himself when they had.
“Signora. Lieutenant.” The captain made a little bow, looking ever so formal and solemn. His subordinate actually smiled at me.
Maybe they’ll take this seriously , I thought, and not do whatever Constanza Ricci-Tassone wants.
“I think we should adjourn to the breakfast room, which I’m told has an excellent buffet,” said Captain Pagano.
“It does,” I assured him. “And this morning they have—” I couldn’t remember the name of the pastry—“those shells with orange and vanilla cream inside.”
Lieutenant Flavia Vacci, as plump and cheerful as her captain was grim and formal, absolutely beamed.
“Shall I show you the way?” I asked, deciding that I wouldn’t mind having another of those delicious pastries. Besides which, I needed to pass on to the newcomers all my information and theories. I really didn’t trust Lieutenant Buglione to remember everything. “I have information for you,” I added.
“Signora, you are too kind,” said the captain, “but this initial discussion must be one between colleagues. We shall be happy to interview you later once we have assessed the seriousness of the case.”
Buglione shot me a rather smug look. I suppose if I’d been a pretty young thing, like Jill, to whom he’d missed an introduction, he might have insisted that they listen to me. Well, I’d tell the Carabinieri what they needed to know later, and I certainly wasn’t going to wait around for them and miss the trip to Amalfi. Late afternoon would be time enough. Were there two police forces that investigated murders? How odd.
. . . Many of the pastries that are most popular in Naples and the towns of the Campania are complicated and never made at home, but good bakeries abound in the region. One such delight is Sfogliatelle—hard to pronounce and spell, wonderful to eat. It turned up at the breakfast buffet one morning while I was in Sorrento, a spiraled shell pastry that is painted before it is baked with a butter and lard mixture (which is so delicious that one can almost forget the cholesterol dangers) and filled with seminolina, ricotta, and egg yolks flavored with vanilla, cinnamon, and candied orange peel. Sfogliatelle. I ate two and thought I’d gone to pastry heaven. All over the Campania the inhabitants were devouring them with their morning coffee, probably thinking the same thing.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Albany Morning Post
14
Four for Amalfi
Bianca
What a drive we had! Hank chose to take the scenic Nastro Azzurro route from the west side of Sorrento across the peninsula on twisting roads through farmlands, terraced orchards, and vineyards. Both women in the back seat asked to stop every few miles. Eliza Stackpole saw people selling bags of wild oregano on the roadside and wanted to ask them questions about native herbs, but neither Hank nor I offered to translate. Carolyn wanted to buy a bag, but I assured her that the U.S. government would not let her bring it back into her country. “Or maybe you plan to eat it before you leave,” I suggested. Of course, she couldn’t. She didn’t even have cooking facilities.
Then we passed through Saint Agata Dei Due Golfi, where, Carolyn remarked, there was a Michelin-starred restaurant. Hank said it was too early for lunch, and we’d never get to Amalfi if we stopped and waited for the restaurant to open. She then talked him into a quick stop to see an amazing marble altar, multicolored and immense, at Santa Maria delle Grazie. Carolyn had found it in a guidebook as soon as she saw the name of the town on a road sign. Eliza thought the altar gaudy and declared that she much preferred the more austere churches of England. Then we maneuvered out of the parking lot, which, for some reason, was crowded with farm vehicles and equipment, and continued across the peninsula to Positano and the Amalfi Coast.
The coast road was intimidating, and Hank grumbled that it would have been easier to
“Signora. Lieutenant.” The captain made a little bow, looking ever so formal and solemn. His subordinate actually smiled at me.
Maybe they’ll take this seriously , I thought, and not do whatever Constanza Ricci-Tassone wants.
“I think we should adjourn to the breakfast room, which I’m told has an excellent buffet,” said Captain Pagano.
“It does,” I assured him. “And this morning they have—” I couldn’t remember the name of the pastry—“those shells with orange and vanilla cream inside.”
Lieutenant Flavia Vacci, as plump and cheerful as her captain was grim and formal, absolutely beamed.
“Shall I show you the way?” I asked, deciding that I wouldn’t mind having another of those delicious pastries. Besides which, I needed to pass on to the newcomers all my information and theories. I really didn’t trust Lieutenant Buglione to remember everything. “I have information for you,” I added.
“Signora, you are too kind,” said the captain, “but this initial discussion must be one between colleagues. We shall be happy to interview you later once we have assessed the seriousness of the case.”
Buglione shot me a rather smug look. I suppose if I’d been a pretty young thing, like Jill, to whom he’d missed an introduction, he might have insisted that they listen to me. Well, I’d tell the Carabinieri what they needed to know later, and I certainly wasn’t going to wait around for them and miss the trip to Amalfi. Late afternoon would be time enough. Were there two police forces that investigated murders? How odd.
. . . Many of the pastries that are most popular in Naples and the towns of the Campania are complicated and never made at home, but good bakeries abound in the region. One such delight is Sfogliatelle—hard to pronounce and spell, wonderful to eat. It turned up at the breakfast buffet one morning while I was in Sorrento, a spiraled shell pastry that is painted before it is baked with a butter and lard mixture (which is so delicious that one can almost forget the cholesterol dangers) and filled with seminolina, ricotta, and egg yolks flavored with vanilla, cinnamon, and candied orange peel. Sfogliatelle. I ate two and thought I’d gone to pastry heaven. All over the Campania the inhabitants were devouring them with their morning coffee, probably thinking the same thing.
Carolyn Blue,
“Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Albany Morning Post
14
Four for Amalfi
Bianca
What a drive we had! Hank chose to take the scenic Nastro Azzurro route from the west side of Sorrento across the peninsula on twisting roads through farmlands, terraced orchards, and vineyards. Both women in the back seat asked to stop every few miles. Eliza Stackpole saw people selling bags of wild oregano on the roadside and wanted to ask them questions about native herbs, but neither Hank nor I offered to translate. Carolyn wanted to buy a bag, but I assured her that the U.S. government would not let her bring it back into her country. “Or maybe you plan to eat it before you leave,” I suggested. Of course, she couldn’t. She didn’t even have cooking facilities.
Then we passed through Saint Agata Dei Due Golfi, where, Carolyn remarked, there was a Michelin-starred restaurant. Hank said it was too early for lunch, and we’d never get to Amalfi if we stopped and waited for the restaurant to open. She then talked him into a quick stop to see an amazing marble altar, multicolored and immense, at Santa Maria delle Grazie. Carolyn had found it in a guidebook as soon as she saw the name of the town on a road sign. Eliza thought the altar gaudy and declared that she much preferred the more austere churches of England. Then we maneuvered out of the parking lot, which, for some reason, was crowded with farm vehicles and equipment, and continued across the peninsula to Positano and the Amalfi Coast.
The coast road was intimidating, and Hank grumbled that it would have been easier to
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