“I hate the way they call it ‘Bolognese’ here. It’s not Bolognese, it’s ragù. That is what they call it in Bologna" says my friend Geraldine as we peruse the lunch menu in Arbutus.
She’s French, but her father is Italian and so, more importantly, is her grandmother.
I once tried to argue with her about whether or not water must be at a rolling boil before putting pasta in it. I can’t remember what the correct answer was. I presume it was that it should be and that Geraldine was right. In her words:
“Well, I know you know a lot about food, Vicky, but I think I am going to listen to my Italian grandmother over you.”
It was a valid point, which I only admitted to her now, at least 10 years later.
Geraldine and I like to disagree. It is what our friendship was founded on. Each as stubborn as the other, and always looking for a good argument. So I had replied:
“Well, your grandmother probably makes her pasta from scratch. We’re just using dried pasta.”
Or I wished I did. I can’t remember.