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F E A T U R E S Sleepless in L.A.
Giving good gnocchi
Meeting Moses
D E P A R T M E N T S Postmark: Lamu
Passages:
Table Talk
Salon Taste
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- - - - - - - - E A R L I E R Tuesday April 15 My Favorite Flick
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We had visions of Monica being abducted into the back, into the restaurant's nether regions, into the basement where Aldo was most certainly buried. Monica laughed. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe later." For an appetizer Monica ordered a bowl full of mussels, and our host nearly swallowed his tongue. Piled high on their perfect white china bowl, each glistening shell held the tiny mollusk that has been compared to that most delicate part of a woman's anatomy. Pry open the shell, shut tight as a virgin's thighs, and you feast on the sweet mound of flesh in its own fragrant liquor. Dress them with wine or eat them undressed -- either way, to consume them is heaven. Roberto (by this time we knew his name) leaned over Monica's shoulder and asked, not so innocently, if she'd like him to put a little lemon on them. Monica agreed, so he called over the waiter, who arrived with the proper tools -- a silver plate holding a gauze-wrapped half lemon and a small silver spoon. Roberto expertly disrobed the lemon and took firm hold of the spoon. He very aggressively screwed his small spoon into the lemon, dribbling its juices all over Monica's mussels. Monica watched him. He continued to screw away, eyes upon hers, really building up a sweat in the process. It seemed to go on forever. I was amazed. I'm sure none of us thought there could be that much juice in a single lemon. But Roberto was determined to lemon-up the mussels to Monica's satisfaction -- or knock himself out in trying. It was pathetic. "Monica," I wanted to plead, "make him stop." As if reading our minds, Monica finally said, "That's enough." "Thank you," she purred demurely. Imaginary handkerchiefs went to three foreheads -- Lawrence's, Roberto's and mine. I had ordered sweet-and-sour sardines for an appetizer. I do not want to speculate upon their metaphorical value. Lawrence had ordered mussels as well, but all he got were a few cursory twists of lemon from the waiter. Monica consumed her mussels with incredible gusto and even offered a few to me, though she knows I'm allergic to shellfish. It's an allergy I developed recently, and one that I never manage to recollect without a puritanical pang. The appetizers had nearly exhausted us. I wasn't sure we were ready to deal with our entrees. To calm my nerves, I ordered risotto -- a sweet, pearly mixture, perfectly flavored, designed to comfort the palette. Lawrence had scampi -- meaty pink prawns that he separated from their wafer-thin jackets of ectoskeleton with fingers perfumed in lemon water. Monica ordered gnocchi, a regional favorite. Satiny black pillows colored with cuttlefish ink and bathed in a fragrant salmon-red sauce -- the simple potato dumplings lay before us, transformed into something incredibly sexy. "Round two," I thought. "Victoria's Secret. Frederick's of Hollywood." Roberto appeared, again, along with the entrees. "This is the perfect choice for you," he said to Monica, his hand, braceleted at the wrist, gesturing toward her plate. "I love those colors," giggled Monica. "Come to the kitchen with me," Roberto challenged with a canine grin. "I will show you how it is done." Monica laughed, "I'll bet," she said, and bit into one of the little black pillows. Her sharp teeth cut a tiny half-moon out of one side. I'd swear Roberto was salivating. "Do you know," he asked, warming to the subject of food as he watched Monica eat. "Do you know how I like to eat spaghetti?" "No, how?" asked Monica. "I float a wooden bowl of spaghetti in my swimming pool." His large hands placed an imaginary bowl upon the cobalt-blue waters shimmering in front of him. "Then I float up to it." We could now picture him in swim trunks, approaching the spaghetti that bobbed in its big wooden bowl on the water's flickering surface. "Then I suck the spaghetti slowly out of the bowl," he said, looking down at Monica. He was grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, that sounds wonderful," Monica responded, placing her napkin beside her plate and gazing up into his dark brown eyes. "You could try it," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Do you know what my favorite food is?" Monica countered. "It is mascarpone cheese. Do you know how to make mascarpone?" "Yes," said Roberto. "This cheese takes a long time." "It does," agreed Monica. "I make fabulous mascarpone. I can teach you to make it my way." "I would love to make mascarpone with you," said Roberto formally. I half-expected him to salute. "La vie est belle," Monica laughed. "Toujours l'amour," Roberto chimed back. The clichés began flying back and forth like shuttlecocks. Roberto would not leave our table. He catered to us to the point of neglect for the rest of his clientele. Diners ordered desserts and after-dinner drinks. He ignored them. Regulars paid bills and left the restaurant. He ignored them. We struggled through apple strudels and tortes, and polished things off with homemade fragolino, a strawberry liqueur more fragrant, Monica declared, than Aldo's. "This is my fragolino," Roberto said with great pride. It was like perfume, really, a dark, beautiful perfume. We chuckled and whispered that he probably had Aldo locked up in the basement, making the stuff. Hours had passed. Candles had burned down to their mere stumps. All of the other diners were gone. "Will you come again, tomorrow night?" Roberto asked Monica while leaning over her chair, his mouth close to her ear. "No," Monica said, turning her face to his, her nose nearly touching the sharp beak that was his. "No, but I'm here every year." "Well," he said, as she rose from the table, "you must come again next year." He took Monica's arm and escorted her gallantly back to the restaurant's threshold. "I will give you the secret then, to the fragolino," Roberto said solemnly while exchanging cards with Monica, promising her "the recipe" next year, if she came, just as Aldo once had. Lawrence and I knew better, of course. We had seen this happen before. We knew that the meal most longed for is the meal not yet eaten. We knew that Roberto's appetite had been aroused. And we knew, for certain, that sometime -- long before the promised next year -- there would be a knock on Monica's door, and there he would be -- the man with a hunger for mascarpone. April 22, 1997 Linda Watanabe McFerrin is a poet, travel writer and fashion merchandiser. She has been a contributor to over 50 literary journals, newspapers, magazines and anthologies, including Travelers' Tales, the Washington Post, EcoTraveler, Modern Bride and the San Francisco Examiner. She is the author of two poetry collections: "Chisel, Rice Paper, Stone" and "The Impossibility of Redemption is Something We Hadn't Figured On." |
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