I have an Italian friend. We have known each other for many years and have a strong friendship, even though my Anglo-Celtic and his Latin background often scrape up against each other.
I’m not a great gardener, but I do enjoy dirtying the hands and nurturing the odd bulb to the extent that wherever I have lived, I have always sought to do a little something with whatever greenspace I have available. My friend, however, let’s call him Paolo, sees a patch of grass or a hopeful shrub and invariably says something to the effect of, “Just pave it, mate.” It is as though it is in his DNA to want to recreate the Roman Forum wherever possible.
When it comes to sport, Paolo and I are as far apart as an ex-president and a sane person. I’ve grown up playing and following just about every sport imaginable, whereas to Paolo, Rugby is just a town in England and a racquet is a loud noise. Our friendship is textured and enriched by many differences, but perhaps the greatest differences between us appear when it comes to food.
I well remember a time when I was at Paolo’s family home with a few other friends and when it became late, Paolo invited us all to stay for dinner. It was a generous offer but slightly less so because Paolo wasn’t cooking, it was his mother who would be providing the combustibles. The improvised meal started with the fluffiest, most crisp and moist garlic bread I have ever eaten. What followed was a simple but beautiful penne in a basil-based napolitana sauce. I was easing back in my chair ready to roll toward amore comfortable venue with my penne-filled belly when the rest of themeal arrived. There was chicken marsala, roasted vegetables and a light salad. This, it turns out, was considered a standard meal in
Paolo’s household, but for my poor stomach, it was an unexpected tsunami of kilojoules.
Then there is Paolo’s coffee. I mostly drink my coffee black, a habit which I came to regret early in my friendship with Paolo. I was at his house again and he asked the apparently innocent question as to whether I would like a coffee. “Yes, please, black,” was my naïve reply. My first concern arose when I noticed portions of the spoon dissolving in the thick black brew that Paolo served up from his stove-top moka pot. It was bitter enough to pucker the sphincter
on a lemon, but I didn’t want to offend and so pushed through to drink most of the cup. Ever since, I always find reasons to demur from coffee rounds when Paolo is brewing. Lastly, and most achingly, there is chilli. Despite the extensive paving in his yard, Paolo does have a pot in which he grows a chilli plant. He will walk past the plant, casually pluck off a chilli and delight in chewing the pungent fruit while I watch with the amazement of one who always orders them ildest of red curries from the menu.
There are many culinary differences between Paolo and I but that’s the thing about food — it is an individual experience. No two people have the same food tastes and that’s the joy of it — finding what works for you and crafting a culinary artwork that lasts, and supports, a lifetime. It is that very self-awareness and crafting that is the fundamental stuff of life.

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• Edge – June 2022
• delicious Australia – May 2022