Cosí si fa

Cosí si fa. In Italian, this translates to “this is how it’s done.” The Italian culture is one that stands on the shoulders of centuries of tradition, history, and thinking there is only one way to cook pasta perfectly. Certain assumptions are taken for granted—ice hurts digestion and should be avoided at all costs, cappuccino must not be ingested after late morning because it’s just gross to put warm milk in a full stomach, one should look one’s best in all public moments except in one genre of clothing that has been woefully slow in catching up to the rest of the world and that is athleisure wear. While Italians are cutting edge on all things fashion, they are still wearing old school sweatsuits from the 80s with this awful brand called Kappa whose iconic brand features its emblem of two back to back silhouettes. And every Italian man over 18 must possess a beat up blue terry cloth robe to adorn his bathroom hook. But I digress.

I was recently reminded of just how deeply these assumptions are etched into the Italian psyche. To refresh my dormant language skills and fill my social calendar, I casually and briefly dated an Italian ex-patriot recently relocated to Denver. I thought I would soothe his homesick and country sick soul with some homemade tagliatelle in gorgonzola spinach cream sauce, but as I added the pungent cheese he became quite alarmed and cautioned me that too much cheese was very bad, possibly putting me at risk of the ubiquitous health crisis of….cellulite. Strike one. I told him to worry about the state of his own thighs.

The second incident (strike) came as I gave him a tour of my townhome. I had a shirt on my dresser that I hadn’t put away and he was alarmed that I didn’t have a chair. In his three-octave range of broken English he told me I should I have a chair in my bedroom for this purpose, as it is an eyesore to have a shirt on a dresser when a chair would much more artfully fill this role.

The third strike took place soon after. Being younger, the ex-pat was of a different generation and apparently while cellulite warnings and decorating tips had made the cut, apparently not all the food rules has been passed down. He was already on the way out, but perhaps as a last-ditch effort to regain my affections, he offered to make me lunch. My anticipation grew as I imagined perhaps picking up a tip or trick for my already stellar (modesty is just another virtue of mine) tomato sauce. But the scene quickly deteriorated. He had no hot pepper flakes in his apartment (!!!???). Instead, I spied him adding a generic supermarket spice mix that contained celery root. I breathed deeply in an effort to steady myself. The horror of it! A generically mixed bunch of random spices intended presumably for steak would clearly ruin the sauce. The last thing I remember from that day was him adding raw (not sautéed in olive oil!!!) garlic to this strange concoction. This fling was clearly over. Over my shoulder as I make my getaway (empty stomach, mind you), I vaguely remember calling out, “Cosí non si fa!” Cellulite and chairs for draping be damned, but blatant disregard for the basic tenets of making tomato sauce is simply unforgiveable. It is just not done.