Italians are masters at handling fat, the aromatic source of all their cuisine. Fat, which defines the flavor of Italian food is olive oil, and even in establishments like Pizza Hut, you can feel it. You have to know how to take advantage of its magic. I don’t know exactly when we started going to this place, specifically the one located in a mall near my childhood neighborhood. Maybe it started as a random decision, something that crossed our path, and my parents simply decided to give in, but I can say that the feelings evoked during all those Sundays are something that I carry with me to this day.
We would arrive at 1:30 on the dot and sit at the usual table, one of those long ones with cushioned backs that consume you once you have finished eating and are enjoying the after-lunch ritual. Everyone expressed a bit of themselves with their choices. On my side, there was always pesto. A wonderful lesson on the importance of fat. You have the cheese, the pine nuts or creamy nuts, and most of all the oil. Throughout my life pesto has been almost a predicament. Having no in-depth connection to salsa verde (the Peruvian version of Genovese pesto), my infatuation always led to a good plate of pesto being on my table. With my first arrival at Pizza Hut, this sentiment was not unrelated. I don’t remember exactly what day it was or how old I was, but it was marked like a tattoo on my forehead, so visible that the waiter had no need to question me as to why I was sitting there. On the other hand, mom has never been a fan of food, and Pizza Hut was no exception. “A Caesar salad and carbonated water with lemon” were always her words. Her request was perverse because she only chose to eat the romaine lettuce and parmesan slices, always leaving out the croutons. I would take advantage of this situation and would use them to rescue the last remnants of sauce. I don’t know if she noticed, but for me it was like tacit complicity, each feeding the other’s mess. Dad was simple. Like any other establishment, he would opt for lasagna and my sister, for some Pomodoro.
One particular Sunday we sat at the usual table. The ritual was so frequent that it was borderline systematic. The protocol gestures and phrases coming from the service towards any regular customer with us did not exist, only a warm smile, a question about our week, and a declamation of the order. At the end of it, the waiter left an almost non-existent space for any change or modification, it seemed as if his training did not allow him to simply walk away. There rarely was. That day I was famished. I felt my nutritional apparatus stirring, my stomach becoming impressionable, my gastric juices exalting and my inner gases shifting noisily. My mouth was wet, filling with saliva. All my digestive faculties were armed like soldiers, waiting for the arrival to attack. With all these feelings at the surface, my pesto arrived.
Upon receiving it, I instantly noticed something different. The characteristic smell with hints of basil, and sweet and kind notes, was gone. This time it felt a little deeper, aggressive and my nose was warning me. It was curious. This platoon of man-made hungry feelings is always followed by a special component, smell. As a sentinel, it leads the vanguard of the squadron defending the organism from any food that could be considered harmful to it. And this one was, not necessarily harmful, but it generated an alarm inside of me. I proceeded to taste it and confirmed it, it was not the usual Sunday pesto.
My Dad noticed a certain degree of strangeness in my behavior and asked what was wrong with me. I expressed my concern; however, I could not correctly identify the cause of the problem. Consequently, the only thing that came out of this 8-year-old’s mouth was “this is not the usual pesto”. My father laughed and ignored me, saying that in mass establishments like this, standardization is their main attribute. Having a different pesto was not a viable option. I of course continued to protect my idea. Having debated for what seemed forever about the flavors of my dish, my father, with a nod to validate his point, asked the waiter to call the head chef. He came with two pieces of news. First, a new cook had been in charge for two weeks, and second, the olive oil had been changed.
He explained that since his arrival, there had been some changes in the ingredients used, specifically the oil. “The sauce is something that should always represent a cook,” he told me. I understood that his arrival also meant the arrival of new preparations, characteristics of his previous work, experiences, and grasps. He was looking to transmit his own vision, which led to the use of other materials and knowledge sources. The new oil used was an extra virgin. Fruity, spicy, and bitter. “It should feel a little spicy, if it’s spicy, it’s alive” the chef explained to me. More thoroughly now, I proceeded to savor my dish and sure enough, I felt it. The treatable aromas of the previous oil were gone. It no longer had buttery or sweet notes, it was the opposite. Something new was coming through. After such a spiritual moment, returning to the physical plane was extremely complicated. I had tasted a new pesto that meant much more than just olive oil.
That’s what I liked about our Sundays, at the table there was a lot of respect, openness, communication, and a complete lack of ego. To this day, no one warns children anymore, as some Victorian parents did, not to talk about food at the table. It is not only permissible but encouraged, expected, and assumed. This concept; however, was always foreign to me. I don’t know if it were the movie posters all over the walls, the food, or the atmosphere, but somehow these elements always served as a way to either enlighten or soften the experience. I learned a lot at Pizza Hut. I fell in love with the food and especially the ambiance. Being greeted with a warm smile when I walked in, receiving Mina’s songs at the exact elevation and, above all, the movies. They were framed in every corner of the restaurant. Romeo and Juliet, The English Patient, Cleopatra, Doctor Zhivago. That small space in the mall housed the greatest love stories. It numbed the customers and viewers. I always noticed that people touched hands in a deeper way when they were inside this universe. Kisses on the cheek, napkins passed under the table, and hushed tones of “let’s run away”. Here people didn’t come to eat the pizza one usually has on a Sunday in bed watching a movie. Inside this fast-food establishment, something different had been created. Something that encouraged people to cover in silk, douse themselves in perfume and make a reservation
