The power of food

When it comes to digestion, either Italians have connective nerves between their digestive tracts and their brains that others don’t or they’re a mass of hypochondriacs. Case in point: I was at out to lunch in San Francisco with my son and an Italian we had just met, and of course the topic was food. (What else would you talk about when eating?) The subject of meat came up, leading to a discussion of the frightening treatment of animals and processing of the meat that is sold in vast quantities at cheap hamburger joints. Our guest mentioned a memorable dining experience at one such place, where the meat was hardly identifiable as such and the side dishes were all fried. “I didn’t digest for two days!” he exclaimed.

Phrases like “I haven’t digested yet,” or “there, he just digested” when a baby burps remain meaningless to me. Nor can I tell if my liver is swollen or out of sorts, which any Italian can. Admittedly, I don’t even know exactly where mine is. The popular closing wish when leaving the table of buona digestione (loosely translated, “may your digestion be uneventful”) is, of course, wasted on me, but I respond in kind out of courtesy for their upcoming uncertainties.  After nearly two decades in Italy, there’s only language barrier I’m still faced with. My internal composting system has yet to communicate with me.

My son and his girlfriend recently spent a month in Italy. The trip included a visit with relatives in Bologna that he hadn’t seen for two decades. Unfortunately, one of his great uncles had just suffered a stroke before they arrived, the good news being that he was expected to make a full recovery. Hearing about the medical emergency by phone, my son naturally told his aunt they would be happy to bring a simple lunch, telling her there was no need to prepare a meal for them. The offer was brushed aside and she assured him she wouldn’t get carried away.

Daniel and Mary’s visit was such a monumental event that both sons, their wives and children were also invited to lunch at Alfio and Giorgina’s. Far from putting out a few snacks, Daniel and Mary arrived to find a banquet had been laid out for them. There were hand-made tortellini in broth, three different roasts, pickled vegetables, salad and dessert. An exceptional local wine purchased by the demijohn and aged in their own cellar was served. It was the visit of a lifetime. When Daniel told his great-uncle he wished he could have met his brother (Daniel’s grandfather), Alfio said: “You’re looking at him. We looked exactly like each other.”

It was a perfect afternoon. The only flaw was found by Giorgina, who served the tortellini with an apology: “I’m really sorry–it’s been so chaotic around here that I just didn’t have time to make the tortellini myself. I had to have the butcher’s wife make them.”

I recently made a quick fix lunch for a friend’s children: pasta with butter and parmigiano. He’s from Rome, and when he found out what I had made for lunch, he told me the Romans called that “adulteress pasta” (la pasta dei cornuti). The reason? If you didn’t spend the entire morning cooking the noon meal, then the “logical” assumption is that you must have used the time to dash out for a quick roll in the hay with another man. The name makes anyone chuckle, but it also shows how the farther south in Italy you go, the more narrow are the constraints that determine (or undermine) a man’s reputation.

Focal comes from the Latin for “hearth,” making the fireplace the focal point of a home. This was where food was cooked, where families gathered for warmth and companionship, where children were told stories of magic and mystery as grandmothers knitted or mended.

Charming single-room farmhouses with cavernous fireplaces may be a thing of the past, but the focal point of the Italian home is still where food happens. The table is a domestic altar. The rituals and expectations around the table are no more open for discussion than is religious doctrine, making mealtime sacred. All across the country at one o’clock and eight o’clock tables are set and meals are served. Pasta or soup, meat or fish, vegetables, fresh fruit and espresso. Bread is considered part of the table setting, as indispensable for a meal as olive oil and wine. Visitors would no more drop in than would appointments be scheduled close to mealtime. E’ quasi l’ora di cena, devo scappare. (It’s almost dinnertime, I have to run.) No further explanation is needed, no one would argue with such a compelling obligation.

When 60 Minutes did a special on I Mammoni (The Mama’s Boys), Leslie Stahl interviewed two middle-aged, unmarried men from Milan. “You both own houses close by, yet choose to live at home. Your mothers wash and iron your clothes, make your beds, do the shopping, cook your meals. Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” The men looked at each other quizzically and turned back to her with a smile. “No,” they said. “Why?” Leslie hammered away at the cultural barrier. “Don’t you think you’re irresponsible and immature?”

Then it was lunch time. It was a routine meal for the family, but given Leslie’s enthusiasm, she had rarely eaten so well. “You mean your mother does this every day?” she asked. The 75-year-old mother had done the shopping early that morning on her bike (you have to get to the shops early to get the best ingredients) and cooked all morning.

Over lunch, Leslie finally started to appreciate the Italian perspective. Three generations were gathered around the table: mother, unmarried son, married daughter and the daughter’s two children. The son and daughter both worked, the grandchildren were in school. The mother glowed with pleasure as her family expressed its gratitude. Here was an elderly widow who, far from being neglected by her family, was making a fundamental contribution to their well-being. It was a win-win situation.

Leslie’s closing comment was classic. “I would love to live here. Could she be my mother, too?” she laughed. Without skipping a beat, the mother replied with an equally classic question: Certo! Cosa vuoi per pranzo domani? (Of course! What do you want for lunch tomorrow?)