Bella Tuscany by Frances Mayes Read Free Book Online Page B

glasses, I focus for a long time on his right hand, just this one small moment in the entire chapel—the hand held up, the thumb holding down the next-to-last finger, the other three straight, all formed with delicacy and subtle coloration. Late afternoon sun has a weak hold on the walls but still the gold around him sings with burnished amber light.
    The rest of the Palazzo is closed. Walking back toward the center of Palermo, we pass rubble-filled lots still unrestored since World War II bombings. We look in open storefronts, where hideous junk is sold, and step off crowded sidewalks with fry-stations selling chickpea fritters. People are out gathering last-minute food for dinner. About their business, the people look contained, silent, often weary, but when they meet an acquaintance their faces break into vibrant expression. In the taxi back to the hotel, we hardly notice the near-death encounters.
    Â 
    The first two restaurants Ed selects for dinner are nixed by the hotel desk clerk. Dangerous areas, he tells us, making the motion of someone slicing a throat. He takes a ballpoint and scribbles out whole areas of our map. “What about this one?” Ed asks, pointing in our Italian restaurant guide to the highly regarded, unpronounceable
N'grasciata.
“And what does that mean?”
    â€œIn local dialect that means ‘dirty' but don't be alarmed, just a way of speaking.”
    Speaking of what? I think. Dirty means dirty. “Your highest recommendation?”
    â€œSì
. Authentic. They have their own fishing boat. You won't see tourists there. I will call and they will expect you.”
    We're dropped off at a plain place which is even plainer inside. No tablecloths, a TV somewhere, no decor, no menu, harsh lighting, and the buzz of bugs hitting the zapper. The waiter starts bringing out the food. I'm crazy about the
panelli,
chickpea fritters, and the platter of fried artichokes. Then comes pasta with
pomarola,
that intense, decocted tomato sauce, and baby octopus. I'm not so sure about this dish. I chew for a long time. The platter comes round again and Ed has more. We're offered another pasta, this one
bucatini
with sardines, currants, and fennel. The next dish is a grilled
orata,
which my dictionary translates as “gilthead,” surrounded by fried
frutti di mare
—just various fish. I'm slowing down. I like a little bit of fish, not a lot. Ed loves anything that comes from the sea and is so obviously relishing the food that the waiter starts to hover, commenting on each morsel. He's pouring wine to the brim of the glass. His dolorous eyes look like Jesus' in the mosaic dome. His long fingers have tufts of black curly hair on each digit, and a mat of hair escapes the collar of his shirt. He has the long, four-inch-wide face I associate with newspaper photos of hijackers.
    I revive briefly for the spicy
melanzane
—here's a touch of the Arabic, eggplant with cinnamon and pine nuts—but balk at the appearance of the stuffed squid (all those suction cups on the arms) and the sea bream sausage. Is he bringing us everything in the kitchen? Next comes a plate of fried potatoes.
“Signora,”
our waiter says.
“Signora.”
He can't believe that I have stopped eating. He pulls up a chair and sits down. “You must.”
    I smile and shake my head. Impossible. He rolls those dolorous eyes to heaven.
“Ho paura,”
I'm afraid, I try to joke, pointing at the squid. He takes me literally and eats a bite himself to prove there's no cause for alarm. Still, I shake my head no. He takes my fork, gently grabs a handful of my hair, and starts to feed me. I am so astonished I open my mouth and eat. I really hate the texture, like tenderized erasers.
    As an afterthought, he brings out
involtini,
veal rolled around a layer of herbs and cheese, but even Ed has stopped by now. He's thanking the waiter. “The best fish in Palermo,” he tells him.
    â€œHow do you