Free Death al Dente by Peter King

don’t usually try to kill off writers of eating guides, do you? Not until after you see what they have written anyway.”
    “Very strange,” she murmured, still looking very solicitous about my health. She looked almost regal in an ivory linen sheath with high-heeled sandals and chunky gold designer earrings. Her hair shone and her eyes were alluringly bright.
    We were on our way to the Ristorante San Pietro where the owner-chef was Bernardo Mantegna, “the philosopher of food” as the Italian media liked to call him. His fame was already spreading to other countries, and I had seen him in a guest appearance on BBC television in a program on Italian food. If he was the man for Desmond Lansdown’s new restaurant, now was the time to sign him up before he grew to be even more famous.
    He greeted us at the door, a lean, spare man with sad but wise eyes. He was almost bald but had a trim short beard and resembled one of the hermits depicted living in caves in early Italian paintings. He was probably at least ten years younger than his appearance suggested. His wife, Vanessa, was small and dark, gentle in speech and movement. She handled the “front,” the reservations, the publicity, and the finances.
    Bernardo’s influence on the decor was obvious: sparse and simple, it just avoided the grim and serious. The light gray walls had a subtly silver tinge that kept it from being austere, and a fresh bouquet of wild flowers at the reception desk gave a personal touch. Handsome glass vases adorned shelves, and antique glass horses, dolphins, and birds in exotic colors, probably from Murano, near Venice, stood discreetly in wall niches. Largely hidden light sources made them glint and shimmer, giving the whole place a soft warm glow.
    A banner over the entrance to the kitchen wished Silvio Pellegrini a happy birthday, and a large photograph of him in a happy mood adjoined it. The party was already under way, and we greeted Pellegrini and his wife, Elena. Pellegrini’s lawyer, whom we had also met at Giacomo’s restaurant the first night, was there with his wife—Tomasso and Clara Rinaldo. The lawyer, distinctive with his silvery hair and beard, said he hoped I was enjoying my stay in Italy. I did not think it was appropriate to tell him that there had already been two attempts on my life.
    I wanted to tell Pellegrini, though, and at least set his mind at rest that I was the target and not him. The festive atmosphere and the proximity of other people made it difficult, and I decided to wait until later. In the meantime, I was kept busy meeting friends of the Pellegrinis and tasting Bernardo’s antipasti. Trays were being carried around the room by Bernardo’s staff, and the first tray to catch my eye was piled with violet-colored delicacies. “Ravioli potentina,” the waiter explained. “They are filled with ricotta and pecorino cheese and chopped prosciutto is added.”
    “But the color—” I protested, and the waiter smiled.
    “Bernardo adds violets to the dough after it is kneaded and rolled. The famous Parma violets.”
    I should have remembered that Bernardo was passionate about the use of edible flowers, surpassing even the famous Frenchman Marc Veyrat who was a shepherd until he came down from the mountains and opened the famous Auberge de l’Eridan in Annecy, experimenting with the inclusion of wild plants and flowers in the dishes of his native Savoy. Another tray came by containing grilled shrimp with yarrow, the plant with known antibiotic and anti-inflammatory qualities and now being used to treat arthritis. “Many plants currently being used in cooking have medical values also,” explained the waiter.
    “I wasn’t sure I was going to like Bernardo’s food,” Francesca confided in a low voice as she demolished three more shrimp in rapid succession, “but it really is delicious. What else is there?”
    The answer came at once in the form of bite-sized pieces of salmon steak. We both tasted and