Whenever I’m working in Vancouver, I am more than excited to see Pino and Celestino and dine at their restaurant. While on set, I find myself constantly asking the assistant director, who basically controls the schedule of a shooting day, what time I will wrap, so I can be sure to get to Cioppino’s before it closes. （This is really what most actors are thinking when they are, well… acting.） When I was filming there last year I went to Cioppino’s one night straight from work exhausted and famished. The brothers warmly welcomed me, and within moments there was a glass of wine in my hand and the question “What would you like to eat?” had been posed. A waiter came by and offered me a menu, which was then abruptly taken away by Pino, who thrust it back at the poor fellow, saying, “What are you doing? He doesn’t need this. I’ll make him whatever he wants.” Pino’s special treatment of me suddenly put me in mind of Romano’s special treatment of my dear long-lost friend Marcello Mastroianni all those years ago. Except Marcello was a cinematic icon with nice hair, and I am not and have none.
As I watched the young waiter recede with embarrassment simply for doing his job well, Pino smiled at me.
“He’s a good kid.”
I shook my head and laughed at what I recognized as true Calabrese parenting behavior. Pino is a very generous man and a kind boss to the many employees who stay with him for years and years, but he can be, shall we say, very straightforward. He admits this himself. He studied medicine for three years before turning to the kitchen, and I believe he would have been an equally brilliant doctor as he is a chef. Still, my instinct is that his bedside manner might have needed a little help.
“So, what would you like?” he asked.
“Just, maybe some pasta. Something simple.”
“With meat? No meat?”
“With meat.”
“Okay.”
And he was off.
Celestino came by and chatted with me for a bit as we had a glass of wine together. As always he asked about my parents and the children and told me how he wanted someday to meet Felicity and the little ones. A few minutes later a bowl of pasta with a Bolognese sauce was placed before me. Celestino was up in a flash.
“Go ahead. I’ll let you eat. I’ll be back.”
And he was gone. I took a mouthful but was confused as to what it was I tasted. It was a Bolognese sauce, but it had a depth of flavor that I had never experienced before. I ate bite after bite but I couldn’t figure it out. I craned my neck looking for Celestino or Pino, but they must have been in the other room. Then Celestino suddenly appeared.
“You okay?”
“Yes, great. What is this?”
“Bolognese,” he said, looking at me like I was a moron.
“No. I know. But why is it…？”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Why does it taste like this?”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, no. I love it! I just… I’ve never tasted one like this.”
“Pino!” he shouted into the other room.
Silence. Celestino left. I heard him yell Pino’s name again from the other room. I ate some more. Pino arrived.
“What’s the matter? Something wrong?” he said, and then smiled slyly.
“What the… How do you make this?”
“It’s good, right?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Okay, here’s what I do. I make a stock…”
“Yes…”
“Of cheese.”
“Wait. What do you mean?”
He explained how he took a piece of Parmigiano rind and made a stock with it by putting it into a muslin bag with some herbs and cooking it in water for an extended period of time. He then used the result to bring an amazing depth of flavor to an already beautiful meat sauce. So simple. Cheese stock. Who knew? Certainly not me.
We chatted for a bit, and realizing I had an early call, I asked him for the check, which he refused to give me. He never lets me pay. He says when I come with friends I can pay, but when I am alone I should think of the restaurant as my home. As we parted and I thanked both brothers effusively, all I could think about was finishing work in good time tomorrow so I might visit my friend Pino, the generous genius, again.
Pino Posteraro’s Parmigiano Stock
1 quart water
1 large Parmigiano rind （about 1 ? pounds）
7 ounces coarse sea salt
3 small bay leaves
Fill a large pot with the water. Wrap the rind in cheesecloth, tie tightly with string, and secure to the side of the pot （this helps avoid the Parmigiano’s sinking to the bottom of the pot and burning）。 Submerge the wrapped rind.