Mangia: learning to love and eat like an italian
Italian Sunday Lunch. There’s no way this isn’t going to be a big deal. Do I expect a scene straight out of the Sopranos — men in the finest Sergio Tacchini tracksuits and Carmella’s homemade lasagna steaming on the countertop? No. This is Italy. Real Italy. Not Jersey.
Casually shifting gears in his small manual car, Luca guides us up the mountain that towers Vicenza. Luca’s hometown is definitively picturesque. Just 30 minutes outside of Venice, Vicenza may not have the canals or Piazza San Marco, but has two international claims to fame: Andrea Palladio, an OG architect who constructed villas and the iconic “Basilica Palladiana” in the Vicenza city center; and of course, the people of Vicenza are infamously known as cat eaters. Yes, cat eaters. Traveling up and down the country, whenever Luca answers the prying “where are you from”, he’s immediately thrown a “mangia gatti!” The winding mountain roads make me feel nauseated.
Luca’s parents lead in their car, as we expect to meet his brother and fiancé at our final destination. The light fog grows denser and the roads wane as we spiral further up the mountain. Cutting the mist, the lush and vibrant greenery creates a frame for the classically beautiful homes nestled alongside the road. All of the houses have land, with farms and vineyards spanning the rolling hills.
“My mother knows the woman who owns this place. They went to school together when they were young. Now she owns it with her family. They call it a osteria a gestione familiare, but a sort of fancier one.”
“What does that mean? Familiar restaurant?” My Spanish helps me dissect some of the words.
“Close. Is like a family restaurant, where everyone works together,” Luca smiles, exposing his fresh straight teeth. He’s blonde, not typical for an Italian, and the small hairs sprouting from his strong jaw-line are red.
At twenty-five he’s the oldest guy I’ve dated who still lives with his parents. Italians function differently with men typically staying at home until they marry off. I’ve only been staying at his family house for two days now, but I wonder if he’s ever had any other girl do the same.
I rest my hand on his thigh and he grins, keeping his eyes on the road. Maybe he can read my nerves.
While his brother speaks decent English and his mother is learning, Luca’s father and the fiancé don’t. So I sit there, painstakingly understanding nearly everything being said, but my lips are cemented when it comes time to speak. They must think I’m an idiot.
“Here,” Luca affirms, pulling into a gravel driveway next to a farm.
Inching slowly forward to avoid hitting the wandering chickens, they bobble their heads with each step as they aimlessly cross the road. They get it, I think.
We stash our adorably small car and join Luca’s parents. Luca’s father, Giancarlo, smiles with his entire face. Giancarlo is tall, his long arms and lanky legs hang by his side, his hair is grayed and closely buzzed so he looks bald, and his large, round brown eyes are deeply set in his face. Luca’s mother, Flora, takes Carlo’s hand and starts leading us to the direction of the entrance. Flora, petite with short, dirty blonde, wispy hair and colorfully-framed glasses that often slip down her sharply pointed nose, is in charge. Wiggling through a group of restless children smacking each other, speaking in a foreign, yet reassuring tongue, we make our way to the restaurant doors. Luca was right — family style indeed. My eyes are in overdrive: lengthy communal tables and a sea of chairs spans the restaurant with each table presumably seating an entire family. A slender woman, with her hair tied in a bun and an apron wrapped tightly around her waist runs up and kisses Luca’s mother on both cheeks. This must be the woman she knows.
Both of the women are dressed plainly, but with a dash of class mixed in — something about the air with which they carry themselves, or maybe it’s just that they’re speaking Italian, who knows. With no clue of how they pull it off, I listen as they exchange well wishes and inquiries about distant family.
With the woman staring directly at me, I can tell my introduction has started. I hear “Amica” and “Americana” and know it’s me. That American friend. While I love blending in with the locals, I’m thankful Flora tells this woman I’m American. In the past two days alone, people naturally assume I’m an Italian native. Not only do I have olive skin, dark hair and eyes, and an Italian boyfriend, but I’m also not staying in a big tourist city and hitting all of the Fodors-recommended spots. They always look baffled and disappointed when I cock my head and don’t respond to their questions. Luca usually interjects, “è Americana.” Then the bemusement fizzles away, as does any attention towards me.
I kiss the woman on both cheeks with ease, as though I had been doing this my whole life. Yes in Italy, much like Puerto Rico, they greet people with firm kisses on the cheeks. Only difference is in Puerto Rico we pick one side and stick to it; here, they happen to like both cheeks equally. The woman turns back to Flora and nods approvingly.
Luca’s brother, Giulio, and his fiancé, Katia, enter while the welcomings are still taking place. The greetings grow louder and the kisses are abundant. I stand off to the side, smiling as broadly as possible, hoping my face will communicate my excitement and gratitude.
After settling at a large table, the owner immediately brings wine, water, and bread without prompting. There are no menus. She sets the staple items down and adjusts her apron straps before reciting the menu aloud. Oh no, I’m screwed. I catch a few words for pasta, meat, and some types of vegetables, but the rest is lost. Turning to Luca on my left, I grab his arm and my eyes expand in puzzlement. He rests his hand on my thigh and tells me he’ll get me something without pork. I unhinge my grasp and exhale.
Everyone jests while questioning what they’ll order. Luca and his father are talking, trying to decide for me.
“Doug?” His accent is thick and I shrug my shoulders in confusion. Luca slows his speech down, as though talking to a child, “Do you eat duck?”
“I love duck!” I confirm with a nod of the head and smile.
I rarely eat with other people’s families, but when I do, I try to slip in some humor to make myself, and hopefully everyone else, feel pacified. Here, I can’t utter anything except “bono” whenever I think the food is good. Luca, Carlo, and Giulio pour the wine and sparkling mineral water for everyone at the table and we raise our glasses. Luca’s mother and father say something that sounds sentimental and Giulio quips with a joke that makes everyone chuckle.
