from Parma to Paris

Parma's fog lifted for my departure. It wasn't a wholesale unveiling, but it was enough to remind me that no morning is the same, that no city hides completely behind its reputation.

Patrizia thought I might have time for one last walk -- perhaps to the museum whose interior is renowned and splendid -- but I decided not to rush. My train was to leave at 10:10 and I had yet to figure out how to pack the gifts, the cheeses, the vinegars -- beautifully packaged in boxes that could not be left behind.

Breakfast was as perfect as always -- well, perhaps more so, for two reasons: Patrizia added a persimmon to my tray (which honestly, I may have eaten just once in my life)...






... and secondly, after conducting a conversation in the Italian way -- of shouting for her up the stairs with one comment or another (Patrizia!), I asked if she would like to join me for a breakfast coffee and she readily agreed.





That was almost a mistake. Neither of us wears a watch and we launched a conversation that may well have continued for hours. How do you attack the topic of life's choices when your clothes remain scattered and your train is to leave in less than an hour?

And how do you say a proper thank you in the space of minutes? (Patrizia came down bearing gifts -- not as the inn keeper, but as someone who knows how to beautifully solidify the friendship that had taken hold in the last few days. There is also the nonna in her that packed me four Prosciutto di Parma panini for the road -- yes, four! -- because, you know, what you get in those food stands along the way? Junk compared to the real thing!)

We pushed it, we really did and she felt remorseful and offered to drive me to the station but I stubbornly refused, thinking that I should pay for my own follies and so I ran the distance, even pausing for that last Parma photo...






... and a second:






I made it to the station just in time.



(the clock is off, but the train is on time)


Misty landscapes float outside the train window while heavily armed police patrol the inside. I'm reentering the real world, where beauty lives with the fear of loss.






And then it's just a slow reversal of course. A flight to Paris (why fly -- Ricarda had asked, why Paris -- Patrizia had asked. Ah, the practicalities of life and the heartstrings that play to their own song! There are never good answers to those perplexing questions, even though we never fail to ask them and then agonize when we cannot find the proper answer the proper answer.). Over the Alps again...





Then into the (misty, of course!) Paris airport.

I catch the commuter train into the city. Yes, that city that made you and me cry in anger and sadness, for all that we are capable of doing to each other there and elsewhere, for the sake of fictions that we adhere to as naked truths.

But, this is not the place for such reflections. If Ocean has a mission, it is, as you well know, that it should strive to find a good way to proceed forward, despite the tedium, the disappointment, the anger, the regret that threatens to throw us all off balance.

In Paris, finding reason to smile is not hard.

I am back at my hotel Le Baume, taking advantage of the always great rates of early December. And that's a good thing. I want the familiar sounds and smells of my tiny room that looks over the quiet street.

Well, not so tiny.






After being probably their most repeat customer for decades, the hotel finally did a sweet thing and put me in one of their grand rooms. It feels strangely unParisian, as I have rarely stayed in a room where you can walk without tripping over a corner of the bed. I do not intend to get used to such unexpected luxury, but I am deeply appreciative of the gesture. There are a bunch of other sweet gestures that the hotel has put in this month for all guests, with a "thanks for coming this month" message behind them. Me, I'm just very glad to be returning. It's Paris, after all.






Same old, same old...






It's evening now and I need to find food. I go to Semilla. I read about this 6th arrondissement restaurant a few years  back (thanks, Mr. Bittman!). Here's a quote from the NYTimes article: Semilla is not quite a bistro, not quite fine dining, not quite Parisian-feeling, but very nearly all of those.

I think that's accurate. And the food is so great that I will struggle in future trips as to where I should eat, when I only have a night or two in Paris.

It's particularly easy  for me to judge since I do not have a reservation and so I am given one of the only available spots: at the counter (there's just one one such seat!)  facing the open kitchen. Can I take photos? -- I ask. The cooks are really a pebble's throw from where I am and so I feel I ought to be somewhat more respectful of them and their work.
But of course! -- the very cool waiter responds.






(They're all cool here: I think it must be part of the job description.)






Still, I'm just going to post a few photos. I am Paris sleepy -- a state that befalls me after a wonderful meal here (typically I switch to posting in the morning; we'll see if I'm forced to do that during this trip as well).

Perhaps more interesting (from a reader's perspective) were the kitchen dynamics. Semilla is extremely popular among Parisians and so the place was packed toward the end of my evening. And I had a front row seat, allowing me to see how the kitchen was handling the steady rush of orders.

They did well! The chef is young and yet he only lost his cool twice in the two hours I was there. And the demands on him and his staff were extraordinary.



the fantastically talented chef



I was terribly undecided as to what I should order and so I asked for the short (4 course) tasting menu. It was such a good decision! (Especially since they threw in a fifth course, just because.) Here, I'm about to begin on a fantastic fish dish, one that would make you reconsider the claim that fish is bland and boring. In the background, two cooks are scrambling to fill an appetizer order.






My only regret is that the tasting menus dessert was a chocolate dish. This one:






Oh, it was very good, but I would have loved to have eaten the rose pavlova with the yogurt ice cream on the side (a dessert choice on the a la carte menu)!


Paris, especially the food culture here, always reminds me that in life, it's easy to give up. But it's much more satisfying to keep on truckin'.

letting the locals take the lead, continued

Well, I will surely always remember this day in Parma. First of all, it tried valiantly to fight off the fog each day and for a period of a few hours, it succeeded, before giving in again to the winter clouds.

Secondly and more importantly, I will remember the time I spent with the Parmigiani.

And so again I am up early, wondering if my eyes will learn to shake that pinkness associated with too little sleep (I blame Ocean). I eat the same delicious breakfast, artfully presented by Patrizia.





And then, at 9, Patrizia and I set out.

She had invited me to go to the market with her and I was happy to tag along. It's twice a week, she says. And it's very interesting. Full of Parma flavor. Are you thinking maybe of taking some good dried mushrooms back with you? I'll show you where to get them.

And lo, the sun comes out again.






We turn to the blocks where the market stalls spread out. I tend to bypass the European stalls with clothes and goods of a material nature, concentrating on the foods instead, but Patrizia isn't so dismissive.

Take a look here: crazy, but beautiful, no? She points to a lovely little undergarment, then to a hat, a shawl...
They're good brands, discarded by the big stores. Look!
I tell her that in my retirement, I haven't the need for special clothing.
She looks at me blankly. We're speaking in English and I think she must not have understood my words. I repeat it, using other formulations.
She remains truly puzzled. Here, we're taught from early on to always look after our outside and our inside. To dress well, look well, eat well, talk well. It's important for the whole person, no?

I have no argument, except to say that perhaps in the States we've neglected lately the "look well dress well" part.

I buy my dried mushrooms. She banters with the seller. It's as if they were friends. Maybe they are friends. She knows this market inside out.





And then she walks me to another set of blocks, where she has arranged for me to spend many hours with her friend's wife, Ricarda (her friend restores old painting in Parma and, too, he is a painter whose paintings adorn some of the walls at the b&b).
Listen, Ricarda is older and she speaks no English, but I think your Italian is good. You will manage. I know you will.

Patrizia exudes confidence in me. About herself -- she is self deprecating, even though I'm pretty darn sure that she really likes who she is in life. My parents, they are much younger than me... she'll say vehemently. You cannot walk many paces with her without cracking a smile.

What Ricarda knows is perhaps not English, but she knows and loves Italian cooking. She and I will be cooking together this morning. But no meat dishes please -- I tell my co-conspirator, Patrizia. I can't bring back recipes for veal, it just wont work at the farmhouse!

I enter Ricarda's home on the top floor of an ancient building. The walls are filled with art...






... and I mean filled with art.






Ricarda herself is lovely and genteel, dressed as if she were to cook, but also to host a grand feast.

