The Food of Love (21 page)

the filleted fish.

We got in a muddle,’ Bruno said tersely.

‘You can say that again. You’d better unmuddle yourself pretty

fast. That’s the order for table six you’ve just fucked up, and

there’s a reviewer from Trova Roma there.’

‘Oh shit,’ Bruno said as he prepared to redo the order in its

entirety.

Marie came in with yet more orders. ‘Guess who’s just walked

in and asked for a table?’

‘The prime minister?’

‘Worse. Alain Dufrais. He’s got a young chef with him as well.’

‘That’ll be Hugo Kass,’ Bruno muttered.

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t recognise the glasses,’ Tommaso said.

‘Put him on the next table to the mafiosi. That’ll stop him

looking around too much.’

Eventually everyone had eaten their fill, and the roar of noise

from the dining room lessened to a contented hum.

Tommaso was outside, talking to a pleased Dr Ferrara. Bruno

was alone in the kitchen. He saw Tommaso’s phone lying on a

counter, and then he saw that Tommaso had been composing a

text message to Laura.

He picked it up and read it. It said: Hi Laura. Sorry about all that. CU tomorrow? Regards, Tommaso.

It hadn’t been sent yet. Bruno picked it up and, with one eye

on the door in case Tommaso came back, began to change it.

By the time he had finished it read:

There was something I wanted to cook tonight

recipe of love

Take 1 American girl with honey-coloured skin & freckles like

orange-red flakes of chilli on her shoulders.

Fill her with flavours, with basil and tomatoes and pine nuts and parsley.

Warm her gently with your hands for several hours, turning

occasionally, and serve with wine and laughter, straight from the dish.

- but sadly 1 of the ingredients was missing. Maybe tomorrow?

He pressed send, and waited for a long, agonising minute before

the phone beeped with a reply.

That’s lovely. Why wait till tomorrow? I’ll come round later. Hope it went well, love L x.

When Tommaso returned, he picked up the phone and said ‘Oh’.

‘What is it?

“I must have sent my text without meaning to. Still, it looks like Laura’s forgiven me.’

‘That’s good,’ Bruno said, his face buried in the pan that he

was cleaning.

‘Pronto ?’

‘Carlotta, it’s me.’

‘Hey, Laura. What’s up?’

“I’m on my way to Tommaso’s.’

‘You two made up, then?’

‘No, but we’re just about to.’

‘That was quick.’

Laura smiled. ‘Let me read you this text he just sent me.’

When she finished Carlotta said, ‘Oh Laura, that’s wonderful.’

‘Isn’t it? That’s one I’m definitely keeping.’

‘This is getting pretty serious, isn’t it?’ Carlotta said softly. ‘It sounds like you two really like each other.’

‘Maybe. You know, I didn’t really think about it too hard at

first. But then, when I saw those photographs and I thought that one day someone else’s picture could get pinned over mine - I

couldn’t bear it. Did I tell you he changes my ringtone every time I stay over?’

‘Sweet. What is it at the moment?’

‘“Stairway to Heaven.”’

‘Appropriate. If a little uncool.’ Carlotta was silent a little while.

‘Do you remember? At the beginning, all you were looking for

was a man with dextrous hands. And now here you are, falling in

love.’

‘Do you know what’s ironic? He actually isn’t that dextrous.’

‘He isn’t?’ Carlotta sounded surprised.

‘When I first met him, it was definitely a physical thing. I mean, he’s gorgeous, right? But what I love about him is that he really believes in something. He’s got passion, and a sense of purpose.

He knows he’s got a gift and he’ll do anything, anything at all, to use it. So I know I come second to cooking sometimes, but I

don’t really mind that, because what comes first is something so fundamentally generous.’

‘Wow. You are in love.’

“I guess,’ Laura admitted.

