He wants me to kiss the head of the chicken. The dead chicken. The dead, headless chicken. But, before we reach that moment, my group arrives at the country kitchen restaurant Locanda Rovicciano for an Italian cooking class. Upon arrival, we shook hands with the head chef, Andrea. I notice immediately how rough his hands feel. I don’t think much of it again until I later when I watch him remove an exceptionally hot pan out of the oven with no mitt. Chef hands.
He leads us to some outdoor seats, and we are offered cappuccinos. I swear the Italian natives can smell the tourists on us as just the other day when I walked into a cafe, I didn’t even get to say hello before the man behind the bar asked me “cappuccino?” to which I simply nodded my head with the trademark close lipped smile American’s often give when crossing the crosswalk in front of a car or thanking the person who took their order at a McDonald’s. Point aside, the cappuccino was fantastic. I am not one for hot coffee, especially in the summer heat, but when in Rome, or in this case, when in Castel Ritaldi. I sip on it, finding that I don’t even need sugar because it’s just that good. Foamy and sweet.
Upon entering the threshold of the stony, quaint building, we were gifted two things: an apron and a chef’s hat. Never in my life had I felt so ridiculous (that may be an over exaggeration, but I can assure you it felt real in the moment). Walking down the steps and into the kitchen, I am greeted immediately with the site of the chicken. The dead chicken. The dead, headless chicken. And Andrea wants me to kiss it, thrusting it in my face, unrelenting despite my squeals of protest and full body recoil.
I was vegetarian my freshman year of college. Not because I cared about animal rights (I do, just not that much), but because it made me feel like a good person. Like maybe my sacrifice would make a difference. My parents came to visit me one weekend and ordered takeout from Virginia’s on King. A family meal so that we wouldn’t have to order four separate meals. It made sense. It was easy. It was meatloaf. I stopped being a vegetarian after that. But watching one of my classmates bring down a meat clever to chip at the limbs of the chicken had me reconsidering all my choices. The glint of the knife as she raised it above her head, the sound of the bone breaking. It was all a little much.
I ate it anyways. It was delicious. I’m not used to eating meat off the bone. It was a struggle to try and cut it off with a fork and knife. I would have been embarrassed if it weren’t for every other member of the class having the same problem. It wasn’t until later that Andrea informed us it would have been acceptable to eat with our hands.
Before the chicken, came the bread. Focaccia to be specific. One with rosemary and heaps of oil. The other with olives and heaps of oil. And salted. Salted bread for the first time since my arrival in Italy. Salty and warm paired with a sweet white wine that reminded me of honey as it trickled down my throat with ease. I had two glasses.
Our first course was an eggplant parmesan, circular and tall. Layers of soft, sweet eggplant, gooey mozzarella, and tangy tomato sauce came together in a delicious bite, of course drizzled with oil.
Our second course, ravioli. Four raviolis, all prepped by us in a room the size of a half bath. Inside the pillowy shape was a sweet, creamy ricotta and spinach. Garnishing the plate was a streak of earthy pesto sauce and a generous sprinkling of parmesan cheese.
Then the chicken.
By this point I was so full I thought I might be sick. The copious amounts of wine being placed in front of my plate did me no service. How could I resist the generosity of our hosts? Especially when said generosity was so delicious. But when it was time for dessert, my stomach settled itself. They say you always have room for dessert, and I agree. Half of a mini pie filled with a sweet orange jam, drizzled in rich chocolate, and sprinkled with powdered sugar with a mint leaf garnish. The perfect end to a perfect meal.
But it wasn’t the end.
Limoncello shots were brought out and of course, we all raised our glasses, downing them in one go. Limoncello, I’m embarrassed to say, is not meant to be taken as a shot. Something I learned during my time abroad. But we took it as a shot anyways and it burned the whole way down. This wasn’t like the limoncello I was accustomed to. No, this was homemade. Sour and acidic and painful. I did two. The perfect end to a perfect meal.
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