Alfredo
By Gene Aronowitz
In 1965, my ex-wife, Judi, and I traveled to Europe, and while in Italy, I had a delightful and delectable restaurant experience.
We dined at Alfredo di Roma and naturally ordered Fettuccine Alfredo. That was one of my favorite meals back home, and I could not wait to consume it at its birthplace.
It was everything I imagined it would be. The long, flat ribbons of perfectly prepared pasta slipped smoothly into my mouth and down my gullet, lubricated by its rich coating of heavy cream and butter. The grated parmesan cheese, pepper, nutmeg, and garlic enhanced its luscious flavor and heady aroma.
A 20-ounce bowl of Alfredo has about 1,180 calories, only 119 more than my then-favorite sandwich, the Burger King Double Cheese Whopper. I knew I could handle another bowl and ordered one. Instead of the waiter bringing it over, an enormous man in white trousers, shirt, and apron delivered it. “Grazie, grazie,” he gushed, with a more lavish display of affection than I have ever experienced in any restaurant. I stood up, nodded, and repeated, “Grazie, grazie,” clapping my hands. A broad grin spread across his bulbous face.
I saw signs of approval from people at adjoining tables, and I was sure I had exchanged compliments with none other than the very famous Alfredo. That fantasy lingered until I Googled Alfredo di Roma as part of my research for this little memoir. I learned that Alfredo Di Lelio, the creator of that delectable, although singularly unhealthy dish, had died in 1941, over twenty years earlier, and the chef who came to our table was not even a member of his family.
Sigh.
