Many of my favorite food memories are not just about the
food; they are colored by the occasion, or the ambiance, or by the company of
my companions. So when I tell you about
an incredible meal I had last night, please believe me that I have tried to
separate the food on my plate and the way it lingered on my tongue from the
incredible circumstance of its presentation.
It is true that last night was my first night in Italy. I was near exhaustion from a long day and
night of travel. Upon our early morning
arrival we began a pre-arranged tour that had us firing our reserve
engines. We were already on sensory
overload from unexpectedly discovering Michelangelo’s Moses in the unassuming
Church of St. Peter in Chains. Practically
brain dead from nearly 24–hours of activity, we took our tour guide’s
recommendation and headed for a small trattoria off the Piazza Barberini e
Fontana del Tritone.
At 7:40pm, we were the first people seated in this small
establishment. Inside the entrance a
small host stand was stacked with menus and a giant bowl of prepared, marinated
whole artichokes a la Romana. The
waiters wore cream-colored dinner jackets, which caused them to disappear
against the cream table linens. When we
were shown to our table, I noticed that nearly every one had a small placard
declaring “Reserva.”
The menu offered straightforward Italian fare featuring an
attractive yet predictable selection of appetizers, pasta courses, meat and
grill dishes, and desserts. But
‘tagliolini e tartufo bianco’ (egg pasta with white truffles) jumped out at me
from among the other selections. A bowl
of this pasta with a glass of wine was all I needed. And it did not disappoint.
With little fanfare, my simple bowl of pasta arrived. The pasta took on a lemon-yellow hue, looking
so delicate and fresh I would believe it was mixed and rolled and cut to
order. The parmesan was nicely
incorporated, probably tossed in the pan with a little pasta water until it
infused the noodles with salty cheese flavor without leaving behind any chunky
residue. Then, over top, was a
sprinkling of white truffles sliced as thin as gossamer wings. Whereas many restaurants douse their pastas
with odorous truffle oils, it was a treat to get the real thing. There was no skimping on this shy fungus; it
declared itself the main ingredient with a bold whisper.
Like all great meals, my dish caressed my nose long before
the promise of its flavor reached my tongue.
I prefer white truffles to black ones, their glorious flavor is
assertive yet softer on the palate. The
delicate pasta was the perfect platform for its aromatic star, accented by the
briny parmesan sauce. Rolled on my fork,
the trio came together for the perfect bite.
My tongue wanted to possess it always, but my throat fought greedily for
its share. Little by little, the
treasure-adorned pasta disappeared until it was nothing but a memory. I dreamed of it all night. I awoke still tasting it on my lips. At today’s lunch, I pulled up its photo on my
iphone, and then somewhat ashamedly flipped to pictures of my children.
This was no ordinary bowl of pasta. It was the pasta of my heart. For me, it will forever be that legendary
love that many girls find on their first visit to Italy. I was not looking for this kind of love, and
I am somewhat relieved that my husband didn’t mind. In fact, I let him share it with me.
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