Free Death al Dente by Peter King Page B

in his booming voice, “if it weren’t for Pellegrini’s birthday.” He moved on, spreading more humorously critical comments on Bernardo and his “bits of grass” as he called the edible plants and flowers.
    Francesca moved closer to me. “I suppose this food is all right, isn’t it?” she murmured.
    “Of course it is. What do you mean?” Then I realized that she was not referring to the dangers of Bernardo’s plants and flowers. “No,” I said firmly. “This isn’t the kind of place where there would be any murder attempts.” She looked dubious and I caught a whiff of her suspicion but pushed it away. “We’re all eating the same food,” I said confidently.
    Some kind of disturbance was occurring at the door. “It’s Ottavio,” said Francesca in a breathy voice, promptly forgetting my potentially perilous position. It was indeed the terror of the kitchen at the Palazzo Astoria. Lank hair flopping, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was managing to cause a commotion in his first thirty seconds through the door.
    “Don’t know why I’m here,” I could hear him saying petulantly. “My kitchen crew need somebody to use a whip on them all the time, otherwise the place falls apart.”
    He was obviously a good customer of Pellegrini, who went to thank him for coming. “Give me a drink,” Ottavio barked, waving away a tray of delectables. “No, I don’t want any of that flower stuff—birds have been shitting all over it.”
    “Ola!” Bernardo called out, going to him with an outstretched hand. “Ottavio! Glad you could come!”
    “Not staying.” He ignored Bernardo’s hand. “What do you have to do to get a drink here, for God’s sake?”
    Bernardo took care of that promptly. He was apparently familiar with Ottavio’s hedgehog mannerisms and his own innate gentility made him tolerant of them. Two women hurried over and Ottavio put an arm around each. Francesca looked on hungrily. “Go on over,” I needled her. “You already met him. Ingratiate yourself.”
    She watched him, being her haughtiest. “I’ll wait.”
    “Neither of those two women is competition for you.”
    “True,” she agreed, eying them disdainfully.
    “I’ll circulate,” I told her. “You’re on your own—temporarily.”
    She gave me her condescending Cleopatra nod and I chatted for a while with Vanessa, Bernardo’s wife. She was supportive of his enthusiasm for edible plants and flowers but not as expert as Bernardo.
    “He is out at five o’clock some mornings,” she said. “Some plants and flowers need to be picked just after the morning dew has left them.” We talked about the various steps that her husband believed to be essential before cooking. “Flowers have to have their pistils and stamens removed and only the petals from the flowers are used,” she told me. “Bernardo is meticulous too about how plants and flowers are prepared. Some must be chopped with a sharp knife, others need to be torn, some can only be used whole. Some need to be macerated in water, others must be dry. Many must be used the same day they are picked.”
    She beckoned to a waiter passing by with a tray of succulent-looking slices of terrine with tiny purple, white, and yellow flower petals sprinkled on top. “Have you eaten one of these yet?” I confessed that I hadn’t and she explained that the slices were herb and flower cheese terrine. I tasted one and it was superb. “It is a terrine made with cream cheese, provolone, and parmesan cheese,” she said. “The parmesan must be absolutely fresh—Bernardo uses only it only when made and eaten the same day. The flowers are called viola tricolor —in English you call them pansies. They are mixed in with the cream cheese and more flowers are laid on top.” They had a most unusual flavor, hard to identify and almost, but not quite, a minty aftertaste.
    The birthday boy, Silvio Pellegrini, had worked his way through the still-thickening crowd. His smooth, well-fed