‘What will you do? When you have to leave Italy, I mean?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve already told my parents I may stay until the very end of the summer. But after that - I don’t even want to

think about it.’ She had reached the street where Tommaso’s

apartment was. She could see the boys in Gennaro’s, sharing a jug of jimppa. ‘I’m here. I’d better go.’

‘Have a good night, cam.”

‘I will.’

From Stozzi magazine:

Cucina Romcma becomes Cucina Romantica

Six weeks ago I ate one of the best meals I have ever had. The

location was Rome, in the apartment of my parents, where a

talented young chef, Tommaso Massi, had volunteered to cook

us some of the dishes of our native city. The menu was a simple

one, such as might be found in any one of the hundreds of ristomnti that crowd the city centre: pinzimonio; fresh tortcllini al pomodoro; saltimbocca; a chocolate tartufo for dessert. What

elevated this meal to the level of high art was, first, the quality of the ingredients and, second, the skill of the chef, whose

passion is to recreate such traditional dishes and reveal them in their true glory. Just as the Sistine Chapel or the Stanze Raphael, expertly scrubbed clean of centuries of accumulated grime and

soot, reveal unexpectedly glowing and vibrant colours which

surpass anything that our imaginations could have devised, so

these simple dishes were restored by this young magician to

unimaginable freshness and splendour.

What was most remarkable about this meal, however, was the

effect it had on me - and I do not just mean my palate. How can

I put this? As the meal was consumed, I too found myself being

consumed by passion of a different kind. Massi’s intense, sensual flavours and deft handiwork in the kitchen seemed to have

awoken appetites that could only be fully satisfied in the

bedroom.

Massi is perfect casting for a god of love, being both

handsome and charming. He is also winningly modest. When

asked about any of his recipes, he struggles to explain what

makes them work. ‘It’s just food,’ he shrugs. ‘You buy it, you

cook it, you serve it. At the end of the day, the cook is no more important than the waiter. A really good waiter, now, has a skill that is often underestimated.’

The good news is that this remarkable chef is now cooking in

his own establishment, II Cuoco in Viale Ostenze. I was

fortunate enough to eat there soon after the opening, and was

delighted to find that his talents have survived the transition to a bigger stage intact. The women of Rome are in for a treat and

so are their boyfriends.

From Wanted In Rome:

From Time Out Roma:

Fellini meets foodie in hip young uberchef Tommaso Massi’s

take on the traditional Roman trat. The crowd is young, the

ambience dark, the music fashionably retro and the word-of

mouth impressive, but the food lives up to expectations. The

buzz is that this is a chef who understands women; when Massi

came out of his kitchen to tour the tables the reaction was more like that afforded to a rock star than a restaurateur. Book ahead you’ll need to.

From RomeBuddyBoard.com:

Posted by Alessandro Bonaguidi:

> Have you heard the rumour about II Cuoco? Apparently

women go wild for the food there.

Posted by Miko Trenti:

> Yeah, I went there with my girlfriend. It worked for us. Your

mileage may vary.

The ‘romantic restaurant’ is not common in this city. The

ordinary Roman would rather eat under floodlights than by

candlelight, the better to inspect what he is putting in his

mouth. The candles at II Cuoco, in Viale Ostenze, however, do

not conceal anything except perhaps the beauty of the food and

that would be clear even to a person wearing a blindfold.

This is traditional cooking, creatively reinvented, and to judge from the blissful expressions on the faces of the other diners,

they were as smitten as we were. Highly recommended.

From II Messaggero:

The tradition and inspiration of the cultural imperative that is Rome can nevertheless be explored gastronomically through the

fantasy of a chef. At Ristorante II Cuoco, greedy pilgrims may

entrust Tommaso Massi with the creation of an abbacbio

cacciatore or a coda alia vaccinara, as well as more mythical

dishes according to his alimentary philosophy. Roman tradition

is a reference point. Flavours are in harmony with the past and

the present also, and thus the expression of a civilisation which is rigorously passionate and creatively orientated. Approximately €80 for two, with wine.

