Playing for Pizza by John Grisham Read Free Book Online Page B

fingers, then gracefully shaved off a few slices, leaving them on the platter as the lecture continued. “Next,” he said, pointing to the first loop, “is the world-famous prosciutto. You say Parma ham. Made only here, from special pigs raisedon barley and oats and the milk left over from making the parmigiano. Our prosciutto is never cooked,” he said gravely, wagging a finger for a second in disapproval. “But cured with salt, fresh air, and lots of love. Eighteen months it’s cured.”
    He deftly took a small slice of brown bread, dipped it in olive oil, then layered it with a slice of prosciutto and a shaving of parmigiano. When it was perfect, he handed it to Rick and said, “A little sandwich.” Rick took it in one large bite, then closed his eyes and savored the moment.
    For someone who still enjoyed McDonald’s, the tastes were astounding. The flavors coated every taste bud in his mouth and made him chew as slowly as possible. Sam was slicing more for himself, and Nino was pouring wine. “Is good?” Nino asked Rick.
    “Oh yes.”
    Nino thrust another bite at his quarterback, then continued, pointing, “And then we have culatello , from the pig’s leg, pulled off the bone, only the best parts, then covered in salt, white wine, garlic, lots of herbs, and rubbed by hand for many hours before stuffed into a pig’s bladder and cured for fourteen months. The summer air dries it, the wet winters keep it tender.” As he spoke, both hands were in constant motion—pointing, drinking, slicing more cheese, carefully mixing the balsamic vinegar into the bowl of olive oil. “These are the best pigs, for the culatello ” he said, with another frown. “Small black pigs with a few red patches, carefully selected and fed only natural foods. Never locked up, no. These pigs roam free andeat acorns and chestnuts.” He referred to the creatures with such deference it was difficult to believe they were about to eat one.
    Rick was craving a bite of culatello , a meat he’d never before encountered. Finally, with a pause in the narrative, Nino handed over another small slice of bread, layered with a thick round of culatello and topped with parmigiano.
    “Is good?” he asked, as Rick chomped away and held his hand out for more.
    The wineglasses were refilled.
    “The olive oil is from a farm just down the road,” Nino was saying. “And the balsamic vinegar is from Modena, forty kilometers to the east. Home of Pavarotti, you know. The best balsamic vinegar comes from Modena. But we have better food in Parma.”
    The final loop, at the edge of the platter, was Felino salami, made practically on the premises, aged for twelve months, and without a doubt the best salami in all of Italy. After serving it to Sam and Rick, Nino suddenly dashed to the front, where others were arriving. Finally alone, Rick took a knife and began carving off huge chunks of the parmigiano. He covered his plate with the meats, cheese, and breads, and ate like a refugee.
    “Might want to pace yourself,” Sam cautioned. “This is just the antipasto, the warm-up.”
    “Helluva warm-up.”
    “Are you in shape?”
    “More or less. I’m at 225, about 10 over. I’ll burn it off.”
    “Not tonight, you won’t.”
    Two large young men, Paolo and Giorgio, joined them. Nino presented them to their quarterback while insulting them in Italian, and when all the embracing and greetings were out of the way, they plunked down and stared at the antipasto. Sam explained that they were linemen who could play both sides of the ball if necessary. Rick was encouraged because they were in their mid-twenties, well over six feet tall, thick-chested, and seemingly capable of throwing people around.
    Glasses were filled, cheese sliced, prosciutto attacked with a vengeance.
    “When did you arrive?” Paolo asked with only a trace of an accent.
    “This afternoon,” Rick said.
    “Are you excited?”
    Rick managed to say, “Sure,” with some conviction. Excited