During my first stay in Orvieto fifteen years ago, I discovered Gelateria Pasqualetti. The ice cream they served was comparable to anything you would find at Vivoli di Firenze. Everyone agreed. Orvieto was blest.
I’m there years later and ask for the restroom. I’m directed up some stairs that take me through a kind of mezzanine overlooking the kitchen. The view is from a Flemish painting, piled with crates of peaches, lemons, berries, oranges, chocolate, nuts. It’s a rainbow of flavor that justifies the magnificent gelato vended below. The perfect balance of sweet and tart, the luscious textures, the modest portions, it all makes sense looking at that kitchen. Classic Italian quality in a classic Italian product served in the classic Italian manner.
I loved Pasqualetti. I bragged about it to anyone who would at least make an effort to conceal the rolling of their eyes out of respect (or pity) for my obsession.
In March 2014, I lead a group of students from Marywood University on a week’s study tour to Orvieto. I told them all about Pasqualetti. They were stoked to try it. I arrive a few days ahead of time to set up, and make my primal pilgrimage the next afternoon. A sign taped to the door says, “Closed for the winter.” I gripe to anyone I can rely on to conceal their boredom out of pity (or fatigue) for my emotional devastation.
The next day, I pass a satellite store Pasqualetti had opened on Via del Duomo. I’m thrilled and immediately order my customary first combination; nocciola, caffè, cioccolato, in coppetta piccola. As the gelato is being scraped into the larger-that-I-remember cup, I imagine my students’ faces lighting up at their first taste of the real thing.
One of the things I cherish about the traditional gelateria – I don’t know why – is the small cup portion. It’s actually small. You order a small anything in most fast food shops in the States and are given what was called extra-super-large a mere twenty years ago. When I order small, I want to receive small. It’s a matter of principle.
Larger than I remember. Pasqualetti’s “small” is at least 50% bigger than what used to be their “medium” and it costs three euro. The cup is also overfilled. I’m a little disturbed, but what’s a cup, anyhow? It’s what’s in the cup that counts. I taste my first spoonful.
The gelato is sweet. Very sweet. So sweet, I can’t taste anything but sugar. Larger cup, fancy graphics, a branch store with more visibility, twice the sugar. Something’s afoot, it’s not pretty, and I don’t really want to know the truth. I feel betrayed and more than I realize, and am deeply reluctant to face the fact.
My students arrive, they sample the gelato at Pasqualetti and at the “new” place on Corso Cavour, L’Officina del Gelato, and they naturally compare. They ask which of the stores I was going on about back home, and roll their eyes when I tell them. Out of respect for their brutal honesty (and inexperience), I pretend to look away.
A few days later, I mention my suspicions to a friend. He confirms my fears. The Pasqualetti family no longer owns the business. The new owners cater to American tourists and imported American tastes, and that demands large portions and lots of sugar. Then he goes through the list of profit-boosting adjustments made, all of them, in his opinion, at the sacrifice of the product. By the time he’s through with his report, I’m a psychological wreck.
Last May, I still couldn’t come to grips. I’d tasted the product at L’Officina and declared it inferior to what Pasqualetti used to serve. I was spiteful, or lovesick, or both. Attached. Blinded by the past.
Barely a day passed between May and October when I didn’t at some point contemplate my resistance. Pasqualetti had sold out. L’Officina opened shortly after. Maybe there’s a connection. Maybe I ought to give the young rebel a fair trial.
When I arrive back in October my first gelato is at L’Officina. It’s good. In fact, it’s very, very… very good. Rich, deep flavors, not over sweet, it’s served in an actual coppetta piccola, and costs two euro. The gelatophiliac heaves a sigh of relief. I have since returned at least four times a week.
Around four o’clock is usually when, if I’m going to have a pick-me-up, I head for l’Officina. Today at four I walk to Corso Cavour and turn right. A few more paces puts the storefront in sight. Hmmm, the awning is up. The awning is never up during business hours. My heart beats a little faster. Ahead of me, a man stands at the door. He stares at a piece of paper taped to the glass, turns away in confusion, looks back. I reach the door and see it. “Closed through March 4.” We turn to each other and groan.
“It’s very good gelato,” says the man to no one in particular (his son is still across the street.) “There’s no better. I don’t know. This is bad.”
I agree.
“Then let’s go and get some cake, instead,” says the son, joining him.
I roll my eyes, but out of respect for his youthful stupidity, I’m discrete about it. They go off for cake.
I stand facing the door, staring at that sign. Cake? How is cake a substitute for gelato? That’s absurd. And once used to the best, in a small cup, how could I ever go back to… the other place? I can’t. I’ll just have to give it up until March. No other choice. Maybe give up sugar entirely. I’ve done it before. It just seems so anti-Italian. But then, that’s my view from decades ago, Italy has changed, it’s time for me to change with it.
I walk in circles, mumbling to myself. Passersby arch away. I twitch a few times, and sigh again. Then I go and get some cake.