However, to navigate through these troubling culinary times (criticizing soy nuggets I imagine inherently is a detriment to an amateur food critic's bona fides), one can legitimately and should therapeutically take consolation in memories of the gastronomical past. And create those in the present. For example, Target sells tri-color gnocchi from the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy (where I got kissed post-espresso) and I ate some tonight. I can't imagine what my soulmate from Bologna would think about my $3 purchase, but he didn't get stood up on Friday, did he?
So, I'm back to cooking, somewhat. You may notice that the basil went straight from the pot on my table to be ripped up in the kitchen, returning to the table integrated into my gnocchi. Sustainable agriculture, yes?
So, let's go back in time to when a young innocent girl's only romantic troubles were with the creepy Bologna restaurant owner she didn't know she'd be kissed by. Circa April 2009, I visited Italy to see my brother, the aforementioned brother who dines well and adventurously. It wasn't crazy... I didn't dine on horse or copious amounts of calamari, but I had 34,309 delicious grams of carbohydrates throughout the week and will recount my delights below. I just bought the Maria Callas version of La Traviata on ITunes, so if I try to make out with you while you're reading, that's why. I know making jokes about jokes I myself made probably gets old, but my double shot of soy foods on a Friday night buys me some humor latitude, right?
Our story begins with two siblings, both alike in dignity, In fair Roma, where we lay our scene. After grabbing my first gelato (coconut), I met my star-cross'd brother in front of the Pantheon. My brother gave me explicit guidance to not stand out as an American, and wandered up to me with an OU hat and shirt, flip flops, and a plastic bottle in-hand for his Big Red spittle. Bella Roma. Then my dear brother and I wandered through the alleyways catching up and found our lovely hotel.
It was adorable. The double-paned windows were not super useful when it was so hot we had to keep the windows open anyway and listen to night-time revelers.After dropping off our luggage pre-check-in, we went to a nearby restaurant listed in my Lonely Planet book. While unrecommendable because of the steep prices, it was extremely notable in the good service that allowed my brother and I to catch up.
Justin got his Caprese salad, I got my melon and proscuitto. He didn't even mind too much I was embarassing him taking pictures every 20 minutes.
Somehow he got outraged, but I'm not sure if I was photographing his outrage of his delicious mushroom pasta. Ok, I'll be fair, he was much calmer over his plate of mozarella, tomato, and basil minutes before:
Later that evening, we met up with Justin's charming friend, Aurelio, who took us to a fabulous pizza place. I'll readily admit I was so overwhelmed with the language, meandering streets, and throng of people outside the restaurant that I don't recall the name, but it was beautiful. Aurelio was admirably enterprising. Despite the throng, Aurelio boldly entered, asked the host the owner's name (Carlo), found Carlo, asked Carlo if he remembered him, and after Carlo's pressured/uncertain acquiescence, we got our table seven minutes later. I'd never seen any Mediterranean waiter work harder, more quickly, or more sarcastically (despite the language barrier) than ours. With Carlo and our waiter at the forefront, it was a feat of good taste and good service.
And gigantic Peroni bottles.
And amiable proprietors named Carlo.I was too staid to want to embarrass my brother in front of sophisticated Romans (Aurelio brough his friend), so I didn't take photos of our beautiful meal. The best thing I had in Rome was fried fiori di zucca (which I tried for the first time that night), or lightly fried zucchini flowers. It was the equivalent of having the poultry breast of one of those bluebirds from a Disney movie. It was too delicate to eat, but somehow it was done in a way where you didn't feel the least bit guilty, although perhaps less inclined to make good analogies. The pizza was fabulous too...it had egg yolk and other things on it, but the egg yolk was like eating Italian sunshine. Then we went to a bar in Campo de Fiori and ran into people from Oklahoma and Sweden and witnessed Italians playing beer pong. Renaissance art, Italians can do; beer pong is something best left to Americans in converted garages in college towns throughout the Midwest.
Our bar was called the Drunken Ship.. nautical!The next day, after Justin and I dined in the basement of our hotel (I had nutella, capuccino, and other less memorably delicious items), Aurelio picked us up for a ride around town. A man of my own heart, he drove us around a bit, showed us the Vatican from a beautiful vista, and took us to a beautiful Sicilian bakery. I regret I wasn't more aggressively photographical, but a girl has to take a break. Thankfully, Aurelio caught me mid-bite of a delicious cannoli di ricotta siciliani (Sicilian style cannoli). It was heaven: ricotta cheese filling, studded with dried fruits.
