Only in Naples (30 page)

“Kay-tree,
viene ccà.
” She motioned me over. I wasn't part of the family, so her sentence didn't end with Mammà, Nonna, or Zia. American with the weird name, come here.

Angelica had focused on the fact that I was from the United States. Although I know absolutely nothing about medicine, I am often considered a medical expert simply because I am American. People ask me about new procedures that are being performed in the States, and which American doctor is the expert of which disorder. So many Italians have blind faith that in the land of miracles any condition can be cured, as long as you have money to pay. I assumed that Angelica was going to inquire about new laser technology for her eye problem, but no.

“In America, they've gotta have a pill that you can take to make you lose weight. Can you ask around for me, honey? I'm ready to pay.”

Angelica's hunger is described by her skinny whip of a husband as
totale.
An all-consuming, black hole of an appetite. Her smile and sequins glittered as Carmine described an incident from the early years of their courtship, when Angelica climbed over a neighbor's spiked fence at 3:00
A.M.
to get a
cornetto Algida
, a chocolate ice-cream dessert (“I knew what I was getting into,” he told us). Later in life, unable to drive because of her eyesight, Angelica made her son, at the age of fifteen and with no driver's license, drive her two hundred miles to a sandwich joint in the mountains of central Italy (
“Tenevo na famma 'e pazze”
—I had myself a crazy hunger—“and I'd heard it was the best”). After undergoing an operation on her hands, she developed the skill of eating pasta with her elbows (and actually gained weight! she told us proudly).

I listened and laughed, my sweaty thighs sticking to the plastic deck chair. I was hungry, too. Angelica and I both knew just how much it sucks to feel fat and hungry. And hot. But once again in Naples, my hunger, my readiness to dig into the steaming stuffed peppers that Giada brought from the kitchen (barking at the little blond toddlers that got in her way,
“Ué, te vuó spustà?”
—Hey you! Git, why don't ya?) didn't feel pathological. It felt human.

As I sat next to this smiling woman with an overwhelming hunger, I thought about the days when I would put away three boxes of Oreos. I imagined Salva bragging about it someday to friends who came for lunch.

“So,” she asked me, “do you Americans have this pill that will let me eat what I want and not be fat?”

In Naples, a hunger like Angelica's is not seen as pathological or as a disorder but, like the love she has for her children and grandchildren, quite simply
totale.
So I didn't tell her about Prozac or appetite suppressants. I simply informed my hostess that even in the land of medical miracles, that is a condition for which we have yet to find the cure.

I
n Neapolitan culture, foods that could potentially damage children's health include crackers, ketchup, hot dogs, cold milk, anything in a can, anything that has ever been frozen, and anything that has ever been in a microwave. Oh, and anything that comes from a supermarket. Fish must be consumed regularly. But not
pesce di allevamento,
farm-raised fish—only fish from the ocean. And which ocean matters: there's a difference between Adriatic and Mediterranean sole, for example. Fish from the Mediterranean is almost always superior.

Nino, who had rarely interfered in our decisions as parents, called once a week to find out whether little Raffaella had had her fish, and which fish. I threw little George Washington out the window and started lying through my teeth.

We lived in Rome, for God's sake. Salva was at work all day. No one would find out that I gave my kids Cheerios and crackers! I refused to spend my time boiling vegetables for hours, when I was sure that those vegetables were the wrong vegetables, and when I was sure that my kids would ball them in their little fists and hand them back to me. Wasn't it better to sing “Ten Little Monkeys Jumping on a Bed” and tap-dance to it?

The problem arose when we visited Naples and Anthony got to the point of expressing himself well in Italian. Much to my dismay, he often told the truth. It must have been my fault. What was I thinking, telling him all that garbage about the cherry tree? I should have read up on that smart Neapolitan Pulcinella clown who lies and gets away with it!

“Mommy opens these cans with…how do you say
baked beans
in Italian? I like them but Lella doesn't so she just eats crackers. Can I have some more
ragù,
Nonna
?”

“Sweetheart,” I would tell him later, “you don't always have to tell Nonna everything, you know.”

“Are baked beans a secret?”

“No, sweetheart. The beans are fine. It's the
can
that's a secret!
Cans
are always secret! And bottles! Or jars! Ketchup, mayonnaise…”

“And peanut butter?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That you eat on the couch when Papi isn't looking.”

