The Body in the Piazza (18 page)

“No levees and precious few Chevys in your part of the world, darlin', ” Hattie said before belting out the chorus.

It was a nice moment and Faith felt herself caught up in the mood. That is until they came to the famous last line—“This'll be the day that I die.”

P
ossibly because of a full day of close proximity, the group went their separate ways as soon as Gianni pulled to a full stop back at the house. Faith decided to take a swim in the pool and then dry off in the sun while relaxing with a book. She was trying to distract herself and keep from marking time. Tom's reaction to her revelation about the notebook had convinced her that what she was planning to do as soon as it was dark enough and as soon as she was sure Luke was not going to run home, she'd be doing solo. On her way outside, she stopped to look at the assortment on the bookshelves in the Rossis' lounge and found a copy of Elizabeth David's
Italian Food,
much to her delight.

Olivia was doing laps, and Faith decided to read for a while. The pool was more than large enough for both of them, but she didn't want to disturb the young woman, who was churning up the water with a very authentic Australian crawl. She was wearing goggles and a black tank suit. Lean, not thin, Faith was surprised to see how toned Olivia was. Muscles that could only come from many hours at the gym.

She turned to Elizabeth David's section on
carni
—meat—reading her description of Florentine beefsteak,
Bistecca alla Fiorentina,
which praised it as the best in Italy, “similar to an American T-bone steak.” A woman with extremely firm opinions, and one of Faith's culinary idols, David went on to say that since the cut is so big there is “no room, nor any necessity” for vegetables on the plate. Faith wondered what Francesca was planning. Her fellow Americans would expect side dishes, if not on the plate, on the table. The Italian way of eating in small stages throughout a meal was indeed foreign to them.

Soon she was completely engrossed in the book, and the sound of the chaise next to her being moved made her drop it.

“Sorry, I hope I didn't make you lose your place. I just wanted to get into more sun,” Olivia said.

“Not at all, and with this book”—Faith picked it up, displaying the cover—“the point is to lose one's place and wander through it.” Much, she thought with a pang, like Freddy's travel advice.

“I love her books. She's one of those people I've wished were still alive, so I could meet them in person, not that I would bother her by actually doing it,” Olivia said. “Growing up, everything we ate was frozen or from tins. The notion that one should only eat what was in season never occurred to me until I read Elizabeth David. She was also a rebel, and I was drawn to that part of her, too, especially when I was younger.”

It was an opening. Olivia had rebuffed any inquiries about her personal life, but this shared admiration for the food writer, who was indeed a rebel in her day, might provide an opening. Faith started slowly.

“Thackeray said somewhere that next to eating a good dinner, the best thing was reading about one, and I've always liked to read cookbooks and food essays, like M. F. K. Fisher's, too. Another woman who marched to her own drummer.”

“I'll have to track the Thackeray quote down. Anyway yes,
How to Cook a Wolf
and the rest of Fisher's are favorites, even though I've never cooked a thing from them.”

“The point is that we don't have to cook from these books. I think of them as novels with a whole lot of food.”

Olivia laughed. It changed her face, free of any makeup after the swim, markedly. She was very pretty, and very young, despite her remark about looking back at her youth, Faith decided.

“You definitely know your way around a kitchen,” Faith said. “From all this reading? Or have you worked in them?”

Olivia reached for her shades, literally and figuratively, putting on dark glasses and leaning far back in the lounge chair.

“Oh, I've been here and there,” she said. “This sun is so delicious. My sunblock is waterproof, so I think I'll doze.”

Well, it was a start.

T
om was in seventh heaven. He'd never made it to the pool, but after waking up from a nap in the room, went to ask Gianni if he needed help with preparing tonight's cookout and became the sous chef, or Italian barbecue equivalent. Mario was also on hand. When Faith had changed and came down to see what she could do, she followed the noise. She found her husband behind the house by the large brick-and-cement grill that Gianni had built when they'd remodeled for just this kind of occasion, starting to prepare the coals. He was both grimy and ecstatic. This was the man, she reminded herself, who had never gotten the hang of a toaster oven. Now he was a grill master. She clearly wasn't needed and went inside. Francesca was in the kitchen alone.

