Le Belle Arti
By Barbara Chisholm, Fri., Dec. 24, 1999
Le Belle Arti
When I was 12 years old, my family and I moved to Germany. It was 1970, a perfect time for an American to be living overseas: The dollar was unnaturally inflated, and the luster of the heroics of the soldiers of WWII was still appreciated, if only by the elders. My family took complete advantage of the situation and traveled extensively during our five years abroad. My father was an exquisite traveler. We had dog-eared copies of Michelin guides throughout our house, and the French culinary and travel bible A Bouquet de France was wine-splattered on favorite pages. My dad landed this cushy job with NATO that gave all employees holidays on any member nation's national holidays. Well, Italy and Spain, being Catholic nations, had all holy days of obligation as national holidays! It was a rare week that consisted of five work days. Then there was that fine European tradition of a six-week summer holiday. All this leisure time plus the 4:1 exchange rate in Germany alone made for abundant travel opportunities in a style I shall never see again.
On our first Christmas in Europe, my father planned a grand Italian holiday. Over the course of two weeks, we visited Rome, Florence, Venice, the countryside. We planned to spend Christmas in Rome.
After scrutinizing travel books and maps, we chose a hotel: the Massimo d'Azeglio. The decision rested on its proximity to my father's favorite church, Santa Maria Maggiore, and its celebrated restaurant. It was an exquisite hotel, and the restaurant was like nothing we Chef Boyardee Americans had ever experienced. My mother saw few sights during that visit; Rome in winter is cold and wet, and if we were away from the hotel for more than a couple of hours at a time, she became frantic that we would miss the seating for the next meal.
In his typical grand style, my dad wanted Christmas dinner to be especially memorable. The concierge kindly informed him of a feast prepared especially for American and British expatriatates at the fabled Hotel Cavalieri Hilton. Course after course of typical Anglo-American fare prepared by their top-notch staff and served in the sumptuous surroundings of the Hilton on the Hill. He signed on immediately for the 4,500 lire per person (plus 18% servicio) dinner. What does that come to? I don't know -- 50 bucks? $500? Whatever it was, it was the most we had paid for a meal in those dollar-friendly days in Rome.
On Christmas night, after seeing the farmers with their livestock on the Spanish steps, we ventured into the night in a terrifying taxi ride up to the hotel. It's grand and possesses the best view of Rome in Rome.
Each of us, upon seating, received a corded book of creamy, heavy paper on which the menu was printed. It looked like the dance cards of some 1940s ball. It read, and I quote:
le Maison pté en gelée la Cumberland sauce
le Consommé double with sherry
les paillettes au parmesean
la dinde de Nöel rotie aux marron
les choux de bruxelles au beurre
les pommes fondantes
la salade des capucins
le souffle glacé
blance Neige les friandises
le plum pudding
Merry Christmas
le Panier de fruits
le mocha
What's up with the French, you ask? Beats me. All I know is we had the collective thought: Now we're talking! As wonderful as the fare at the hotel had been, we all were homesick for a turkey-and-chestnuts dinner. And plum pudding! I had only read of that in English novels! Tuck in, Yankees!
The pté arrived. We'd been in Europe long enough to appreciate fabulous pté. It's not exactly an acquired taste; it's more like chocolate: You try it, you like it. So here it arrives as beautifully presented as you please, only with this cloying, sweet-and-sour Cumberland sauce obliterating whatever delicacy lay underneath! While I'm sure the Brits were struck by the nostalgia of seeing their beloved sauce on the menu, even they wouldn't have had the temerity to cloak pté in it. What kind of madness was this?
But oh, my friends, it got worse. Double sherry consommé?! As if its assertive flavor needed taming! And the centerpiece, the roast turkey with chestnuts? Disaster, from the bone-dry meat to the cold-mashed-potatoes consistency of the chestnuts.
I held out for the plum pudding, pushing the food about on my plate and exchanging increasingly amused glances with my family. Surely the dessert payoff would make it all worthwhile.
With theatrical fanfare, the flaming pudding arrived. What I hadn't picked up from the English novels was that plum pudding resembles chocolate pudding in the same way that Grape Nuts resembles creme caramel. Where was the bowl of aubergine-colored silk I had been waiting for? What was this boozy, hopelessly citroned piece of brick? And not more sauce!!!!!!!
Alas, we left the posh premises of the Cavalieri Hilton with our appetites curiously suppressed, if not satisfied. We smiled our shrugs and apologies to the perplexed staff; it's me, not you, we tried to assure them. After all, they had clearly labored to make this a memorable meal -- and it was, if for all the wrong reasons. Lesson learned: When in Rome. --