We enter her spacious kitchen which, due to the sloping roof, has the feel of a secret attic.

I got ingredients for three pasta dishes, she tells me. Tortelli with potatoes, torelli with chard, and lasagna Genovese -- with pesto and potatoes. No meat! -- she grins a full-faced grin.

This is, to me, a wonderful set of dishes. Not only might I make them at home, but, too, it is what people eat here. It is what she knows. It's what a person from Parma would have been raised on.

I ask her who taught her to cook.
No one! She says. But when pressed, she admits to using recipes passed down from her own nonna (grandma). Of course. It starts somewhere.

We make the potato stuffing (which, predictably has much more than just "potato" in it).



(I'd never considered cooking potatoes in a steamer before)








We make the ricotta and chard stuffing. We make the pesto and the bechamel sauce for the lasagna.

And finally, we make the pasta -- eggy and soft -- by hand.  


 
such orange yolks!



Dig in those palms, she tells me, watching my too gentle a touch.







When I go to rinse my hands, she reaches into her drawer to get me a fresh towel.






I cannot believe it! You iron all your dish towels? I ask, rather bluntly. She laughs. A complete waste of time, isn't it? Yet somehow I feel she doesn't really think it's a waste of time.

We're ready to throw it all together. Well, she's ready. I find that making the pockets out of the thin bands of pasta, so that no air bubbles remain inside is tricky. Push out the air first! -- she says again and again. By the sixth time, I get it right and after that we work in tandem, producing very many very wonderful looking tortelli.
















... to the background of a CD. She hums bits of a melody and I say -- you're a romantic! She answers -- it's not just any music, it's Francesco de Gregori. I tell her I taught my daughters to love Italian pop when they were very young. She reaches for the two-CD set that had been playing. I want you to have this. I offer no protest.

Ricarda wants to send all the food we make together home with me but of course, this wont do. We decide to gift it to Patrizia.

After sampling the tortelli ourselves.






Delicious!!

She walks me back to the b&b and we side-step a little across the river... (could it be fog again?)






... because she wants to show me an out of the way little shop with all sorts of Italian cooking tools.
You need a tortelli wheel, she says. You don't have one?
I don't have one. They're cheap and I know I can get one in the States, but somehow it seems right to be looking for one with Ricarda. And she finds it, right there at the market, as the cooking tools guy is packing to go.
She is taking it to America -- Ricarda tells him.
Well now, maybe you want the professional one for 14 Euro?
This, this is perfect -- she picks up the cheap one for 3E. My kind of shopping.

At the b&b, Patrizia is thrilled with the food. You know I hate to cook, she reminds me.
Ricarda claims I managed well with her rapid Italian. Indeed -- in addition to the cooking tips, the recipes, her thoughts on food, I learned about her family and of course she knows all about my two daughters with their very Italian sounding names and, too, about Snowdrop. I show off a photo of the littlest one on my iPhone. Snowdrop is grinning impishly at my camera.
She is so smart looking! Patrizia tells me. I beam.


The thick fog rolls in on this, my last evening in Italy. I go for my last longer walk. No museums today. No visits to the ten sights I have on my "must see" list from Patrizia. I have to put off the visual beauty of Parma. I am, tonight, focused on her people.

And here's a surprise, though maybe it should not be a surprise: the streets are packed! Not hundreds out there, but thousands -- weaving in and out of the dense fog.






The joy of a stroll together on the weekend before a holiday -- no, this is not something you can stay away from.






(A kids clothing shop? Let me look inside...)






And the Duomo is suddenly experiencing a busy spurt as well. Families come, they go in they go out. Why? Is there a service? I open the doors.






No service -- they all come to take a peek at the Nativity scene. It's not much, by the standards of the really flashy and elaborate Nativity scenes, but they come nonetheless and they look, and the kids, being Italian, run around the vast spaces of the church and then they leave.