“Where is everyone and what can I do?” Faith asked. She'd expected that some of the class would be there.

“Those naughty boys Sandro and Maurizio have arrived and brought big pitchers of Italian sangria—Campari and Prosecco instead of Rioja and brandy, but still with fruit floating in it. They took everyone down to the pool for drinks. I just hope no one falls in. I'm putting together an antipasto similar to what we had Sunday night to soak up some of the alcohol. We have the wines we bought today for dinner still to come! I thought some people might help with the
contorni
and then later we must unmold the panna cotta, but I'm afraid it will be you, me, and Mario. Except he's being very macho, with our husbands getting ready to grill the meat.”

“What do you want to serve with the steak as side dishes?”

“Not very much. We'll be doing the
bruschetta
soon while we wait for the coals to get hot enough to sear the meat, and with what I have here”—she motioned to what looked like enough cold cuts, cheeses, roasted vegetables, and olives for a whole village—“it should hold them until the
carni
. For the meal, first a Caprese salad—slices of tomato, fresh mozzarella, and basil from the garden. I'll put some of our olive oil out for people to add themselves. It's all plated. With the meat itself, just sautéed spinach with garlic. I have both the Caprese and spinach recipes in the recipe binder. They are so easy, the students don't need to do them with me, but I do need some help now. While I finish the antipasto and get the steaks ready to go on the grill, could you wash the spinach leaves—and cut off any stems? Once that's done, cooking it won't take any time at all.”

Sautéed fresh spinach, especially the new young leaves, was a standby of Faith's (see recipe in Excerpts from
Have Faith in Your Kitchen
). Washing it took longer than cooking it; it would literally be done in minutes. She liked to squeeze a little lemon on top of hers, as well. They could put some wedges out.

She had barely put an apron on when the Culvers and Olivia came rushing into the kitchen.

“What are you making? Did we miss anything?” Sally was panting slightly and her face was red from haste, sangria, or both.

Francesca explained what they were planning and asked Olivia to cut up some fresh strawberries to use as a garnish for the panna cotta and some to boil for a quick coulis while she brought the antipasto down to the others. The Culvers and Faith made short work of washing the spinach. They'd wait to mince the garlic until just before they were ready to sauté it.

“What next?” Faith asked when Francesca returned.

“Not much. Sandro and Maurizio have their oil and cloves of garlic prepared for the
bruschetta
down by the grill. All we need to do is cut up these loaves of bread. They would be offended if we added a topping to their oil, like herbs, or even a little cheese.”

“I like to experiment with different ones—vegetable purees, cured meats, even shrimp—but I'm looking forward to eating the real thing, plain and simple,” Faith said.

Hattie had her pad out and was taking down Faith's every word.

“You need to tell me more about what to put on top of the
bruschetta,
but I have a question first.” She paused for effect. “Now we love our beef, but what makes this kind so gawdalmighty special? I've been hearing about it ever since we stepped off the plane!”

“I can tell you,” Francesca said, “but why don't we join the others and start the
bruschetta,
so everyone can hear? It really is whatever-that-word-was special.”

The sky was still quite light, but the coals were sending up sparks, which would be more dramatic as the evening wore on. The two young men from the olive mill grabbed the bread from Francesca, and Sandro proceeded to instruct the class on the proper way to make
bruschetta
.

“Listen,
bambini,
this is the true Tuscan, and only, method. First”—he placed slices on the grill—“we char the bread lightly on each side, or more if you like a little taste of the fire.”

It didn't take long and he transferred the slices to a tray.

“All of you take a piece of garlic and rub one side with the cut clove. Put some muscle into it!” Sandro said. “And now the best part—pour our
favoloso
oil on top and eat it right away!”

The oil was indeed fabulous and Faith knew it was running down her chin, but she didn't care. All she wanted was more—immediately.

