Salad made. Pasta drained. Cheese grated. Table set. Wine glasses out. Bell rung.
Everyone sat around the long table which had been transformed from a work table into a dining table. The gathered faces were all young men, all studenti except for me and the two Signore and the older Don. Vino di tavola was poured into the wine tumblers, one set at each plate, and then the empty wine bottle was added to the pile of empty wine bottles against the wall. Because I was the guest, the food started with me. As I filled half of my plate with the fettuccine noodles bathed in olive oil and garlic, one of the Signore stood across the table from me with a bowl of roughly grated Parmesan formaggio. She dipped her fingers into the bowl, taking a large pinch of cheese and sprinkled it on my pasta. βAncora?β, she asked laughingly, and without waiting for my answer she repeatedly tossed Parmesan on my plate until she felt I had enough.
I reached for the salad bowl and began to fill the other half of my plate with the fresh greens and tomatoes from the camp garden. This immediately caused a stir among the group as the person next to me put his hand on my arm and explained that βthe salad does not go on the plate with the pasta. It is eaten by itself, after the pasta and not before.β Explaining that I wanted color on my plate next to the lovely monochromatic colors of the glistening fettuccine, a jovial argument about the order of things ensued between me and the young Italian. I was proving myself to be a true cretina at my first group meal in Italy.
