Playing for Pizza

Chapter 6

They drove near the university and parked on one of the endless narrow streets. It was dark now, and packs of students drifted by in noisy conversations. Rick was subdued, so Sam handled the dialogue. “A trattoria, by definition, is an unassuming family-owned place with great local dishes and wines, generous portions, not too expensive. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” They were walking quickly along a sidewalk. “Are you going to feed me or talk me to death?”

“I’m trying to ease you into Italian culture.”

“Just find me a pizza.”

“Where was I?”

“A trattoria.”

“Yes, as opposed to a restaurant, which is usually more elegant and expensive. Then there’s the osteria, which traditionally was a dining room in an inn but now can mean almost anything. And the bar, which we’ve covered. And the enoteca, which usually doubles as a wine shop and offers snacks and smaller dishes. I think that covers it all.”

“So no one goes hungry in Italy.”

“Are you kidding?”

A small sign for Café Montana hung over the door. Through the front window they could see a long room with empty tables, all covered with starched and pressed white cloths and adorned with blue plates, linens, and massive wine goblets.

“We’re a bit early,” Sam said. “The place gets busy around eight. But Nino is waiting.”

“Montana?” Rick said.

“Yes, after Joe. The quarterback.”

“No.”

“Dead serious. These guys love their football. Carlo played years ago but ruined a knee. Now he just cooks. Legend has it that he holds all kinds of records for personal fouls.”

They stepped inside, and whatever Carlo was preparing back in the kitchen hit them hard. The aroma of garlic and rich meat sauces and frying pork hung like smoke over the front room, and Rick was ready to eat. A fire was burning in a wall pit halfway back.

From a side door, Nino bounded into the room and began kissing Sam. A mighty embrace, then a manly, noisy peck somewhere near the right cheek, same for the left, then he grabbed Rick’s right hand with both of his and said, “Rick, my quarterback, welcome to Parma.” Rick shook hands firmly but was prepared to step backward if the kissing continued. It did not.

The accent was thick, but the words were clear. Rick was more like Reek.

“My pleasure,” Rick said.

“I am center,” Nino announced proudly. “But be careful with your hands. My wife, she is jealous.” At which Nino and Sam doubled over in horse laughter, and Rick awkwardly followed suit.

Nino was less than six feet tall, thick and fit, probably around 210 pounds. As he laughed at his own humor, Rick quickly sized him up and realized it could be a very long season. A five-foot-ten center?

Nor was he a youngster. Nino had wavy dark hair with the first shades of gray at the temples. He was in his mid-thirties. But there was a strong chin and a definite glow of wildness, a man who loved to brawl.

I’ll have to scramble for my life, Rick thought to himself.

Carlo rumbled in from the kitchen in his starched white apron and chef’s hat. Now, here is the center. Six feet two, at least 250 pounds, broad shoulders. But a slight limp. He greeted Rick warmly, a quick embrace, no kissing. His English was far below Nino’s, and after a few words he ditched it and switched to Italian, leaving Rick to tread water.

Sam was quick to step in. “He says welcome to Parma and to their restaurant. They have never been so excited to have a real American Super Bowl hero playing for the Panthers. And he hopes you will eat and drink many times at their little café.”

“Thank you,” Rick said to Carlo. Their hands were still entangled. Carlo resumed his chatter and Sam was ready. “He says the owner of the team is his friend and often eats at Café Montana. And that all of Parma is thrilled to have the great Rick Dockery wearing the black and silver.” Pause.

Rick said thanks again, smiled as warmly as possible, and repeated to himself the words “Super Bowl.” Carlo finally released him and began yelling at the kitchen.

As Nino led them to their table, Rick whispered to Sam, “Super Bowl. Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t get the translation right.”

“Great. You said you’re fluent.”

“Most of the time.”

“All of Parma? The great Rick Dockery? What have you been telling these people?”

“The Italians exaggerate everything.”

