Intermediate Italian

I cannot learn Italian -- at least, it seems hopeless that I would ever achieve anything even approaching fluency. I can read fairly comfortably (assuming I have a good dictionary beside me), but launching into a conversation and being able to keep up? Never. However, on this trip, I have progressed past the very basics that I have had in the past. I can ask questions and often understand answers. I have mastered the all important deictics: I would like one of these, or, could I try on that over there? When people ask me follow up questions, I don't have the impulse to drop what is in my hands and flee.

You may be getting the picture that I am fearless neither in my social nor my speaking skills. You would be right about that. That fact has, in the past, kept me from sampling some of the simpler joys of Italian cuisine. O sure, I  mastered "Potrei assaggiare?" (May I have a taste?) before I stepped foot in this country. I mean, some things are basic. But, the idea of going into a bakery, asking them if they make sandwiches (they all do, by the way), asking what kind of meat and cheese they have as options, negotiating the eighty-five different varieties of bread, was so daunting that I had only two kinds of sandwiches in my past trips: ones I made myself, and pre-made ones I could order via pointing and grunting. Oh, to think of those lost opportunities! I grieve for those uneaten sandwiches!

Sandwiches here are great. In a country of great cured meats and amazing cheeses, what else would you expect? They tend to be extremely simple: some sort of roll, one kind of salty pork, sometimes cheese, sometimes tomato, rarely both at the same time. Many bars make piles of sandwiches in the morning, and they sit in the case until someone points at them. I am a fan of any country that considers a ready and immediately accessible supply of proscuitto and scarmoza sandwiches a necessity. Almost directly under our apartment is a little bar called Baldobar (it's associated with Baldovino). They have these delicious mini-sandwiches that one can get just as a snack. I'm telling you, my life will be considerably emptier when the snack sandwich is not nearby. Baldobar calls this size sandwich a mignette, but that seems far to French, so Jeremy and I call them paninini.

Such sandwiches are good, sure, but you have no doubt already spotted the weak point of this system. Slicing bread and then having it sit out for hours is not good for the bread. It's not great for the salami or anything else, either, but the real problem is the bread. Plus, you are at the whim of whatever kind of bread they have decided to put your preferred swine flesh on. For really good, fresh sandwiches, one must brave the local panificio (bakery). Once inside, one must order a sandwich -- and here is the tricky part -- usually without help of a menu, or indeed any indication that they have either ability or desire to make a sandwich. One must identify bread, meat, cheese, accompaniments. One must even explain how big a sandwich one wants. It's all a little intimidating, but oh so worth it!

Our favorite panificio is, conveniently enough, on the walk home from school, which I take right about lunch time, so I hit it enough that the guy knows me. It's called Panificio Brunori, and it is right next to La Giostra on Borgo Pinti. They seem to specialize in schiaccia, a foccacia-like bread baked in enormous sheets. It is salty and crusty, with a dimpled surface filled with olive oil, and a chewy interior. There is, at lunch time, always a massive line, which is why I went in there the first time. I figured the line would take so long I would be able to figure out what was happening by the time I reached the counter. They cut the bread to the size you want (I often tell them I want a big sandwich, for my boyfriend, but then eat the big one myself), then go into a magical back room where they slice the meat you have ordered. I have settled on porchetta and arugula as my sandwich of choice. It's not the usual porchetta, which is hot and sliced thickly. This stuff has already completely cooled, and he slices it salami thin, which means the ample cold fat, which would be really gross any other way, acts like the fat in salami, melting immediately in your mouth to create a lovely, rich mouthfeel. Sometimes the bread is still warm. Sometimes he puts a little very thick balsamic on the arugula. Always, it is just sublime.

And now that I have mastered the panificio for sandwiches, the next step -- cookie ordering -- was a piece of cake, so to speak. The problem with cookie ordering is two-fold: 1) there is no way to know the name of the infinite number of cookie varieties. The thing is, Italians don't know the name of them all either, so everyone just points. 2) cookies are sold by the kilo here, and who knows what a kilo of cookies looks like? Again, the answer is embarrassingly simple. Just say how many cookies you want. I want six. Of those. No, those other ones. What was I nervous about?

For cookies, we like the bakery in Sant'Ambrogio market. They have these sandwich cookies that begin with a buttery sugar cookie shell, filled with apricot jam, and then partially dipped in very dark chocolate. The darkness of the chocolate is the key, because its bitterness offsets the otherwise too sweet jam. I was skeptical about the partial dipping, being fairly sure I would prefer full chocolate coverage. I was wrong -- the partial dip allows a good chocolate-apricot-cookie ratio, as long as one isn't so greedy as to eat all the chocolate side first. In other words, there is some chocolate management that has to occur. But, that is a small price to pay for cookie heaven.