At home again (how weirdly comfortable it is to call it that), I sort through notes and photos. Patrizia comes down and we talk about websites, Ed, friends. Will you come back -- she asks. It's a question with a very easy answer.






I eat dinner at another Patrizia favorite -- the Angiel d'Or. She worries that I wouldn't like it -- it's a little proper, she tells me.
I look at the prices. Not bad at all!
It's fine. I have a skirt I can wear. I'll look proper.

In fact, it's not at all staid. Tables are filled with families -- some with misbehaved children, others with perfectly behaved children, couples, young groups of friends -- this place has it all.

And the food is incredible.

I overeat. I mean, it's my last night for the Prosciutto di Parma and though I asked for a half portion, I got charged for a half but given a full. Then the tortelli con zucca (pumpkin). But someone messes up here and they bring the tortelli con something else, definitely with a meat component. I decide not to protest, because it's plenty good, but the proprietor notices and comes over and insists on bringing a few of the pumpkin pasta tortelli. Of course I eat those as well.






And then there's the house specialty which I have yet to figure out, even as I ate the whole thing. (It's a veal roll and I am guessing, based on taste and all the other rolls they favor in this part of the world, that there was plenty of bread, butter and cheese in the stuffing.)

So it was a superb meal. I'll have to admit -- the best of the best from my trip here.


And then I rush home -- a short walk down heavily fogged over streets...






... and I call Ed, expecting and in fact hearing the inevitable: Isie boy has passed on to another cat life. We knew it was coming. He truly was the oldest cat I have ever known: all rickety and bony and with hallowed eyes. I'd not been photographing him because I am sure that he would wish you would remember him from how he was when life seemed infinitely warm and never ending, out there on the porch with us (and especially his beloved Ed) at summer time.






It's the only time that I am so very glad that Ed hadn't traveled with me to Europe. He could be there in the final hours with sweet sweet Isie boy.


Tomorrow I leave for Paris.

letting the locals take the lead

Every now and then, when I visit a new place, my hosts suggest that I spend a few hours with a local. For example in Islay, Andrew, my inn keeper, put me in touch with Becky the Wellie Walker who took me on grand walks around the Scottish island, and Eddie the master Scotch craftsman who opened whiskey doors for me that would have stayed firmly shut otherwise. The days I spent rambling around with them were truly priceless.

Here, in Parma, after listening carefully to my stories about traveling in Europe, my hostess Patrizia suggested that I spend at least part of the day with Laura. I agreed. And so most of what you'll read for today will be about food. Not so much the consumption of it, but the art of producing some of this region's culinary treasures, as seen through the expert eyes of someone who knows this side of Parma inside out.

As she brings down my early tray of food, Patrizia says -- there's fog. It's magic!
I appreciate her upbeat tone, really I do, but I tell her that I've known nothing but fog since I came here and though I agree that it's pretty, I feel a little like a I do after a long winter in Wisconsin. I wish I could at least catch a glimpse of spring. Or in this case -- sunshine.
She is not to be put off: magic! Truly, everything is just that much more beautiful!

And then she serves me an elegant breakfast, agreed upon the day before, because I do not want more food than I will eat and so it is the perfect breakfast with everything that I love...





But I eat it in a hurry. Laura is picking me up at 9.

Who is Laura -- you ask. Well, she is an enterprising young woman, born and raised in Parma and she is starting to do what I once tried to do with my Field to Table project of some dozen years back: she wants to show off the family and in one case the cooperative producers of local foods. She'll be taking me to three different places, all just outside of Parma:  La Traversetolese -- makers or Parmiggiano Reggiano cheese, then the family Conti -- curers of Parma prosciutto (a mother and daughters operation), and finally Picci Acetaia -- the Balsamic House of the Picci family (a father and son affair).

Not interested in finding out about what makes this part of Italy hum? I can't even imagine that possibility. You can't just sprinkle cheese on your spaghetti and fake balsamic vinegar on your salad without knowing about what you're really doing or eating. It's not all that it appears to be!


