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Pancetta! Pancetta, pancetta, pancetta!
Bologna 1 - Halifax 0
This week I had a moment, in a Sobey’s, in north-end Halifax.
Last Wednesday we discovered we had a bunch of spinach which was on the verge of going bad, so I proposed that I turn it into some green pasta. This would also be a good use for some of the dried porcini mushrooms we purchased last month in—of all places—Florence. (In the Florence market we found the largest dried porcini we’d ever seen: giant sections of white flesh as big as your hand. We bought a giant bag for ten euro. There was nothing we could do.)
Before putting egg to flour, I looked through my fat-splattered copy of Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, to see which type of noodle I should make, and with which sauce it should be paired. I decided on a thick, hand-cut pasta, pappardelle, because I wanted to use the pastry cutter we had long ago bought for the purpose, but had yet to actually use. With the more labour-intensive noodle, I decided to stick to a simpler sauce, so I chose the old standby tomato sauce with porcini mushrooms.
A quick cross reference of the cookbook to the cupboard revealed that I only need to pick up some pancetta.
Since Wednesday was also Car Free Day, I pulled on my boots and walked the few blocks to the nearest grocery store, Sobey’s, at the corner of North and Windsor. The no-car thing was significant, because otherwise I probably would have driven to an Atlantic Superstore.
I went straight to the deli section, and started through their pre-sliced meat selection, because this is where I normally see the packages of pancetta. After looking through all the meats, pausing to smile at the mortadella, I decided I had better check at the deli counter.
Up I went to inspect the meat under glass. Before I was done scouring their selection, the woman behind the counter asked if I could be helped.
“I’m looking for pancetta.”
“Pardon me?”
“Pancetta. I’m looking for pancetta.”
“Oh, I’d better ask. I’ve never heard of that.”
It didn’t look good. I briefly contemplated substituting bacon for pancetta, but the image of a tiny, irate Marcella Hazan on my shoulder, brandishing a rolling pin, made me think better of that.
The deli woman walked to the deep recesses of the behind-the-counter area, to ask one of her younger co-workers. While she was gone, another deli worker asked if she could help me. At first, I was going to suggest that I was being helped, but then thought I better maximize my chances.
“I’m looking for pancetta.”
“Pardon?”
“Pancetta.”
Nothing. Then the first woman, and the younger woman to whom she was talking, and yet another woman, moved back to the vicinity, and asked for what I was looking.
“Pancetta,” I enunciated to the first woman. “Pancetta,” I said to her two helpers. The last three words out of my mouth had actually been pancetta, pancetta, pancetta. I felt like a five year old, about to have a fit.
“It’s salt-cured, unsmoked, Italian bacon.” ... and it’s not that uncommon.
“We don’t have any of that.”
I didn’t move, refusing to believe.
“You have prosciutto,” I opine.
“Oh, wait.” The younger woman rushed out to the pre-packaged meat counter, and started flipping past the vaccuum-sealed prosciutto. She hands me a slim package of pancetta. “I saw this yesterday.”
“Thank you.”
I took several paces with my trophy in hand, then stopped in the middle of the produce section, closed my eyes, and tried to register the ordeal.
We had just spent the previous month in northern Italy, where the markets were stuffed with the best, freshest cuts of everything. We were only ever a few minutes away from fresh porcini-stuffed ravioli, drowned in butter and Parmesan sauce, and at a price at which we could afford to, well, drown our pasta in cheese. The people behind the counter knew all about what they were selling us, even if we didn’t know how to pronounce it, and they always handed over our neatly-wrapped purchases with a smile or a wink. Espressi were served with tiny glasses of frizzante water, which would gather droplets on their sides and sparkle while we stood and drank. Birre quaffed in the afternoon under the porticoes were accompanied by complimentary meat and bread. And although we were only in town for a month, we were often recognized in stores and cafés, and welcomed back.
If I observed nothing else last month, it’s that Emilia-Romagnans take seriously the task of hospitality, and all its accompanying details.
Now back at Sobey’s, the pasta aisle is only three feet wide, Parmesan once again costs an outrageous fortune, and no one working at the deli counter knows a thing about pancetta.
I miss Bologna.
Evan Spence
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
PD DCLXXI