The Food of Love by Anthony Capella Read Free Book Online Page A

held more than a dozen sets of the most beautiful underwear
    Laura had ever seen. Thongs as fine as necklaces were arranged in cases like precious jewels. There were delicate floral camisoles edged with lace, as fine as that for any wedding dress; sassy low-slung hipsters; black suspender belts; creamy silk basques. At the time she had dragged herself away from the shop without entering, but now, preparing for her date, she found herself standing outside it once again. Carlotta’s words rang in her head: Trust me, he thinks you’re going to sleep with him.
    A little light-headed, she opened the door and stepped
    inside.
    There were no shelves in the little shop, no racks of stock or
    displays of merchandise. Instead there was an impeccably dressed Italian in her thirties reading II Messaggero, who put down the
    newspaper as the door opened and scrutinised Laura with a practised eye.
    ‘“Momento! the woman said decisively, disappearing into a tiny
    recess. When she reappeared it was with four slim boxes, which
    she opened on the counter one at a time. Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, were garments even finer than those in the
    window. No price tags were attached, and Laura soon discovered
    why: when she eventually made her choice, a red lace basque with complicated ties that made her feel almost lasciviously decadent, the figure on the till was more than her entire living allowance for the week.
     
    ‘I’m going to teach you how to chop,’ Bruno told Tommaso.
    ‘That way, when she arrives you’ll look as if you’re doing the
    cooking.’
    ‘Sure,’ Tommaso said confidently. Bruno took an apple and
    placed it on the work surface. Then he unrolled his canvas knife bag.
    ‘If you damage my knives,’ he said, ‘you’ll be dead.’
    “I won’t damage them.’ Tommaso picked up the biggest, a
    steel Wiisthof. ‘Christ Jesus, it’s heavy.’
    Bruno gently removed the cleaver from his friend’s hand. ‘Uh
    uh. Too big for you. You should start with this one.’ He passed
    him the smaller Global. ‘It’s Japanese. Made of vanadium steel.’
    Bruno poured a little olive oil on to a carborundum stone. ‘First, I’ll show you how to sharpen it.’
    After five minutes of sharpening, Tommaso was bored. “It must
    be ready now.’
    ‘Nearly.’
    When he was satisfied, Bruno took out a diamond steel. ‘And
    now we hone it.’
    It was several more minutes before Bruno allowed his friend to
    start on the apple. ‘You use the heel of the knife for thicker
    objects, the point for finer work,’ he instructed. ‘Work across the apple at an angle, like so. Don’t wait for the first slice to fall before you move on to the next one. And keep your fingertips tucked in.
    This blade can slice through a pig’s trotters, so your little digits won’t be much of an obstacle.’
    While Tommaso practised chopping, Bruno baked. Unlike
    many chefs, he did not despise baking. He loved meat and vegetables, too, but there was another, different kind of pleasure in
    spinning artificial, dazzling confections of sugar and flour, or baking a tray of simple biscuits.
    The dolce itself, after so much rich food, was to be a straightforward one - the ricotta, with honey and a sprinkling of
    cinnamon, and a glass of vin santo - sweet white wine - into
    which would be dipped tozzetti, handmade hazelnut biscuits.
    Bruno was just putting the biscuits into the oven when his friend came over.
    ‘Here,’ Tommaso said, pulling a little packet out of his jeans,
    ‘some extra herbs for the tozzetti?
    ‘You don’t put herbs in tozzetti,” Bruno began. Then he saw
    that the little packet actually held about an eighth of an ounce of dope.
    ‘Trust me,’ Tommaso said, winking. ‘It’ll taste even better with this.’
    ‘Uh-uh,’ Bruno said firmly, pushing his friend’s hand away.
    It’ll ruin the taste of the hazelnuts; and besides, you won’t need any more stimulants after a meal like this. How are you going to do justice to