shuhaige
Chapter 21
We arrived 20 minutes later at La Giaconda. The name meant ‘the joyful woman’ – and was also the alternate title for the Mona Lisa.
La Giaconda was reportedly the best Italian food in Hong Kong. At least, that was what the concierge at the Continental had told me. The restaurant had two Michelin stars, just one star shy of perfect.
As we exited the limo and walked inside, Mei-ling said, “I’ve been here before. It’s excellent, but I’m not sure this will qualify as one of the most interesting experiences I’ve ever had.”
“We’ll see,” I replied.Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.
“You know what I’m really enjoying?” she asked playfully.
“What?”
“Imagining all the punishments I could inflict on you.”
“Too bad you won’t get to do any of them.”
“We’ll see,” she said with a grin.
I smiled back at her. “Touché.”
“I’m curious, though.”
“About what?”
“You’re Italian, and this is an Italian restaurant.”
“…yes?” I asked, like And…?
“Don’t you want to try something new?”
Translation:
Are you so boring that you only eat Italian food, even when you go abroad?
“I would very much enjoy sampling the local cuisine,” I replied. “But rather than force you to be my tour guide, I thought I might play tour guide for you. If there’s anything I know outside of finance, it’s Italian food and wine… and I thought I might share some of that with you.”
She looked thoughtful, then nodded. “I like that.”
“Good.”
The restaurant lobby was gorgeous, an artistic space filled with ornate wall hangings and mobiles of blown glass baubles dangling from the ceiling.
The maître d’ – an Italian man – smiled at us as we approached. “Good evening, and welcome to La Gioconda. Do you have a reservation?”
“Actually,” I answered in Italian, “I’m the one who spoke with you earlier over the phone – Roberto Rosolini.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed happily, then replied in Italian. “So good to meet you in person, Mr. Rosolini! Right this way.”
As we followed him through the restaurant, Mei-ling whispered, “You speaking Italian doesn’t qualify as the most interesting experience I’ve ever had.”
“Just wait.”
The maître d’ led us past the various tables and straight to the kitchen.
Mei-ling looked confused. “Aren’t we going to – ”
“No,” I said with a smile.
We entered the kitchen, where uniformed chefs hunched over their stations preparing various dishes.
“Chef Silvestri,” the maître d’ said.
A man wearing a pristine white uniform burst into a smile.
“You came!” he said in Italian.
“I did,” I answered in Italian. “Thank you so much for this – I truly appreciate it.”
“And this is the beautiful lady you mentioned?”
“She is, indeed.”
“Lucky devil,” he said enviously.
“Hopefully with your help, I will be.”
He laughed and then bowed slightly to Mei-ling.
“I am Andre Silvestri, head chef and owner,” he said in English. “Welcome to La Giaconda.”
“Thank you.”
“Please – if you will,” he said, motioning behind us.
Two waiters brought tall chairs for us and placed them at the corner of the kitchen island – far enough to be out of the way of the cooks but still in the thick of the action.
“Oh!” Mei-ling said in surprise.
I held her chair for her as she sat, then took the other seat.
Silvestri placed two crystal glasses in front of us and poured a tiny bit of red wine into each. “This is a Barbera del Sannio from Campania. It perfectly complements our first dish of the evening.”
From there, we were off to the races.
A flurry of delights came to us immediately after being plated:
Whipped burrata – a type of light cheese – with garden-fresh beets and strawberries.
Lobster risotto – a creamy rice dish with mascarpone, truffles, and chunks of melt-in-your-mouth lobster.
Coniglio brasato – a tender rabbit steak served on a bed of polenta.
Each dish was paired with unusual wines from all over Italy: Sardinia, Sicily, Umbria.
At one point, Chef Silvestri even took us to a table in the back where we made our own pasta.
After slipping on full-body aprons to protect our clothes, we started with small mounds of freshly milled flour…
Poked holes in the center, creating tiny white volcanos…
And cracked an egg into the hollow.
Then we mixed the egg and flour, kneading it into a soft, moist dough.
“I used to do this every Sunday with my grandmother back in Lombardy,” he told Mei-ling.
“I used to do this with my grandmother when I was five,” I added.
“I have never done this at all,” Mei-ling said, prompting us to laugh.
Chef Silvestri put the dough through a hand-cranked machine, from which emerged strips of velvet-soft pasta. Then we watched the line cooks turn our creation into handmade ravioli filled with fresh cheese and herbs.
Minutes later, after washing our hands in glass bowls of lemon-scented water, we were served the ravioli in a buttery sage sauce and a glass of crisp white wine.
“Alright,” Silvestri said, “you’ll have the main course at a table prepared for you outside – but I hope this was an entertaining little window into my world.”
“It was amazing,” Mei-ling gushed.
“Thank you,” I said in Italian. “The food was delightful.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet!” Silvestri said with a laugh.