“Sssshhhhhh!”

How did he know about that?

My best friend is a woman from Connecticut named Katrina who moved to Italy around the time I did. Fresh out of Smith, she started out in 1998 wearing scrunchies in her hair and respectable Banana Republic tops, and soon found herself dating testosterone-driven Italian boys with too many hands in too many places. Now, seventeen years later, we call each other with life-altering dilemmas like this one: in the absence of chocolate chips and double-acting baking powder, is it possible to bake chocolate chip cookies and, if so, will they have the consistency of cobblestones?

Like me, Katrina is an adult woman with a family, a career, and an advanced degree who is forced to eat peanut butter in hiding. We call each other at the precise, delicious moment that we sit down on the couch with crackers, Diet Coke, and a jar of Skippy. We have to do it when our husbands are out of town; ours is a clandestine crunch. We've analyzed Italians' aversion to peanut butter, and have realized that it's not just the consistency (
O mio Dio!
It sticks to the roof of your mouth!); it's not just the fact that it comes from the United States (Do you know what they put in food there?), but is primarily classist.

It's not that Italians consider people who eat peanut butter low-class. It's the peanuts themselves that are low-class. Katrina's husband, Gianluca, who is not only Italian but also works in the food industry, explained to me that certain nuts are
nobile,
others aren't. The most noble, or aristocratic, nuts are apparently pistachios. Walnuts are also pretty hoity-toity, followed by hazelnuts and cashews. The most
cafone,
or low-class, are—you guessed it!—peanuts. To have a wife who not only eats hick nuts but eats them in processed, American form, on the
couch,
is a kind of disgrace.

Anthony had found me out.
Non vi preoccupate,
don't worry, I planned to tell my father-in-law if word got out, I may have a problem, but your grandchildren are safe from the processed hick nuts.

I couldn't say the same about sandwiches.

“
F
ishing is not just about catching fish. It's about stillness, becoming one with nature. Breathing the ocean air. Hearing the lapping of the waves. It's about the process, not just the result. And if and when fish are caught, we are going to throw them back.” Nobody was interrupting me. I was having an environmentalist, humanitarian field day. After all, this was an invaluable opportunity to teach my son a lesson! I was an American mother who would not see her children plundering, taking from the world! Who would not see her son brag about numbers, swaggering back to his preschool to tell how many fish he caught and how long they were! I would not have a little Mussolini triumphant in Ethiopia!

Nonna Raffaella waited patiently for me to stop.

Anthony totally ignored me, focused as he was on helping his father get the bait, a slippery little shrimp head, stuck on the hook.

It was early spring of 2009, and we were in Naples for the weekend. We had come down the steep steps to Marechiaro, a breathtaking corner of the rocky coastline. A restaurant down the shore had advised us where the fish were biting. Far from the discharge of garbage, the water was crystal-blue and we had each found a flat part of rock for our buttocks. The sun was shining, the kids were excited, and I was brimming with life lessons.

I was also in a particularly good mood because that day, for the first time ever, my children would eat sandwiches for lunch in broad daylight. In front of their grandmother. I had insisted on this, much to the confused dismay of Nonna. I wanted everyone involved to understand that the world would continue turning if we didn't schlep home to make pasta with vegetables or pork roast. It was a gorgeous day: we could get sandwiches and stay out at lunchtime.

Lessons and sandwiches! I was positively euphoric.

We had stopped at a little
salumeria
before starting down the steps to the water. The old man behind the counter with dirt (or maybe oil? basil?) under his fingernails was patient with all of our questions: “Anthony, do you want tuna? What kind of bread?” and “Will Lella eat
prosciutto crudo
?” and “Katherine, do you want to do half and half with peppers and
fior di latte
?” The
salumiere
waited, he advised which cheese would be best with the fried eggplants, and he said no when I asked for ricotta with zucchini. (Those two
non sposano bene,
they do not marry well. In fact, they fight big-time, he told me.) We were in his shop for the better part of an hour.

A note on sandwiches in Naples. In dialect, a serious sandwich is called a
marenna,
which sounds like the word for snack,
merenda.
This I think is indicative of how a sandwich is considered: it is not a legitimate meal.
Marenne
are eaten at construction sites and at soccer stadiums. Substituting a
marenna
for a real
pranzo
with first course, second course, vegetables, and fruit is one of the sacrifices that Neapolitan workmen make for their jobs and that Napoli fans make for their team.

