Today's excerpt from Diary of a Tuscan Chef is a story from Cesare's childhood in which he tells of a particular fishing trip with his father that goes slightly awry. Read this story to get a glimpse of how Cesare and his father would be sneaky while on their family outings.
Pescando Le Trote
Il Lunedi, Monday, not Sunday, was always the day of rest for our family. We would close Vipore and set out on some adventure – a picnic on the beach in Viareggio, a drive to Torre del Lago, or an all-day game of briscola at Uncle Segio’s. In early and late summer, my favorite Mondays were always trips to the mountains to buy porcini. In the old days, we’d all go, the staff form Vipore, Mama, Papa, me, and always Mariano, the husband of our pasta cook. Mama insisted on Mariano because she was a picky eater. Mariano, on the other hand, was skinny but ate for two, so with him at her side, Mama could always clean her plate.
Usually, for porcini we went to Abetone, but one June I remember, Papa proposed a trip to Lucchio, a hilltop city famous for hens born with small sacks under their backsides. (It was said that they used the sacks to store their eggs so they wouldn’t roll downhill.) Papa wasn’t interested in the hens; he wanted to stop in Lucchio to fish in the Lima River, which in summer brims with trout. The porcini, he promised, we’d buy on the way home.
We got to the Lima early, around 10am. Some of our group went upstream, some down. I went with Papa in the car because he said he knew of a great spot. But after a hour, I began to despair. We hadn’t caught a single fish. Without a word, Papa motioned to me to join him in the car. In a few minutes, I understood. His “great spot” was a trout farm. The owner was wizened and weather-beaten, like a fish who’d seen one too many battles. Her eyes looked out in different directions, and she tried to sell us all the nicest trout, plump, with shiny scales. But Papa insisted on at least half ugly ones. Scrawny and ugly, too, he said magre e brutte, anche, and picked out twelve.
By the tie we reached Da Beppe, the restaurant where we’d arranged to meet for lunch, Mama, Adele, Camay, Onelia, and Mariano were already seated. I paraded our “catch” around the table; we had more than their trout combined. Everyone was impressed and even a little envious. I felt as proud as if I’d actually caught the fish myself.
Until, that is, the signora from the trout farm appeared, carrying a crate of trout for Da Beppe. Spotting papa across the room, she waved and called out, “Eh, signore, ci sono alter brutte, vuole guare?” “I’ve got some more ugly ones, wanna have a look” Mariano and Camay started in on us. Mama just shook her head. I was mortified, but not Papa. He laughed, because he almost got away with it . He even paid for everyone’s lunch. “Aspettate,” “Just wait,” he warned, indicating he’d get his revenge.
The bad new was that by the time we got to the porcini stand, the only ones left were as shriveled and unsightly as the trout we’d bought. That did make Papa mad. It meant he had to drive back the next day for some good ones.
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