Parmigiano Reggiano

We drive through a misty landscape. In the distance, I see hills. The Apennines -- Laura reminds me. Beyond them there is the sea and Cinque Terre.

We're on our way to just one cooperative, where 1000 cows belonging to fewer than a dozen farmers, give milk to make just 38 wheels of Parmiggiano Reggiano cheese daily. (600 liters of milk gives you one wheel of cheese which, after aging, weighs about 40 kilo.) Every day. No days off for the cows and thus for the workers. Christmas included.

Now, to you it's all Parmesan cheese. Herein lies the problem. Italians eat their Parmigiano Reggiano in huge amounts. Too, they export it: to France, to Germany and third on the list  -- to the US. But Americans buy Parmesan cheese (a generic term), look at a picture of an Italian flag or the leaning tower of Pisa on the package and think -- I'm eating the real thing! And sometimes they'll also think -- what's all the fuss, this stuff isn't so hot.

That's because the American agencies will allow the misleading labeling practice to sail forth. It's a generic term! Let them think they're eating the real thing!

This makes the Consortium of Parmigiano Reggiano producers very upset. Why? Because they are so damn proud of their product and they want you to know which one is the real thing and which one is a knock off.

Laura didn't tell me this. It's an old story that has been making local producers mad ever since someone packaged some sweet grape juice, gave it some fizz and called it champagne, making the real Champagne producers fizz with with discontent.


We put on protective clothing and we enter the cheese making facility of Traversetolese.

Oh, the fragrance! Milky whey, bathing the curds that are then shaped into wheels of cheese.






We watch for a long time. I wont go through the process here. You have to go see this yourself. (Get Laura to take you: you can't just enter on your own. She has special permission.)

In addition to the Parmiggiano Regiano (THE official Parmesan cheese), this facility also makes a small batch Grand Special: flax seed is used in the production of it, adding omega 3 to the cheese. Too, it's less salty -- overall, a healthier addition, to meet a new demand for this kind of product. (I did not know that actually even the real Parmiggiano Reggiano is a healthier version of cheese -- it's made with partially skimmed milk and so the fat content is a remarkably low 26%).

I tasted the Gran Special -- it's good!  Laura said there's a vegetarian version too and there's talk of a kosher cheese. I joked that there should be a lactose free one, but she reminded me that actually an aged cheese is pretty much lactose free after 30 months.






Oh, such beautiful cheeses they are! With strict standards of quality control: testing, pounding, retesting, scrapping some that doesn't come up to snuff. But when there is that label, it says it all: this is the stamp of the real thing.






Laura pours me a bit of local Malvasia wine for my cheese tasting.


 


And I'm asked if I want some cheese to take home. But which one?? There's the young cheese (aged a minimum 12 months), the medium aged at 24-30 months, and the 36 month cheese. Laura says -- oh, it depends on your use: you'd want the medium for your tortelli erbetta - you know, pasta stuffed with cheese and swiss chard. But the 36 month old one if you're making the stuffed capeletti with meat in broth.

Well now.

I pick up some of the medium aged because it crosses over from an appetizer (with acacia honey -- yum!) to a pasta dish. So cheap here! So pricey (and who knows how authentic) back home.


Prosciutto di Parma

We're back in the car, leaving the cooperative and I note that an incredible thing has happened: the fog has lifted! Completely, totally!






We're driving up into the hills, past castles and vineyards...

 



... up, up to visit the family run Cotti Prosciutto making facility.

All of the Prosciutto di Parma is made in the hills, Laura tells me. (She knows a hell of a lot about this stuff!)  It's a very important requirement: the windows are always long and tall and they are opened in good weather so that the air comes in -- sea air that's purified over the mountains so that it is of the sea, but crisp and very special. It is what makes this prosciutto so great!

