The little fishing port of Sinus on the Sorrento coast still retains its Roman roots, but as no one has ever found any ruins there, it has never earned the mark of a tourist destination.
Up a winding track, some several kilometres from Sinus is the Rustico. The Rustico is an old converted farmhouse, shaded by palms and eucalyptus trees. From there you look down over the path of Gods into the bay. It’s like a picture out of a brochure that had never been made up, except in the mind’s eye.
At one time the Rustico was Michele Ceprano’s restaurant. Ceprano was himself the proprietor and the principal chef; he both chose the menus and directed the kitchen staff. It was a good business, especially for wedding parties and christenings. Ceprano was known to cut a good deal; one would never have to spend over hundred euros, which, by the old reckoning of 40,000 lira per head, was not bad. He had a menu that adhered to local tastes, always determined by seasonal availability of fish, vegetable and fruit. His cellar was modest, but well-appointed with well-known southern and – to satisfy by comparison – northern Italian wines. He favoured local wines and local produce. And why not? – In the chaos and confusion of modern life, the only thing one could rely on was roba genuina, the real McCoy.
Ceprano was busy, as was often the case in the summer months, preparing for two large parties – first, a wedding party (two engineering families that were tying the knot) on the Saturday and second, a cresima[1] (a local lawyer’s spoilt eight-year old daughter) on the Sunday when he received a visit from a man known, though not within his presence, as Monster Face.
No doubt Monster Face had the pox in his childhood and the clap in his twenties, but this did not stop him from commanding a certain respect. He handed a typed missive on an index file card.
“The boss expects you for lunch tomorrow.”
Then he said:
“You know the crossroads by the old Saint Euphemia shrine.”
Ceprano nodded.
“Be there by ten.”
“Of course,” he said, “I will have everything ready.”
When Luca Bresaola’s henchman left; Ceprano appeared – on the surface – quite calm. Ceprano was not one of those uptight proprietors who swear at every opportunity and bully their minions. He had learned to step back from the chop and thrust of the kitchen and let them get on with it.
He read the items listed on the index card that he pocketed like a billet doux… But where – oh where was he going to get mussel dates?
“Mic’, there you are,” said Ciro. “The buffalo mozzarella has just arrived.”
He looked at his brother-in-law, but did not say anything.
“Mic’,” said Ciro, “where are you going?”
“I’ll be back later,” he said.
Ceprano climbed in his purple wine fiat and set off down the old winding track, touched by lemon trees and the luscious clusters of the vine.
The town was in that mild mid-morning frenzy, and it took him a while to find a parking space down one of the pot-holed side streets.
The market was in a little square on the edge of the old town. The dozen or so stalls had their shades up, as did the majority of the clientele. Ceprano wandered between the stalls; from time to time stopping to tap the odd melon or stare at the curious peaches. “Oh, Mic’, how’s it going?” said the fruit sellers.
Ceprano nodded and walked on.
Then he wandered over to the fishmongers.
One of them called to him:
“Mic’, do you want something special? – Look at these beauties.”
Michele stared blankly at the clams and mussels.
“This lot are really special,” said another. “They’ve come over from Taranto.” (Indeed, the hairy mussels of Taranto being a byword for delicacy.)
“Mic’, are you looking for fish? – Just look at this bass. It’s a beaut’. I caught it myself in the net this morning. It practically kissed the deck as I reeled it in.”
Ceprano remained entirely impassive through the exhortation of the fishmonger.
“Ok, ok, I know you think it’s got the dead eye,” he said. “However, there’s a couple of bream I kept back in the van that wink back at you like they’re begging for it.”
“Don’t talk rot,” said the other monger. “That lot have been well and truly around the block.”
The fishmongers suddenly became busy with several customers, including an old lady whose skin-toned tights Ceprano noted were falling down around her ankles to reveal several bruises that suggested she might again fall any minute.
“You’re asking me to pay through the nose for that farmed bream.”
“Signora, I assure you it was caught last night by my good cousin, Totò.”
Meanwhile, an upwardly mobile young woman fussed over some baby squid, like an expectant parent.
“It will be fresh tomorrow?” she asked. “Only we’ve got people coming to lunch, including my in-laws.”
The fishmonger nodded.
“Mi raccomando, Signorina,” he said. “Remember to keep them in the water until they are served.”
“Still here, Mic’?” he said, turning to the proprietor of the Rustico, as the bruised old duck staggered off with her discounted bream. “If you want spectator sport, go and watch the match down the road. The kick-off is at three.”
“I am looking for mussel dates,” Ceprano said.
“Everyone’s looking for a date, Mic’, but they are a bit dried up at this time of the year.”
Everyone laughed.
“Who are they for? – Your sweetheart.”
“Michele doesn’t have sweet-hearts. He only has eyes for Euphemia.”
Everyone laughed.
“She’s not offering, I think. Not unless you put cash in her collection box.”
“I don’t need many,” Michele insisted. “About three hundred grams.”
“Oh, Mic’, did you think we’re going to break the law for that?”
“You want us to blow some rocks to get slapped with a fine.”
“Very well,” said Ceprano. “None of you can meet my request.”
Ceprano feigned as if to go.
“Wait a minute, Mic’. Don’t you want anything? – You know I always give a good price. Besides, weren’t you happy with the catch I pulled in for the Mayor’s bash the other day?”
“Go and get the bream from your van.”
The fishmonger turned to a dull looking boy and threw him the van keys. “You heard the man.”
