"This is yours," Sam said, pointing. Rick walked to his locker, an old metal cage, empty except for a white Panther helmet hanging from a hook. He had requested the number 8, and it was stenciled on the back of his helmet. Size seven and a half. Slidell Turner's locker was to the right, and the name to the left was Trey Colby. "Who's this?" Rick asked. "Colby is our free safety. Played at Ole Miss. Rooms with Slidell, the only two black guys on the team. We have only three Americans this year. Last year it was five, but they changed the rules again." On a table in the center there were neat stacks of game jerseys and pants. Rick inspected them carefully. "Good stuff," he declared. "Glad you approve."
"You mentioned dinner. I'm not sure which meal my body needs, but food would be welcome."
"I have just the place. It's an old trattoria owned by two brothers. Carlo runs the kitchen and does the cooking. Nino handles the front and makes sure everyone is well fed. Nino is also your center, and don't be surprised when you meet him. Your center in high school was probably bigger, but he's tough on the field, and his idea of a good time is knocking people around for two hours once a week. He's also the offensive translator. You call the plays in English, then Nino does a quick version in Italian, then you break huddle. As you walk to die line, you pray that Nino got the translation right. Most of the Italians can understand the basics in English, and they're quick to go with their first impulse. Often they don't wait for Nino. On some plays the entire team breaks in different directions and you have no idea what's going on."
"So what do I do?"
"Run like hell."
"This should be fun." "It can be. But these guys take it serious, especially in the heat of the battle. They love to hit, both before the whistle and after. They cuss and fight, then they hug and go drink together. A player by the name of Paolo might join us for dinner. His English is very good. And there might be one or two others. They're anxious to meet you. Nino will take care of the food and wine, so don't worry with the menu. It will be delicious, trust me."
Chapter 6
They drove near the university and parked on one of the endless narrow streets. It was dark now, and packs of students drifted by in noisy conversations. Rick was subdued, so Sam handled the dialogue. "A trattoria, by definition, is an unassuming family-owned place with great local dishes and wines, generous portions, not too expensive. Are you listening to me?"
"Yes." They were walking quickly along a sidewalk. "Are you going to feed me or talk me to death?"
"I'm trying to ease you into Italian culture."
"Just find me a pizza."
"Where was I?"
"A trattoria."
"Yes, as opposed to a restaurant, which is usually more elegant and expensive. Then there's the osteria, which traditionally was a dining room in an inn but now can mean almost anything. And the bar, which we've covered. And the enoteca, which usually doubles as a wine shop and offers snacks and smaller dishes. I think that covers it all."
"So no one goes hungry in Italy."
"Are you kidding?" A small sign for Cafe Montana hung over the door. Through the front window they could see a long room with empty tables, all covered with starched and pressed white cloths and adorned with blue plates, linens, and massive wine goblets. "We're a bit early," Sam said. "The place gets busy around eight. But Nino is waiting."
"Montana?" Rick said. "Yes, after Joe. The quarterback."
"No."
"Dead serious. These guys love their football. Carlo played years ago but ruined a knee. Now he just cooks. Legend has it that he holds all kinds of records for personal fouls." They stepped inside, and whatever Carlo was preparing back in the kitchen hit them hard. The aroma of garlic and rich meat sauces and frying pork hung like smoke over the front room, and Rick was ready to eat. A fire was burning in a wall pit halfway back. >From a side door, Nino bounded into the room and began kissing Sam. A mighty embrace, then a manly, noisy peck somewhere near the right cheek, same for the left, then he grabbed Rick's right hand with both of his and said, "Rick, my quarterback, welcome to Parma." Rick shook hands firmly but was prepared to step backward if the kissing continued. It did not. The accent was thick, but the words were clear. Rick was more like Reek. "My pleasure," Rick said. "I am center," Nino announced proudly. "But be careful with your hands. My wife, she is jealous." At which Nino and Sam doubled over in horse laughter, and Rick awkwardly followed suit. Nino was less than six feet tall, diick and fit, probably around 210 pounds. As he laughed at his own humor, Rick quickly sized him up and realized it could be a very long season. A five-foot- ten center?
