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| Bolognaise in Bologna |
I knew I was ill. Just one more mouthful. Just one more
sip. The waiter looks me up and down. The restaurant is spinning, the carne on
the fork is gyrating tauntingly, tantalisingly (...swallow...) tastily. A gulp
of Montepulciano red to knock it back. Yes, well done, stay
strong. Now the hard bit, stand up. My knees are quivering like mozzarella. My
meat sweat clammy hands fail to grip the table's edge. Shit. I realise I'm not
going to make it.
There had been signs of physical trouble throughout. I dislocated
my finger to compliment the hideous toe injuries we had each sustained - drunk
and unaccustomed to the excess weight. Hindsight justified our wounds as
appeasement, a blood offering to the Etruscan gods in return for the huge
numbers of livestock that we'd devoured. We were already pouring frequent
libations on our clothes to Bacchus - the Roman God of wine and revelry - as
recompense for the vineyards we had liberated.
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| Perugia |
Although we visited Pisa, the hills of Lucca, Bologna,
Siena, Cortona and Roma between us, it is Perugia that stands out
from the haze. That is to say, I can vaguely remember it.
The air is thick with humidity and jazz from the Umbria
Festivale. A wailing saxophone beckons us to our next glass of Valpolicella.
We are hot and heavy, worn down from hours of snacking and drinking. We are on
a crusade of redemption: our opening gambit in this splendid medieval hill town
had been a disgraceful blunder. We'd ordered Greek wine and g&ts in an
up-market local trattoria. What the fuck had we been thinking? It was the Prosecco on
the train from Lucca that had caused it of course. The stink eye of the waiter
had only been salvaged by an extremely expensive pair of digestivos.
As far as this city was concerned, I didn't want to lose any more face unless
due to a stroke from one Carbonara too many.
It was that evening that we became mentally
unhinged. Even in psychoanalysing myself now, I picture a fat,
drunk Sigmund Freud, slipping on some melted gelato that has
dripped from his chocolatey maw:
The jazz beat sets the rhythm for my mastication and
slurping; each lick of funky bass is another lick of the lips; each
crescendoing drum roll the conclusion to another bottle. The two seem to take
on a symbiotic relationship and sensory associations become blurred. I'm
tasting horn, then I'm hearing the low rumble of gnocchi, I'm quaffing the
velvet tones of keys then I'm shaking my white ass in excitement at the
bruschetta grooving over to me from the bar. In the distance I can hear the big
chorus of Chianti-Take My Eyes Off You about to kick. I consider which I
would pick if had to choose - or indeed distinguish - between the two.
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| Eyeing up his next fix |
I conclude that the music would probably play second fiddle
to the food and wine, but then again, I often prefer secondi. Later
that evening, choice has ceased to exist at all for one of us. Max had fallen
asleep during the climax to jazz maestro Kamasi Washington's gig. Sprawled on a
hillside looking like a victim of Fallujah not Perugia, the food
coma had gotten the better of him.
You know what's so fucking great about a 'lad's trip' to
Tuscany? You can chalk it all up to culture. In case you hadn't clocked thus
far, our experience wasn't cultural. It was ruddy-faced, Bacchanalian
debauchery and I bloody loved it.
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| Cultura |
In the Roman novelist Petronius' fiction Satyricon, there
is the story of two students who go for dinner at Trimalchio's pad. Trimalchio
was an affluent, tasteless, chunky businessman who would nowadays be described
as naff and nouveau - at least if you're a twat like me.
Anyway, I digest. The two students are invited to
Trimalchio's house for dinner where they are sat alongside other social
climbers like themselves. The house, the wine and antipasti are
oppressively lavish. Trimalchio, however, is conspicuous by his absence.
Several enormous pheasants are brought out as apperitivi. Finally,
the host arrives two hours late. He doesn't apologise but chalks up his
tardiness to irregular bowel movements and describes the discharge in vivid
detail to the table. Chortling at their wrinkled faces, he claps his hands
loudly. At his signal, a huge suckling hog at the table's centre explodes as
live doves stuffed within the beast suddenly fly out, covering all of his
guests in entrails. He laughs again (heartily of course) and forces his entire
household to act out his funeral before retiring to the vomitorium.
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| Doing as the Italians do: bottle of 'secc leafing through 'Lotta Communista' |
Why am I telling you this? Well, the story is a metaphor for
the real Italian experience. Disgraceful over-indulgence concealed behind a
thin veil of culture. It may be hidden from view but once you've seen it, it's
as apparent as trotter shrapnel and pig guts splattering all over your
face.
When I go back to work and people ask me how my holiday was,
I'll tell them about all the frescoes, the duomos and the viridescent lushness
of the Tuscan landscape. La cultura, la dolce vita and all that jazz. However,
the truth is they will only have served as a backdrop to the greatest sight of
all: a glass of red booze, pranzo and a new pair of slacks
with an elasticated waistband.
Ciao.
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| Si |