“I tell you what, Mic’,” the fishmonger said a short while later, as he came around the side of the stall and handed Ceprano the plastic bag with the bream. “Go down to the port and ask for Totò. Tell him I sent he’ll get you your dates.”
Ceprano found the fisherman mucking out his boat.
Totò squinted up at Ceprano who said:
“Your cousin, Squinzano tells me you can get dates…”
The fisherman carried on mucking out his boat. Ceprano stood watching him swill out the bottom, brushing the dirty sea through the scupper. The blue smack lapped in the water as a shaded cruiser passed making waves.
“Alright,” the fisherman said eventually, “I’ll get you the dates, but if you want them tomorrow, it will cost you. Double the trouble.”
Ceprano shrugged, but what choice did he have when Luca Bresaola requested a dish of dates?
If there is no great secret or art in fishing for date bivalves other than art of placing a few sticks of dynamite in the rocks where they thrive; the following morning, Totò came up on his moped. It was cruddy, battered old thing that backfired its way up the drive. But Ceprano was wide awake.
The fisherman pulled out a plastic bag from the bucket that was nestled between his feet.
“Here you go, Mic’.”
Michele took out his wallet and started to count the notes.
“Give me another one of those blue ones.”
Ceprano looked disgruntled.
“What do you expect?” said the fisherman. “Everything went up with the euro.”
The fisherman beep-beeped his horn as the moped went off dynamiting back down the track; and Ceprano went inside, calling to Francesco.
Francesco was one of the trainee chefs. Michele had got him from the hotel school. And a thoroughly good boy he was, too.
“Is everything ready?”
Francesco nodded.
“Bravo,” he said. “Come and help me take it all out the car then.”
They loaded the pots and pans, and the rest of it including the water melon Ceprano had picked up at the market into the fiat.
“Tell Ciro to put on his Sunday best,” said Michele, turning to the young chef. “I’ll be back later.”
“What about the christening?”
“You’re in charge.”
“Yes, boss,” said Francesco, brightening. He turned and sprinted back into the kitchen, calling to the others:
“Lads! Lets’ get cracking.”
“Where’s Michele?”
“Don’t worry your little heads about Michele, now I’m in charge.”
“Yes, boss,” they came back sarcastically.
If it was not unduly stressful situation, for they were all young and keen to perform to the best of their ability for the patron of the Rustico, Ceprano drove down the hill to his rendezvous by the shrine of Santa Euphemia.
An Audi was parked at the side of the road.
Bresaola’s henchman went around and opened up the back door; Ceprano placed the pots and pans and the food on the back seat.
Then Monster Face went around and opened up the boot.
“Get in,” he said.
Ceprano climbed in.
“It may be a German car,” the Monster said with unsuppressed irony, “but it’s not the gas chamber.”
After half an hour of discomfort and near suffocation Ceprano was let out of the boot.
They were parked in the driveway of an old masseria. The farmhouse had a rather grand stairway that could be approached on either side, but the balustrade and the steps were crumbling. There was a hole in one side of the roof, and there was a general air of dilapidation, and having but a passing acquaintance with running water and internal plumbing.
A middle-aged woman came to the door. She was rather short and stout. She barely spoke as Ceprano said hello.
“Her name is Lucia,” said Monster Face.
She helped him carry the food and the pots and pans to the kitchen where was a big old gas hob. Nothing looked as though it had been cleaned for centuries.
Squeamishly, Ceprano spread a cloth over the kitchen table.
“Do you know how to open dates?”
Lucia shook her head.
“Never mind,” he said. “Start by washing the fennel.”
Ceprano put out the antipasti: a selection of small dishes: a scapece of anchovies, aubergines under oil, zucchini dressed with mint and oil, mozzarella in carrozza or in its carriage, all prepared to the specification of Luca Bresaola.
The boss emerged from his cellar.
He sat down at the table in the dining room.
His henchman placed a napkin at his neck like a bib. He, in turn, sat down at the table with his neck also bibbed.
The primo, or first course was a simple dish with linguini. Ceprano had opened some of the dates into the oil and garlic, and added three baby tomatoes. When the linguini was nearly “appena appena” or al dente to you and me, he tossed in the rest of the dates and chopped parsley.
You could not go wrong with mussel dates; and from Bresaola and his henchman there were no complaints.
“Well?” said Ceprano.
“They didn’t say anything,” said Lucia.
Ceprano was in the kitchen attending to the sea bream when a policeman walked into the room with a pistol in his hand. He put his finger over his lip as Lucia froze in the doorway with some empty plates.
The news was all over the media; Luca Bresaola, on the run for fifteen years, had been arrested… The officer in charge of the case explained. “We got lucky,” he said. “We followed the date trail.”
The article in the Gazette went on to describe how Salvatore “Totò” Salvatore had been under surveillance for illegal fishing of date mussels.
This news was of little or no comfort to Ceprano, who handed the keys of the Rustico to his brother-in-law and went into hiding. “But what are we going to do without you?” said Ciro.
“Don’t worry,” he said, opening up the cellar door. “I won’t ever be so far away.”
Months – indeed years passed. The Rustico continued to thrive, adhering to the principles of its former proprietor. They always gave a good price – no more than 110 euros, which was by local reckoning not much above 40,000 of the old lira.
When Monster Face found Ceprano, it was Francesco’s day off.
They were sitting in the dining room of the restaurant enjoying their lunch. The small dishes of antipasti were arranged around a larger dish of rare and brown bivalves.
“But how did you know to look for me?” said the former proprietor.
“That was easy,” said Bresaola’s henchman, “I followed the trail of dates left by your boyfriend.”
[1]First communion