If, last week, you read The Divine Restaurateur, don’t miss this “second installment,” again dedicated to the unfortunate person who arrives at a “divine restaurant,” or perhaps a starred restaurant. Flying cloches in the divine restaurant.
Here are the first appetizers arriving on a huge tray, covered by an equally huge silver cloches. I camerieri li dispongono sul tavolo, si guardano negli occhi e a un cenno del primo, in perfetta sincronia, scoperchiano il capolavoro d’apertura della serata: mentre il piatto appare in tutta la sua disturbing beauty, the chief, the one that had initiated the uncoverings, reads. “Scallops and crayfish with celery and cranberry with raspberry vinegar scent.” exactly as it was written on the menu.
The dish that is a painting
The dish is a picture, the scallops are two, the crayfish even three, the celery probably that series of sticks arranged in a sunburst pattern, the cranberry that little ball in the center (ah! what a struggle to juggle maiestatis singulars and numerical singulars!) and the raspberry vinegar perfume that lovely brown speck defiladed almost at the edge of the dish’s round, tangent to the golden thread framing it. One barely restrains oneself from the applause, fearing that the displacement of air will send the little that is so artistically arranged there flying off the plate, and there arises, however, immediately, the question of whether one should not take a photograph and go straight to the next dish, which, all things considered, is promising: “pigeon tortelloni with saffron pistils.” In the meantime, you will indulge in the havoc of that masterpiece of an appetizer, taste a shrimp, nibble a celery, shell one of the two scallops, accompanying it all with those wonderful bits of ten different types of bread, as good as they are quick to finish (and they will never bring them back to you again!). Until the scene of the silver domes repeats itself and you are left with ice: the tortellone is one, and not even so much “one.” But why, then, was it written in the plural on the paper? If you had the courage to air this objection you would be told (even if you were answered) that it was poetic license.
A furtive slipper
All that’s left is for you to pounce on that wonderful, flavorful, convoluted tortellone, carefully picking up every saffron pistil and carefully (trying not to be seen) making a scarpetta with the few bread crumbs you manage to pick up here and there On the tablecloth.
You pause to ponder that you would eat an ox sideways when-surprise! – here comes to the table, unexpectedly, the sorbet, that witty invention that enabled diners at the gargantuan banquets of centuries past not to stop the meal exhausted after the first ten courses, but to continue for ten and ten more. The chill that invades the belly through the sorbet, in fact, has precisely the function of deceiving the overflowing stomach that begins to scream “enough! I can’t take it anymore!” and make them accept the arrival of new courses in good spirits.
Swallow the sorbet, then, and you will feel even lighter than before, ready for whatever further gastronomic extravaganzas the “divine restaurateur” may wish to involve you in.
Freely excerpted from “RuvidaMente.com,” courtesy of author Stefano Milioni: https://www.milioni.com/controcucina/il-divino-ristoratore/
