A summer goal of mine is to finish The Book. I've been writing bits and pieces of the story for five years, and sharing snippets here and there: see the Au Pair diaries, and a Rolodex of my time in Rome. It’s the book I wished I could have read when I was in my 20s while working as a bartender and daydreaming about taking a solo trip to Italy. It’s not Smut, but it’s not Young Adult either. There’s a new genre called New Adult that I feel is most representative of the type of women I aim to connect with through my writing.
I’ve noticed that most of my subscribers share similar traits. Most of y’all moved to Italy or France during your own New Adult years, eager to learn a new culture, a new language and along the way, you fell in love. (Same). While romance in the traditional sense often takes center stage in coming-of-age novels, I want this book to highlight other aspects of the falling in love with a new country process.
While unassuming, food, wine and beer have been supporting characters in my story, and based on my reading of your own stories, this seems to be a common theme. So that is what this sample chapter is all about. Falling in love with Italy by way of language, wine, beer and in the case of this story, risotto.
Enjoy.
Love and language with a side of risotto
His apartment was a great reminder that there are always two sides to the story; in Rome’s case, there are two versions of the same city inside one Aurelien Wall. This apartment was in Monteverde Vecchio, a side of Rome I would have never made it to if not for this date. We had met only two weeks ago, but every date lasted hours on end, it felt like we had known each other for a month. Our conversations were filled with language lessons, working in craft beer anecdotes and cultural Q&As. He extended the offer to prepare a proper dinner for me at his apartment. As two bartenders on a budget, we both preferred home cooked meals to restaurant experiences, so I said yes, please.
Before I could message him informing him of my arrival, he was already on the street waiting for me. He escorted me up a long ramp past two tall iron gates and nodded to the portiere; eager to look the part of the local, I did the same. He opened the door and we were immediately standing in what he described as the living room. It was unlike any living room back home in California, and a stark contrast to my host family’s 5th piano apartment with six rooms, a lift, and a view of the Tiber. Here, there was only room for a loveseat and a small TV, which looked more decorative than functional, like an old radio in a boutique hotel.
He explained that he had two other flatmates, but they all shared one bathroom. Lucky me. Upon our arrival, one of the roommates came out of his bedroom to greet us. He introduced himself as a street photographer by day and a cameriere by night at a restaurant in Prati. The other roommate was also a server in a restaurant in the city center. This meant we would have the entire apartment to ourselves after they both left for the night shift, which was right about now.
We moved into the ‘dining room’ which was even smaller than the living room, but with taller ceilings, and a window that let in plenty of natural light. There was a table fit for maximum three people and a small kitchen island that served as the food storage area whenever meals were not being made. Unlike my host family's kitchen, it was a quarter of the size, but somehow more warm and welcoming. I could see myself living in an apartment like this. The tub sink, the non-existent counter space, the collection of moka pots drying off on the window sill. The door to the terrace spanned from the floor to ceiling and when opened, it was as if the kitchen continued outside. I wonder what summer lunches would be like here? The narrow counter was crowded with Italian cooking staples like coarse sea salt, a jar of dried pepperoncini and a chipped ceramic bowl filled with garlic and onions.
“So I bought a few things because I hate coming to people’s homes empty handed.” I said. Setting my heavy, filled to the brim backpack on the chair.
“You didn’t need to bring anything.” He noted.
“Well I promise you it is not fancy.” It wasn’t. “I wanted to try local Italian beer and wine that I can’t find in California, so I figured I would start with grocery store beer.” I pulled out four bottles, two Peronis1, a label I recognized, and two I had never seen before; one called Ichnusa and one called Menabrea, along with a jar of salted peanuts.
“This is the perfect aperitivo, how did you know?” He said.
“I am a fast learner.” I said through a smirk.
He pulled open what I assumed to be the everything drawer and pulled out the bottle opener. I pulled yet another item out of my backpack, and handed it to him. “I also brought a bottle of wine to have for dinner.” This backpack was really getting its money’s worth.
