When I heard about Faith Willinger’s new cookbook, Adventures of an Italian Food Lover (With Recipes from 254 of my Very Best Friends), I was immediately intrigued.
What interested me most was that the format of the book; rather than focusing on a particular way of cooking, or using the standard “Starters, Main Courses and Desserts” format, Faith offers a glimpse into her adventures around Italy over the past few decades. I'm all about stories, and this cookbook weaves one story into another. Faith has traveled widely and has eaten well along the way, and here she introduces readers to people she has met in towns from Sicily to Venice, from hoteliers to artisan cheesemakers and restaurateurs. Some of them are charmingly depicted in quirky watercolor portraits done by Faith’s sister Suzanne. The whole book has a friendly, informal tone, as if you were peeking into someone’s journal.
It smartly includes contact information for many of the places mentioned, making it one of the resources I’ll be using when I plan my next trip to Italy.
Meanwhile, I’m dreaming of my first trip to Italy, and especially of the first stop on that trip, which was Venice.
I’ll never forget perching on the narrow wooden seat in the water taxi, watching the city gradually grow in my field of sight as I squinted against the wind. The boat rocked precariously as I stepped out, grateful for the helping hand of the taxi attendant and suddenly feeling conspicuously American. Over the next three days, I often wished that I had more than one set of eyes so that I could take everything in. From the African vendors furtively unrolling their bed sheets to display a stash of faux designer handbags to the exquisitely dressed Italian men ducking into a café for a quick espresso, it was a non-stop theater of color and scent and sound.
It was September 2001, just weeks after the New York City bombing, and the mood of other tourists in St. Marks’ Square was wary. It was clear that the world was poised on the brink of a sea change, but no one knew just what shape it might take. Strangers were still being gentle with each other then, the tenderness that comes in the aftermath of horror.
One evening, we pushed through the frosted glass doors guarding the entrance to Harry’s Bar off the Piazza San Marco. I was giddy at the prospect of being in a place with such a rich sense of history. Naturally, I ordered a bellini. The bartender looked to be in his mid-fifties, dark-eyed and square-jawed, a no-nonsense type, and when he placed a frosty glass flute filled with rosy bubbles on a tiny round napkin in front of me, I felt insanely lucky to be alive, and to be there, at that exact moment.
When I came across the recipe for bellinis in Faith’s book, I had to make one immediately.
Could there be a better time for bellinis than the middle of July? The mornings are balmy and the afternoons are hot; twilight lingers until well after 8:00. The market is full of perfectly ripe peaches, curvaceous orbs covered with the barest hint of fuzz.
Bellinis put me in mind of pigeons flying up around my feet; of narrow cobblestone alleys; of secret glances and doors that appear out of nowhere; of the faintly metallic smell of water.
Ah, Veneto. Here's to you.
