The chef took off his apron and proceeded to go to the bar with the server. Behind the cover of the counter, he opened a different bottle of another Super Tuscan, not a Sassicaia, and poured it into the empty bottle of Sassicaia. He then put a cork in it. “Take this to the table and tell them you opened it and decanted it to make sure it was not corked,” he told his waiter. “People, what do they know?”
An enterprising Italian fresh off the boat from Italy opened a restaurant with a partner. He put his mother’s precious lasagne recipe on the menu. Traditional. Typical. Authentic. Like you found in the homes of many Italians back then. It didn’t sell. His partner said, “I have another version, let’s try mine.” OK.
The partner told a waiter to go down to the local Ace Hardware store and buy one of those metal tubs, the kind they’d give babies baths in back home. When he returned, the tub was set up in the kitchen. The partner went into the cold box and brought out all the unsold manicotti, cannelloni, meatballs and ziti al forno, and dumped them into the tub. He then grabbed a 5-lb loaf of American cheese and dumped it in. And a quart of heavy whipping cream. And a half cup of granulated garlic. And the Italian spice mix. And mixed it up. Meanwhile, ribbons upon ribbons of no-boil lasagne noodles were brought to the counter and large deep roasting/baking pans were also set upon the table. And then they proceeded to build the lasagne, layer upon layer until they reached the top of the pans, 3 or 4 inches tall.
And then they covered the top with pre-grated “parmesan” cheese from Wisconsin. And proceeded to bake the pans so they were ready for the evening service.
That first weekend, from opening at 5 p.m. until 6:30 (when they ran out), they sold more lasagne in one night with the “other version” than they did in the months preceding with the owner’s original “mama’s” recipe. They called the new version “Lasagne della Nonna” and it was a hit. People, what do they know?
Italians come to my town, and to towns all across America, as they have for generations now, and what I hear often is, “Why can we not have a truly authentic Italian restaurant in this town?” I’ve been hearing it myself for over 40 years. I’ve asked Italian immigrants who came here and opened Italian restaurants. And I have gotten a myriad of answers, excuses, explanations, justifications and defenses for why it was never meant to be. But it always comes down to those five words—people, what do they know?
Take Chicken Parmigiana, or as it is widely known now, Chicken Parm. I have no recall of ever having had this dish in America. I have never seen it in Italy in all my 60+ trips in 50+ years. Now, I wasn’t raised in the Northeast, where Chicken Parm planted its flag. No, we were West Coasters. Our diet was fresh vegetables, some pasta, some meat, not a lot of hefty cold-weather dishes that stick to your ribs, like Chicken Parm. But for some reason, like a wildfire, it has spread all across America, and not just in Italian-American kitchens. It has become like spaghetti and meatballs, pizza and lasagne—with faint Italian roots, but now in its own unique Americanized version—and people, what do they know?
With so much information and travel at hand, I’m hoping the burden shifts from the cynic’s retort to a little more introspection and exploration by diners looking for the real thing.
So, what do you do if you want a truly authentic Italian meal? Several years ago I suggested this fix, and I still stand by it as what some folks might consider an extreme solution. But it will definitely fill that void. And it works out economically if you were to “bank” the experiences and let them hold you over for a long period of time.
Sure, you can cook the food yourself. And on my little island, we do a lot of that. I have a fantastic wine list here at home, and access to ingredients, both fresh and imported, is as good as it’s been in my time in Dallas. So, no complaints from me.
But people, other people, some of them want to know how they can solve this dilemma for themselves. I have asked everyone I can ask—Italian, Italian-American, folks who are deep into Italian cuisine—and they all scratch their heads. Don’t ask a chef—you’re not likely to get an objective reply. I did the other day, against my better instincts. His answer was to list all the wealthy folks who frequent his establishment. As if they knew?
It all boils down to this: what is your experience? How attuned is your palate? How open are you to discovering the myriad offerings of la cucina italiana? I mean, beyond pizza and spaghetti?
Look, Italian-American fare can make for a fun evening outing. It’s cheery, it’s tasty and it’s often pretty affordable. So, if that is the itch you want to scratch, go for it. But if you are looking for the real deal, I’m afraid the best solution is to just buckle up and go there. Or learn to do it yourself.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please identify yourself in the comments. Thank you.