food. At least that’s what I can
remember from holidays in my childhood. Whether it was a traditional Christmas goose carved at the dinner table or the giant chocolate cake at little Peggie Sue’s birthday party, food in my mind, has always been one of the most important parts of any great holiday season. When I first realized I was to start the Masters of Food Culture at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Colorno, Italy not but a mere three days before Thanksgiving, I instantly wondered, “What shall happen to my turkey dinner, and more importantly, where will I get cranberry sauce in a country that doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving?”
If you happen to find yourself walking down a certain side street, one of the many that stream from the Piazza Garibaldi at the center of town in Parma, Italy, you might be so lucky to come across a cozy little bar by the name of Tabbaro. If it were Thanksgiving Day, there inside you would find Grandpa Diego, chef and owner of Tabbaro, getting ready for what was to be my first real Italian meal, Thanksgiving dinner.
When the new Students of Food Culture, myself included, first arrived at half past eight pm to Tabbaro, we were immediately enveloped by the sweet smells coming from the kitchen. People casually trickled in and reintroduced themselves to each other while the lovely staff served wine in hearty glasses to anybody they could find empty handed. Just before the meal was to be served, Grandpa Diego came out and gave a speech.
This sweet man with a slightly stern countenance, held his hands on his hips the whole time like a mother would if she were talking over her children. He was kind and a bit flustered by the unwarranted attention our eyes were giving him. In hindsight, telling us we were welcome to come to Tabbaro any time may not have been the best thing. Since then I have been back three times in the past month. I can’t deny it was nice knowing that I found a safe place in a new city, one that makes me feel like a part of a family even though I was a foreigner. In the end, I realized that it didn’t matter what anyone had eaten, although there was the traditional turkey and dressing with the odd accompaniment of prosciutto crudo and Parma ham. It was, in fact, the act of hospitality by Grandpa Diego that had made this Italian Thanksgiving one of my favorite, most memorable moments in Italy.
No comments:
Post a Comment