We took another stab at sushi tonight and hit up Momoyama on Via Frediano, south of the Ponte Vecchio and just a couple blocks away from school. The Japanese locals in Florence swear by it and we will do anything for some diverse cuisine. If I even have to look at another pork product again I believe I will hurl. With all due respect, my beloved Italians, I have faithfully and steadfastly eaten prosciutto, pancetta, porchetta, salame, salsiccia, and mortadella as if I were one of your own. I have enjoyed it and even craved it as this month has gone by. I have taken it simply and purely with only a stale piece of ciabatta bread to stabilize its high salt content. But today, left with only a packet of pancetta and four large sausages in my refrigerator for lunch, I have eaten the very last piece of pork that my body can ingest.
Frustrated with carbohydrates and on a quest for protein, I stupidly settled for the final piece of sausage that broke the camel's back. I'm sure Dr. Barry Sears did not mean for sausage to qualify for the protein and fat portions allowed in the Zone diet, nor would he prescribe that to Jennifer Aniston. I bore through most of the day feeling paunchy and sluggish and nearly fainted in class as my body struggled to adapt to the melting heat, digestive turmoil, and general confusion of how to process the foods I've been feeding it.
Anyway, Momoyama offered Japanese nigiri and fusion cuisine. I had fresh tuna, halibut, and sweet shrimp, which Jean and Tammy and I agreed seemed larger in Italy. I also had this strange tagliatelle with chicken, bok choy, and mushrooms, all of which was seasoned with soy sauce and rice vinegar, and ended up being what I'd like to think of as ciao mein. The only oddity was their insistence to serve bread before the meal, with a tapenade that must have either contained potatoes, chickpeas, or chicken liver. I can't figure out which, but it was grainy and tasty.
Yesterday was the demoralizing defeat of the Azzurri by the Koreans. Between classes I ran downstairs and watched the overtime with backpackers, locals, and store owners who camped out in the street, half clothed because of the heat, all glued to a TV set dragged outside of the tabacchaio (tobacco store) and propped on a makeshift table. British, American, Russian, French, and Italian voices alike swore at the referee's decisions and we all crescendoed into a collective wail when the Korean Perugino scored the golden goal. Then, everybody's faces fell, the TV set was instantaneously shut off, and life quickly resumed the normal pace. I sauntered back into my International Intellectual Negotiations class, pretty bummed, but surrounded by so many Americans who didn't give a damn, the sensation was short-lived.
Today was the last day of class and funny enough, the first time I sat outside on the patio of Bar Cimatori to study. It was surprisingly productive, and I finally noticed the latteria (milk shop) and hidden underground market of the corner vegetable vendor which I had not before. The barista I had saluted so often served me my cappuccino with a star of chocolate powder shaken onto the foam. The vegetable vendor said, "Ma sai, loro sono artisti?" ("Did you know that they're artists?") I regretted not taking a picture of it as my spoon started swirling the sugar around.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 3:11 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home