Living in a Foreign Language (19 page)

For better or worse, we cultivate this closeness. The better is obvious, I suppose. The worse is that one of us will die first and the other will be left alone. Some couples we know hedge against this eventuality by maintaining a distance, by emphasizing their individuality. But that's not for us. A friend of ours died this year—of a terrible cancer that took him all too quickly. We went to a memorial service at his house and after everyone else had their say, his wife got up. They had been joined at the hip, too—very much in love. She said that once they accepted the inevitable direction of the disease, they would lie in bed every night and hold each other, and they would play this song on the CD player. She put on the song for us to hear. It was Boz Scaggs' version of the old song “For All We Know (We May Never Meet Again).” As Jill and I listened to it, we saw our future as plain as day. We drove home in silence and when we got there, she turned to me.

Lucky guy

“Are we crazy? To put everything on each other?”

Crazy? Yes, in that we lose for sure in the end. But I don't see what choice there is at this point.

Caroline's arrival would be easy because she's not a guest. We've lived together in Mill Valley for seven years so we're all quite comfortable with each other. And, as I said before, she always brings lots of energy into the house and a completely new perspective on everything. She challenges every decorating decision we've made; she forces us into a workout schedule that I've managed to get Jill to forget about; she juices things up in general, which is why we love having her around. But Caroline is entering a new phase in her life. She's individuating, as it were. She found a new job; she's cultivating her own friends and her own lifestyle. Cliff and Johanna, who would be arriving shortly after she got here, are her friends, not ours together.

On the other hand, she feels nervous about distancing herself from us. We've become a family of sorts and she's drawn a lot of strength from being a part of the unit. So now she's like a young bird, flying out to test her new powers, then darting back to the nest to make sure there's still a mortadella sandwich waiting for her on the kitchen counter. (Is there a mixed metaphor there?)

I make it sound like we're her parents, which we're most certainly not. But the twenty-year age difference, plus the fact that Jill and I are settled into a long-term commitment, makes us feel very wise—a perfect position from which to give advice, which is probably why she's individuating.

Johanna has known Caroline since they both lived in Jakarta as children. They took hula lessons together. Then they met again years later in Mill Valley and have been close friends ever since. She'd been hired by Cliff to work at a large trade show in Germany, so they were traveling together. Johanna is also very beautiful, and the image of her and Caroline walking and shopping the streets of Umbria—the only Asians for miles around—is an appealing one.

Cliff is a successful businessman whom Caroline met at her gym in Mill Valley. She says he's a friend, but he clearly has other ideas and is in full pursuit of a romantic relationship with her. Cliff is very lavish with his gifts. He buys only the finest things—with the finest labels. And he buys most of them for Caroline. He arrived with Johanna at our humble house in Umbria driving a large BMW, his arms filled with beautifully wrapped boxes: Prada bags, Burberry scarves, Chanel perfume—nothing but the best. Caroline has a whole closet filled with expensive tokens of Cliff's ardor.

He wanted to give us things as well.

“I've been going over the Michelin Guide and I see
there's a two-star not very far from here. I'd like to take you all out to dinner.”

Now this was indeed very generous, but I tried to explain that the Michelin Guide is meaningless in Italy. It's totally not the point. Sure, there are some wonderful upscale restaurants and we'll go to one occasionally just to have a change, but the real dining experience in Italy—certainly in Umbria—is the classic trattoria, one that makes simple regional specialties perfectly. To go to a place that tarts up its dishes, gives them a “new spin,” adds flavor on flavor until you can't really taste anything, is the opposite of experiencing good Italian food.

“But I insist on taking you to dinner,” said Cliff. “And I insist that we go to a really good place. I want to give you a treat.”

Something inside me had to burst this bubble for Cliff. Perhaps I didn't like that he was confusing Italy for France; perhaps I didn't like that he wasn't heeding my obviously superior knowledge on the subject of Italian food; or perhaps I was a little jealous—well, territorial—over the fact that Caroline had a new guy in her life. Anyway, I felt I needed to bring him down to earth. I told him I would take care of the reservation, and then I went to the phone and booked a table at Dei Pini in Spoleto.

Dei Pini is the lowest of the low; it is the least pretentious restaurant I have ever been in. The parking lot is an abandoned field; the entrance has those beads hanging down to keep the flies away; the design is classic “railroad,” with one room after another all lined up in a row. The chairs are painted red and the walls are covered with posters from old Spoleto Festivals mixed with photos from the good old days. There is no menu and you have to speak fairly good
Italian or you won't get much to eat. It is the opposite of a two-star Michelin restaurant, and it is one of my favorite meals in Umbria. This, I decided, is where Cliff would properly learn to humble himself before the true glory of Italian cuisine.

The first thing we noticed as we passed through the beaded curtain was Giancarlo. He is the boss—the father, uncle and husband—and he has complete control over the entire operation. Not only do his waiters snap to attention when he speaks, but so do—pathetically—the customers. You don't want to be on the wrong side of Giancarlo. He reminds me of an Italian Lou Jacobi—in the way he assumes a lofty disdain for everything and everyone from a face and stature that is anything but lofty. Giancarlo is an everyman, a Chaplin, a big red nose protruding over a push-broom mustache. But he carries himself like an emperor, like a god come to earth.

When we entered the room, I caught Giancarlo's eye. I wanted him to know that we were on time; we would get points for that. I watched him wave—much like a circus ringmaster—to one of his scurrying nephews, who instantly brought bread and water to our table. I noticed Cliff looking around in bewildered amusement at Dei Pini's ambience—or lack thereof.

“I still owe you a dinner,” he whispered to me as we took our seats.

