I
knew that seas can not curb the migrant ways, neither they can with the
streams underwater. I also knew that Earth is tropicalizing; in Venice
the geckos are becoming more popular than the lizards. But I believed
that lakes were still intact. I
remember a stampede (i won’t tell why i was in such a hurry) in Nyon,
Switzerland. I
sheltered in a small restaurant on the Leman lake where, in order to
assume a nonchalant air, i ordered food without looking at the menu too
much. They
brought me some fillets of perch with a sauce that wasn’t bad enough
to make me remind the reasons to escape; so my chaser could catch me.
Never mind; from that moment on, at least i learned that i could eat
very good fish also on the lake. I
have a friend named Terry
Dieng who lives in Lombardy where is Chairman of Anolf,
an association that helps the immigrant workers. Terry
called me to tell me about a comic turn his job had met with. Another
friend of mine, Luigi Giorgetti, is fisher at Cazzago Brabbia and a very
good one. He
too told me about the same problem, even if in a less comic way: once he
used to fish the best luces in Insubria, today the best catfish in the
world. I
asked Luigi a tip on a place for eating catfish, which is still a little
known taste. Luigi
hesitated first, then agreed to give me a couple of days and see those
waters with me. So I tell Terry and i find out that he too knows Luigi,
in fact Terry... works for him! Last
thursday i decided to go. Terry picks me up with his Fiat Regata and
take me to one of the most fascinating areas on the Varese lake. Pietro
Ceccuzzi is waiting for us in Bodio. Pietro is
graduating at the Insubria University, connoisseur and researcher of
rare fishes, passionate ichthyologist and expert in the lake dwelling. Pietro
too devotes two days to visit the cane thickets, the lake slums and the
fish farmings with us. The two days become four; on the fifth one i
understand that perches and luces live no longer in the lake and that
the today’s fauna consists only of a sheat-fish with big potential and
yet to discover: the Ictalurus melas, amazingly similar to the African
Catfish. How
come that those huge fishes have arrived straight in the lake? Nobody
knows; we have nothing but conjectures. Anyway,
these big and lousy animals have elbowed, or better, have finned their
way through the wimpish establishment of old perches – those ancient
regime fops! Terry
and i plunge into the fizziest Risiko game in the world, also because
they’ve been playing it underwater: war broke out between the
professional and the amateur fishers (who are mostly pertaining to
countries outside the European Community, in fact they are coming even
from Switzerland). The
story begins on the local fishmonger’s tables, that have been orphaned
by humpfishes and basses (not to talk of the king perch), but are full
of shet-fishes for 2 Euro a kilo, right for the bowl of the family cats.
All
the Ivorians and the Congoleses in the neighbourhood rush and buy fishes
on the sly; the Vareseans think: they must have a lot of cats. On
the contrary, it happens that the Africans, mainly those who lived by
the rivers, are greedy for that fish, which is considered yummy among
them. Actually,
also my grandmother, who lived in a domestic place such as the Po
lowlands, used to lip-smacking when she cooked the stewed catfish. Once
unravelled the mistery, the catfish raises from 2 to 7 euro a kilo, and
not because some exchange trick: “We are gonna fish it by ourselves”,
the Africans say. “Not at all”, the old coastal families snap back.
In fact the Giorgetti, Bossi, Nicolini, Zanetti
names are exclusive licensees of the fishery on the Varese lake:
“Whoever wants to go fishing by boat should pay for a six to twelve
months permit per person and per boat” they say dragging the
bureaucracy in to ward off the image of silent pirogues ploughing the
waves between Bodio and Calcinate, with black fishers shooting the nets
from dawn to dusk. At
present, the Congoleses and the Ivorians are only allowed to be catfish
consumers: they can just invite the Vareseans to know and appreciate the
gastronomic quality of this species, which is so good when cooked in
cocoanut milk, or soused, or in the risotto with hot sauce, or crumbled
in a rice salad. The
immigrants get organized in a twinkling of an eye: in one of the
Ternate’s most enchanted square, in front of the Comabbio lake, I have
launch with Terry, Luigi, Pietro and all the guests of the Harambee
party. There
i happen to eat la Theboudienne, that’s the fish in the Dakar style,
or the Samaki Wa Kukuango, unforgettable catfish nibbles with onions and
scrub’s herbs. Fifteen
years ago, thanks to the Lega Lombarda, the Varese lake had become a
place where cultures separate, but today it is the meeting point where
different cultures set themselves one aim: to save and develop the fish
patrimony. Whereas
the natives lay idle, the immigrants answered the call. Huge fishes,
with six hundred years old majestic fins, big moustache and scales as
well: you can see a lot of them even just under the surface of the water
in spite of their bad name. I
had dinner last night in Azzate at Cheb Akmal’s, who is secret cook in
a rather multiethnic restaurant where also the pizza maker is from Tunis. Terry
and the whole gang think he is a cooking genius, the best cook from
Africa; i don’t doubt it, since he is also the only African cook I’ve
ever met. I
was back in from dinner with tummy ache. Cheb is
a boy in his 62-63, but he doesn’t look it. He travelled round the
world and worked in the worst kitchens of Europe, Winnipeg and Beni
Mellal. He has reached Azzate two years ago where he started this
marvellous tavern. How
can you say that a restaurant is worth a trip when it is situated on the
northermost point in this nice country of ours? In this way: it’s
worth a trip. Cheb
Akmal is not only a wonderful and inspiring name, he also masters an
infallible treatment for constipation. While
thinking of you (no kidding), I had: Maggot
cream
with true cow cottage cheese and steamed maggots (and a trickle of
splendid oil from the Garda lake) Lagoon
vegetables
with a spoon of false caviar, raw red crayfish, smoked shet-fish flan
and Fou Fou, a peeled cherry tomato stuffed with melted smoked provola,
everything ready to dip in a small basin with hot broth: almost a shushi! Catfish
pie
steamed, on zucchini velvet cream and peanuts julienne Catfish
soup
with instantly made Fufu in the same soup Grilled
yam and carrots
with melted cheese rapè on onions and ginger bed Catfish
in crust of
concentrated tomato juice and homemade carrob laid on mushroom petite
soupe and ravioli with peppermint’s hearts Catfish
cous-cous with
pistachio, raisins, local chichpeas and homemade harissa. I
did not eat the dessert: see how good i am? As
a tribute to the muslim traditions I drank nothing but mint tea; from
time to time my friend Luigi slipped me a pack of Tavernello (was this
the cause of my tummy ache?). I felt touched when I embraced Cheb Akmal (great name, isn’t it?). Apparently he wasn’t too familiar with these Yemenite habits since he fobbed me off with a slug on my nose. Anyway, i finally had my dessert outdoor: i stayed for ten minutes gazing at the moon on the lake, a very sweet and fine cake they threw on my eyes.
Loriano
Pelizzari
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