The Slog has been travelling again

I was in the Italian town of Modena last night (home of the original Balsamic vinegar) having been told about a restaurant there that specialises in a Risotto starter using Balsamico in large amounts.

I was a bit on the late side (Dead peages on the autostrada, CJ) and at first the maitre d’ gave me one of those looks suggesting that he might say we’re full or something, owing to the fact that I hadn’t had time to change. But I simply put my finger in his book on my name, said “That’s me”, and walked in confidently. I don’t often go in slightly poncey places much these days, but when faced with sour-faced head waiters I have long used a trick which, I can assure you, very rarely fails to work.

Having badgered Signor Sommelierini to bring the wine list first, I chewed on some grissini and took out a small notebook into which – looking around occasionally – I scribbled pointless notes. On il listi del vinos was a Fruili Colli Orientali Merlot by Petrucco (2010). The Orientali are a set of hills in the Fruili region where the best wines emerge, and Petrucco is probably the famous of the growers, although I know nothing at all about the domain. In fact the only reason I know that much is that a had a bottle in the Spring on the way to Athens, and Googled it.  At £19 it was (at restaurant prices) a steal, so I ordered it, and having been given some to taste, burbled some complete rubbish about it not being as good as the 2011, but had probably come from the lower parts of the hills so that was ok. (It was actually fantastic, but then I’ve been saying for years that most good Italian Merlots can knock spots off the French stuff.)

Anyway, the wine waiter was suitably impressed, and as he looked on I scribbled some more notes. After writing “Sommelier impressed, this could be fun”, I looked around the restaurant. Most people were just well-off folks having a special night out, but my eyes eventually stumbled onto a young couple in the far corner. He was working very hard at being funny, she was working even harder at not jumping on the bloke, and both were working their way down the first bottle of red wine.

Meanwhile, it wasn’t long before the two Consiglieri waiters were exchanging mutterings and stealing glances, so I wrote some more in the cloth notebook. What I actually wrote was, “This will really get them going”. The idea – as you’ll have guessed by now – was to convince them I was a sotto voce restaurant critic or etoiles judge. I don’t do this to get freebies by the way – just to get some decent service.

It really was a brilliant wine, made even more special by having had six weeks with no alternative to indifferent Messinian Cabernet. I like most Greek wine, but this stuff was several levels higher – or pianos higher, as the Italians say. Let’s just say I was tucking into it. Nowhere near the rate of the couple in the corner, but not stinting myself either.

The risotto duly arrived, carried personally to the table by a beaming head waiter. It was amazing, but over in the corner things were moving rapidly on. Their first course arrived at a propitious moment, just as the guy pulled the girl’s top gently off her clavicle and tried to eat her shoulder. The lady gave out a throaty warble, and the waiter did the most elegant (and fast) direction reversal I’ve ever witnessed. There was more giggling, with the guy doing that Italian seduction thing that always seems to involve long vowels – “beeeaaarrrlleeeeessimaaaaa” and so forth. The waiter returned cautiously, and the couple gave him a surprised look that said “Oh wow – food: now I remember…we’re in a restaurant”. A second bottle was ordered.

The risotto continued to be magnificent, as did the service. A complimentary bottle of table water appeared, the sommelier filled my wine glass, and the head waiter almost fainted when I said that it was, without question, the best balsamic risotto I’d ever tasted. Indeed, the only one.

Love’s young dream was moving on from excitement to lust. The lady was laughing at everything her date said. He was staring at everything she had. Their main course arrived almost immediately, as if the management felt that express service was the only way to get rid of them before things got completely out of hand. She spilt her glass. They both laughed at the spilt glass. The sommelier brought her a new one.

The pasta I’d ordered was OK, and the salad was good enough to make me wonder for the millionth time in my life whether there might be a novel called The Dressing Code waiting to be written. Preferably by me rather than the dreadful Dan Brown.

The guy in the corner got up to visit the lavatory, and the girl smiled in a confused way that suggested she was having difficulty focusing. He worked very hard at ambulating normally, like somebody trying to walk down a straight white line in a police station. I added some grated cheese to the pasta, but it was still only good. As the waiter arrived to remove the half-finished plate, I said thank you, and nothing else. He walked away, crushed.

I would’ve gone back to the hotel at this point, but Romeo was back from the lav, and doing what the young people I believe call “A Selfie” with his mobile phone. As he held a hand skywards to take a shot of their embrace (complete with more tongue action than was really necessary for the rest of us) they tipped the chairs backwards and fell to the floor. I laughed out loud (who wouldn’t?) as did most of the restaurant.

My bill arrived as their dessert trolley did. She began pointing at various things as the waiter tried a little too hard to smile indulgently. Just as I got up to leave, the inevitable happened: the signorina’s arousal having turned to drowsiness, her head fell forward with a gentle splat into the profiteroles. The bloke didn’t notice. I made an excuse and left.

Yesterday at The Slog: The cautious insanity of Stock Markets