Category Archives: Italy

Overall thoughts on Italy and things we do

Two “I can’t tell you”s in one post – only one of which is a secret!

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I shouldn’t have had those two kit-kats – but, then, I didn’t know he’d phone with that offer.

“I’ve been invited out for dinner with a friend”, he says.

“OK”, I reply. I mean, what am I supposed to say?

“Would you like to come?”, he asks. Well, sure but it was all a little strange, for reasons that I cannot explain; I don’t have the words to explain why it was strange and not because I cannot tell you because it is a secret or anything.

“Well, yes, sure. If I won’t be in the way”.

It turns out it is with Sa, a work colleague. And this was the invitation that had been promised to me some time ago. This is his (probably) favourite restaurant in Milan. Or, maybe, second favourite.

We walk from my house. It’s about 10 minutes. Sa, I have met before. She is lovely (even if she is German :-) ). She loves dogs – so that has to be good.

Al Grissino is not a restaurant, from the outside, that one would immediately associate with the good and great of Milan. An unprepossessing entrance in a street that, although surrounded by streets with the houses of Milan, is not that great. Not right in the centre of Milan either, it’s not one that you would ‘find’ as you were walking by – simply because it’s unlikely you would be walking by in the first place!

Inside it’s OK but nothing really special. No, here one goes for the food. And one pays the price for this food. I actually don’t know if there is meat on the menu. We dispensed with the menus. We decided on four antipastos. Three chosen by F & S and one chosen by the waiter. I preferred the one chosen by the waiter which was some clams with zucchini (courgettes). Each of the four, served one after another, were individually served on three plates. The wine was a jug of house wine with strawberries and raspberries thrown in!

Main course was some fish (again decided by the waiter) – the only stipulation being that it had carciofi (globe artichoke). Italians really like this stuff. For me it’s OK but, probably not having been brought up on it, it is not something I go crazy for.

The fish was cooked to perfection and was so nice. It was served with a few roast potatoes. The presentation of the main course was very nice.

For sweet, F had zabaione, Sa had tiramisù and I had meringue (more like ice-cream and meringue tart slices) with hot chocolate sauce – mine was the best, the chocolate sauce rich and thick – but all were damned good.

After sweet they served us some really nice amaretti biscuits with tiny choc bars – yes, as in ice-cream choc bars which I never seen before. They were wrapped wonderfully in that it was a complete surprise when you bit into them (even if they were, obviously, cold to touch).

Fantastic meal. It is a little expensive though, so not somewhere to go if you’re on a budget. It cost around €180 for the three of us.

Lovely though. It will be nice to go there from time to time, for certain. And, for reasons that I can’t explain (because it is a secret) we didn’t have to pay. My favourite way of dining :-)

I cook passata

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Well, at least I didn’t let the tomatoes go to waste – like I did last time.

I thought it would be nice. And I cooked it from scratch rather than buying it in a bottle. It was all supposed to go like this ……. I cook the passata (the tomato sauce that goes with bolognese sauce for those of you from the UK (‘cos there isn’t actually a thing called Spaghetti Bolognese here)); I was going to buy some sausages to go with it; I would have cooked and served tagliatelle with some of the sauce and then served the sausages with more sauce and a salad – a nice Sunday lunch/dinner.

Ah well. He informs me that, after a week of eating meat and drinking lots of beer in Germany, he’s on a diet! And the diet – bananas and milk!!!! WTF????

He doesn’t even like milk!

But I cook it anyway. I told him when we were out walking the dogs. He said we could have it tomorrow. Bless him.

Playing with numbers

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How does just over a third turn into just less than half?

Or, how can just under a quarter turn into around a twelfth?

That’s exactly why I haven’t voted for years. What is the point? As the number of people and how they vote doesn’t actually translate into a seat, it makes it some sort of mockery of democracy.

Based on the percentages for each party in the British General Election, the seats should break down as follows –
Conservatives – 234 seats
Labour – 188 seats
Lib Dems – 149 seats
Others – 78 seats

But it doesn’t do anything like that, so it makes it all seem quite crazy.

