( Dinner in the trattoria ‘Da Rino’ – with the light at the doorway on the left – in Via San Marciano, L’Aquila, the regional capital of Abruzzo, 110 km east of Rome )
‘Dolce Signora, the delicious, fresh chicory you are about to eat comes from the Gran Sasso – it grows up there, you know, on the highest mountain in the Apennines,’ Rino said, with charming inaccuracy, as he bowed not quite obsequiously at a table of Roman tourists.
The Roman tourists shrieked at how lucky they were to have such special Abruzzo food, and with evident pleasure, mirth and not a little noise, chatted on for quite some time about the merits of life in the provinces.
I was having dinner ( as I often did, and for about two hours every time) with my belovèd friend, Mino, who poured me out another glass of the local red wine, so dark that it stains your tongue if you drink it enough. Rino always left a litre of this vino nero on the table for us and we paid for what we drank, usually the lot .
It was cold and snowy outside, Sunday evening, and the trattoria was busy. The small high windows were beginning to steam up and the two little vaulted rooms glowed with cameradie and pleasure.
There was glass across the top part of the arched wooden doors, with little white cotton curtains held up by narrow brass rods, and every time someone came in, the rods rattled slightly against the thin panes, and heads went up to shout out some welcoming comment to a known face, or a buona sera to a stranger.
‘ E voilà , bella Jo!’
Rino put a triumphant plate of strangolapreti ( ‘priest stranglers’ ) pasta on the white tablecloth in front of me, moving my cigarette packet and other personal odds and ends out of the way to make room for it.
‘ Eat it up now or it’ll get cold and none of your smoking and chattering, ah bella Jo… bella Jo.’
He used the word ‘bella’ for most of his women customers, but even so, it was always endearing (and still is) .
At the table opposite us was a group of young men in overalls, heads bent over their plates, stubby fingers soaking up the remains of food with the customary scarpetta. From time to time the Romans bawled across, engaged them in some inconsequential but friendly chatter and chortled on through their hearty fare.
Mino and I had got onto our main course, castrato (which means what you think, of the sheep family), roast potatoes, spinaci in padella, peperoncino and garlic.
Rino was now amusing other diners by dousing their portions of fresh pineapple rings in the Abruzzese centerbe liqueur. Then with the flourish of a magician, he set the rings alight. Gasps of awe rippled through the trattoria as the turquoise flames flared for a second, then flickered just as quickly to nothing.
Mino and I finished off our vino nero , stood up in the cramped space, and asked for the bill. Rino did all the arithmetic in his head, or sometimes with a few lightning squiggles in ballpoint on a little notepad. He always rounded the price down for us.
Before I left, I went into the kitchen to see his wife, Loredana, the trattoria cook, dishwasher, and peacekeeper. She immediately abandoned her steaming pots and pans, hot water and chopping board to greet me. Her grin showed the little gap between her front teeth, and she wiped her strong hands before shaking mine, on a stained white apron. She asked how my family was and told me her own news, chucked me on the cheek like a child, then kissed me goodbye.
I left to an arrivederci from the entire trattoria and joined Mino back out on the wintry streets to whatever it was that awaited us next.
Out There & In Here 