Gourmet Detective by Peter King

of lampreys. It used to be called the dish of kings, she said but after one of them died of it, the dish’s popularity declined and it has been virtually unknown since World War I.
    François had marinated the lampreys and then cooked them in fish stock, bay leaf and port wine. Now they were being served with a rich, dark Bordelaise sauce over them. Cut and served in such a manner as to remove all its natural resemblance to the eel, lamprey had a taste midway between sweetbreads and turtle meat.
    The pastry man was effusive in his praise. “The wine was chosen to accompany the sauce not the fish,” he pointed out. “Very wise.” The excellence of the food muted the conversation then as the last morsels were disappearing from plates, the benevolent influence of the Château Lafite renewed discussions.
    I could see Sally Aldridge, heated and vociferous again. Near enough to hear was Vito Volcanini, rated by many as Britain’s leading Italian restaurateur and owner of the hugely successful Trevi.
    â€œThe food of Parma and Bologna may serve the stomach,” Vito was saying, “but it is the food of Apulia that touches the heart. There, it is a part of life and of living. Sitting down to a meal is a joyous occasion, a ceremony—no, that is wrong, that suggests something pompous, something scheduled—and Apulian food is never that.”
    â€œIt is Arab-influenced though, isn’t it?” asked Ellsburg Warrington.
    â€œArab—yes and Greek, Turkish, Norman, Spanish…”
    â€œSeafood mainly though,” insisted Warrington.
    Vito put down his fork and kissed his fingers.
    â€œZuppa di pesce—there is no other like it. It is magnifico. Every local fish will be in it—bream, langoustine, mussels, clams, lobster, octopus, squid, sea urchins—and any other fish that swims into the net.”
    â€œSo it varies from one day to the next,” needled Warrington. “How can you keep customers that way?”
    â€œOf course it varies!” Vito’s response was explosive. “What do you want? A soup controlled by a computer?”
    Frankie Orlando sat within range. His Medici Palace was also a very popular Italian restaurant and it was inevitable that Frankie should disagree. His background put him in a different camp to Vito when it came to cooking.
    â€œApulian food is okay,” said Frankie, condescendingly. “Fourth, maybe fifth in Italy. As everybody knows, Tuscan food is the best. Roast pig stuffed with garlic, rosemary, fennel and sage—now there is a dish for royalty. But you don’t have to be royalty to enjoy it. It is sold from vans in the streets, delicious slices of tender pork with some well-salted crackling and wrapped in a piece of paper—just like your fish and chips used to be.”
    â€œPeasant cooking,” sneered Vito. “In Tuscany, the grill and the spit do all the work and the wood smoke does all the flavouring. What need is there of cooks in Tuscany?”
    Frankie Orlando had his mouth open for a spirited reply when Maggie McNulty said silkily, “Personally, I prefer Venetian cooking.”
    There was quiet for a few seconds. Vito and Frankie regarded her with astonishment. How dare any non-Italian enter the arena—and a woman at that!
    â€œFegato Veneziana—made from calves’ liver naturally. Now there is a dish,” Maggie went on smoothly. “Have either of you ever had it at Dino Boscarati’s in Mestre? Superb! Or how about duck with apple and chestnuts—a perfect example of using local ingredients. Accompanied by a bottle of St Magdalener, it’s a—”
    Maggie had over-reached. They leaped on her.
    â€œSanta Maddalena!” snorted Vito. “With duck?”
    â€œImpossible!” cried Frankie. “It needs a Teroldego or an Amarone.”
    â€œThey’re red,” objected Vito. “Don’t you know anything about wine in Tuscany?