Plain Pasta, Part 2

I met Kira at the entrance of the 12-story building where the Italian rented his apartment and went up to the sixth floor. The building itself was notable — one of the few high-rises in central Bishkek built from an individual design rather than a standard Soviet brutalist blueprint. For those of us raised in cramped five-story blocks and Khrushchev-era apartments for the proletariat, it was intriguing just to see the inside. “At least for that reason, the evening won’t be wasted,” I decided.

When GR opened the door, I must admit, he disappointed me visually. He looked nothing like a stereotypical dark-haired macho Italian from films or book descriptions. He was tall, skinny, slightly hunched, with unruly curls of red hair, a long nose with a bump, and an absurd number of freckles on his face and arms. Later it turned out, his mother's side of the family was mostly Swiss and French, so it made sense.

But he had an utterly disarming smile — open and radiant — that gave away a true nerd, someone who sincerely believed in the goodness and good intentions of absolutely everyone.

“Oh! You’re already here?” he said, as if we had arrived too early.

“Are we early? You’re not ready? Or not alone?” Kira asked bluntly.

“No, no, everything’s almost ready. I just have to cook the pasta. Come in, please.”

We followed him into the kitchen — and were immediately baffled. According to Central Asian hospitality tradition, when guests are invited for dinner, the table should be overloaded with appetizers and cold dishes by the time they arrive, and the main course should be simmering on the stove.

On GR’s table there was nothing but a bottle of wine and three glasses. On the stove, stood an empty deep frying pan and a large pot of hot water. Beside it lay a package of spaghetti and one large wilting tomato.

“What exactly is he planning to feed us?” Kira and I exchanged bewildered glances.

“Well, we brought a few things,” Kira said brightly, masking our confusion.

“Oh, you didn’t have to!” he said, putting his wine away in the fridge and taking out plates for our offerings.

“Can I help?” I asked cautiously.

“Maybe cut the fruit and cheese?” he suggested.

“Kira can do that. Let me help with the pasta — I’ve never seen a real Italian cook it.”

“There’s nothing to it, really. You just have to boil it properly. I’ve never seen anyone in Bishkek cook spaghetti correctly. The whole point of pasta is the sauce. And I make an excellent tomato sauce.”

“Right, from just one tomato,” I thought, glancing at the lonely wilted specimen.

I produced my jar of tomatoes.

“Oh wow! That’s an impressive jar!” GR exclaimed. “It’s too much for one meal, but I’ll cook it all as the sauce keeps well in the fridge.”

He put his tomato back into the fridge. He then pulled out a liter bottle of extra-refined cold-pressed Italian olive oil from one of the kitchen cabinets. I nearly sat down in shock. I had only seen oil like that in outrageously expensive stores, and even then rarely. It was mid-1990s, remember, the Soviet Union fell apart only several years before and we were not spoiled with high-quality food stuff.

“I bring it from Italy,” he explained calmly. “Good olive oil isn’t available everywhere.”

He heated the oil, added onions that he'd pre-cut and put into the fridge so they wouldn’t smell up the apartment, and narrated every step like a dentist explaining procedures.

“First, we'll saute the onions. The most important thing is not to overdo them. Caramelized or burned onions will ruin any pasta sauce.”

He added the tomatoes from my jar to the onions, without even chopping them. My mom always makes them with sweet bell peppers, garlic, and all sorts of spices, so they already had everything needed for the sauce.

“It’ll simmer and fall apart,” GR smiled. Then added with caution, “I think I understand why many Russian dishes are not very tasty — you overcook everything.”

I swallowed that without saying anything as it was largely true.

Soon the sauce was finished.

“Hot sauce is less tasty than warm,” he declared, “so we'll just let is sit for a little.”

Then came the main lesson of the evening.

“You would break the spaghetti in half, right?” GR asked.

“Of course. They won't fit the pot,” I said.

“That’s so wrong. A real Italian never breaks spaghetti. Otherwise, you won’t be able to twirl it beautifully.”

He demonstrated with a wooden spoon how to let the bottom part of spaghetti soften in boiling water and bend it into the pot.

We were genuinely impressed.

He lectured us on durum wheat. On how Italians eat pasta three times a day. On how you never get fat from high-quality pasta.

“Have you ever seen a fat Italian?” he asked triumphantly.

I admitted I hadn’t.

We explored the apartment while he was finishing cooking. Spartan. A few books in different languages, no TV. A magnificent balcony view of the city.

Finally we heard, “Pasta’s ready!”

He plated it beautifully, twirling spaghetti under sauce and grated Parmesan on top (yes, you guessed it, from the very block I had brought). He then opened Kindzmarauli first. A little too sweet for an Italian, he stated politely and opened Riesling as well.

The sauce was astonishing. Truly finger-licking good. Must be my mom's tomatoes.

“And the spaghetti? Not sticking to your teeth?” GR asked anxiously.

We shook our heads, happily eating pasta.

“Al dente,” he smiled proudly.

We repeated the word, as if tasting it: “Al dente… al dente…”

After the pasta came the fruit Kira had sliced, then jasmine green tea with my chocolates. We talked about his dissertation and future plans. He truly knew a lot. It was a very pleasant evening overall.

When we left and walked toward the taxi stop, slightly tipsy, Kira suddenly froze, as if struck by a revelation, “Wait a second. So what does this all mean? Did we just eat pasta from an axe?”

“What do you mean?” I said, not yet connecting the famous Russian fairy tale about a witty soldier quartered with a stingy old woman who at first said she had nothing to feed him but then, after he told her he could make porridge from his axe, brought out all necessary ingredients one by one.

“Let's see, we've brought everything. I can't even imagine what kind of sauce he would have made from that one miserable tomato,” Kira started to explain. “We cut it. You even helped him cook. He didn’t even put out his own wine! It’s exactly like that fairy tale about porridge from an axe! Only instead of an axe, he had the lonely spaghetti!”

“If we follow the fairy tale logic,” I said, laughing, “we were supposed to outsmart him as we were the guests.”

“But he outsmarted us! He fed us pasta from an axe!”

“Oh come on, Kira. We had a good time.”

“No, this requires analysis!” she insisted indignantly. “I’m embarrassed he turned out so stingy.”

“He’s not stingy. He’s just a poor struggling student. Remember how we used to pitch kopeks together to buy perogi and tea at the university cafeteria?”

She squinted at me.

“Why are you defending him?”

“He’s a decent, smart guy. Maybe frugal. But what a pasta masterclass! ‘Al dente!’” I waved my hand like an inspired conductor, and we both burst out laughing.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not upset. I've talked you into this, after all. I always thought Italians were generous!”

“He was generous with his time and skill. Just keep in mind that all students are frugal.”

“Good point. There’s always something positive in any experience.”

And, deeply satisfied with our friendship and mutual understanding, we went off to catch a taxi home.

Part 1 is here: