Club Dinner

Tonight, Florence and I went to the Arcus Tuder club dinner to celebrate their recent win at an archery competition. Florence had not participated, but we were invited nonetheless. As is customary, it was a pay-per based on cost (in other words, we had no idea how much it would come out to be).

We showed up early (at 6:30) so that she could shoot for a while, and I happily fielded questions from some of the others about my (darling) car.

I had a delightful conversation with a fellow who creates replica armory and many other interesting items (Etruscan coins, etc.) and also has an intense interest in plants for their medicinal and culinary properties. In fact, he had gone out this morning to collect the greens that would be used in the pasta for our dinner.

While we were chatting, another man walked by bearing a bin of what looked like mulch. There are no two ways about it, and that impression was corroborated by everyone who walked by and happened to see it. What followed was also universal: every single one stuck his or her nose into the bin to smell the "dirt" and then proceeded to attempt to identify the exact blend. It turned out to be rosemary, some particular wild variety of thyme, and two other things I've forgotten. Nearly everyone managed to get the three "common" ingredients, but it turned out that the wild thyme was the secret in the blend. The four herbs had been put through a sausage grinder, which explains their resemblance to soil.

Our chef sprinkled the "mix" (pronounced "meeks") on the meat, along with olive oil, lemon, and who knows what else. The meat then sat marinating while he started a fire in the local firebox. This consists of an elevated concrete block (?) structure with a raised metal hopper in the center. Wood is placed in the hopper, and the burned coals fall down into the lower section. When enough coals have accumulated, they are raked forward and placed underneath movable grills on which the meat is placed.

Having to check it all out, I inquired about the source of the meat. Turns out that it was a sheep ("adolescente", according to the owner, rather than a full-grown animal) that belonged to one archer, had then been sliced up by another archer, and then was going to be cooked by a third buddy who doesn't actually shoot. Since it was a family affair, clearly the sheep MUST have a name. They laughed when I inquired about that aspect of things, so I immediately christened her "Lola."

The coals being deemed hot enough, two men started the meat, five women laid the table (plastic plates but real cutlery), and the rest of the men stood around swapping recipes. No, I'm not kidding. Italian men don't need porn...they have food.

About 8:45, a car came jolting across the archery range and came to a screeching halt just next to the picnic area; my weapons expert (now wearing a red-and-white checked apron) and a woman came leaping out carrying a large pot: the primo piatto had arrived! It turned out to be pasta with these special wild greens, olive oil, cheese, and (surprise!) garlic. Yum! I complained bitterly about my plate, though: it appeared to have a hole in it...no sooner had pasta been placed on it than it was empty!

After a delicious primo, we had time to enjoy a bit of conversation before Lola was ready, but by no means too long! When the chops arrived, they were juicy, flavorful...terrific! I declared that Lola was "brava," much to our companions' amusement, and happily savored my meal while the men continued swapping recipes and the women talked about work and kids, and the chef declared that his "cinghiale" (wild boar) is better. I had to say no to the fourth chop.

One must understand, of course, that prosecco had been handed out already, and wine was readily available in bottles on the table.

It turned out to be a chilly evening, so Florence and I hung out for a bit at the firebox. Meanwhile, another lady was convinced that everyone would leave hungry, so she took all the sliced bread that was leftover and made an improvised bruschetta using the olive oil, salt, and garlic that were hanging around.

Um, yes. I was really in danger of starving. Right.

Coffee, of course, for those who wanted it, and then freshly picked cherries.

And then came time to pay...five euros a head. 

This is one restaurant I'll go back to ANY time.

Love,

Alexandra