Nor was he a youngster. Nino had wavy dark hair with the first shades of gray at the temples. He was in his mid-thirties. But there was a strong chin and a definite glow of wildness, a man who loved to brawl. I'll have to scramble for my life, Rick thought to himself. Carlo rumbled in from the kitchen in his starched white apron and chef's hat. Now, here is the center. Six feet two, at least 250 pounds, broad shoulders. But a slight limp. He greeted Rick warmly, a quick embrace, no kissing. His English was far below Nino's, and after a few words he ditched it and switched to Italian, leaving Rick to tread water.
Sam was quick to step in. "He says welcome to Parma and to their restaurant. They have never been so excited to have a real American Super Bowl hero playing for the Panthers. And he hopes you will eat and drink many times at their little cafe."
"Thank you," Rick said to Carlo. Their hands were still entangled. Carlo resumed his chatter and Sam was ready. "He says the owner of the team is his friend and often eats at Cafe Montana. And that all of Parma is thrilled to have the great Rick Dockery wearing the black and silver." Pause. Rick said thanks again, smiled as warmly as possible, and repeated to himself the words "Super Bowl." Carlo finally released him and began yelling at the kitchen. As Nino led them to their table, Rick whispered to Sam, "Super Bowl. Where did that come from?"
"I don't know. Maybe I didn't get the translation right."
"Great. You said you're fluent."
"Most of the time."
"All of Parma? The great Rick Dockery? What have you been telling these people?"
"The Italians exaggerate everything."
Their table was near the fireplace. Nino and Carlo both pulled out chairs for their guests, and before Rick settled into his seat, three young waiters in perfect whites descended upon them. One had a large platter of food. One had a magnum of sparkling wine. One had a basket of breads and two bottles--olive oil and vinegar. Nino snapped his fingers and pointed, and Carlo barked at one of the waiters, who returned fire, and off they went to the kitchen, arguing every step of the way.
Rick stared at the platter. In the center was a large chunk of straw- colored hard cheese, and surrounding it in precise loops were what appeared to be cold cuts. Deep, rich cured meats, unlike anything Rick had ever seen. As Sam and Nino chattered in Italian, a waiter quickly uncorked the wine and filled three glasses. He then stood at attention, starched towel over his arm. Nino passed around the glasses, then held his high. "A toast, to the great Reek Dockery, and to a Super Bowl win for the Parma Panthers." Sam and Rick took a sip while Nino drained half of his. "Is Malvasia Secco," he said. "From a winemaker close by. Everything tonight is from Emilia. The olive oil, the balsamic vinegar, wine, and food, everything from right here," he said proudly, thumping his chest with an impressive fist. "The best food in the world." Sam leaned over. "This is the Parma province of EmiliaRomagna, one of the regions." Rick nodded and took another sip. On die flight over he had flipped through a guidebook and knew where he was, sort of. There are twenty regions in Italy, and according to his quick review almost all claimed to have the greatest food and wine in the country. Now for the food. Nino took anodier gulp, then leaned in, all ten fingertips touching, the professor set to deliver a lecture he'd given many times. With a casual wave at the cheese he said, "Of course you know the greatest cheese of all. Parmigiano-Reggiano. You say Parmesan. The king of cheese, and made right here. Only real parmigiano comes from our little town. This one is made by my uncle four kilometers from where you are sitting. The best." He kissed the tips of his ringers, then gracefully shaved off a few slices, leaving them on the platter as the lecture continued. "Next," he said, pointing to the first loop, "is the world- famous prosciutto. You say Parma ham. Made only here, from special pigs raised on barley and oats and the milk left over from making the parmigiano. Our prosciutto is never cooked," he said gravely, wagging a finger for a second in disapproval. "But cured with salt, fresh air, and lots of love. Eighteen months it's cured."