Posted anonymously on www.epinions.it/rome:

God, it’s true! All of it! Take us to II Cuoco, guys - there’ll be much more than dinner on the menu!

From The Pocket Guide:

if iO’Ť()CaEaoŠŠŠ8823^^

From The London Review:

Readers of this column will already know that I was fortunate

enough to be present at the last dinner given by President

Francois Mitterrand of France, when he was already aware that

his death from cancer was imminent. On that memorable

occasion he served no cheese or dessert. The last dish the

President wished to taste on this earth was the ortolan, a tiny

songbird that is, ridiculously, protected by law in every country in urope. Mitterrand ate his in the traditional way, with a cloth covering his head, the better to appreciate the intense flavour of this ornithological morsel. I did the same, popping it whole into my mouth, then biting off the head and spitting it into a bowl.

All around me the only sound was the mutual gasp as my fellow

diners inhaled the fatty juices that flowed out of the birds’ tiny throats and into ours.

Once caught, the ortolan must be kept in a box and fed

on figs for a month before being drowned in brandy and roasted

for just a few minutes, whole, in a very hot oven. It is the

traditional food of lovers. In Colette’s novel Gijji, for example, when the eponymous heroine becomes a whore, she is said to be

‘learning how to eat ortolan’.

I was reminded of this historical curiosity when I dragged

my jaded palate, along with Fiona, my jaded trophy girlfriend,

to the distinctly degenerate environs of II Cuoco in Rome. If you like restaurants - and I detest them - then this may well be the sort of place you like. It has the usual complement of tables,

chairs, attractive waitresses and so on, though the presence of so many other human beings had the usual depressing effect on my

mood. The food, however, was not bad, although regrettably

there was no ortolan on the menu. I forget what we ordered. It

certainly seemed to have a stirring effect on Fiona, who later that evening informed me that she was leaving me. Frankly, this was

something of a relief, as her sexual demands thus far had left me feeling rather enervated. Anyone wishing to replace her should

write to me at the usual address, enclosing a photo and a

stamped self-addressed envelope.

From Romance:

Some of the best food this reviewer has ever had. Each dish

tasted distinctly of its ingredients, which were of the highest

possible quality. Simple, precise, imaginative reinterpretations of the classics. Chef Tommaso Massi is a wonder. Reservations

essential.

d%

It was full. Not just at weekends, either: every evening, and every lunchtime, too, the little dining room was packed to capacity.

Two by two they came, for the reputation of II Cuoco, as Dr

Ferrara had predicted, rested partly on the wonderful flavours of the food and partly on the wonderful effect that eating the food had on the female libido. Husbands discovered that their wives

forgave them their domestic shortcomings; young men on a first

date found that picking up the bill at II Cuoco was more persuasive than any number of whispered compliments; and lazy

boyfriends realised that the subtle seductions of a five-course

dinner were a congenial alternative to forcplay.

They had taken on a couple of extra commis to help with the

prepping, but even so Bruno was busier than he had ever been in

his life. His day started soon after dawn, when he arrived at the restaurant to check the deliveries. By ten he was making desserts, and by eleven he was preparing lunch. This being Italy, lunch

started late. It was not unusual to have people turn up at three, and - this being Italy - these same diners, who had been tearing about and cursing each other and generally rushing around all day, suddenly lost any desire to hurry the moment they sat down at the table, and would be mortally offended if, say, their secondo arrived less than half an hour after the end of their primo. Thus the last lunchers would still be finishing their distillati at five or even six o’clock, barely two hours before the first evening customers were due. Bruno would be lucky to leave the restaurant by midnight to catch a few hours’ sleep before it all began again.

But he was cooking, and that was all that mattered. For the first time in his life it was his signature on the plates that were going out of the little kitchen. The dishes were an exact expression of his personality, his influences: Roman, just as he was Roman; virtuoso, just as he was a virtuoso; sensual, passionate and physical, because that was part of his nature too. And if his own yearnings were