her. A class of friendly students invites my family over for dinner to help make risotto with frutti di mare (seafood). The hostess, Valentina, has been to the United States and bought an American flag with a bald eagle on the top of the flagpole . “Bellissimo,” she says as she pulls it out of the closet and removes...