One Man's Meat Is Another Man's Poison Part 0
Big Bad Boiled Bollito
The day was beautiful as Camillo Benso, Count di Cavour sat down to his midday meal outside
Ristorante Violetta, a quiet but well-esteemed establishment in mid-town Turin. These days, the Count should have been satisfied with the accomplishment of his life’s work, but the problems of the new Kingdom of Italy were almost too much even for Cavour to bear. Frequent sleepless nights and stressful days resulted from the Prime Minister’s efforts to keep the young nation united, and Cavour depended on his long lunches as a time to put his worries aside for a little while.
The Count di Cavour received agnolotti for his first course, and was poured a fantastic glass of Barolo. He took the moment to savor the wine and check off his concerns so that he could relax, feeling secure and in control. The first to come to mind was the trouble that cretino Garibaldi caused by forcing him to incorporate the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies into his perfectly happy northern Italian kingdom. Garibaldi was always trying to circumvent Cavour’s policies in an ignorant effort to unite the entire peninsula under a republican form of government. In the end, the actions of Garibaldi’s patriots provided Italy and its Prime Minister with an unruly, dirt-poor, uneducated, agricultural population that wanted nothing to do with the Sardinian monarchy. The Count knew he would fix the economic problems, just as he did in Piedmont, by playing the industrialists against the latifundists to achieve reforms. Problem solved, one less thing to worry about.
Cavour was looking forward to the bollito, one of his favorites and almost a national-no, provincial dish of Piedmont. Today he was told that it would have goose, along with the typical boiled beef tongue and veal. Bollito con salsa verde was a delicious mixture of the meats of the area mixed with spiced boiled cabbage and onions with green sauce to unite the entree. Cavour could smell the scent of boiled goose as it was brought to him, but just before the waiter reached Cavour, he tripped and the dish was cast towards a couple of young lovers dining behind the Prime Minister. The bollito was ruined, and after many apologies to his most prestigious customer, the owner of Violetta promised a quick replacement. Unfortunately, there was no longer any goose available but for a bird that was found to be diseased during butchering.
As Don Carlo, the proprietor ran to the kitchen to demand a new plate of bollito, he learned to his horror and later relief that the diseased bird had been put into the Prime Minister’s dish. If the waiter had not spilled it, the Count di Cavour would have surely become violently ill, perhaps worse. The owner sent word to the Count that there would be goose after all. Cavour was not a customer he could afford to lose, so word of the incident was kept inside the kitchen. If news of Cavour’s visits to his restaurant spread, Carlo would be a very rich man.
Cavour was served risotto with late-season asparagus during the wait for his meal, which meshed perfectly with the smooth, velvety Barolo. The day was beautiful; the food excellent, his life seemed wonderful, but there was another problem on his mind. Veneto, despite overtures to Austria for its purchase, remained in the possession of the Austrians. Cavour knew that it wasn’t money that was in the way of the province’s transfer; it was the stubbornness of the Austrian military to relinquish territory that had been theirs since the Vienna Congress. Franz Josef proved himself to be a sensible fellow, but his generals were always in the way. With a sigh-or was it a burp-the Prime Minister resigned himself to the fact that he might have to leave diplomatic means aside to bring Veneto into the Kingdom.
Ah, here at last was the bollito. This time the waiter stepped more cautiously, and the magnificent fragrance of the savory meats and boiled vegetables distracted the Count from his endless planning and scheming. A little more wine relaxed Cavour without intoxicating him, his days in the military provided him with resistance enough to indulge now and then. Thinking about indulgences, the last remaining trouble on Cavour’s mind was Pope Pius IX. “What a horrible, pestilent, foolish and incredibly persistent man,” he thought. Cavour had been on the pontiff’s bad side since the passing of the Siccardi Laws nearly ten years earlier. Sure, he was responsible for confiscating church property, expelling entire orders of clergy, and conquering the majority of the Papal States, but the church was far too controlling within Italian government for a constitutional monarchy. Rome was a necessity for Italy, and Cavour’s electorate was staunchly Catholic. “The Pope must be a reasonable man; I have Church property and a huge Catholic population, and he has our capital. We can strike a deal.” The Count was pleased with the bollito, and the taste of goose brought him back to childhood on his estate. Cavour drank a little more, and simply enjoyed the moment. Pleased with himself and his wonderful meal, the Prime Minister of Italy returned to his offices as a new man, oblivious to the peril that he had so closely avoided.
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