Still, there’ll be another election coming along soon, now that no party has overall control!

An Innocent Abroad

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It must be just me. Is this true? Is everything I’m told just complete bullshit? Or, if not bullshit, exactly, then not less than exaggeration?

For over 20 years I’ve lived a double life. There was, until more recently, the truth between V & I whereas, the stuff V said ‘in public’ was ‘exaggerated’. Then, more recently, there was the complete bullshit!

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not perfect. When I am with friends or acquaintances, I can do the “you look lovely!”; I can feign interest in their work, love lives, health, etc. Everyone does that, right? And, unless they know me really, really well, they are unable to detect the real ‘you look lovely’ from the slightly less than true ‘you look lovely’.

V’s sister, for example, could tell, more or less. To most people the difference is undetectable (unless that’s because they choose not to detect it). But it’s not a bad thing on my part, is it?

When it comes to my life, though, I can only really tell the truth. OK, well, that’s not always true, as such. I mean, sometimes, even if things have been a little shitty, I put on a brave face and say that everything’s good. Work, life, health, etc. People don’t really want to hear how ill you are, for example. Very close friends are different, of course. Best Mate always gets the truth.

But, in general, I don’t exaggerate. I would rather say nothing than tell a real lie. If, for example, someone asks me about work, I would say ‘it’s OK’ rather than go through the problems with management or issues with the job, not that there are those problems – at least, not more than normal and at least, not right now.

With V of course, some of the crap he came out with whilst we were together, I lived with and, to some extent, could go along with.

But, with F, I still have to learn. So, he tells all his Italian friends that we met in a pub. I can go along with that. He will never tell his parents. I can go along with that too. It’s OK. As long as too many questions aren’t asked of me, it will be fine.

The other day, though, was strange. We were outside a café with B, his colleague from Paris.

“Tell her how we met”, he says to me.

Puzzled and a little uncomfortable, I reply that we met in a bar. After all, that’s what he tells everyone he knows.

“But”, he continues, “you use the chat”, he states, waiting for confirmation from me. I reply in the affirmative, not really understanding where this is going.

“It’s OK”, he laughs, “she knows the truth”.

So, what was that? A test? A joke?

Still, on Sunday, when I asked about the place in Puglia, I was shocked to get the reply that he hadn’t actually booked it but just checked the availability! Anyway, it might be Umbria, apparently.

I will get used to it. I have, after all, lived with it for so long. But I still don’t understand why people (and, especially him) say these things when they’re not true.

I have ‘warned’ him before that in spite of anything he may say to anyone else, he should always tell me the truth. I hope he heard that.

Didn’t she almost have it all?

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When one has potential it always seems such a shame when the potential doesn’t materialise. Worse still, when it’s your own fault.

I’ve seen her before at, what I would say, was the peak of her career but actually near the beginning. For me the first two albums were the best and it was steadily downhill from there.

When I saw her I hated the fact that she acted like a diva. It seemed that 10 minutes of song were followed by 20 minutes of nothing – whilst she went off to get changed into yet another frock, whilst we were entertained (or, rather bored to tears) by some dancers or some music. She annoyed the hell out of me because we had tickets to see her and I wanted to hear her sing not see what pretty dresses she had in her wardrobe.

But, there was no doubt, the voice was tremendous, the songs superb (I just wanted there to be more of them).

But it was with some trepidation that I went last night to the Milan Forum at Assago to see her on her ‘come back’ tour.

I’d read some reviews (particularly those of Birmingham in the UK and some in Australia) and watched some clips on YouTube from the recent tour. Ah well, I thought, perhaps now that she’s been doing the tour for a while and got rid of the ‘bugs’, it will be a lot better.

But I wasn’t really too hopeful.

The first couple of songs were from the new album. I don’t know them. OK, so her voice didn’t seem perfect but it was OK, as far as I could tell. Then a couple more.

