Dinner, American-style

An American cooks for her Italian friends

By Nancy Greenleese

June 18, 2008

Cooking for three types of people will get your heart racing faster than a blender on the purée setting: your mother-in-law, a professional chef, and Italians.

This cardiac condition grips me shortly after I offer to cook una vera cena Americana, a genuine American dinner, for some Italian friends. I live in Rome, where my Italian friends insist on feeding me. Sometimes, I think, they pity me for my fast-food nation. Most of the time, however, they simply want to share the cuisine that they talk about endlessly.

“Hai mangiato bene?” they ask when friends return from a wedding, a vacation, or just an ordinary weekday lunch. Did you eat well? Yes, I’ve eaten well. Very well.

I’ve feasted on a light meal of rigatoni with fresh basil and luscious tomatoes, all bathed in rich olive oil. My fork has stood almost straight up in a hearty Tuscan dish of bucatini mixed with tuna, tomatoes, anchovies, olives, marble-sized capers, and crunchy breadcrumbs. And almost nightly, I dine at what I like to call Da Alessandro, or Alexander’s Restaurant. He’s my roommate, and he insists on cooking for me. It would be rude to refuse.

Potatoes, corn, and a tiny Italian range.

One evening, he tossed together an omelette with zucchini flowers and a side dish of spicy cicoria, known Stateside as chicory; this leafy vegetable is similar to spinach but slightly bitter. He boiled the chicory in salted water before cooking it for a few minutes in olive oil with chopped garlic and chile pepper. At the same time, he briefly pan-fried the zucchini flowers before adding well-beaten eggs mixed with parsley, Parmesan, and milk, creating an airy omelette. The zucchini flowers’ delicate texture and sharp flavor gave the humble omelette some sophistication, while the chicory was a healthy, spicy sidekick. There’s no check at Da Alessandro; you just have to clean the dishes.

Whether I’m in my own apartment or lounging at a friend’s place, I usually wind up watching the Italians cook. I ask if I can help chop, peel, boil water. They look at me, and fear crosses their faces.

“Tranquillo,” they say. Relax. No need for an American invasion of their kitchens.

After dozens of meals this way, I decide to offer reciprocation, ideally without regurgitation. This is not an idle goal. Years ago, a friend gave me a copy of the Joy of Cooking. Inside the front cover, he wrote, “May you never be so poor that you actually have to use this book.” I am no cook.

But, with courage undaunted by the lack of convenient American supermarkets, I choose an all-American menu: almond chicken, baked potatoes, rolls, corn on the cob. Although it’s a meal heavy on starch, the dishes are the ones that my Italian friends consider truly American after watching too many dubbed episodes of “Happy Days.” The meal will end with chocolate-chip cookies.

Alas for my “Iron Chef: Italiana” debut, the ingredients don’t miraculously appear, ready to use, in glass bowls. I have to find them, an exploration rivaling native son Christopher Columbus’ exploration of the so-called New World. I trek to the heart of the Old World, the sprawling market in the Esquilino neighborhood.

This public market is unusual in Rome. It offers not only stands selling six types of tomatoes but Chinese roots, Romanian hard cheeses, and spices from the Philippines. Merchants shout, “Buon giorno, bella!” as I pass, flirting to get me to buy their plump eggplants or the bass with intact heads that I swear wink at me.

I visit seven stands, not to mention a full-service supermarket and a specialty food store, trying to put together my not-so-simple meal. Chocolate chips won’t appear in the stores until Christmas. I briefly debate putting off my meal until the signora at the sweets stand patiently explains that I could slice a chocolate bar. Sliced almonds are nowhere to be found. After two days of searching, it looks like I’ll have to cut them myself, risking a few digits. Then I find Islam — that is, Zahirul Islam, the nut-stand owner.

“Un momento,” he says on my second trip to his stand. The Bangladeshi slips away into the madness of the market. Ten minutes later, he returns bearing a sack of sliced almonds, a miracle worthy of the nearby Vatican.

“I know everyone here,” he says in Italian, giving me a sly smile.

My 10 intact fingers prepare the cena on a blistering hot summer afternoon. I bread the chicken, bake the potatoes, boil the corn. All goes well, except that I nearly start the second great fire of Rome when I scorch two of the four batches of chocolate-chip cookies in my Celsius oven. The dried-out hunks are cemented to the nonstick pan like warts on a witch. This, I think, could be ugly.

My friends, Tony Calo’ and his wife, Elzbieta Gerlach, arrive. Tony was raised in Tuscany but born in the southern region of Campania, where his 92-year-old grandmother still plucks from her garden for meals. Elzbieta is Polish by birth but Italian in spirit, having fully acclimated to her adopted country’s gastronomical delights. We crowd around my tiny table. The meal is ready. We’re steaming. The food is steaming. They look at me. They’re scared.

“Mangia! Mangia!” I exclaim. Eat! Eat!

Tony picks up the ear of corn and sticks it in his mouth like a Popsicle. He gnaws on the end, using his front teeth to dislodge the corn from the cob. He’s going to literally gag on the first course. I stifle a laugh. Gently, I show him how to bite into the corn. Soon, we’re having the debate that has fired up barbecues in America for years: What’s the proper way to eat corn? Typewriter-style, or hunt-and-peck?