I dropped my wife off at the dermatologist’s office yesterday morning and then headed to the strip mall across the street, where one of the signs read: Bakery Café.
A long counter of pastries and focaccias greeted me. I asked about a round bread – a cross between a roll and a loaf – and a mustachioed man in a white baker’s coat told me it was made with milk mixed in with the flour. As I paid for one, I asked where he was from.
“Modena,” he said.
It took a few seconds to register. Moldova, I thought? Most people tell you the country they’re from; the city only if it’s a major one. Paris. Boston. Modena came as a surprise. But I recovered quickly.
“Oh, yea, the home of Pavarotti,” I said.
The man’s assessment of me seemed to soften. I asked if he’d seen the Stanley Tucci series about eating in Italy. “I saw only the one about my region,” he said, adding that his region, Emilia-Romagna, had the best food in Italy. But, he added, it’s hard to make a living.
“Before the immigrants from Italy all came from the south. Now there are more like me from the north. Emilia-Romagna, Veneto.”
His daughter was in college here, studying to be a doctor and playing for the tennis team. Our conversation moved from Italian food to Italian tennis players.
