The Lake Como Aglio e Olio Story
Finally Spaghetti Aglio e Olio
“You can start cooking now. I got the pasta!” That was my friend Cynthia, who didn’t have spaghetti in her Lake Como holiday home but showed her resourcefulness by borrowing from a neighbor. She phoned Rosetta, her house caretaker and building superintendent, to ask if she had a pack of spaghetti to borrow and replace later. No, she didn’t, but she knew a neighbor who might. The neighbor, who also didn’t have pasta, called her daughter-in-law in the same village. Yes, the daughter-in-law had a pantry full of pasta. Imagine the commotion the search for the right pasta caused. Think of Sofia Loren in Sunflower, desperately searching for her husband sent to the Russian front during WWII. Rosetta was frantically searching through the village for a pack of pasta, embodying Cynthia’s resourcefulness and determination.
In the photo are my traveling buddies, Jimmy and Marylin. Flanked between her and me is our ever-lovely friend/host, Cynthia.
Two friends — Jim and Marilyn — and I were on a seven-day vacation at Lake Como, with Cynthia as our host. I’d wanted to cook Spaghetti Aglio e olio on our 5th day of stay. However, we could quickly go to this particular Italian restaurant in the village and get the real McCoy. I don’t think so; not after that one dinner disaster in this restaurant in the neighborhood of Nesso — a picturesque village on the banks of Lake Como — where you can find Casa Cynthia and Casa Nicolas. The food I chose was fish with baked polenta. Polenta is cornmeal. The waitress could not tell me the English name for that fish, but said it was a local fish from Lake Como. Fresh catch, she told me. Her smile was convincing, so I said Okay, surprise me. My food arrived, and it wasn’t what I expected. Three small “local fish, “the size and look of our galungong — scad fish — beautifully arranged on a dinner plate, over a bar of baked polenta. So much thought went into the presentation; it could whet your appetite in no time. Indeed, it was a surprise. The fish was so thin I didn’t think there would be enough to fill me up, so I told the waitress I would like to get il Secondo, the second course. The fish was so dry that it was difficult to cut the meat with a knife and fork. Picking them with your fingers would do the trick. And they were salty, too — precisely like our dried fish.
“The fish was dry and salty,” I told our waitress. “Oh, it was the salty water from the Lake,” she said. Salty, the waters of Lake Como? You’re kidding! I didn’t know that Lake Como was an ocean. Since when? I told her that we have the same fish back home, salted and dried in the sun. I asked Jim to get a bite of my fish. Oh, I would love them for breakfast, he said. Yes, I agreed, with fried rice and fried eggs. I wouldn’t wonder if the fish they served were from the Philippines, sold to them by enterprising Filipinos living in Italy.
Together with my secondo meal and a glass of white, I paid €33. With that sum, I could get a basketful of galungong from Vinia, my fishmonger back home, salt and dry them, and Gloria, our cook, could terrorize us serving them to us for breakfast — of course, with fried rice and fried eggs, every day until they start to come out of our ears.
Together with my secondo meal and a glass of white, I paid €33. With that sum, I could get a basketful of galungong from Vinia, my fishmonger back home, salt and dry them, and Gloria, our cook, could terrorize us serving them to us for breakfast — of course, with fried rice and fried eggs, every day until they start to come out of our ears.
The morning after, Marylin and I went to the small grocery around the corner from where we stayed to get bread and other breakfast supplies. We’d been buying things from this store since arriving in Nesso, but didn’t notice until then that the fish in the glass counter — vacuum-packed, all set for cooking — was the same fish I had for dinner last night! I remember the waitress telling me, “fresh catch, from the salty waters of Lake Como, my foot! Three in a pack selling for €5 something! Served in a restaurant, it becomes a pricey Italian specialty served over baked polenta. We went to a grocery store in Como City and saw the same fish in the same packaging. Local fish, it may be, but fresh catch? Excuse me!
