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Je ne sais quois
The French have a saying: “Je ne sais quoi”, I know not what, which is employed to convey a particular sense of style rather than for its literal translation. A sort of haughtiness resulting from severe provocation such as, for example, asking a waiter in Montmartre if they speak English - as a travelling companion of Marty’s once did. It happens too that Italians also have a particular form of cool. Aloof, handsome waiters with designer stubble and champagne-company aprons, ties knotted loosely in line with the open top button of their white shirts, and a certain detachment that comes as more of a challenge to customers than an offer of service. But there is something quite appealing about this, and it also probably explains in part why Italians take three hour lunch breaks; they need it.
One guide book advised that the eye of a waiter needs to be caught at least three times before they will offer attention, even for locals, which may explain why many of the shops are closed from 12.15 until 3.15 in the afternoon. We thought it was to allow the owners siesta, but no, it is that it takes that long to get lunch. It is also the habit of many waiting staff to give priority to their regulars leaving casuals to wait whether for service or even to get the bill (“A person they will never see again is not a person but a chore”). This may explain why our lunch breaks have sometimes extended until dinner, but time is ours and it does not seem to matter.
There is something else we have noticed and that is that Italians have the same penchant for tattoos rising from the crevice between their backside cheeks as do the Irish, they just look better. These are not the bogan hot rod flames spreading across the small (or large of their backs as we previously described), but more elegant designs and it has to be noted that Italians have better, darker skin and generally more slender canvasses on which to display this particular art form. Italian women are also distinguished from their Irish counterparts by exhibiting significantly more panache than to have g-string underwear ride up from the back of their jeans. Similarly, never would you see an Italian man dressed in that appalling American rapper-inspired manner of low slung jeans, the baggy seats of which hang around their knees leaving most of their elastic-waisted boxer shorts exposed. Never in Italy would such fashion crimes be committed, although Kaelene has noticed a trend in some young women to have the front of their shorts undone, their hip bones employed as clothes hangers.
That modern sense of fashion style was not on display inland, a car ride up into the hills inland to a small trattoria where such delicacies as wild pig and rabbit were on the menu. This was deliverance country, Italian style, but the food so impeccable that Martin’s rabbit may well have been caught, dressed and cooked between his ordering and it being served. These were good, old-fashioned country people, as were the clientele, clearly locals who wandered in and out as we wiled away the hours.
At the foot of this hill lies the small town of Gravedona, larger than Domaso, but every bit as splendid with its old buildings, narrow streets, and cafes on the waterfront promenade. There is an old palazzo which houses the local council offices and an exhibition of sculpture and paintings we took in. Outside, the palazzo has beautiful grounds complete with buxus hedges (especially to please Kaelene) and, of all things, a kind of tree fern. There are probably more churches and religious monuments of various sorts here than people, but among all this history there was also a modern edge, an international sailing regatta, including boats from Australia, dotting the lake with the fluro-coloured sails of hobie-cats and other small vessels.
But for us, one of the best things about this place may be the gelato, the Italian form of ice cream which is simply beautiful and comes in a variety of flavours, the identities of which we generally have to guess at. There are the chocolate ones, those with nuts, the creamy varieties and the fruits. Then there are those described on one website (Italian Gelato Flavours Uncoded) as the oddballs, including one identified as Viagra, apparently made with herbs rather than the chemical, but which is reputed to have the same effect nevertheless. As for us, limone, a tangy lemon sorbet, is our favourite but it maybe not a lucky one for Ali Moodie who yesterday saw his two-scoop gelato, limone tempered with berry, topple off the cone just moments after the gelataria closed for its owner’s three hour siesta.