We reached our hotel past
lunchtime, starving and not particularly interested in a mere sandwich at a neighborhood
bar. We nosed around and discovered that the French doors across from our top
floor room actually opened into a dining room. We walked in, drawn by the airy
feel and the lush greenery of the outdoor terrace that skirted its edges.
“I guess we’re too late for lunch,”
I said to Tara, “Everyone’s already eaten and gone for an afternoon rest. Doesn’t
look promising, does it?”
“Nope,” Tara replied, “and look
here, at the menu, I could do with one of these pasta dishes!” Her lovely blue
eyes were hungry with anticipation. Tara is tall—statuesque describes her best.
Her complexion is the color of a perfectly made cappuccino, her features soft,
and her smile dazzling. And besides—she’s a great travel companion!
Just then, an old gentleman with a
big, white chef’s apron wrapped around his middle shuffled out from a back room,
looking like we had indeed waken him.
“Prego, can I help you?” he asked,
yawning and blinking wildly, to dislodge the sleep that had settled in. He had
an average build with a mostly bald pate and wispy white hair sticking out
around the edges of his crown. He was a bit rumpled, but an impish smile lit up
his blue-gray eyes and conquered the sleepiness as he came closer.
“Ci scusi, signore,” excuse us, sir, I
responded. “Since the door is open, we thought perhaps the restaurant is still
serving lunch and we are very hungry!”
“You can eat here, signorine. Please stay—welcome, welcome. Please
make yourselves at home. My name is Mimmo.”
We angled back to take a look at
the menu taped to the French doors again. But following behind us, he said, “No,
no, forget the menu. What do you want to eat? I’ll make whatever you want.”
He waved us toward the tables,
“Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right there and we can discuss your first
meal in my beautiful Napoli.”
We ordered a platter of antipasti, pasta of his choice, a mixed salad, wine and water. I slipped
back to the room to get our map and guidebook and, as I walked past the kitchen,
Mimmo was opening a big can of San Marzano tomatoes for the sauce. On my way
back through, he was putting them through the tomato press. Meanwhile, Tara and
I settled in to plan our late afternoon excursion, with a bottle of Lacrime di
Cristo, a plate of salami, olives, grilled red peppers and eggplant
drizzled with fruity olive oil, and a basket of fragrant, crusty rolls.
The pungent perfume of the fresh
sweet basil scattered on top of the steaming bowls of spaghetti and tomato
sauce announced the imminent arrival of our repast. We dug in, while Mimmo
hovered over us like an anxious mother hen. In the meantime, he regaled us with
stories of Napoli’s past glories, the sights we must not miss, and finally, he
admonished, “Be careful, remember, you are in Napoli and must watch your wallet
and documents!”
We each slurped an espresso and, as we sucked
out the last sugary drops, he told us, “By the way, make sure you come back for
cena (supper) tonight. I have some
wonderful fish that I will prepare for you. Return whenever you want – I will
be here.”
“Mille grazie, Mimmo,” we said in unison. “See
you later.” We were ready to explore. We got lost in the narrow alleys of the
evocative Spanish Quarter. Then we took forever to walk the long way back to
the hotel, located north and east of Piazza Garibaldi and Napoli Centrale.
Finally about
eight p.m. we were ready for supper. Mimmo’s domain was unexpectedly empty. Only
one other table had occupants, a Spanish couple and their unhappy son, probably
about eight years old. Mimmo was cajoling the scowling youngster, offering this
and that like a doting grandfather. We chose a table close by and he immediately
came over with a basket of bread, pleased that Tara and I had returned. Shortly,
although I don’t remember actually ordering it, the platter of fish garnished
with baked tomatoes and fresh herbs, surrounded by chunks of roasted potatoes,
landed in the center of the table. We savored the delicate white fish and, in
the end, couldn’t help but perform the very Italian scarpetta routine, scraping every drop of the sauce off our plates
with pieces of bread. Next Mimmo set down a plate of grilled vegetables:
eggplant, zucchini, red and yellow peppers, and mushrooms. Then, while we were
each eating a mandarin orange, he appeared at the table once again with an
unlabeled bottle and two tiny, frosted glasses. “This is on the house,” he
announced. “I make it myself. The best limoncello around!”
When we got
up to leave, Mimmo shouted from the other side of the room “See you at
breakfast! I get here early.”
“Buona notte, Mimmo,” we returned. “Tomorrow morning then.”
~
Tara slept in. After all, we were
on vacation and she had no early classes. We had also stayed up past one a.m. talking,
mostly catching up on family gossip. Besides, we had to mop up all the water
and shampoo suds that slid under the bathroom door into the bedroom when we
took our showers. We got to breakfast on the late side, not much before the ten
a.m. closing time. The restaurant was full. Mimmo was greeting the guests,
taking orders, preparing the individual coffee drinks and beverages, and
serving. At seventy-something, he was definitely handling the chaos well. He hurried
up to our little table-for-two, all smiles, and inquired about our beverage
preferences. My order’s always simple: a cappuccino. Tara ordered coffee too,
but also hot chocolate, since Mimmo had offered it. He quickly brought freshly
squeezed orange juice and a basket of bread and rolls wrapped in a crisp white
napkin. With a wink, he told us to look inside for a couple of special
pastries. “Be discrete though,” he warned. “The others shouldn’t see them!”
