My Food Obession on Display

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Doron Caldor assaulted the food on his plate as if it were an obstacle. Jab, slice, insert, chew. Repeat. He occasionally mixed in forkfuls of potatoes or carrots and lubricated as needed with beer. The exquisite presentation, flavors, aromas and textures of their shared meal appeared to be irrelevant to the Israeli. Paolo felt otherwise. The crispy outer layer of the tajine-baked leg of lamb was caramelized with a mixture of apricot marmalade, citrus liquor and fresh mint, while the tender meat just below was saturated with natural juices and flavors amplified with red wine, thyme, salt, garlic, rosemary and flecks of crushed black pepper. The potatoes and carrots simmering in the base of the cone-shaped clay pot had been transformed by the mosaic of flavors and spices that dripped and seared into them. Paolo's focus on the conversation was severely compromised by it all and he knew, as the tajine was being placed on the table and the lid removed, he would overeat and thus endure another a fitful night. He tore the pita to soak up the drippings. A stab of guilt that he had masqueraded as a vegetarian to Shirin briefly appeared and then vanished with the next bite.

Oh my. This is delicious,” she said after allowing time for the small eruption of flavorful joy in her mouth to recede. “What kind of meat is this?  And this pasta. Strozzapreti, right? ”

Paolo allowed a half-smile and blushed at the complement, though he would have been disappointed with any other response from the first visitor to his Rome apartment. Despite the dour circumstance, a final review of the investigation, Viterbo was welcome company.

He took his own first bite and silently applauded before continuing. “I make the pasta in the traditional way, with egg whites and a bit of cheese in the dough. It’s the first thing my mother taught me to cook from scratch,” he said. “Still love it. And the meat is actually cured deer, made by the mayor of Pennabilli, where I’m from. Not quite like anything else. Right? Other than that, just some tomatoes, tomato paste, onions, garlic and capers, some wine, salt, a bit of sugar and a pinch of spice. I also like to throw in some fresh rosemary as it’s simmering. The most important thing, really, is to cook it slow and long with the top on and then to simmer it for a while at the end with the top off so it reduces and thickens.”

That pears have been Paolo’s favorite since childhood stoked fiddling controversy among family and friends. How could you choose, they challenged in the running joke, a pear before nectarines or peaches that deliver daggers of sweet tang, or oranges and grapefruits, with juices so fragrant they bite back and make your eyes squint? A pear is a fruit you choose now and again to cleanse the palette, they argued. As fruits go, it’s an interlude. And besides, finding a flavorful pear is rare.  Most are thick skinned and mildly flavored with mealy texture. When other fruits falter, you can still enjoy them. But a pear that's even a little past its prime? The only response is to toss it away.

Paolo answered with a kindly groan. While other fruits are all wondrous in the same way, a perfect pear delights in a way that is singular, he explained over and again. There’s an elegance in the fragrance and flavor of pears that mimics nothing else. Other fruits, no matter how lush, rattle your senses through one or two layers.  But a pear moves you through a maze and for just a heartbeat, stops everything around you. Pears are … seductive. And while finding an immaculate pear is rare, the seduction is always worth that first, dripping bite.

The waiter suddenly materialized, an enormous tray balanced by shoulder and hand, and proceeded to set down an embarrassing number of dishes while yelling for someone to bring an extra side stand to hold the overflow. In an instant Shirin and Paolo were buried behind platters of sizzling grilled lamb and goat, humus drizzled with oil and sprinkled with za’atar, eggplant dip, rice with cloves, kibbee, grilled vegetables, salad, nabulsi cheese and a pile of warm taboon that rose nearly to meet the tops of their tea glasses.  Paolo laughed at the sight of it all.

“All of your favorites,” Shirin said, an enormous smile creasing her face, her eyes dancing beneath her carefully tuned eye brows.  “A feast to keep the memories warm within you until you return.”

Paolo’s affection for Massa’s sprouted from the way Mario and Sofia, the owners, infused classic Roman food with their boundless joy of sharing it. As if the only requirement to being embraced by their warmth was to find your way to one of their tables. House-made pasta and pizza, grilled veal wrapped in prosciutto, grated pecorino, onions sauteed for hours in vinegar and black pepper, fresh mozzarella delivered each morning, potatoes roasted in olive oil and sprinkled with salt and fresh rosemary, artichokes in the Jewish style and, of course, tiramisu all seemed as if they had jumped off the pages of a book devoted to capturing a three-thousand year journey to food perfection. It was a place to linger and Mario was born to descend upon guests, homemade Limoncello in hand, launching into conversations in Italian, English, Spanish, or even a bit of Japanese and Portuguese.