Prosciutto itself is not a protected term - it refers to the cured meat that comes off the hind leg of a pig. But there are two prosciuttos that are protected: one that is cured in this region of Parma (in which case it is Prosciutto di Parma), and the other which is cured in San Daniele (in the Venezia Friuli region and of course, then it is Prosciutto di San Daniele).

Which is better? I have to ask. This, of a woman from Parma.
She answers honestly: San Daniele is pressed and so it has less moisture and is more salty. Parma is the sweetest. We use only salt from Sicily - no other spices. In Italy though, 40% of all prosciutto is made in Parma and 13 % in San Daniele. Parma alone account for some 9 million hams per year. (There are 160 produces of prosciutto here.)
That's huge!
Well, it's going down. People now start to eat less because there is a retreat from red meats.
In the States we call pork "the other white meat." It's all in the advertising. She laughs.


The Conti business was started by two brothers -- both farmers -- in 1969. They both died, but the wife of one and her three daughters carry on.

I learn a lot about the pigs -- where they come from, what they eat, what breeds are used. This is tougher for me, especially when I learn that they are slaughtered at just 9 months (they don't grow after that, having reached their optimal 170 kilo).  Still, I am not a vegetarian and so I can't be hypocritical here. And I know these pigs were well cared for before they made it to the local Prosciutteria (a store that sells only... prosciutto).

An interesting part of the process comes after the salting and initial aging. These two rub in suet and if you think this is easy and you could do it with your eyes closed, think again. These guys are professionals -- they've studied their trade since they were 15 years old. They know how to rub less on the veins, how to move their fingers deftly over parts of the meat.






Okay -- the finished product, ready for more aging. A total of 24 months, on wooden racks for the aroma, under tight quality and sanitary controls, because it's the EU.


 



The stamp of approval:






We, by the way, import a lot of Parma prosciutto but we refuse to take any unless it's been inspected by our own vets. And we insist that the prosciutto producers pay for all our vets' travel expenses, meals included. Clever, no?

So, where is the market for this meat? 70% is consumed by Italians. Then US, then France, then Germany and the UK.

Michela, the youngest sister, prepares a plate for me to taste.






I tell her -- it's too much! Please do not be insulted but I wont be able to finish it! She smiles and nods her head and pours me some more of that same fizzy Malvasia local wine.

And of course, I eat the whole thing. It's lip smacking good!

And the view from the Conti production facility -- sublime.






Traditional Reggio-Emilia Balsamic


You know, when you eat in cheap places around the States these days, you very often get your salad with "balsamic dressing." And it's awful. Ed has always said he likes the taste, but I've been skeptical. I've obviously purchased "balsamic vinegar" for my own kitchen. And I thought I was so clever -- I picked up only the stuff that says "made in Modena." And still, often times it has left me unimpressed.

I think today I finally understood what the problem is.

It turns out that there are three vinegars that are allowed to use that term "balsamic."

There is the IGP Modena Balsamic that you will find in every grocery store across the world.
There is the PDO Traditional Modena Balsamic.
And there is the PDO Traditional Reggio Emilia Balsamic.

What you and I purchase is the first. It is allowed to sport the label  "made in Modena" if any one of the production components comes from Modena. A grape comes from the region? That's enough! Caramel color added there? Fine! Made in Modena! Even though it can really be made in Greece. Or anywhere else. You see the problem. There is no consistency. If you buy and use a balsamic vinegar ("made in Modena") that you think is sort of okay, stick with it because another one may be awful.


We cross the river that separates the Parma region from Emilia-Romagna (if we drove further, we'd be in Modena). In the small village of Cavriago, we pull up to the Bicci Acetaia, where Marco has basically taken over his father's business of producing the Traditional Reggio Emilia Balsamic.

If there are no controls over the IGP Modena Balsamic, the Traditional vinegars more than make up for it! Everything has to come from the given region: the grapes, the cooking of the must -- grapes, seeds, stems -- slowly, for 36 hours, no boil! And of course, the aging: in barrels of five types of wood (chestnut, oak, cherry, mulberry, juniper), for at least 12 years and so on and so on. Makes my head spin.