We saw different angles of Rome, caught a beautiful view from above, learned about Guiseppi Garibaldi, and then happily ate again. We went to a beautiful neighborhood, Trastevere, the oldest neighborhood in Rome. It was charming and we dined with Aurelio and his charming girlfriend, Genny.
We got more fried zucchini flowers and four dishes of pasta. We rotated our al dente pasta, cheese-covered plates. It was overwhelming. We delivered our kisses to the couple, went to the train station, and headed up north.The next day, Justin went to work and I went to Bologna. I detailed my culinary/amorous adventures the day after, but there was much more than extra-marital La Traviata-listening to Bologna. There were the smells and the markets and the artisinal pastas and the fountains and the window arrangements.
This was my first meal in Bologna, enjoyed sitting on a sidewalk on the main piazza looking at this building:
Then, I fell in love before Emanuele fell in love with me. I was captivated by the modest desserts:
I was enraptured by the complicated artisinal pastas (ravioli and tortellini):
And the pasta was so hot, it steamed up its own windows:
To shake my affection for these new culinary loves--that couldn't join me on my trans-Atlantic flight and subsequent foray through Customs--I climbed a tower. The one on the right:
And photographed myself, of course.
And I just found a picture of Emanuele. I don't feel so bad anymore.
After I had "the meal," and was walking around drunkish with "the rose," this seemed awesome:
And buying pumpkin tortellini from this store seemed imperative:
And photographing Italian versions of fem-bots was entirely enjoyable:
And restaurants with entire storefronts dedicated to fungus seemed remarkable (although sort of Miss Haversham-ish):
Then Cinderella hopped in her TrenItalia regional coach, rose and ravioli in-hand, and made her way back to her hamlet in Vicenza to boil up some dinner.
The next day (yes, we're on day three, I'll speed it up), Justin got promoted to 1LT in Vicenza. That night we went out for dinner with his buddy, and had pizza which looked like this (aka awesome).
We all ordered sorbettos, or delicious shot glasses full of icy, lemony, creamy something that presumably had alcohol.
The next day, I sought to go to Ravenna, one of the most artistically significant cities for Byzantine art and the only place I really wanted to see. I woke up late, got on the train, that train ran late, got on another train, didn't press the button hard enough to open the door at my stop so watched the stop go by while still in the accursed train and ended up in Faenza. For the next two hours I was in this forsaken town because the bus to Ravenna didn't arrive until two hours later. So, I had some obscenely sweet gelato and went here:
And saw this:
And this:
And tried to pose angry in front of South Asian pottery. I don't look it, but I was pretty upset. Really.
The bus came and I went to Ravenna. I don't think I thought about food once. It was all love manifest through the lens of my camera: love for mosaic. Just imagine:
It was beautiful, really breathtaking. I rushed back to the train station to try to catch an earlier train so I might get back before 11 pm, realized I was stuck with my thrice-transfer itinerary, and settled down with a McDonald's parmiagiano-reggiano burger (it took me a least two times to get the cashier to understand I wanted a burger). This burger rivaled even the mosaics of Ravenna in beauty.
I hope I don't get stood up on a date again because these therapeutic food-memory-dredging posts seem a bit laborious for us all. The next day, I stayed in Vicenza and after meandering (happily to a museum full of Russian icons in a private collection), I had lunch. I went to a place within view of Justin's appartment, a delightful local place where I conducted my entire meal-ordering in Italian. And it was one of the best meals all week.The bread was delicious, and I sat in the loft area, closer to the slanted copper-paneled ceiling.
Then I had a delightful appetizer of warmed artichoke shreds with parmesan cheese on top.
Then I had house-man gnocchi with asparagus.
And this is a little cake with fresh fruit and creme inside that was somehow called foccacia.
My final night, Justin and I attended a USO-sponsored Toby Keith concert and it was the most suprising, welcome end to a European meander. The football field where he set up his stage was teeming with cowboys, families and soldiers and surprisingly, a few guitar twangs made me ready to go home.
But only after a most satiating meal:
And after posing with a most beloved brother. Ciao amore!
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