My father was a friendly, gentle soul with a big heart and a head full of dreams. He cried easily because art, movies, literature and even some stories he told moved him. He would start talking, then pause to regain composure, chin quivering, broken voice. He was a hopeful romantic. But he was firm in his tastes, and nothing could change his mind. Obstinate as a Capricorn can get, he loved certain foods and hated, hated, hated others with zero flexibility. In this category stood blue cheese, pulpy orange juice and certain tomato sauces.
This doesn’t mean that he was unsophisticated or not brave when it came to experimenting with flavors. Dad was whimsical at the table as much as he was in life. Always smiling, his sweater draped over his shoulders, he’d stroll through life with the awe of a child and the classy badass swagger of a playboy. He had the same approach with food.
Some of the great snacks he taught me to love (and replicate) included the art of mixing ricotta and cacao powder, or his personal twist, fresh ricotta mixed with coffee powder. A wonderful Roman snack that I have no clue how he knew of.
In the absence of prosciutto, Dad used to sprinkle salt on fresh cantaloupe, which created the same perfect umami contrast. He often told a story of his Navy days in the Philippines. One particular memory was when he and a fellow officer were riding on a boat to visit a local’s house. It was a sweltering hot day. In the distance Dad saw the woman whose house they were headed to standing on the jetty waiting for them holding a jug of what looked like pulpy orange juice. Did I mention Dad hated pulpy orange juice? He despised it more than blue cheese. A mix of disgust and discomfort washed over him. He didn’t want to be impolite! As he jumped off the boat on the jetty he soon realized the contents of the jug was crushed cantaloupe melon! Dad said he didn’t let anyone else have much of it.
When it comes to pasta, Dad liked very few simple preparations: crudaiola (also known as pasta alla checca: small tube-shaped pasta tossed with raw chopped tomatoes, olive oil and fresh basil); burro e parmigiano, and pesto. Dad had this thing with pesto sauce. When he’d come visit us in Rome, or if we were dining out anywhere, pesto was always his first choice, in Italy and abroad.
When it came to main courses, scaloppine al limone were his favorite. or was it saltimbocca alla romana? Whichever veal cutlet recipe was his most loved between the two, the competition was close. I remember how he savored each bite, carefully cutting small portions with his knife and fork, sopping up the creamy sauce, chewing slowly in order to make the joy last.
He was also a lover of vegetables, which I feel he ate more of in Italy than he did back home. The sun, volcanic soil and proximity to the sea, he maintained, lends fruit and vegetables better flavor. I agree with this theory 100%. He taught me to enjoy shaved fennel bulbs mixed with arugula salad. The simple condiment was always a thread of extra virgin olive oil, a pinch of sea salt and a few turns of the pepper mill. One side dish I would never dream of serving when he was in town, on the other hand, was broccoli. This was another aversion of his. The smell of it, the taste, the mere idea of broccoli disgusted him. Then, in a later time of his life he actually did come around to eating broccoli, but as long as I can remember, he hated the stuff.
I inherited my love for bread from both my parents. Mom had bread on the table at every meal. And Dad was enamored of Italy’s many bread varieties. In particular he loved focaccia. There was a restaurant, “Da Cesarina” (no longer the glorious place it used to be in the Seventies) where we’d dine often. The place was known for its authentic Bologna cusine (a sad lack of which we suffer in Rome), courteous service, a legendary Felliniesque host and their balloon focaccia.
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Dad loved the balloon focaccia flatbread! Maybe more for the show than the actual taste. The large rolled out dough was baked so that it would puff up into beach-ball size and then swiftly sliced horizontally to obtain two large discs.
And then there was dessert. No meal according to Dad, however gargantuan, could end without dessert.
Cake, pie, cookies,… all of it. But Dad’s love for gelato was boundless. He adored coffee, chocolate and other nutty flavors, and in particular he loved tartufo. Given the amount of tartufo he ingested during the time he was living in Italy made him a virtual shareholder at Tre Scalini. He’d eat gelato so quickly that he’d get brain freeze and would moan in pain holding his temple with one hand while wolfing down the chocolaty delight with the other. Telling him to slow down only resulted in receiving side eye and a grunt.
Dad was never a drinker. I remember he sometimes ordered non-alcoholic beer, but that fad didn’t last very long. Wine was not exciting for him. There’s a story told in the family of when Dad went to ask my Nonno for my mother’s hand. It happened in a Paris restaurant. To celebrate, Nonno ordered wine. When the waiter arrived carrying a 1955 bottle of Château Haut-Brion swaddled like an infant, Dad accepted a glass but before toasting, poured half a pint of Evian in it to water it down. The waiter nearly fainted.
I’ll end this ideal menu for Dad with a treat I know he loved. Elliot and I froze the espresso coffee in a shallow tray and scraped it several times to the desired texture. Today’s your birthday, so while there may be a party in heaven, down here we made you granita di caffè. Don’t rush it, though.
It was October 23rd when at 5:00 am I received the telephone call I had been dreading my entire adult life. It was my Dad’s wife, Terry, telling me to get on a plane and get over to California asap. “Your Dad’s in the hospital. It’s serious. Hurry.” I left only a few hours later from Fiumicino airport with a handbag containing only 45 euros, my passport, tissues and chapstick. I spent the last days of my father’s life holding his hand, whispering things left unsaid, reassuring him of all my love, and watching him fade away. I traveled back to Rome on November 3rd, knowing that was going to be the last time I’d see him.
He closed his eyes and flew away November 19th, 2017.
My life lost a little flavor since then.