We look at the rows of barrels up in the "attic" -- this is where they're aged and moved. No air conditioning or heating allowed. It must be done in the changing temperatures of the seasons. Why? Because, that's the way it has always been done.


 


I thought initially that this work wasn't too hard once you put the stuff in the barrels. Sit and wait. But no. The moving, the rotating, the preserving, bottling -- all for a superb vinegar. No wonder they're mad that people use crap and call it Balsamic from Modena.

So where does this Traditional good stuff go? Italy. Canada. Japan. Russia.

Russia? I ask, surprised. Marco laughs. There are certain people in Russia who have too much money on their hands. And there is the embargo of European goods. So they come here, they buy a bottle for 40Euro (that's the least expensive one!) and they sell it to their rich friends for 400.

I'm shocked France isn't on the list.
I'm not. He tells me. Mediterranean countries don't rush toward this stuff. It fits especially well with northern European cuisine. In France, they use it in Alsatian cooking but not so much in the southern provinces. (His father also ran a "Balsamic vinegar" restaurant before he retired. They know a lot about food and vinegar pairings.)

I do buy something. For a holiday present. Can't say what or why. But it will come with my instructions: do NOT just sprinkle this stuff on your salad. Put just a drop over a chunk of Parmiggiano Reggiano... or stuffed pasta, after you've doused it with the cheese...



Driving back to town, Laura and I switch topics. Away from food (sort of), toward families. I know she is close to hers. I know that Patrizia is close to her mom and dad. I comment that in the States, families often live far apart and the relationship between mother and grown daughter is the topic of much discussion, often not the most honorable kind.  Laura nods her head -- we've noticed this in American movies. Every time a woman's mother calls, the woman rolls her eyes, like this. She demonstrates, not inaccurately. Ah, what people pick up about us!


It's after two when I am finally back at the b&b. I think I should take a walk, what with the sun and the warmer temps, but by the time I set out, the fog is rolling back in and the temps plummet to near freezing again. I go across town, past the art museum that I'm quickly running out of time to see...






 ... across the river, which Bertolucci mocked (quote snitched from Wiki): "As a capital city it had to have a river. As a little capital it received a stream, which is often dry."


 



... to the park. But rather than strolling leisurely...






... I take a short cut (as do others -- it's rather empty!)...






... and head back to town.

At least when I enter children's clothing stores, I warm up for a few minutes.

(admiring, contemplating...)






In the evening, I tell Patrizia about my day. We talk about inn keeping, about food. She tells me exactly what I should order tonight when I go to one of her favorite places in town (Trattoria del Tribunale).
Get the the tortelli (stuffed pasta), but ask for a combination, so you can try them all-- especially the one with cheese and chard, and the one with pumpkin and the one with potato. And after -- either the horse meat, raw or cooked, or the veal with potatoes. Oh, and you have to start with the fried bread and prosciutto.
I protest. I can't eat all that.
She thinks for a bit. Ask for a half portion of the fried bread and prosciutto.

I step out into the now denser fog...





... and head for the trattoria.

I eat the bread, the prosciutto, the four kinds of tortelli.





And the veal (I'll save the raw horse meat for another time...) and I even throw in a salad because I miss the raw veggies.

I do have a tinge of guilt. Not because it's so much food, but because I am eating a young pig (prosciutto) and a young calf (veal). I had told myself that I draw the line at eating animals that don't quite reach adulthood. Still, I'm doing it for my host and I must eat as the Parmiggiani eat, because otherwise it's unfair, right?

And of course, it is the best meal I have had on this trip.


P.S. It cannot be said that the Italians do not have a sense of humor. This, from the person at the table next to mine:






As I walk home, I see that the bars are spilling out onto the streets. No one seems to notice that it is foggy and near freezing.





Frankly, I'm not noticing much of it either. It's magic. Truly magic.