It’s been a while that I want to talk about food. I mean, how can I write about Italy without mentioning food !
I decided to start with the most representing dish, no I don’t talk about pizza, but PASTA.
I come from a country where pasta is eaten as worst case scenario i.e. when there is nothing left in the cupboard, you’re broke or you’re starving. The lucky days we get them “bolognaise” or “carbonara” but usually we get them plain with a nut of butter.
In Italy, Pasta is an institution and I learned quickly that you don’t joke with pasta.
The first time an Italian cooked pasta for me, he weighted the pasta to get the right quantity for 2. Actually it’s been really difficult not to laugh, for me, it was simply incredible to grant such care to an aliment that you can find at 50cents the 500gr.
The second time an Italian cooked pasta and I was there, he TASTED the boiling water. I mean, can you imagine tasting the water ! Well, he explained me really seriously that when the water boils, the water goes and maybe it remains too much salt for the water left so you have to pour water again and make it boil again…
Once I entered the car of a friend, he lighted on his GPS and as background he had put a picture of pasta al ragù.
I understood quickly that my 5min ready to eat pasta should not be granted “AOC “* pasta for an Italian.
Each time I was going to aperitivo, I was wondering how pasta, even cold, could be so good. Well, still the same night I saw the guy weighting the pasta, I saw him adding an incredible amount of cheese and oil, and I suddenly understood… I was working as well in a studio where everyday my colleagues were preparing their pasta. When I was seeing them putting half a pot of pesto or a full cheese inside, I was always flabbergasted but thanks to them I started understanding that the more fat you put the tastier it is. Unfortunately, each time I was cooking my pasta to bring to the office, I was suddenly scared of the oil or the cheese I could put inside, like if I was about to pour a lethal poison and consequently I was eating, each time, dry tasteless pasta.
Another tradition that I discovered is that all the youngs go to their parents house on Sunday to eat the “lasagna” of the mum. The first time I hear a guy telling me about that fact our mum was cooking the best lasagna in the world and consequently he was going there for Sundays, I smiled. The second time I heard another guy telling me the same ,I smiled again. The third time, I was thinking “shit, in Milan they must have the most amazing lasagna in the world”, I was already considering inviting myself to one of this best unofficial restaurant and taste lasagna to reach Sunday heaven (meaning probably 6 hours of digestion). And last Sunday, I was eating at a friend’s place (pizza), when she told me “next time we go to my parents to have Sunday lasagna”… I can’t believe it, my dream is going to finally come true! I only hope they did not set wrong expectations due to a biased chauvinist opinion…
*Apellation d’origine Controllé as for wine
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