Their table was near the fireplace. Nino and Carlo both pulled out chairs for their guests, and before Rick settled into his seat, three young waiters in perfect whites descended upon them. One had a large platter of food. One had a magnum of sparkling wine. One had a basket of breads and two bottles — olive oil and vinegar. Nino snapped his fingers and pointed, and Carlo barked at one of the waiters, who returned fire, and off they went to the kitchen, arguing every step of the way.

Rick stared at the platter. In the center was a large chunk of straw-colored hard cheese, and surrounding it in precise loops were what appeared to be cold cuts. Deep, rich cured meats, unlike anything Rick had ever seen. As Sam and Nino chattered in Italian, a waiter quickly uncorked the wine and filled three glasses. He then stood at attention, starched towel over his arm.

Nino passed around the glasses, then held his high. “A toast, to the great Reek Dockery, and to a Super Bowl win for the Parma Panthers.” Sam and Rick took a sip while Nino drained half of his. “Is Malvasia Secco,” he said. “From a winemaker close by. Everything tonight is from Emilia. The olive oil, the balsamic vinegar, wine, and food, everything from right here,” he said proudly, thumping his chest with an impressive fist. “The best food in the world.”

Sam leaned over. “This is the Parma province of Emilia-Romagna, one of the regions.”

Rick nodded and took another sip. On the flight over he had flipped through a guidebook and knew where he was, sort of. There are twenty regions in Italy, and according to his quick review almost all claimed to have the greatest food and wine in the country.

Now for the food.

Nino took another gulp, then leaned in, all ten fingertips touching, the professor set to deliver a lecture he’d given many times. With a casual wave at the cheese he said, “Of course you know the greatest cheese of all. Parmigiano-Reggiano. You say Parmesan. The king of cheese, and made right here. Only real parmigiano comes from our little town. This one is made by my uncle four kilometers from where you are sitting. The best.”

He kissed the tips of his fingers, then gracefully shaved off a few slices, leaving them on the platter as the lecture continued. “Next,” he said, pointing to the first loop, “is the world-famous prosciutto. You say Parma ham. Made only here, from special pigs raised on barley and oats and the milk left over from making the parmigiano. Our prosciutto is never cooked,” he said gravely, wagging a finger for a second in disapproval. “But cured with salt, fresh air, and lots of love. Eighteen months it’s cured.”

He deftly took a small slice of brown bread, dipped it in olive oil, then layered it with a slice of prosciutto and a shaving of parmigiano. When it was perfect, he handed it to Rick and said, “A little sandwich.” Rick took it in one large bite, then closed his eyes and savored the moment.

For someone who still enjoyed McDonald’s, the tastes were astounding. The flavors coated every taste bud in his mouth and made him chew as slowly as possible. Sam was slicing more for himself, and Nino was pouring wine. “Is good?” Nino asked Rick.

“Oh yes.”

Nino thrust another bite at his quarterback, then continued, pointing, “And then we have culatello, from the pig’s leg, pulled off the bone, only the best parts, then covered in salt, white wine, garlic, lots of herbs, and rubbed by hand for many hours before stuffed into a pig’s bladder and cured for fourteen months. The summer air dries it, the wet winters keep it tender.” As he spoke, both hands were in constant motion — pointing, drinking, slicing more cheese, carefully mixing the balsamic vinegar into the bowl of olive oil. “These are the best pigs, for the culatello,” he said, with another frown. “Small black pigs with a few red patches, carefully selected and fed only natural foods. Never locked up, no. These pigs roam free and eat acorns and chestnuts.” He referred to the creatures with such deference it was difficult to believe they were about to eat one.

Rick was craving a bite of culatello, a meat he’d never before encountered. Finally, with a pause in the narrative, Nino handed over another small slice of bread, layered with a thick round of culatello and topped with parmigiano.

“Is good?” he asked, as Rick chomped away and held his hand out for more.

The wineglasses were refilled.

“The olive oil is from a farm just down the road,” Nino was saying. “And the balsamic vinegar is from Modena, forty kilometers to the east. Home of Pavarotti, you know. The best balsamic vinegar comes from Modena. But we have better food in Parma.”