The voice cracked in places. The same sort of ‘crack’ that happens when a boy’s voice is changing. Then she seemed to beg. Begging to be liked is never a good thing and this is what it seemed like. During the whole thing references were made to the fact that she was only human, that she hoped that her voice would be OK. She said something about there being a cold draught from one side of the stage and that, as any Diva would tell you (which made me almost laugh out loud – her? A Diva??), was a difficult thing – comparing herself to Aretha Frankly and Dione Warwick! WTF?

Then she went off. We were ‘treated’ to her brother making some dreadful attempt to sing one of her songs. I hardly recognised it. There was some boring dancing. We waited.

She reappeared in some sparkling, golden, diva-style dress with a fur coat over the top (to stop the draught, I suppose). She looked old and fat – but fat because she was bloated not fat that comes to us all with age. She looked tired. She sweated a lot (and I mean A LOT).

And then she sang some songs. It was as if the almost acceptable woman had gone backstage and changed outfit but also changed into a different person. It was absolutely dreadful.

It sounded more like a really poor Ertha Kitt – at least Ertha could hold a tune!

OK so, the most well known song wasn’t as bad as the ones I had seen on YouTube but, still, the range has gone and the voice did crack in one place.

It was like watching a train wreck happening in slow motion. At one point, as she went to sit on a high chair, it seemed as if she was going to topple over backwards! She seemed older and, to be honest, it seemed as if she had had several lines of coke whilst she had been backstage.

There were occasional flashes of what she was. Some parts of some songs, filled with the emotional power she became famous for; held in tune.

But this was sad. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her collapse on stage and to be told later that she had died. It was like everyone was there to see her very last performance.

The crowd went wild at many parts. But this was not because she was good. This was because of what she had been and the fact that they were fans. I am not a real fan. I could hear how dreadful it was. Quite a number of people started leaving before the end – maybe they had other reasons to leave.

I shook my head as I watched her; I squirmed inside for the sight of a once-great singer singing out-of tune; I felt sorry for her and for what she should have been but, now, would never be, even if she did ‘clean herself up’.

Towards the end was this one below – but by then it was apparent that she couldn’t sing any more. I prefer to remember her as she was. This song was the one that used to get me excited about going out – going out to a club and dancing – curbing my natural shyness.

Whitney Houston could have been great by now. Not, perhaps, in the same way as Barbara Streisand but great, nonetheless. Instead, it would have been better for her not to have performed. If I had paid the €180 it cost to sit in the first few rows, I would have been more than disappointed.

But it was sad to see and hear. And, in spite of the cheering and ovation, I wonder how many of these people would go back to see her again?

Such a shame. This song of hers seems to sum it up.

Update: Of course, within a couple of years she was dead and so, I saw her twice. I prefer to remember the first time.

Italian begging is different.

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There are a lot of beggars here, in Milan.

There are those whose ‘job’ it is, sitting on the pavements, hand outstretched, wanting money. Italians, down on their luck; people with deformities or missing or mis-shapen limbs – showing off those limbs like some circus freak show; ordinary people who want to cadge a cigarette from you.

And then, yesterday afternoon there was the guy asking me for a couple of euro for ice-cream!

I mean to say, I understand all the other people – but begging for ice-cream?????

Only in Italy, I’m sure.

Going some places and not others …….. at least, not yet!

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“No, I haven’t been invited, yet”, I reply.

He pulls a face and makes that little sound that says he’s ever so lightly annoyed. I smile and touch his arm. It’s my little joke, as he knows. Yet, it’s no joke really and he knows that too. It puts some pressure on him but I never mention it unless someone asks me. I won’t do that. It’s part of the game. The one where I don’t push; where I wait for him to suggest or make the first move. The rules were set up from the beginning – from the time when I would have moved in with him in a second and he wanted to take it so slow. It’s now the habit.

We had been talking about summer holidays. Someone asked where we planned to go. I get that warm and fuzzy feeling knowing that we have discussed the possibilities and I can repeat them without fear that they won’t happen. I start saying the options that we’ve been thinking of.

“We’re going to Puglia”, he says, interrupting me. “I already booked”

“You did?”, I query.

“Yes, I’m just waiting for the confirmation.”

