Loading ...“Listening patiently to the other’s dream in exchange for the luxury of recounting their own”.
Ian McEwan, The comfort of strangers.
Once upon a time there was a talkative tomato. It had studied all the works of Brillat-Savarin and knew the abyss that separated it from the firm and flavourful oyster, the woody texture of the porcini mushroom, or the compact flesh of the aubergine. Even though it realised that it was very different from the rest of the world, it thought that with a bit of education even a humble tomato could make a comeback and lead a dish into the history books. It saw itself in a painting by Delacroix, leaves blowing in the wind, leading an uprising of a troupe of tomatoes.
It preached wherever the wind took its voice, willing to sacrifice its seeds as long as its message did not go unheard. When it was picked, it continued its indoctrinations in the eleventh crate stacked in the back of the articulated lorry that took it to Northern Europe. On reaching the fruit and vegetable market, undaunted, it held forth to all and sundry explaining the characteristics that made it a costoluto tomato, explaining exactly what made a costoluto variety different from the camone, the cherry tomato, the perino, the datterino and the many other members of the international tomato community. Different from the rest, and also different from the others of its own kind.
When a plump hand protruding from an arm clad in white cotton leant over it and picked it up, its neighbours in the crate breathed a sigh of relief – actually two. First, because they hadn’t been selected. Second, because they would finally have a bit of peace and quiet.
The chef was deeply satisfied. There are times when the season smiles on you, when you can find a tomato sauce worthy of the name even in Stockholm. As he sliced it, he began talking to the tomato, as he often did with ingredients that inspired him. “You come from Vittoria, in Sicily” he told it. “I know that in Vittoria the farmers work hard to grow tomatoes even tastier than the Pachino variety. So, to reward the efforts of those tenacious tomato growers, I’m going to stuff you”. Stuff me with what? objected the tomato. With ricotta and marjoram, said the chef, who could not fail to appreciate the eloquence of this tomato, transmitted on another wavelength but which still conveyed the vivid memory of a holiday in south-eastern Sicily taken several years early. In particular, the tomato reminded him of a delicious dish of ravioli served with ricotta and marjoram made by a housewife from Modica. “I’ll stuff you in the same way they do down your way, but the ricotta and marjoram will be inside you instead of a raviolo. I won’t smother you in sauce, I’ll make you the star, your shape will show off the filling to perfection. By the way, try not to leak too much water, otherwise you’ll make the ricotta all mushy”.
The tomato shrieked to make its voice heard, but to no avail. It was too tired from the journey to play the role of a stuffed tomato, it was like asking it to sit still. Impossible: it would have wilted, and the mere thought of wearing its top and stalk for a hat gave it a headache. In vain, it repeated to itself, why not cut him into nice firm slices to make a raw tomato sauce with all the heat of summer, and liven it up with slivers of orange peel. But there is none so deaf as he who will not hear. The chef gave orders to his kitchen crew, and left. A trainee chef approached. He came from Vittoria. The chattering coming from the tomato amazed him. He bent closer to the tomato and the chattering became a plaintive SOS. The trainee chef went to speak to the sous-chef, who called the head chef on his mobile. Upset, the chef returned on his scooter. He went up to the tomato and asked the trainee to translate what it was saying.
“Feel how firm my flesh is, compare it to an oyster, for example”.
The chef listened with interest, and tried, with some satisfaction.
“See? I’m the oyster of the vegetable patch” said the tomato, pleased that he had finally found ears capable of listening. The oyster, for its part, just nodded (it’s a well-known fact that North Europeans are less talkative than their Southern European counterparts).
“You’re right” said the chef. “Sorry for not listening to you, I think you tried to tell me several times. But I was too busy imagining my dream to hear yours”.
That evening, the customers applauded the amuse-bouche served at table: “Oyster of the vegetable garden with tomato of the sea”, a minor miracle of osmosis and simplicity, inspired by texture, similarity and difference. Before each mouthful, the tomato, ever-present in each slice, looked into the eyes of each diner, declaring with extreme satisfaction those fateful words: “I told you so”.
The moral of the story is that every humble tomato has so many things to say that before cooking, you need to be humble enough to listen.
The meaning of colour evolves in parallel with culture.Colour has always been with us and has been, and will always be, one of the great unsolved mysteries.All I do is take away colour to get to the light.Last photo
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