The final loop, at the edge of the platter, was Felino salami, made practically on the premises, aged for twelve months, and without a doubt the best salami in all of Italy. After serving it to Sam and Rick, Nino suddenly dashed to the front, where others were arriving. Finally alone, Rick took a knife and began carving off huge chunks of the parmigiano. He covered his plate with the meats, cheese, and breads, and ate like a refugee.

“Might want to pace yourself,” Sam cautioned. “This is just the antipasto, the warm-up.”

“Helluva warm-up.”

“Are you in shape?”

“More or less. I’m at 225, about 10 over. I’ll burn it off.”

“Not tonight, you won’t.”

Two large young men, Paolo and Giorgio, joined them. Nino presented them to their quarterback while insulting them in Italian, and when all the embracing and greetings were out of the way, they plunked down and stared at the antipasto. Sam explained that they were linemen who could play both sides of the ball if necessary. Rick was encouraged because they were in their mid-twenties, well over six feet tall, thick-chested, and seemingly capable of throwing people around.

Glasses were filled, cheese sliced, prosciutto attacked with a vengeance.

“When did you arrive?” Paolo asked with only a trace of an accent.

“This afternoon,” Rick said.

“Are you excited?”

Rick managed to say, “Sure,” with some conviction. Excited about the next course, excited about meeting Italian cheerleaders.

Sam explained that Paolo had a degree from Texas A&M and worked for his family’s company, one that made small tractors and farm implements.

“So you’re an Aggie,” Rick said.

“Yes,” Paolo said proudly. “I love Texas. That’s where I found football.”

Giorgio just smiled as he ate and listened to the conversation. Sam said that he was studying English, then whispered that looks were deceiving because Giorgio couldn’t block a doorway. Great.

Carlo was back, directing waiters and rearranging the table. Nino produced another bottle, which, surprisingly, came from just around the corner. It was a Lambrusco, a sparkling red, and Nino knew the wine-maker. There are many fine Lambruscos throughout Emilia-Romagna, he explained, but this was the best. And the perfect complement to the tortellini in brodo that his brother was serving at the moment. Nino took a step back, and Carlo began a rapid recitation in Italian.

Sam translated softly, but quickly. “This is tortellini in meat stock, a famous dish here. The little round pasta balls are stuffed with braised beef, prosciutto, and parmigiano; the filling varies from town to town, but of course Parma has the best recipe. The pasta was handmade this afternoon by Carlo himself. Legend has it that the guy who created tortellini modeled it after the belly button of a beautiful naked woman. All sorts of such legends here involving food, wine, and sex. The broth is beef, garlic, butter, and a few other things.” Rick’s nose was a few inches above his bowl, inhaling the rich aromas.

Carlo took a bow, then added something with caution. Sam said, “He says these are small servings because more of the first course is on the way.”

Rick’s first ever tortellini almost made him cry. Swimming in broth, the pasta and its filling jolted his senses and caused him to blurt, “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Carlo smiled and began his retreat to the kitchen.

Rick washed the first tortellini down with Lambrusco, and attacked the others swimming in the deep bowl. Small servings? Paolo and Giorgio had gone silent and were deeply involved with their tortellini. Only Sam showed some restraint.

Nino seated a young couple nearby, then rushed forth with the next bottle, a fabulous dry red Sangiovese from a vineyard near Bologna that he personally visited once a month to monitor the progress of the grapes. “The next course is a little more heavy,” he said. “So the wine needs to be more strong.” He uncorked it with a flair, sniffed the bottle, rolled his eyes in approval, then began pouring. “We are in for a treat,” he said as he filled five glasses, giving himself a slightly more generous serving. Another toast, more of a curse directed at the Bergamo Lions, and they tasted the wine.

Rick had always been a beer man. This headlong dive into the world of Italian wines was bewildering, but also very tasty.

One waiter was gathering the remains of the tortellini while another whisked down fresh plates. Carlo marched from the kitchen with two waiters in tow and directed traffic.

