What Am I…Slopped Liver? – Final Portfolio

I have been hungry since the moment my flight landed in Rome. Having been in Italy for nine days, I understand this statement is blasphemous. Italia undoubtedly has cibo squisito, but when local Umbrian and Tuscan ristoranti are tasked with feeding sixteen students, two professors, and one tour guide, it’s nearly impossible not to serve the same food for every meal: unsalted bread, fresh cheese, and wet, wet prosciutto. 

Mmm, I hate it.

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My classmates and I crowd around the front door of Beppa Fioraia, a quaint restaurant humbly situated on Via Dell’erta Canina. Escorted through the dimly-lit dining room to the private garden, we are charmed upon entrance. It is not easy to find such a quiet, intimate street in Firenze.

Our gaggle gradually fills the long, thin table, like ornaments embellishing the sparse branches of Christmas trees past. The expensive baubles from Mom’s collection immediately grab a seat, while the handmade ornaments pace the string of chairs. As food is presented to us like bowed-up gifts resting on the tree skirt, we wrap up the decorating: best in the front, undesirables in the back, and our tour guide Patrizia the angel on top.

The table bubbles with excitement as several, large wooden slabs are placed on the white tablecloth before us. Great. Yet another charcuterie board that looks better than it’s going to taste. One of our waiters brushes my left shoulder as he drops a slab directly in front of me. Ugh.

That’s when I see it.

Alongside the usual meat and cheese, bowls of pickled-vegetables, home-made jams, and what seems like cottage cheese decorate the wood like paint swatches on an artist’s palette. My mind is quite certain that the spread is not and cannot be cottage cheese, but my heart is overcome with joy at the idea of consuming non-solid cheese.

Spreading it on a bloated lump of fried dough—an even more surprising treat than the mystery cheese, I am eager to bite into such an enigma. As my fingers and teeth compress the malleable dough, grease squirts into my mouth and drips down my fingers. The warmth and richness of the dough exceeds that of a funnel cake, overpowering the subtle flavors of the spread and giving it a sour taste. Clearly, I paired two clashing ingredients, and it’s all my fault.

Alright, round two.

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Taking a spoonful into my mouth, I’m surprised by the lack of flavor and even more surprised by how much I like it. Though it appears fairly chunky, it’s completely smooth once it touches the tongue, making it seem runnier. When ketchup, sour cream, and cottage cheese are described as runny, it is never a good thing. This spread though was like frosting eagerly applied on a too-hot cake. I grab another spoonful, overcome with curiosity.

Luckily, I’m two seats down from Patrizia who is a well of knowledge. Not quite confident enough to ask her myself, I casually incorporate my query into conversation, knowing my travel writing professor will jump at the opportunity to clarify for me.

“Mmm. Oh wow.” I nod my head, staring intently at the spoon that just left my mouth.

“This is…this is good. I wonder what this is.” No response.

“Do y’all know what this is?” I loudly pose the question to my peers.

“Oh. Patrizia. Patrizia!” I knew he wouldn’t disappoint.

She lets us know the cup contains hand-made stracchino—a soft, creamy, lightly-aged Italian cheese with no rind.

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The stracchino peaks my interest in the rest of the board, but there’s one antipasto in particular that has everyone talking: tuscan crostini with chicken liver pâté.

Atop this otherwise delicious toasted baguette slice sits a massive mound of dull, brown sludge. I mean, this is a hefty serving of sludge. I might even go so far as to say an alarming serving of sludge. It looks like someone dumped moldy paint on a crouton. A few of us assess the moldy paint croutons, and I watch fear swell in a couple of eyes.

Far from a picky eater, I find joy in trying thing I know will be gross—sometimes just for the experience and sometimes just to gross people out. Whatever the reason, I will not be complete until I eat that nasty antipasto. 

Did I mention I hate chicken liver?

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My wary lips quiver as I shyly encompass the rigid crust and light crumb supporting that poor chicken’s former liver. As the mush spreads on the tongue, I am met with a level of gaminess I thought impossible. This experience is unpleasant in the way eating garbage juice and licking a metal bus pole is unpleasant. I let the small bite rest underneath my tongue, flavor intensifying like a rapidly dissolving film-coated pill.

Known for my brave tastebuds and stomach of steel, this traditional Italian appetizer is what makes me gag? I’m positive that a plain crostino or a pomodoro-topped crostino or literally any other iteration of crostino is delectable. But, nothing could have saved this precious, innocent, yeasty cherub from that atrocious chicken liver pâté. 

Even though it shortened my esophagus for a second, I wouldn’t call this antipasto particularly adventurous. In Appalachia, fried chicken liver is just potluck food.

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