There are two ways of seeing herbs in error. In my gastronomic memory, the blunt and mostly bald symbol of the first way is the altruistic Signore Giocondo Cavaliere, of the village Amalfi, region Campania, population 5,428 (or so). On a blue May day, three other naïve Americans and I invited him, along with Gennaro, the chauffeur; Giulio, who ran the fish market; Nino, who staked the peas; and an assortment of others to lunch in the white stucco villa we were borrowing.
Things went well through the crisp toasts with oiled acciughe, blistered friggitello peppers from the garden. But when handed a bowl of spaghetti with peas, pancetta, pecorino and mint, Signore Cavaliere allowed a look of mild distress to nest on his damp brow. He twirled a few polite noodles around his fork in silence until, after several minutes, the rattled man had to unburden himself.
‘‘I understand,’’ he whispered directly into my ear, in slow and serious Italian, ‘‘that in America you cook … experimentally.’’ He paused. Our eyes met for a critical moment.
‘‘But here’’ — he waved to include the table, the loquat trees shadowing the high balcony, the citrus air, the deep sea — ‘‘we do not cook in such a modern way.’’
I admitted to him in honesty that I didn’t understand what he was talking about.
‘‘Mint!’’ he almost shouted at me. ‘‘Mint! Can’t be served with pasta!’’ I felt horrible for him, watching him redden. ‘‘Mint is for fish!’’ And his wet head fell into his hands.
