I said that "zuppa inglese" was. But here, as the "zuppa inglese" (litterally, in English, "English soup", but it actually corresponds to the trifle) is a typical dessert from Ferrara, it needs a digression, if not a flashback. The point is that the "English soup" is actually English: the British call it "trifle", but it is a product of the sumptuous Tudor kitchens, which landed here in Ferrara in 1500, at a time when courts were exchanging ideas for parties, recipes and chefs, and when there was our famous Christopher Messisbugo to hold the ranks of the lavish banquets of the Este (our tourism office, however, could finally appreciate my advertising efforts ...).
"Zuppa inglese"
But later, in England, there were, in order, the Anglican schism, Oliver Cromwell, the Industrial Revolution and the Victorian era, all circumstances which would reduce in meatballs even the most pretentious cuisine; therefore, nowadays, the British in general (with laudable and resistant exceptions) cook, as you know, in a terrifying way, but we should not be scandalized: instead we should be understanding and send them a bevy of chefs for help, kind of Red Cross or Civil Protection. After all, considering all of these disasters, they even resisted a lot (if anyone wonders why I included among the disasters the Anglican schism as well, it's because I have a personal theory, worthy of a former pastoral assistant, that the version of Christianity most favorable to cuisine is still Catholicism, especially the Mediterranean kind; in fact, the 1500 churchmen may have also been corrupted, but they could enjoy life, loved good food and convents of nuns invented the most delicious desserts! Just think of our second local dessert, the chocolate salami, actually called "pope salami").
Well, on Sunday I prepared my "English soup", then, on Monday morning, I went to school by car and left the cake inside it (an ideal frigidaire due to the winter weather), then I rushed to retrieve it at the recreation hour. Just in time: around 11:00 the Germans appeared. It was actually the classic type of educated and courteous people, we frequently meet in our trips to the Teutonic land: the group was seen wandering in the corridors of our school under the guidance of our headmaster; finally, at the fourth hour, our visitors arrived in our class, two women professors, a more mature lady, who, I later learned, was a teacher of Italian (and therefore she could follow our lesson), while the other, younger, and blonde, had to rely on the translations by her colleague.
Chocolate or "Pope" salami
The lesson was a success. My guys were literally enthousiast and revived the environment with a lot of questions: and there was the matter. The life of D'Annunzio, as I mentioned, is fun, so curiosity reigned. Apart from the fact that the poet's name was not D'Annunzio, but, actually, Rapagnetta, I remembered when he fled with the woman who was to become his wife, the Duchess Maria of Gallese, to avoid a scandal (she was already pregnant) and to pave the way to a shotgun wedding: but she had already turned 21, while he was still a few months younger, when the police caught them, so that she had to vouch for him... Then there was the stormy love affair with Barbara Leoni, the model for the protagonist of the novel The pleasure: the couple left us the most ardent (and "hot") love correspondence of our Italian literature. I remembered his heroic undertakings, as the flight over Wien, in August 1918, when the poet flew over the Austrian capital by plane and dropped thousands of patriotic leaflets in Italian; or when he was part, in February 1918, of a MAS commando (anti-submarine motorboats) during the "Beffa di Buccari" (speedboats came at night in the bay of Buccari, to surprise the units of the Austrian navy). And then, probably, D'Annunzio was a cocaine consumer (during the conquest of Rijeka - in Italian "Fiume" = River -, after the First World War, among his "legionnaires" rivers, not a pun, of cocaine flew around).
- But that cocaine ... where did it come from? - Alex asked, who, being of Colombian origin, was to feel vaguely touched by the topic. - Where do you think it came from, Alex? From Latin America, of course! - I answered; and here I started the usual digression. I explained that ,in the nineteenth century, cocaine was seen as the medicine of the future, full of potential, as back then doctors were less aware of its devastating effects; therefore it was used with higher (excessive) nonchalance. And, indeed, even here there is an anecdote. You should know that back then the "wine of cocaine" was fashionable: it was a tonic (the ancestor of our Coca-Cola). It was actually a distillate and a truly infinitesimal amount of coca was added to it, but so infinitesimal that inside there was almost nothing; and the company producing it launched the first advertising campaign with testimonials of our history. Do you know who was among the testimonials? I'm not kidding, it's true: there was also ... Pope Leo XIII (sooner or later, I will get a complaint with my blog). In short, the lesson was very lively (I add that all of these anecdotes, actually, allow me to anchor the most serious subjects), with my guys well - excited (I remember especially Luca, who was in high spirits, and Bernardo, who, being German, did his part with authority, as expected). Our listeners, especially the teacher of Italian, were beside themselves and had a good time. I saw one who was trying to translate like a shot for her colleague, who, in turn, was wide-eyed and wanted at all costs to know what I was saying; so much so that, sometimes, I helped with a brief explanation in German. Finally the Italian teacher told me happily, she had learned a lot of new things (I believe it...).
Finally, it came the time for the dessert. Here Tatiana helped me and, with the girls, we formed a real assembly line: cutting the dessert (me), preparing the plates (Tatiana), distributing the plates and napkins (Sara and someone else), while all the others were seated, in silence and waiting. I still remember the worried face of Tatiana, when I showed the dish with the English soup and the beautiful, little dome, tinged by the pink alkermes, initially really pretty, began to sink: "Prof, it's imploding!". In fact, a cake made with two types of custards and biscuits soaked in alkermes may not have the granite static of Egypt pyramids, so we hurried to cut and distribute it. I must admit it had come well; and here I was satisfied, because I could recover after the first cake I had brought to my class, a kind of sponge cake stuffed with chocolate that had not come out so good (and my guys, magnanimously, were happy anyway ...). The day closed with a full success: the guests were almost moved by our attention, then, to the end of the hour, they greeted us with a broad smile, to follow our headmaster and the rest of their group, since they were all expected at the institute "Orio Vergani", the hotel management school, for lunch. To tell the truth, however, it should be recalled that, despite the undoubted success, that day left a victim. Our headmaster.
You should know that our headmaster is an expert of gastronomy, a lot more than I let believe here, on my blog, with my "racing" recipes; ad he is also an excellant trencherman. You can imagine him like Colonel Sapt from the famous Prisoner of Zenda: not very tall, sturdy, not exactly with hair, with toothbrush mustache and sanguine temperament; but we have to add to Sapt a very valuable sense of humor. Well, that day, at the institute Orio Vergani, they made something great: the menu, if I remember it correctly, comprehended the pasta all'Arrabbiata, Mozzarella in Carrozza and Tiramisu; in short, a little light something, which would kill even a stomach of steel. The headmaster went literally KO. That afternoon there were the school-councils of end-terms, and our headmaster had an avalanche of meetings, in most classes, which he was bound to attend: so that, around two o'clock, some colleagues glimpsed him quietly sailing to the nearby bar, to go, get a liquor, and fix his digestion (grappa). But, perhaps, a gas can would not have been enough, because, when I found him next to me in a class council a few hours later, I realized that, at least outwardly, he virtually gave no signs of life, even in the most "overheated" moments of the meeting (in fact, he followed everything, and how, from under his eyelids inexorably at half-mast, and with what attention, but making a Herculean effort, no doubt). I do not dare to believe it, but was it a boycott by the hotel management school?
Here, you see, this is our "good school": teachers with great eloquence, enthousiast and collaborative teens, successful chefs and heroic headmasters... And a lot, but a lot of Italian phantasy.
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