Free Death al Dente by Peter King Page A

Francesca gasped in delight. “I’ve never had salmon that good! What is on it?” The waiter explained that it was nasturtium butter and suggested we try the chickweed salad that was going the rounds in tiny bowls. Bernardo himself was circulating, recommending, advising, and acknowledging compliments with a modest dip of his head. He came over to us. “Have you tried the scallops yet?”
    He waved the waiter to us. Small scallops from the Adriatic were added to simmering butter, vinegar, cream, and chopped shallots, he told us. Shredded leaves of wood sorrel were added, cooked quickly, then the scallops were put on a plate and more sorrel sprinkled over them. Eaten with a toothpick, they had a rich taste yet allowed the slight prickle of lemon to come through. We agreed they were superb.
    “Do you have to go far afield to find all your herbs and plants?” I asked him.
    He smiled a gentle smile. “No, indeed. Let me tell you a story. My friend Jean-Georges Vongerichten, who is as fanatical on this subject as I am, was lured to Manhattan to be head chef at the Trump Tower. Wandering through Central Park, he found no fewer than twenty-five edible plants and flowers. So you see, wherever you are, you can find them in your own backyard.”
    “But you can’t collect them all year,” protested Francesca. “Don’t different ones bloom only at certain times?”
    “That’s true,” said Bernardo. “Spring is, of course, the time to pick most of them but they can be freeze-dried and used throughout the year.” He stopped another waiter. “Taste these. We call them sambucus. ” They looked like golden corn fritters and were scrumptious. “I make them from elderberries.”
    He excused himself to greet a newcomer who, judging from their conversation, was another chef. Pellegrini hailed him and they embraced, evidently old friends. “Pellegrini knows a lot of people,” I commented. “He has many big businesses,” Francesca said. “He supplies products to most of the restaurants in the area and even further away.”
    As more and more people arrived, the flow of antipasti increased. Tapas and meze are considered the equivalents of antipasto in other countries but there is a difference—in Italy, the antipasto is considered to be restaurant food and is not eaten in the home except perhaps on special family feast days.
    Small triangles of pizza—that culinary symbol of Italy— came round, bringing a fresh aroma of hot tomatoes and spices. In America and England, nutritionists rightly protest the fast-food pizza, piled high with saturated fat, sugar, and sodium. In Italy, pizza is a well-balanced meal: a complex carbohydrate (the dough), dressed with vegetables (onions, tomatoes, and peppers), a little protein (anchovies, ham, sausage), and some unsaturated fat (olive oil). Bernardo had added rampion and pimprenelle in this case, said the waiter, two plants that had been known for centuries for their herbal properties. Yet another tray came sailing along, its carrier informing us that it was mushroom pizza flavored with hyssop. This is a widely found plant that in Biblical days was the symbol of purification from sin. It had long been used as a disinfectant on wounds, the waiter told us, before it was discovered that the mold that produces penicillin grows on hyssop leaves.
    We sampled fritelli, two voluptuous puffs of dough enclosing tender leaves of artichoke, which I reminded Francesca is really a flower. Tiny sausages followed, deliciously flavored with basil, garlic, and orange peel. Several thinly sliced cheeses were squeezed together in a breadless sandwich, attractive as each cheese was a different color: blue, green, yellow, and white.
    A familiar face joined us. It was Giacomo, owner-chef of the Capodimonte where we had had the first dinner. He seemed bigger than ever in the crowded room, his beard seemed fuller, and he was bursting with good humor. “I wouldn’t be here in this coffee shop,” he told us