Mona's Meals | Sunday, 22 February 2009

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Love is in the Hair

If you have wedding bells on your mind, you should never propose in public. If you are, in fact, in any way ‘romantic’, you will very probably not eat out on Valentine’s day either. Something will, most probably, go awfully, terribly wrong.
Take the couple who went to a posh local restaurant last year. ‘What are you having darling?’ the man asked the woman, all trussed up in Piccinino’s finest and prepared for a late night fondle (or seven) in the back seat of the pick-up. ‘Hmmm, I’m thinking fish. Looks great.’ She replied. ‘Fish? You’ve got to be kidding me!’ he replied. ‘Why?’ she retorted. The voices had now inched up a notch and the tension at the table was palpable.
The waiter pretended he was not there, like when he hands over the machine for you to enter your Visa pin.
‘Because it will make your breath stink. And you’d best be sure I’m dipping it in tonight: I didn’t bring you here for nothing’.
‘Well, if that’s how you’re going to talk, you don’t have a chance in hell’.
‘We’re off then. I’m not wasting my money. Check please!’
Ah; The whiff of true love.
If that were not enough, then I imagine the story of the woman who jumped out of a huge (fake) cake wearing just her underwear and asking her paramour if he’d marry her (yes, in a restaurant) only to be met by a shocked face and a quickly departing boyfriend is horrid enough.
TW proposed in a restaurant as well, although thankfully, not on Valentine’s day. I was going to cry, and of course I said yes, to both the ring and the lush dessert (I’m greedy).
A week later, a Fun who recognised me sitting across from him wrote to say that while the ring-a-ding thing was going on, TW had kicked off his shoes and was twirling his bare toes under the table. I couldn’t see it but he could. I was mortified. It took me ages (two hours) to show my face again in public and the Fun received a quick online slap on the face. We’re still married (me and TW, not me and the Fun), so I guess some things are not that important.
If you want your marriage to last, use Valentine’s day, or any other day, to stay at home and cook together. Cooking together brings out the best and the worst in people: if you can’t do it, then you’re probably dans le merde relationship-wise. It’s still a risk, but maybe one worth taking.
TW and I went out on another day instead. Desperate for a mid-week casual supper, I asked for advice and I got it: it pointed to Marsaskala, specifically Italianissimi. It’s kinda new (it isn’t - it’s one of those horror structures which change names every two months, opposite the duck pond, close to Tal-Familja), it’s emblazoned in all the shades of the rainbow as long as they’re red, white and green, and it’s close. To our house, that is. On weekdays, convenience reigns supreme.
The service was stunning; throughout, the waiters, obviously partners and not just employed, were attentive, informed and genuinely excited to have customers. As well they should have been, seeing as we were the only ones there.
The wines available are an extensive list of southern, heavy-going grapes and all the lovers of Greco di Tufo and Aglianico will be wonderfully pleased. And of course, after a whole bottle of any one of them, pissed: this is seriously alcoholic, 15 proof stuff we’re talking about.
We opted for the Trigaio dei Feudi di San Gregorio from 2007. Mercifully, they brought over the correct glasses to drink it out of. Even more mercifully, I drank and TW drove. The joys of being in a relationship are brought to the fore in moments like this.
The alcohol content is necessary, since it will, at some point, be paired up with Italianissimi’s equally heavy-going specialities. First, there is quite a joyous list of pasta, which includes trofie. Since TW went low-carb months ago, he is absolutely refusing to have more than one ‘naughty’ day a week. It is starting to feel like I’ve married the male version of Linda Evangelista, without the changes in hair colour. It took me ages to convince him to share the cannelloni with buffalo mince and tomato sauce, as well as the cannelloni with ricotta and walnuts, with me.
Eventually he gave in, citing it as one of those marriage/bullying things which a husband has to suffer, quietly, when married to a restaurant critic. He was not sorry he did. The pasta was texture-perfect, oozing sauce, the balance between heavy and light just as it should be. Both dishes were the kind of homely, gooey stuff that is too much hassle to produce at home but just wondrous for an everyday restaurant.
They were a step up from the salumi we’d had before, which included some sopressata di bufala and orecchiette in oil. As you might have noticed, buffalo in here is king: all the fare is from the Campagna region.
In fact, choices for mains were truly inexistent. The staff apologised profusely and said that they were about to go to Italy to stock up since all of their meat is fresh and imported from there. Please, we should come back on a Friday! So we had the buffalo rib-eye on lava stone. Unlike other places, here they do not make you cook it yourself, but bring it out sizzling and accompanied with the one thing I really hate: a ‘health’ chart which explains way too thoroughly how much saturated fat is or is not in it. Frankly, I think that’s a step too far even if, of course, the ‘health’ notes laud it.
TW particularly hates the concept of the lava stone and I have to agree with him: the meat continues to cook and then has no time to rest. That kills any good piece of meat.
Moreover, there was the irony of the health chart to deal with and this started to glow the moment as you are given your choice of dessert - they are obviously laden with sugar as well they should be. The tiramisu was perfect: based on savoiardi rather than sponge, oozing alcohol and topped with three inches of lightly-cooked cream. It was a wondrous, massive pot of joy.
TW wanted the baba but could not decide between the one steeped in limoncello and the other in rum. All thoughts of low-carb had by now flown out into the dull Marsascala night sky. They very nicely split one in two and gave him a humungous taste of both. Throughout, they had been so lovely that when they offered the liqueurs, we went for those too: one made with chestnuts and another with melon. Perfect.
Italianissimi is just kicking off. If they play their game right, they’ll have a huge bunch of idiots inventing ‘original’ ways of proposing in there next year. Hopefully, most of them will avoid fish and keep their shoes on.

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