While everyone was merrily preparing the
bruschetta,
much in the manner of overgrown Boy and Girl Scouts around a campfire, Francesca asked Gianni to tell everyone about
Bistecca alla Fiorentina.
The explanation, and preparation, were apparently his domain.

He stood on the low wall next to the grill, silhouetted against the horizon, speaking seriously—a culinary sibyl.

“You may have seen photos of the Chianina breed, one of the oldest in the world. We have recorded descriptions of them going back many thousands of years.”

“I'm beginning to think that everything food-related started here,” Jack called out. “The grapes, olives, now the beef!”

“Ah, now you begin to understand and appreciate who we are, the importance of our past,” Gianni said. “But back to the Chianina. They are pure white with a black tail, the switch, and are not just big, but gigantic! One male can weigh as much as three thousand pounds and stands almost six feet tall, taller if he is a
castrato
.”

Jack interrupted again. He was in a very good mood. Faith reminded herself she had yet to discover what Tom and Sky were doing in the garden shed earlier. Would Jack be so jovial if he'd seen them?

“Do those Chianina bellow at a higher pitch than the rest of the herd?”

Gianni joined the general laughter, relaxing his stance for the moment. “I will ask my friend who raises them near Arezzo, in the Val di Chiana region, which gives them their name. Besides their history, the way we prepare them is key. We will be grilling them over very hot coals. First we sear them close to the heat to get a nice mark, then we raise the grill slightly, flip the meat, seasoning the steaks with salt and pepper. Nothing else. For rare, the only way I will permit you to eat this beef, it will take in total, ten to twelve minutes.”

Wait for it, wait for it, Faith told herself. And bam, it came.

“Roderick and I do not eat bloody meat,” Constance said, and possibly the use of the word referred both to the British expletive and appearance of the dish. “You will have to cook ours longer.”

Gianni took it in stride. “This meat has been aged for twenty-one days, so it will not be bloody even when rare. You can try a taste, and if you insist I will cook yours longer, but I know what a fine appreciation for food you have, so I think it will be to your liking.”

Constance looked slightly placated and said something that sounded like “harrumph” but didn't object further.

“When in Rome, dear lady,” Luke said and that was all that was needed.

Constance flashed him a toothy smile. “Well, we might just try a small piece.”

A few hours later, everyone had tried everything except dessert, and there was an unspoken consensus that waiting a bit to make room for it was desirable. The steaks had possibly been the best Faith had ever tasted—incredibly tender and buttery, a superb beefy flavor. She knew some ranchers in Texas were raising the breed and she was sure that her butcher in Cambridge, Ron Savenor, could get some for her. A treat for a special celebration. But now she had something else to think about.

Francesca had urged everyone to linger at the table that had been set up outdoors for the meal. Mario was clearing. Sandro and Maurizio were telling jokes and threatening to sing some of their favorites from Puccini.

“I'll come help unmold the panna cotta,” Faith said and followed Francesca indoors before she could object. Once in the kitchen she kept going, saying “I'll be right back” as she went out the rear door. Mario could help Francesca with the dessert.

There was no time to waste. Faith had been running through her plan all afternoon, and she had to go now. She only hoped Luke was like the Rossis, who, when the Nashes had asked how they might get in if they were out late, mentioned they never locked their doors and didn't have an alarm system. “By the time anyone came, the robbers would be long gone,” Gianni had said.

She ran down the drive. When they'd arrived on Sunday, Francesca had pointed out several bicycles for the use of guests by the quarters occupied by the Rossis and Mario. Faith had checked to make sure the bikes were still there earlier, and they had been. She grabbed the closest and as they say, riding one was, well, just like riding one. She sped off, switching on the headlamp once she was away from the house. Luke's wasn't far, but it would have taken too long to walk there and back. During conversation at dinner about employment in Italy, she had managed to discover that his housekeeper didn't live in, a topic she'd introduced in the hope of finding out this crucial piece of information.