The idea of cooking Spaghetti Aglio e olio came to mind when Jim and Marylin, together with our host Cynthia, her husband Peter, and their son Nicolas, decided to drive to Bergamo. Bergamo is the second-largest city in Lombardy. I’d been there two years ago, and I didn’t want to go back there again. The ride by bus and train could take about 2 hours — a long and tedious journey for old bones like mine. We’d been doing a lot of traveling and sightseeing since our arrival. I had had enough walking and running, trying to catch the bus or train, leaving in a split second. The car could only accommodate five people, so Jimmy said he was touched by my kindness to stay behind, letting him go with the group instead. He made himself sound sincere, but, of course, he was trying to humor me. He didn’t know that I’d prefer Bellagio to get another shirt from the shop where I bought the same style but a different color. Bellagio is just one short bus ride from Nesso, and the view along the way was always a sight to behold.
“I bet you cannot be home by 3:30 p.m.,” I said to the group. No, not possible,” Peter said. They wanted to leave for Bergamo at 8:30 a.m., but they could not until 11 a.m. My bus to Bellagio left at 11:30 a.m., and I was back home in three hours. That was the shortest time I spent shopping. It was a hot day, and I felt tired, having had little sleep the night before. Once home, I sent Cynthia a message asking her to bring home a head of garlic and a tin of anchovies. She said they would go to a grocery store. There was a half-head of garlic in her kitchen, but that would not be enough for my Aglio olio; she has a lovely kitchen, still very much in pristine condition, but seldom uses it herself. She cannot cook but watches you while you cook, telling you she wants to learn, when the truth is she wants to make sure you don’t make a hell of a mess in her kitchen. I know because she has yet to try the recipe for marinated zucchini on her own, which she asked me to share with her many, many years ago while still living in the UK. I made it again this time while she watched, telling her husband that she wanted to learn how to do it. Hohum! But seriously, Cynthia keeps her home always tidy, to a fault. She would not even allow a crumb of bread on her rough-stone terrace, lest the ants invade the place.
It was already 5 p.m., and the gang still wasn’t home. I sent a message to Marylin to ask where they were. Still in Bergamo, she replied, having ice cream or something. They should be home soon, she told me. I was starving, waiting for them. I could have gone out to find something to eat, but they might arrive any time, and I still have to cook that infamous Aglio e olio, so I stayed and waited. How are you doing, Marylin asked when they finally got home. Their “should be home soon” was 8 p.m. I wondered if they got the garlic and the pasta. No, the shops were all closed by the time they left Bergamo. And they were still stuffed from the late lunch. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. And no one called me to say I should find something to eat because the Aglio e olio dinner wouldn’t happen.
“There’s still a piece of bread left from breakfast, and you can have it with salami if you want,” Marylin said with genuine concern. I was upset but tried not to show it. I pretended it was okay with me; I can have nilagang mais (boiled corn). I bought it from this Pinoy the other day when we were in Milan. I didn’t want to buy any, but I felt sorry for this Pinoy, who sounded so desperate to survive abroad, that he would do odd jobs at any time. I got three cobs selling for €5. My friends were by this time queuing up for Chicken Joy at Milan’s Jollibee. Jimmy has been dreaming of the sweet spaghetti and chicken joy he used to have at Jollibee back home. No one wanted my nilagang mais. I had one, forcing Marylin to have half. It was destiny that I should meet this Pinoy boiled-corn vendor; he was to save my life from getting stomach ulcers. Cynthia told me that there was a box of penne in her pantry, and we could still make my Aglio e olio. She was guilt-ridden, I could tell. Penne for Aglio e olio? She was Julia Childs incarnate indeed! Cynthia lives downstairs, in Casa Nicolas — named after her son. Marylin stayed with the family while Jimmy and I were roommates at Casa Cynthia, two floors above Casa Nicolas. Marilyn called to say that they wanted me to come down and have at least something small to eat. Jimmy could join me if he were still hungry. My nilagang mais could wait another day.
Spaghetti Aglio e olio happened on our last day. We got back from a dip in the Lake, which has become a ritual for me every time I come to Lake Como — my fourth consecutive year. I must do it at least once during my annual visit to say, “been there, done that.” It was about 1 p.m., and the shops were closed for a siesta break; business resumes at 3 p.m.
Let the frantic search for a pack of spaghetti begin.
My Lake Como dip for the fourth consecutive year
Bathing Beauties
Your aglio e olio was way better, and tastier than what you could get in an Italian restaurant.
Grazie mille, Kumare