“Nebbiolo, brava. This will be great.”
“What did you decide to make?” Not that I was picky. This boy could have a pigeon from the street dry aging in the oven and I would still eat it. He gestures over to the stove where a pot was simmering; inside were carrots, celery and potatoes.
“Are you making vegetable broth from scratch?” I asked.
“Yes? Is that strange?”
“For me, yes. Growing up we ate a lot of premade grocery store food. Have you ever heard of Sloppy Joes?” I asked, already sure of his answer.
“Are you still talking about food? Or is this a cleaning product?” Valid question.
“Nevermind” I said, throwing my Mary Poppins bag in the corner.
“Ah okay, well be prepared for the rest, then. I am going to make ‘punking’ and blue cheese risotto.”
I paused for a moment and titled my head, questioning what I heard.
“Punking?” I ask for clarification.
“Yes? This one.” He said holding up a butternut squash.
“Ohhhhhhhh, pumpkin.” Emphasizing the “mp” in the middle of the word. I couldn’t help but laugh at this innocent mistake.
“How many times have you said the word pumpkin in English, out loud?” I asked, offering him some slack.
“Honestly, never, that was the first time. I have never made ‘pumpkinnnn’ soup for an English speaker before.” He said, accentuating the ‘mpk’ sound this time.
“Well I am happy to be your first.” I joked.
“Puuhhh-mm-ppp-kinnn” He said again, slowly attempting to practice the pronunciation. I later learned that the letter “K” is not in the Italian alphabet so the malice joke was on me.
“I am so sorry if I called you out, I have been in Rome for three weeks and I still understand zero Italian, so I should not be teasing your knowledge of two languages.”
“La zucca.” He said proudly holding up the pumpkin.
“La zucca?” I repeated hesitantly. I realized that there are not many words used in everyday English vernacular that start with the letter Z. The sensation on my tongue felt as foreign as the word itself.
“Brava!” He said, always so enthusiastic when I said anything in Italian.
I leaned against the counter, where there was only enough space for my elbow, and sipped my Menabrea while he started cooking. First, he toasted the rice on a large, flat pan then he added the hot vegetable broth. The liquid just barely covered the little morsels, like low tide on a pebble beach. I watched in awe. I am not a great cook, but I’ve always enjoyed helping with prep and keeping people company in the kitchen. Plus, as a restaurant industry professional for over a decade, I was well-trained in the art of clean-up.
“So what will you do with the ‘la zucca’?” I asked.
He laughed while adding another ladle of broth into the pot. The bubbles slowly rise and dissipate in the pan.“What will I do with la zucca, not ‘the, la zucca’ la means the.” He smiled at me, happy to have gotten even in the language lesson battle. I took another swig of my beer, eager to hide my embarrassment. I actually knew that one.
“I roasted some earlier before you came, so I will add it to the pot with the soft vegetables and then stir it.”
“Stir it? That’s all?” I questioned.
“Yes, with the machine.” He holds out his hand in a fist as if cheering with a nonexistent beer. Seeing the confusion all over my face, he reached up and pulled out the immersion blender from above the fridge.
“Ah, I see!” My excitement for something recognizable rang clear. The word you are looking for is blend. My English-teaching (more like correcting) self could not be stopped, even while this beautiful man was making me a homemade meal from scratch. Lucky for me, he was studying linguistics at University, and absorbed my corrections in stride. I could almost detect him taking mental notes after each new word.
“You really have to be creative to store things in this kitchen.” I observed.
“I know. This is one of the reasons I dislike living in Rome. There is no space to breathe. I miss my homeland and my house where we have a big kitchen and open spaces.”
I could see where he was coming from, this space is really compact, but this was the charming Italian apartment I had been dreaming about.
“I would love to have an apartment this cute and quirky.”
“I guess it is ‘cute and quirky’.” He repeated, paying special attention to pronounce the word quirky the way I did.