I turn to the other dinner party guests and say “We’re going to Puglia, apparently”.  They laugh.

He’s spontaneous – but it’s always planned spontaneity, if you understand me. I am happy for it. I am excited by it. The place will have a pool,I know. The place will take the dogs, I know. There’ll be the sitting by the pool and the long walks with the dogs. There’ll be the trips to towns or some other places. It will be as perfect as it could be for me. I am so very happy about this. Puglia is a great place to go. We will have two weeks or 10 days and I don’t care since we shall be together, all four of us.

Then someone asks him about where he comes from. And then they turn to me and ask if I’ve been, expecting a ‘yes’. Instead they get the response I wrote at the top of this post. I want to go but I can and will wait. It is only very gentle pressure that I am applying – it’s not a ‘deal breaker’ and I want it to happen when he’s ready (or when other people are ready, maybe).

I expect it will be before Puglia – just for a weekend but there are many things before Puglia.

Later, in bed, we kiss. I am so happy that, now, we can kiss properly again and tell him so. We hold each other and, again, I think that I am so very fortunate.

Maybe it’s not what it seemed?

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It’s an up-market restaurant. I have described it before. Most of the men wore suits and normally with a tie, in spite of the weather outside being close to 30 degrees; the women wearing evening/cocktail dresses – often black since, in spite of fashion trends, ‘black’ will always be the new ‘black’.

F recognised someone who owned a shop near Jil Sander in Milan. The clientèle being of that calibre – wealthy! The tables are really too close together – and too many and the acoustics are terrible – not enough soft furnishings to quieten the noise from the diners. The place was full – you could say heaving.  And, yet …………

The food was divine. As a antipasto, I had three large pieces of octopus sunk into a bowl of purée but coloured with saffron – very hot; the octopus meaty and yet not tough, not chewy. The portion was more than generous. We knew it would be and, so, opted to skip the primo. For secondo I had manzo – entrecôte steak – cooked to perfection and as you cut it, like butter – as you eat it – the texture of properly done liver – so soft and nice. But the sweets – I had pastry tart filled with crema (like custard) and topped with wild strawberries which were so sweet; F had the same base but filled with a kind of thick chocolate cream (but really chocolatey) topped with pistachio – we had half and half of course and the chocolate desert was to die for.

Sure we (or rather, I, since it was my birthday) paid a hefty sum for this meal – not far from €200 – but it was worth it – the food being divine. And we talked. Not about anything in particular but, still, it was talking and laughing and having fun and it was lovely.

As we were there, ‘one’ table of about 6 people finished and the left. The waiters then split the table in two and on one there were three ‘business’ men and the other was a couple.

Well, I say ‘couple’. The man, probably in his 40s but looking older, ugly and very overweight, dressed in a dark grey suit sat opposite a guy who was, probably in his thirties. As a couple they looked very out of place. The younger guy looked so out of place in this restaurant. I mean to say, we were not in suits but rather jeans and shirts – casual but smart. But we were both the same – dressed at the same level. The younger guy in this situation was in jeans and a check shirt and wore a baseball cap (the wrong way round as is the norm for teenagers – and he was no teenager) which he continued to wear whilst he ate. He spent some time on his mobile telephone; he was laid back in his chair like he was being over-casual about everything; when he got to eating he ate in a way that indicated he had never been shown how to use a knife and fork – he just didn’t belong there!

Except, of course, probably, he was there as the ‘guest’ of the fat, ugly guy and later, once he had eaten his expensive meal, there would be something in it for the FUG.

It’s just that you don’t see it so often. Again it makes me grateful for the life I’ve lead and the partner I now have and that I have never had to resort to ‘buying’ my partner, even short-term. Even so, there was something almost paedophilic about it, even if, in reality, it wasn’t since we weren’t talking young kids or, in fact, in spite of the baseball cap, kids of any kind. Still it was, sort of, disgusting.

Of course, maybe I got the wrong idea – but then, that would be both of us and, probably, most of the restaurant.

The restaurant being Ristorante di Giacomo.