Italian Dining all’Americana

[embedyt]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yd8gK6EgpLM[/embedyt]Marquel, TPVs NYTimes Dieting and Whining Correspondent was quietly picking his nose when he read Gluten-Free Dining in Italy.
Perhaps surprisingly, the land of pasta and pizza is welcoming, even sympathetic, to travelers who avoid eating gluten.

Apparently because the Italian diet is so wheat-informed, Italians were some of the first to recognize the serious aspects of gluten intolerant and even gluten allergic individuals. Traveling in Italy with celiac disease is apparently easier than in other countries because of Italians’ heightened knowledge of the disease.

However, as Marquel knows, there are always people prepared to take advantage of an advantage. The number of travelers in Italy with special dietary requests has ballooned. I took a cheap flight to Rome and visited Chef Vitello di Bordello, the most prominent cuoco in all of Italia.

“Chef Vitello,” I started, “can you tell me of special requests that people make?”

“Well,” he said, “there are the gluten intolerant. But we understand their problem and are happy to allow them to eat like real Italiani without having bad reactions. But there are others….”

“Like who?” I asked.

“We are starting to get many Americans, almost exclusively Americans, who tell me their children are tomato intolerant. Can you imagine wanting to eat Italian food with tomato intolerance? They want me to conjure up a dish with tomato salsa, but with no tomatoes. Can’t be done.”

“Do you tell them that?” I ask.

“Almost never. Non mai. They tell me their children will die. It’s always the children. They have this, they have that, they can’t eat this, they can’t eat that. The parents are always almost happy telling me how sick their children are. It’s very suspicious. As if they want their children to suffer so they can feel important taking care of them.”

“Okay,” I said, “so they want no tomato tomato sauce. What do you do?”

“I make a red pepper sauce. Add sugar, other things. It’s red. But it tastes like merda.” He said.

“And do they eat it?” I asked.

“Those kids are so starved they’d eat my pots and pans. I feel so sorry for them.”

“Okay, so we have tomato-less tomato sauce. Incidentally, you have my sympathies. I would strangle those parents if I were you.”

“It’s illegal in Italy.” he said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “my lawyer looked it up for me. Definitely illegal.”

“Go on,” I said. “What other requests.”

“Well,” the chef said, “another frontal assault on Italian cuisine are the parents who say their children are allergic to garlic. Garlic! Italian children grow up on garlic, they are born with garlic. They eat it, they carry it, they wear it. American children get sick from garlic. Again they tell me they will die, what can I do?”

“So what do you do?”

“Sometimes it’s manageable. But can you imagine pasta alle vongole without garlic? How can you make a white pasta sauce without garlic? It’s like making a hot dog without meat.”

“Americans do that,” I said.

“No offense, but Americans are totally nuts. They need to take parenting courses.”

“That’s all they do,” I said, “I think.”

“Then the parenting courses should take parenting courses.” he said.

“That,” I said, “is not a bad idea. Okay, go on. Tomato-less tomato sauce, garlic-less pasta alle vongole, what else?”

“Goes on forever,” chef said, with resignation. “Oh, so a family comes in just last week. They want spaghetti arrabiatta with no spices. Child will die if he has spices. What am I to do? Arrabiatta means spicy. They want it not spicy.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Do you know this American named Boy-Ar-Dee? He’s a very famous American chef.”

“I’ve heard of him.” I said.

“Easiest special request I ever had. Open the can, into the pan, onto the plate. Kid’s happy as a clam. Parents surrounding him, stroking him as if he were the Stanley Cup.”

“You like hockey?” I asked.

“Who doesn’t?” he answered.

“Okay, any more?”

“Actually the list goes on and on but two incidents really took the torta. One was an American family, naturally, who said they wanted an authentic Italian meal but their infant would die if he nursed from his mother if she had basil, tomato, garlic, or onion. Now that’s a challenge.”

“What did you do?”

“A hah! I am ashamed to admit it. But you know Boy-Ar-Dee right?” I shook my head. “Well, they also have Cadillac in a can”

“What’s Cadillac in a can?” I asked.

He motioned me over to him and whispered, “dog food.”

“You didn’t!” I said.

“L’ho fatto,” he said.

“And?”

“They came back the next morning and thanked me profusely. Said that the baby slept more deeply than anytime since he was born.”

“I think that takes the torta. But you said you had another.”

“Yes, this was my proof. American family again, said they couldn’t have peppers, garlic, and I think salt. They wanted a puttanesca sauce.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I risked everything. They said the baby would die. I looked. It was a happy baby. They wouldn’t let it walk. They wouldn’t let it hold the bottle himself. The kid was a prisoner in his family. They loved that he was sick.”

“And?” I prodded.

“I made them the puttanesca.”

“How?” I asked.

“The same way I always do. Plenty of wheat pasta, peppers, garlic, salt, peppers. The kid gobbled it up. We had to go cook up a second serving.”

“Was he okay?”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t be happy having my puttanesca? They came back the next day. Not to thank me, to have the same meal again. I was going to tell them their kid has no problems but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because the problem’s with the mom and dad. That’s a problem beyond my fixing. The kid is fine but if I told them I served him normal puttanesca, I’m sure they would die. I don’t know whether that’s illegal, but it’s simply not italian. So I said ciao.”

“Well, I have to say ciao, too, but grazie molto for your time, Cuoco.”

“La piacere est per me,” he said. The pleasure was all his. But it was mine too. I had some puttanesca. And vongole. And vino. The world is nuts.