“This is my favorite,” Carlo began in English, then switched to a friendlier tongue. “It’s a stuffed pasta roll,” Sam was saying as they gawked at the delicacy before them. “It is stuffed with veal, pork, chicken livers, sausage, ricotta cheese, and spinach, and layered with fresh pasta.”

Everyone but Rick said, “Grazie,” and Carlo took another bow and disappeared. The restaurant was almost full and becoming noisy. Rick, while never missing a bite, was curious about the people around him. They seemed to be locals, enjoying a typical meal at the neighborhood café. Back home, food like this would cause a stampede. Here, they took it for granted.

“You get a lot of tourists here?” he asked.

“Not many,” Sam said. “All the Americans go to Florence, Venice, and Rome. A few in the summer. More Europeans than anyone else.”

“What’s to see in Parma?” Rick asked. The Parma section of his guidebook had been rather scant.

“The Panthers!” Paolo said with a laugh.

Sam laughed, too, then sipped his wine and thought for a moment. “It’s a lovely little town of a hundred and fifty thousand. Great food and wine, great people who work hard and live well. But it doesn’t attract a lot of attention. And that’s good. You agree, Paolo?”

“Yes. We do not want Parma to change.”

Rick worked a mouthful and tried to isolate the veal, but it was impossible. The meats, cheese, and spinach blended together into one delicious taste. He was certainly no longer hungry, nor was he full. They had been there for an hour and a half, a very long dinner by his old standards, but just warming up in Parma. On cue from the other three, he began to eat slowly, very slowly. The Italians around him talked more than they ate, and a mild roar engulfed the trattoria. Dining was certainly about great food, but it was also a social event.

Nino dropped by every few minutes with a quick “Is good?” for Rick. Great, wonderful, delicious, unbelievable.

For the second course, Carlo took a break from the pasta. The plates were covered — small portions still — with cotolette alla parmigiana, another famous dish from Parma and one of the chef’s all-time favorites. “Veal cutlets, Parma style,” Sam translated. “The veal cutlets are beaten with a small bat, then dipped in eggs, fried in a skillet, then baked in the oven with a mix of parmigiano cheese and stock until the cheese melts. Carlo’s wife’s uncle raised the veal himself and delivered it this afternoon.” As Carlo narrated and Sam interpreted, Nino was busy with the next wine, a dry red from the Parma region. Fresh glasses, even larger, were presented, and Nino swirled and sniffed and gulped. Another orgasmic roll of the eyes and it was declared sensational. A very close friend made the wine, perhaps Nino’s favorite of all.

Sam whispered, “Parma is famous for its food, but not its wine.”

Rick sipped the wine and smiled at the veal and vowed that he would, for the rest of the meal anyway, eat slower than the Italians. Sam watched him closely, certain that the culture shock was vanishing in a flood of food and wine.

“You eat like this often?” Rick asked him.

“Not every day, but this is not unusual,” Sam replied casually. “This is typical food for Parma.”

Paolo and Giorgio were slicing their veal, and Rick slowly attacked his. The cutlets lasted half an hour, and when the plates were clean, they were removed with a flourish. A long pause followed as Nino and the waiters worked the other tables.

Dessert was not an option, because Carlo had baked his special, torta nera, or black pie, and because Nino had secured a very special wine for the occasion, a dry sparkling white from the province. He was saying that the black pie, created in Parma, was chocolate with almonds and coffee, and since it was so fresh from the oven, Carlo had added just a touch of vanilla ice cream on the side. Nino had a minute to spare, so he pulled up a chair and joined his teammates and coach for the final course, unless they were in the mood for some cheese and a digestif.

They were not. The restaurant was still half-full when Sam and Rick began offering their thanks and trying to say good-bye. Embraces, pats on backs, powerful handshakes, promises to come again, more welcomes to Parma, many thanks for the unforgettable dinner — the ritual took forever.

Paolo and Giorgio decided to stay behind and have a bite of cheese and finish off the wine.

“I’m not driving,” Sam said. “We can walk. Your apartment is not far, and I’ll catch a cab from there.”

“I gained ten pounds,” Rick said, pushing his stomach forward and following a step behind his coach.

“Welcome to Parma.”