When Salva was in middle and high school, the Napoli team had its heyday. Thanks to the “golden feet” of Diego Maradona, Naples crushed every other team in the Serie A league, including the historically strongest teams of the North—Juventus, Inter, and Milan. Maradona led the Napoli team to win the national championship twice, after sixty years of northern victories. (Diego Maradona is an unofficial patron saint of the city. Devoted fans still light candles and lay fresh flowers at an altar dedicated to him in downtown Naples. He's fortunately kicked his cocaine habit and coaches in the Middle East.)

On Sundays during Napoli's glory days, Neapolitan
ragazzi
who didn't have tickets for the 2:30 game would get up at dawn and risk life and limb to climb the gates and sneak inside the San Paolo stadium.

Salva and his friends had tickets, and would bring their sandwiches to the stadium. That is, all his friends except Gino. Gino waited to hear the results at home, because he could not bring himself to eat a sandwich.

Recently, my family and I traveled to Munich to watch the Naples soccer team play Bayern Munich. There were thousands of Napoli fans, some of whom we met on our Alitalia flight to Germany. After takeoff, we could smell fried peppers. The expertly packaged
marenne
had been opened—and it was 8:00
A.M.
! I decided to ask one of the young men about his sandwich.
“Signó,”
he began. (Oh God, I'm old! These guys don't think twice about giving me the formal
signora.
)
“Siamo in trasferta. Chisto è 'a marenna.”
It's an away game, ma'am. This here's our sandwich.

They were well-mannered
ragazzi.
I went back to my seat with half of one of the most succulent sandwiches I'd ever tasted. I had protested: “No, thank you.” “Really, I just had my cappuccino.” “Come on, you'll want it for the game.” None of my comments registered. I shouldn't have even tried. It was clear that I had no choice but to share the
marenna.

“Papi, when are the fish gonna come?” Anthony had been holding the rod and staying still for a good twenty minutes. He wanted to catch a fish, and he wanted to catch one
now
. There you go, Salva! Now you can talk to him about the process, about patience….But instead, it was:
“Adesso, amore. Lo sento!”
Now, my love. I feel it in the air!

Nonna Lella was sending text messages on her cellphone. Ever the multitasker, she was also playing peekaboo with little Lella and offering words of encouragement to Anthony and Salva. “Of course you're going to catch some! And I'm going to fry them tonight!” she offered cheerfully. I had stopped spurting my philosophical advice, and was starting to realize that I too would be extremely frustrated and pissed off if we didn't catch anything.

“I'm going to the bathroom! Be right back.” Nonna Lella took off for the restaurant that was down the rocky beach. When she came back, Anthony and Salva still had not caught anything and we were all hot, hungry, and frustrated. Nonna told Anthony that she had seen a crab behind that rock over there—see if you can catch it,
amore
! At which point she produced from her Louis Vuitton handbag a plastic bag of dead fish and a small pasta strainer.

“The crab was crawling right over there! It can't have gone too far….” She distracted him with her words as her hands flew. The plastic bag disappeared and she dumped three of the fish into the strainer and lowered it into the water. She was ready. “
Anthony! Vieni!
” Come! Look!

There was amazement in my son's face as he pulled up the pasta strainer. Nonna Lella grabbed it from him immediately so he wouldn't see that the fish were dead. “Three of them! You got three of them! And they're at least ten centimeters long!
Amore, sei bravissimo!
” Watch out, Ethiopia.

We looked in to see that they were not only dead but headless.

Nonna had gone to the kitchen of the restaurant and asked the chef if he could give her some fish for her
creatura,
her little grandchild. “He's fishing, and will be so disappointed if he doesn't catch anything….How about those?”

“Ma'am, I've already taken the heads off. Was just about to fry them—”

“They're fine! Oh, and while you're at it, do you have a net or something so it will look like the boy ‘caught' them himself?”

Che problema c'è?

“This is a very rare kind of fish. It's called the headless haddock,” Nonna was explaining to Anthony when he asked why the fish he had caught had no heads. “They're so hard to catch. And they are delicious. Tonight,
frittura di pesce
! Now it's time for our
marenne.
”

Throw them back? The process not the result? Patience in life? She had even invented the name of the fish! So much for lessons. Now at least we had the sandwiches for consolation.