Jill, Caroline and Johanna were involved in a very deep discussion—about Italian shoes, I think—when we felt a powerful presence appear at the end of the table.

“Allora”

This is Giancarlo's opening line—every time. It carries many meanings: Stop talking; listen only to me; I won't
repeat this. The table quickly quieted down. Giancarlo let a hefty pause fill the space and then he began, in stentorian tones, to proclaim the menu. His eyebrows lifted in bored disdain, his body listed to the left as if he could barely keep himself awake. The words were sung in a slow, measured cadence—not unlike the mourners' kaddish in the synagogue:

“Antipasto della casa; bruschetta; minestra di farro.”

“Oh, that's what I'm having,” said Caroline about the spelt soup. “I always have that.”

Giancarlo cast a baleful glance in her direction. He doesn't like to be interrupted—which makes it very difficult when you have people at the table for whom you need to simultaneously translate. Giancarlo wouldn't last a week at the United Nations. He barreled forward.

“Strengozzi al tartufo; gnocchi con patate; tortellini con panna; tartufi. . . .”

“That's incredible,” I whispered to Johanna. “It's tortellini in cream sauce with truffles and—”

His voice rose over mine.

“Spaghetti all ‘amatriciana; spaghetti alla carbonara.”

He then took a slight pause, as usual, to indicate that he'd finished with the first course and was now ready to go on.

“Secondi: filetto di manzo, tagliata con rucola, faraona. . . . “

“Oh,” said Jill, as if struck on the head with a blackjack, “that is amazing. Guinea hen, grilled until the skin is crisp but the inside is still juicy. . . .”

Giancarlo waited patiently for her to finish. He was quite taken with Jill and suspended all rules when it came to her.

“Per lei, faraona.”
He smiled at her with a twinkle in his eye.

“Si,” purred Jill. “
E un'insalata—invece del primo.”

“Ma certo”
snapped Giancarlo, almost saluting.

Now, what had just happened was that Jill had ordered her whole meal—out of turn—completely interrupting Giancarlo's sacred rhythm. Not only that but she'd asked for salad instead of pasta for her first course—unheard of; and Giancarlo, suddenly as fawning as a lapdog, gave her everything she wanted.

When Giancarlo got ahold of himself again, he sang the rest of the menu—a grilled chicken; tripe;
polpette
, which are meatballs; and
lumache
, which are snails. Then he went around to see what everybody chose—except, of course, for Jill, whose order would be taken care of by him personally.

Three different pastas were ordered, which was great because I would be able to taste everything. Johanna and Caroline asked for half-orders, which is meaningless at Dei Pini. All pastas are served family style and there is always, blessedly, too much.

Then we all told him our choices for the main course—more guinea hen, a grilled chicken, some sliced steak with
rucola
. And then we got to Cliff.

“I'll have the snails,” he said. “And I'd like to look at a wine list.”

First of all, I didn't realize there was a wine list at Dei Pini. We've always made do with the
vino della casa
, served in pitchers, which—although it's nothing to write home about—goes down quite easily with the food. But, to my surprise, there was a wine list—also oral, not written—and Cliff found himself a very nice bottle of Orvieto. To go with his snails.

Snails? At Dei Pini? Snails were not a local specialty, as far as I knew—although they were ubiquitous as a garden
problem. But why wouldn't he order something that we all recommended? Something the restaurant was famous for? Was he doing a
French
thing?
Escargot?
Was he stubbornly trying to have his Michelin two-star meal in spite of me?

The pasta came—and Jill's salad, served personally by Giancarlo. I allowed myself large helpings of the tortellini with truffles in cream sauce, the
spaghetti all' amatriciana
, and the
strengozzi al tartufo
—just to get over my frustration with Cliff. He passed on pasta—unbelievable!—and insisted on continually filling my glass with his far superior wine. I allowed him this indulgence only because I was, after all, his host.

His snails came. They looked horrible, buried under a tomato sauce. Bad choice, Cliff! He couldn't get through them, although he gave it a good effort. Later that night—much later—they apparently came back to haunt him. I'm told he was in the
bagno
for the better part of the night and morning. Reading the Michelin Guide, I have no doubt.

C
AROLINE TOOK HER FRIENDS TO
P
ERUGIA
, then went with them to Rome for a couple of days before Cliff and Johanna flew back to the States. So, with time to ourselves again, we invited JoJo and Bruce over for dinner. Actually, we had them over because JoJo offered Bruce to help us do some things around the house. Then afterward—if he came through—we promised to feed them.

They arrived at seven so that Bruce could get through his chores while I cooked. He brought his power drill and hung shelves in the kitchen while I chopped fresh porcinis; it was all very creative. Then he followed Jill—drill in hand—to hang pictures on the stone walls of the living room. Then he went to work on our
caldaia
, which wasn't properly heating the water. He took the whole thing apart—the little mechanical bits neatly arranged on the floor next to him—and then slowly put it back together. When he was done, we had perfect hot water. In the meantime, JoJo and Jill were in the kitchen keeping me company.

“I told you, he can do anything,” JoJo said. “He ended up
building our entire house out of the pile of rocks we bought. So now he's a plumber, an electrician, a stonemason. . . .”

“. . . . Freudian analyst, masseur,” called Bruce from the other room. “Disc jockey. . . .”

He'd brought an audiotape with him—a compilation of swing tunes that he had put together over the years. We put it on while I got the fire going in the
camino
for grilling the
secondi
—a mixed grill of pork ribs and sausages. The trick, Bruce gently pointed out to me, is to build the fire against the back wall of the fireplace and then, as the logs break down into coals, move them forward under the grill. That way you can continually feed the fire without changing the intensity of the heat under what you're cooking. Bruce is a master of this technique.