When we peered into the basket we
found two still-warm sfogliatelle snuggled
in among the rolls (shell-shaped pastries filled with sweetened ricotta
delicately flavored by orange flower water). He brought our coffees and a
little pot of thick, dark, hot chocolate too. We winked back, acknowledging the
treats. He hurried off to attend to other guests, but popped by a couple more
times. We whispered thanks and waved as we headed out for the day.
~
Always well-fortified by Mimmo’s
meals, we spent Thursday and Friday lost in the back streets of Napoli, enjoying
the churches, palazzos, cloisters, and artisan shops. Saturday was overcast and
chilly, with the threat of rain, but we decided to board the little train for
Sorrento and, if the weather held up, a quick excursion to Capri. Tara had
never been to either place. We dressed warmly, packed our umbrellas, and headed
out after breakfast, telling Mimmo that we’d miss lunch, but perhaps see him
for cena. As soon as we got to
Sorrento the rain began in earnest, ricocheting up off flooded stone streets,
soaking us from the bottom up. The umbrellas were useless, except as dangerous
weapons in the windy, crowded, narrow lanes. Capri was out because of the wind—the
ferries were docked. We ate pranzo (lunch)
at the least touristy place we could find, ducked into shops and churches when
they reopened, and hiked to choice vantage points, hoping to see spectacular
vistas. Instead, an impenetrable curtain of fog and rain turned the world gray.
We drank hot tea and hot chocolate, and got on the train about six to head back
to Napoli.
The rain had stopped when we
arrived so we strolled around in the busy streets until we realized how cold we
were in our wet clothes. The winter-like storm had brought unseasonably frigid temperatures.
Once back at the hotel, we took hot showers to warm up, dressed, and then both
unintentionally fell asleep. About ten p.m. we woke up to realize we had missed
Mimmo’s supper. As we left the room for a quick trip to the nearby bar for a sandwich,
we noticed the door to the dining room still open and the lights on.
Mimmo
greeted us, looking tired as he wiped his hands on the apron he always wore. But
his eyes lit up like happy-birthday-candles when he saw us.
“Buona sera, Mimmo! Why are you still here? Don’t you ever go home to
sleep?” I asked, half joking.
“Oh, well, I am making a special
Easter pie for tomorrow and, you see, I have to start tonight. The ricotta and
sugar need to be mixed and sit in the frigo
(refrigerator) overnight and then there is the dough to be made. Because I will
make the Pastiera Napolitana not only for my family at home, but also for
everyone here, I need to begin early.”
“So, we will be able to enjoy the
special dessert tomorrow too,” I remarked, and explained it all to Tara, who
was standing next to me, smiling broadly at the thought of it.
“Where were you at suppertime,” he
asked? “You missed cena.”
We explained the long, wet day and
the unintentional nap that had taken us right through the dinner.
“So you haven’t eaten yet?” he surmised.
“No, we were on our way out to get a snack to
tide us over and noticed the light on here, so thought we’d say hello. Perhaps you
have some leftover bread, some cheese and fruit that we could eat instead of our
going out in the rain again?”
“How about if I make you each a
pizza?” Suddenly, he didn’t seem as tired and his voice took on a keen edge.
“It will be Pizza Margherita, of course, in honor of Napoli—okay?”
We said no at first. “It’s too late
and you’re already busy, Mimmo. You have to go home sometime!”
He ignored our protests. “Just sit
anywhere and I’ll get you something to snack on while you wait,” he said, already
on his way back to the kitchen. We sat down like kids obeying their elder and
soon the wine and a basket of grissini
(thin, savory breadsticks) and a little bowl of oily black olives were in front
of us.
Meanwhile, he made the dough, stretched two
balls of it into thin wisps of crust, and covered each disc with simple tomatoes
and fresh mozzarella cheese. We couldn’t believe our good fortune when our host
presented us with the real Pizza Napolitana—red sauce, pure white mozzarella,
and sprigs of bright green fresh basil—the colors of the Italian flag. We were
ready to anoint him Saint Mimmo!
While we ate he sat with us and explained
the significance of the pastiera. “Tomorrow you must share it with us
Napolitani. It is our rite of spring and a celebration of the family. You came
to Napoli for Easter, so you must experience our custom.”
“Would you tell us about your
family, Mimmo?” I asked, in between bites of the delectable pizza. “Do you have
many children? Are they grown? Do you have nipotini
(grandchildren) yet?”
“Sì, sì,”
he replied, “I have daughters and sons and grandchildren, and I must keep
working even in my old age to support everyone. Work is very difficult to find.