“Salute!” The glasses ring against one another and we sip.
Luca leans over and whispers, “Watch my mother. After two glasses she gets little drunk.” I look up and see his mother slowly, but steadily, sipping the red wine. We haven’t ordered our food yet.
“So Marie,” Giulio sets down his glass and wraps his arm around Katia, “We are thinking of going to the Lower East Side for our… how do you say it? The trip after the wedding?”
“The honeymoon.”
“Yeah. We are thinking of going to the Lower East Side for honeymoon. Do you think it’s a good idea?”
I prop my elbows on the table and lean closer to the couple. “I think that would be great,” I say earnestly, “There is a lot to do in Manhattan and a lot of great music in the Lower East Side.”
“Yeah, Luca always says how great it is, and we would like to get out of Italy for honeymoon.”
Katia uses her shockingly long, manicured nails to stroke the multi-tinted soul patch sprouting from the center of Giulio’s chin.
“I think you would both love it. Lots of museums, parks, music shows. It’d be a nice honeymoon.” I nod, thankful I could contribute anything worthwhile to the conversation, and fall back onto Luca’s arm. He wraps it around me, just as Giulio has done with Katia.
The familiar woman in the apron reappears and asks what we’ll be having. Everyone makes their requests and when the woman stares at me, begging a response, Luca jumps to my rescue and states my order. The woman in the apron beams, hopefully assuming that Luca was playing the role of man and ordering for me. That wouldn’t be as taboo here as it is back home.
The conversation at the table isn’t boisterous or muted, but fluid. Everyone’s hands are in the air, pointing, jabbing, and swinging. They look at me directly in the eyes and gesture with their palms. Most of the words sound like abstractions of Spanish. I gesture back and move my head vertically to accentuate my point. We communicate without language: in a fundamentally basic manner.
Mid-conversation, the owner and another person, presumably family, emerge from the swinging kitchen doors with an array of dishes. The massive platters contain what should be an entire meal: the antipasti, the primi, and secondi, were all out at once.
Each serving from appetizer to second course was delicately spread across the length of the table: pasta, risotto, potatoes, artichokes, a gathering of mysterious vegetables, and some whole chicken legs. The aroma was stifling. I didn’t know what or where the scents were coming from. It was all earthy, fresh, and steaming. I couldn’t believe this didn’t even include my main course!
Passing the platters around the table, Carlo makes sure I don’t accidentally get any pasta with bits of pork in it. Luca comically garnishes the top of my plate with the final chicken leg. Each family member looking at me with a smirk. They don’t think I can possibly eat all this food and still manage another, larger dish. I smirk back. They seem to forget that I’m not only American, but Puerto Rican.
The water and wine depletes and is replaced as I arduously work on finishing off my helping. I would expect my stomach to revolt at this point and reject all the food, but it’s too good, too fragile, and too flavorful to rebel against. Each chew and swallow expands my stomach and makes my grin stretch closer and closer to my ears. As the emptied plates are stacked in the center of the table, we all take the opportunity to slouch in our seats. Katia hunches over Giulio’s shoulder, mustering just enough strength to keep herself up. The conversation grows louder, likely a result of the stretch of children running around the restaurant, or maybe it’s the constant refills of robust red wine.
The owner comes out and graciously accepts the thanks thrown at her, humbly slipping them into the pockets of her dirtying apron. She mentions that the main dish and contori (side dishes) will be out shortly and carries away the artifacts of the earlier portion of the meal. Flora wipes down the tablecloth as though she works at the restaurant as well. Her eyes are glazed over and faintly enlarge through her glasses. Picking at the fresh batch of bread that’s been left to accompany our main course, everyone at the table speaks, but is interrupted by their own bursts of laughter.
The owner and her family return to our table triumphantly: they have the goods with them. A rustic white bowl is set in front of me — thick noodles are cooked with fresh and local olive oil and shredded duck meat. My mouth lathers in desperation for the first bite. Giulio rubs his hands together like a cartoon Boris as we wait for everyone to get their plate. It’s time. Succulent, salty, and oily noodles with duck meat. I suck the sides of my cheeks after each gnaw until the flavors left meld with my tastebuds. We each cut off bits of our dishes and offer it to anyone willing to eat more than their share. I gladly accept and tear another piece of the table bread and slather up all the bits of oil left in my bowl. I must look like a gluttonous American slob, I think, looking over to Luca to see if he’s noticed. No, instead, he’s running his own piece of bread along the perimeter of his bowl.
After the main course is devoured, we have espresso. It’s the richest that has ever touched my lips, forcing me to ask for seconds. Katia swivels her cell phone in the air, trying to gain a bar of reception before Giulio offers his assistance. Closing his index, middle, and ring finger against his palm, he connects his pinky to the top of the cell phone and rotates his thumb. Everyone laughs, but no! It actually seems to be working. The two promise this method really helps get them reception in the mountains. Fumbling over one another’s hands and shoving arms, they’re relaxed with each other — comfortable.
Luca wraps his arm around me as I finish my second serving of espresso. I expect to feel anxious, over caffeinated, and energized, but I’m not: I’m calm. I allow my weight to lean against Luca’s arm and he squeezes me. I am not a part of their family, not born into any relation with them, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t care that I’m kosher or wonder why my Italian sucks; they rest assured that I am here sharing in an inherently bonding enterprise: the need to eat. The smells, sights, sounds, and feelings are unforgettable, inflamed together in a delight of the senses. Sunday lunch is more than just a ritual, it’s a rite.
