It is I who is persevering and being pilloried in Piemonte, Italy.
Two of my traveling companions have no stomach for the Piedmontese cuisine that is to my liking. For them, reviewing a menu has become a simple process of elimination rather then what excitement lies ahead for me as I read.
One won’t eat anything that flies, so that rules out chicken, turkey, and anything that lays eggs. My other good friend turns the other way at some of the things that I discuss with the restaurateur. Crispy piglet, rabbit, and tongue.
The pasta in so many of the Piedmontese establishments is homemade and delicate, but I feel guilty every time I order when I’m reminded of the high glycemic index in pasta which turns to sugar and is not good for my health.
God forbid and when the plate of the most delicious little petit fours comes with the espresso macchiato. My blood pressure spikes wondering how many I can eat before the sound of silent stares deafen me.
Earlier this week in Philadelphia, even the pope laughed when regaling his adoring followers with stories of otherwise happy families, in which at times there’s occasions of ‘flying plates’. We haven’t quite reached flying plates level yet!