My sons and sons-in-law cannot easily find jobs. We must all work together and
help each other survive.”
“So, amico mio (my friend), that
is why you still work so hard, and you do not retire,” I responded, venturing
into the informal with him.
“Yes, but you know Maria—can I call
you Maria now, signora?”
“Come no?,” why not, I replied,
relieved that I had not offended him with my own informality.
“I have to admit that I love my
work here. This is my own world and I would miss it too much if I stopped. I
can’t retire, but I don’t want to either. Not yet.”
“Well,” I said, “Tara and I would
have lost the sweetest part of our visit without you. Thank you so much for all
you have given us, Mimmo.”
With that, we got up and, as he
embraced us, he reminded us again about Easter and the pastiera. “I will be
baking all the pies in the morning, so my son will be here to serve the guests.
Buona notte.”
“Good night, Mimmo, and mille grazie—di tutto!” (Many thanks for everything!)
Tara and I talked till who knows
what hour. Meanwhile, I sat on the window ledge overlooking the silent boulevard
below and watched the giant flashing billboard: “Caffè Kimbo, Napoli’s favorite!” with the electric
smile of Pippo Baudo, Italy’s “King of Television” proffering an espresso. The temperature on the sign registered
minus four degrees Celsius. At least the rain had stopped. Outside it was freezing,
but our little world was warm.
~
We woke up on Easter morning to crystal
clear skies and still cold temperatures. Breakfast was a hectic affair, with
every table filled, and Mimmo’s son manning the dining room. We saw Mimmo in
passing and he reminded us that he would be home with his family for Easter
dinner. “See you this evening,” he added. “The pie will be waiting for you!”
“Buona Pasqua, Mimmo. Happy Easter! See you later.”
We walked around the deserted
streets. Napoli seemed like a city of ghosts, with nothing open. So we took
advantage of the good weather and went to Herculaneum, the Roman city buried in
volcanic ash when Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD. The local train was running and
the site was open. The view from the train’s window was dominated by snow-covered
Mount Vesuvius, a giant hulk that observed us travel from one end of the bay to
the other. Lemon groves and lush flowers of every shade of pink and purple lined
the passageway formed by the tracks. We seemed to travel deep into a picture
postcard as we settled back to enjoy the one hour journey.
Herculaneum’s silence on that
holiday morning was haunting. It created an aura of holiness, the past
resonating from every corner as our steps echoed in the ruins of the ancient city.
The trip home was complicated: the trains had stopped running so that the
operators could eat Easter dinner at home with their families. Luckily, the
last bus of the day could take us back to Napoli at one. We ate a Chinese lunch
in the only restaurant we found open. Then we walked toward the sea. At the
maritime station a giant ferry was just taking on passengers—its destination
Capri. Off we went about half past three, watching from the windy deck as the skyline of
Napoli receded slowly and Vesuvius again hovered over the scene.
Capri was so crowded we could
hardly walk on the streets. Perhaps all of Napoli was there—maybe all of Italy!
Though the panoramas of the sea were glorious as we climbed away from the
center toward the quieter reaches, we decided to leave on the next ferry.
Meanwhile, Napoli had returned to
its chaotic self. We disembarked about half past seven. By then it was dark. We
walked and walked and walked, thinking we knew the way to the hotel and cena at Mimmo’s. We were very lost though
and finally verified our position on the map. Instead of heading toward the
hotel, we had actually traveled in the opposite direction, west toward
Posillipo, Villa Floridiana, and the Certosa San Martino.
“Oh no,” Tara said, “Mimmo’s going
to think we didn’t want his Easter pie! And it’s our last night here.”
“I know. Let’s see if we can get
back there before the supper hour ends. I certainly don’t want him cooking
something special for us tonight too!” By then it was going on nine.
We took off in the right direction,
but got turned around again on the curvy streets that changed name at every
block. After ten we snuck into our room, ashamed that we had let Mimmo down. We
reluctantly settled in at ten forty-five and, just as Tara was raiding the frigobar, checking on the possibility of
an overpriced, tasteless snack, we heard a quiet “knock, knock” at the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, nervous about
opening it at that hour.
“Excuse, me, I’m so sorry to bother
you,” Mimmo said from the other side. “Are you okay?”
I opened the door, of course, and
he was there holding two plates, each with a huge wedge of Easter pie.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” he lamented
over and over. “I have been snoozing, waiting for you, because it is very
important to share the Pastiera Napolitana
with you today. I saved it for you. Are you okay? Did you have a problem?”
He hardly gave me time to explain
why we had missed supper. He didn’t care about excuses either. He just smiled
happily as we dove into the sweet dessert. The bottom crust, which hinted of
lemon, and the crisscross lattice of the pastry-decorated top, enclosed a dense
ricotta cream with traces of delicate orange, exotic spice, and the subtle
nuttiness of the wheat berries. In Mimmo’s Napoli, life was indeed very sweet.
