Baracco
Chapter 1
The date of the
discord
«What's up? Are you hungry?» asked
Abudi to the young kid, who stood by his side.
Maleek nodded. With one hand, he was
yanking the copper coat of the man, with the index finger of the other hand, was
pointing to his mouth.
«You are right. It's very late.»
Abudi apologized to his son. He
knelt down and leaned against the olive-coloured forehead of the youngster,
stroking his curly head.
The sun was setting over the city of
Bologna, while the Arab merchant was trying to remember what was the way home.
His long robes of fine silk were dancing, guided by the wind. The hair, black
coloured, like the short, pointed beard, were gathered in a turban. Three golden
rings gleamed on his dark fingers.
Firmly tightening the tunic of the
father, Maleek watched him shaking his head, right and left. He was looking for
a restaurant that he remembered being there, somewhere.
«There it is!» exulted Abudi.
A wooden sign, recited: “Baracco, Bruno and Carlo’s”. The word “Baracco” was carved with great care.
The names, however, were ruined by a multitude of scratches. They seemed to
have been erased and then rewritten, more than once.
At that moment, Abudi took no
notice. Opened the door, he entered.
A large number of tables, large and
small, circular and rectangular, were arranged on two levels; one slightly
higher than the other. The place was brightly lit by candles and torches on the
wall, which spread their warm light, like silent stars.
The tables, adorned with tablecloths
and red drapes, were populated by people of all kinds. Clergymen, lords,
elegant ladies and armed soldiers, all sitting, eating their food. You could
feel a sense of respect, almost sacred, toward what was in the plates.
«Good evening, my good lord. How can,
the best chef of the city, serve you? May I prepare a table for you and the
young boy?»
A tall man, with thick brown hair
and a short beard grizzled, appeared in front of the merchant. He had perfect
posture. The apron he wore, tied at the waist, immaculate long time before, was
wounded by at least ten different varieties of sauces and spice powder.
«Yes» said Abudi, a little uncertain,
still fascinated by the elegance of which was permeated the place.
«Very well. Follow me.»
Abudi and Maleek, were led through
the maze of tables, chairs and benches. They passed through a large, circular empty
space, at the centre of the lower level, until they reached a secluded spot, in
a lonely corner.
Next to them, a small orchestra of
only three members; a lute, a viola and a little crumhorn, gave birth delicate
melodies.
«I see that you are foreigners. You
will be fine here, in Bologna. I'm sure. As for dinner, I would ask for your
trust. I will prepare something tasty, light and savoury.»
His confidence was contagious. After
Abudi had accepted the proposal, the innkeeper gave a short bow and ran away.
«Yes, Maleek. You'll see that in a
bit he will take us something to eat» said to his son, who continued to
indicate he wanted to put something in his stomach.
A robust diner, very overweight,
sitting nearby, interjected.
«It might take longer than you
think.»
Amazed at those words, Abudi
demanded an explanation.
«It's the first time you eat here,
right? There it is, the reason. It's coming» said the man.
The merchant looked up. Another
individual, dressed as the first tavern keeper, had come striding.
«Good evening, my good lord. I'm
Bruno, chef of the greatest reputation!»
Abudi smiled, although the enthusiasm
with which swelled every word seemed excessive. Bruno was small in stature,
with short hair, perfectly ordered. The face, clean, without even a beard hair,
made him look younger than he was in reality.
«What can I cook for you?»
Then, the first chef returned. He
brought two soup plates, full of dark soup, surrounded by dried dates.
«Dates in broth with olive juice,
parsley and a pinch of pepper. Everything, blended with a wine tear.»
Before Abudi could congratulate the
innkeeper, for the creativity demonstrated, the shorter chef criticized him
harshly.
«What have you cooked, Carlo? Damn.
This is a great mappazzone! A mish-mash.»
Bruno apologized to his diners. Not
for the outburst, but for the food, as he said, unpresentable. Hurriedly, he
grabbed the dishes, then announced that he would’ve gone into the kitchen, to
take his latest creation. He returned shortly after, and presented his
masterpiece.
«Melted cheese, on blood mutton. To
accompany, sliced dates, cooked on the fire. I know that your people loves this
fruit. If I'm not mistaken, you call it balah.
Maleek, hungry, thanked him with a
nod and began to eat. Abudi, however, was worried by the hostile gazes that the
two cooks were throwing each other.
«I see that cooking is not the only
thing in which you have some deficiencies, Bruno. The date, in Arabic, is
called tamer.»
«Do not be ridiculous. It's called
balah. I remember it perfectly. So called it, the Eastern adventurer who passed
by here, last month.»
«Maybe you were distracted,
listening while you were cooking. So you failed both.»
Shoving and insults followed,
heavier as time passed, until the two chefs found themselves at the centre of
the circular open space. When they began to take a fight, all the guests left
the tables and surrounded the fighters, encouraging them excitedly.
Seeing that incredible scene, Abudi
thought to the importance of appearances. We all show an image of ourselves and
the first impression is often exact. We show ourselves for what we are. In the
case of the two innkeepers, however, it was wrong.
«In Italy are crazy… They are all
crazy…»
