A tiella of rice, mussels, and potatoes is not too different from a paella valenciana, though any Barese will tell you it’s much, much better. Here’s how you make it: You take a cast-iron pan-or a tiella, as we call it-and layer it with rice, mussels, potatoes, zucchini, and chopped fresh tomatoes. Then you add the soaking water from the mussels, olive oil, black pepper, diced onions, and finely minced fresh parsley. Bake it in a hot oven for about fifty minutes. There’s no guarantee it will be any good, though, unless your family goes back at least four generations in Bari.
“The last thing I’d want to do is offend Hans, if for no other reason than that I’d have to guess he weighs, what, at least two hundred seventy-five pounds, but I have my doubts about how good his tiella is.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you just try it and tell me what you think.”
Nadia walked past my table as I was wolfing down the last forkfuls of my second dish of tiella and draining my second glass of Negroamaro. She gave me an ironic glance.
“So?”
I held out both hands, palms up, in a sign of surrender.
“So you were right. Only Old Marietta made a tiella this good.”
“And who was Old Marietta?”
“Marietta was an old lady who kept house for us when I was a kid. She lived in the old town of Bari. Sometimes she’d bring us a sauce or homemade orecchiette. And her tiella was the stuff of legend. From now on, as far as I’m concerned, Hans is an honorary Old Marietta.”
Nadia laughed, and in effect the idea of Hans-Marietta had its comic potential.
“Can I sit down with you? You’re practically the only customer tonight, and I doubt we’re going to get anyone else in now that it’s raining.”
“Make yourself comfortable, of course. Is it raining? Great-I rode my bike here.”
“If you’re not in a hurry to get home, I’ll drive you. I’d say that unless we get a rush of customers, we’ll close at midnight. You can bring your bike inside and come back and get it when it’s convenient.”
“I’m in no hurry. And thanks, the idea of riding home in the pouring rain doesn’t thrill me.”
“Are you still hungry?”
“Hungry? I’m stuffed. If anything, I need a strong drink.”
“Have you ever tried absinthe?”
“No. I haven’t tried cocaine, peyote, or LSD either.”
“Well, we don’t serve peyote or any of that other stuff, but we do serve absinthe. Want to try some? It’s legal.”
I said sure, I’d like to try some, and she told Matilde-the bartender-to bring us absinthe for two. Matilde, who’s no chatterbox, nodded almost imperceptibly, and a few minutes later she was standing at the table with a bottle of greenish liquid, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a carafe filled with water.
“What do we do with all this?” I asked.
“Are you familiar with pastis?”
“Yes.”
“Same method. This is pure, very strong liquor, 136-proof. You dilute it with three to five parts water and, if you like, you add a sugar cube.”
I followed her instructions, tasted it, and liked it.
Hell, I liked it a lot. I immediately poured myself another.
“Zola said that when you start pouring absinthe, you always wind up with drunken men and pregnant girls. Now I’m starting to see what he meant.”
She nodded and gave me a mirthless smile.
“In any case, it’s highly unlikely that the pregnant girl would be me.”
She said it in a flat, neutral tone of voice, but it was instantly obvious that I had touched on a sore subject. I looked at her and said nothing. I carefully set the glass-which I’d just picked up to take another sip-down on the table.
“Two years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer, and they removed everything I’d need to become a pregnant girl. It’s not like there was this long line of suitors asking to become the father of my son or daughter, but in any case, I’d say now the matter is settled once and for all.”
Why on earth had I quoted Zola? No matter what, now that I thought about it, it had been an inappropriate thing to say, as well as embarrassingly vulgar. I really felt like a fool.
“I’m so sorry. Forgive me, it was a stupid thing to say.”
“Relax. No need to apologize. If anything, I should apologize for bringing it up. There was no reason for me to dump all that on you, tell you about my personal problems, without fair warning.”
I sat there with no idea what to say. She looked at her empty glass for a while. Then she decided that she felt like having another drink. She prepared a second glass of absinthe. Diluting it with three parts water, maybe less. She drank it slowly, methodically. When she’d finished her glass, she turned to me.
“Do you mind if we leave now? I feel like smoking a cigarette. Maybe we could go for a drive before heading home. Hans and Matilde can close up.”
Five minutes later we were outside, in the rain.
Nadia had a compact minivan; I slipped into the front passenger seat quickly, without noticing the make or model. As Nadia was climbing in on her side, I thought I noticed something moving in the back of the car. I turned to look, and in the darkness I glimpsed a white gleam in the middle of an enormous dark mass. I looked closer, and realized that the white gleam was a pair of eyes, and that the eyes belonged to a black dog, the size of a young calf.
“Cute. What’s his name, Nosferatu?”
She laughed.
“Pino, his name is Pino.”
“Pino? As in Pino Noir the Killer Canine? Is that a name to give a beast of that size?”
She laughed again.
“I never would have thought it, but you’re actually pretty nice. I always thought you were good at your job, reliable, even handsome, no question. But you never struck me as funny.”
“No? Wait until you see me dance.”
Third laugh. She put the car in gear and pulled out. I was looking straight ahead, but I knew that behind me, Pino Noir the Killer Canine was eyeing me, deciding whether to swallow me whole.
“What kind of dog is that?”
“The only officially recognized breed of Pugliese origin.”
“And exactly what is this Pugliese breed? Demon hound of the Murgia highlands?”
“He’s a Corso.”
“Which means…”
“… which does not mean dog of Corsica. Corso comes from the Latin cohors, for courtyard or enclosure. The Corso dog is a descendant of the ancient Pugliese Molossian. Pino’s ancestors stood guard over the courtyards of the farms of Puglia, Basilicata, and Molise. Or else they fought bears and wild boars.”
“I’m pretty sure that neither the bears nor the wild boars were thrilled at the prospect. So you like little lap dogs?”
“Ha ha. A friend of mine gave him to me. She trains and re-educates dogs.”
“Re-educates dogs?”
“That’s right. Pino was a fighting dog. The Carabinieri seized him, and many other dogs like him, when they broke up an illegal betting ring.”
“Once I served as counsel in a trial for illegal dog fighting.”
“You defended one of those bloodthirsty bastards that run dogfights?”
“No, I was representing the civil plaintiffs, an association for the prevention of cruelty to animals-they were assisting in the prosecution.”
“Oh, that’s a relief. I was thinking of letting Pino loose so you could argue your case with him directly.”
“Are you sure that taking a fighting dog with you everywhere you go is wise?”
“My friend Daniela re-educates these dogs. The courts assign custody to her-she runs a kennel-and she very patiently deprograms them. She turns them into companion dogs.”
“She deprograms them? That’s what your friend does for a living?”
“She runs a kennel and a school for dogs: She trains them. Basic dog training-you know, sit, down, heel-or else trains dogs to work as guard dogs or for defense. And then she re-educates criminal dogs, which is what she calls them.”
“ Criminal dog strikes me as a very appropriate description of this canine piece of work.”