After twenty minutes of more ladling and simmering the rice and letting la zucca heat up (le zucche I learned later), it was time to blend, not stir, the sauce.
“Wait, I almost forgot,” He said, pulling out a giant wedge of Gorgonzola cheese from the fridge.
“We are going to add that entire thing in here?” I asked, the blender already in hand about to do a nosedive into the pot.
“Of course, we need it.” He confirmed. I was stunned at the pure volume of cheese. Without hesitation, he turned the blender on with a casual click, and put his hand on mine, moving the wand around without a second thought, the cheese seamlessly folding into the sauce. No going back now. We poured the sauce into the pan of finished rice and finished it off with a pinch of sea salt.
Growing up in the early otts’, I was conditioned to be aware of caloric intake. Every food and drink had a weight loss point attached to it. Working as a restaurant server in Orange County, (yes, like the TV show) I came face to face with women and men, who were so cautious about what they ate, on a daily basis. Caesar salad, no dressing, sub wedge of lemon. Grilled Salmon, no sides, no butter. Cheeseburger, no cheese, no bread, sub lettuce wrap. These bland orders with a 15 percent tip paid my way through college and the extra cash funded this very trip. There is no way this meal would make it on the menu at any restaurant back home.
Before we sat down, he pulled out a tablecloth to lay over the dining room table. It had a distinct pattern of cartoon bumble bees flying together with red hearts.
“This is amazing.” I said. Picking up the corners of the tablecloth. This was exactly the cute, quirky apartment trait I was talking about.
“My aunt gave it to me.” He said, assumingly unembarrassed that the design was less than masculine.
He spooned two plates of the steaming risotto and took a seat across from me. The color was a Tuscan orange that you only see during late summer sunsets. I usually don’t take photos of my food, especially in someone else’s home, but I knew this was going to be a moment I wouldn't want to forget, even if this first official date ended up being our last. Plus, my friends back home would never believe me, I had to have proof. Pics or it didn’t happen we like to say.
“Buonappetito,” He said, raising his spoon and smiling.
“This is amazing, thank you for having me over.” I said.
“You haven’t even tried it yet.” He pointed out, laughing.
“I can just tell by the smell and the steam and the company.” I replied.
I opened the bottle of wine and grabbed two wine glasses from the shelf above us. Both wine glasses had the number ‘3’ etched in white on the side. He blushed and picked up his glass for a sip.
“What does the number 3 stand for?” I asked.
“You have never heard of Fonteinen?” He asked.
“I don’t think so? Is it a winery”
“No, it’s a brewery in Belgium that specializes in lambic beers.”
“I think that sounds familiar. I don’t really like sour beers.” I admitted, “but these glasses are pretty.”
“That’s a shame, they make great beer. They hosted an event at the pub a few months ago.” He continued.
“So these glasses were extra?”
“...Sure, extra.” He responded coyly, taking another sip of his wine.
“You shouldn’t steal!” I said, jokingly, not mentioning all of the beer glasses my friends have swiped from breweries over the years.
“It’s all about being a part of the ecosystem.”
“Non ho capito.” I said. My most used Italian phrase.
“Brava.” He replied with a smile, always so pleased to hear me try.
We shared more stories of our subtle indiscretions and helped ourselves to, not three but four helpings of butternut squash and blue cheese risotto, not caring for a second what the calorie count was. We even left a healthy portion for The Flatmate in the fridge, to be enjoyed after his shift. The pot barely fit inside of the fridge, even less with the upside down ceramic plate to cover it, in lieu of plastic wrap. To this day, that risotto is one of the best I have ever had.
ératomediterraneo, is a lifestyle and travel blog founded by Claudia and Sofia inspired by beautiful moments in the Mediterranean. I highly recommend giving them a follow. Permission was asked to use their photo for this post.
Postscript:
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Thank you for reading,
Tana
Beautiful story and writing, Tana! I loved it, even though I'm just a TAD OLDER (sarcasm intended) than your target audience. Keep writing!
wonderful!