Authenticity: It's The Real Thing

Authenticity is an ephemeral thing. It's like grasping air, the goal always falls short of the reach. What is the longing for and what does it mean?

“It increases your cancer risk by 30%”

“What does?” I asked suddenly tuning back in.

“Wood-smoke. Had to keep the windows closed all day.”

“Oh, all the octogenarians around here will be concerned to hear that.”

Same guest was earlier extolling the virtues of wood-fired pizza, “the authentic way.” Personally I relish those perilously carcinogenic charred edges: the frisson of risk and derring-do! But trust me, you can achieve this in an electric oven, although the flavour will lack the gorgeous phenolic smokiness that wood imparts.

It got me thinking about what a slippery customer authenticity is though. In a world scraped flat by the rollers of corporate juggernauts – where you can get the same Pizza Rut pizza in identical surroundings in Dagenham, Delhi and Dubai – the soulless sprawling tentacles of uniformity are driving a search for authenticity. It's certainly a theme that crops up in the literature and attracts people to Tuscany and Umbria. Even Italians refer to this region as 'old Italy'.

Authenticity is an ephemeral thing. It's like grasping air, the goal always falls short of the reach. What is the longing for and what does it mean? Is it simply harking back to some apocryphal past? Those who extol the virtues of the simple contadini life, presumably aren't thinking about rickets, tuberculosis and high infant mortality? Paradoxically, these bucolic romances exist alongside and within the Tuscany that is a magnet for the wealthy. The buzz this week is that Hugh Grant is moving to Anghiari. Oh hum.

A few years ago I remember seeing an article in The Observer Sunday Supplement about Tuscany. The pictures were fantastic. Boulevards of cypress trees, clouds of lavender, old stone farmhouses decorated with cobs of corn, long tables dressed in blue gingham. It pushed every 'Tuscany' button, evoking some pastoral convivial idyll. Last year English guests Phil and Cath told us they bought Italian produce from Fattoria La Vialla Organic Farm & showed us a very beautifully and expensively produced brochure which was sent to them along with gift packaged samples. I recognised the place from the Sunday Supplement and then I realised it was less than half and hour from us! A PR drive that saw features in foreign broadsheet papers? Elaborate brochures? Introductory gift packs? I was suspicious. This outfit could not possibly be Italian! We had to go and see for ourselves.

First thing I noticed on the car park were the rustic carports created out of branches with bamboo and broom roofs. That and the fact that they were rammed with German and Dutch registered cars. It was buzzing. There was a maitre'd directing visitors. This place clearly had it's act together! Very un-Italian. Then, in spite of my diminutive stature we were greeted in ..... German! We caused a bit of a kerfuffle by replying in Italian - our German not being up to much. She switched to Italian.

We were directed through to the outdoor café past a great mushroom shaped haystack and a 1940s pick-up truck so highly polished and manicured it was clearly a prop. Hens bobbed and begged for crumbs around the café tables. The scene before me was that Sunday supplement spread. Theme-Park Tuscany. Or so I thought.

Donkey Oaty

We had a walk around the olive groves where the air was heavy with the fragrance of thyme and lavender along the paths. The groves had modern piped irrigation systems and, looking into the buildings, there were stainless steel mills and storage tanks only thinly disguised by the ubiquitous dried broom and bamboo. There was a serious business here. We passed the long tables set for lunch on the terrace of a large attractive farmhouse and stood on the steps looking down the wide gravel path lined with cypresses. It was a delight to chance upon a couple of grumpy mules taking dirt baths – straight out of Don Quixote! Then we wended our way back to the café through great clouds of lavender. This place was so charming. It couldn't be for real.

Cypress Boulevard

Back at the café we had a light lunch to sample the produce. The Olive oil was to die for. The depth of colour, cloudiness and the sharp peppery notes told me this was a first pressing. No doubt about it's credentials. The bread was heavenly – it had that authentic smokiness with a robust crust and soft close textured interior. (For a second I grasped the meaning of authentic, then it slipped away.) The spelt salad and the dips made the meal complete. My friends ate the very substantial amount of pecorino with a look of ecstasy. I swept the crumbs from the table bringing a flock of friendly hens rushing towards us. Maybe it was the sun, or the scene or even the light refreshing vino bianco or a combination – but my cynicism was overthrown. We headed for the shop and bought everything we'd eaten... in industrial quantities!

I've returned half a dozen times since. I will never make my own Olive & Caper Sugo again – because I've got about 12 jars of theirs in my pantry! The Torbolone Organic Red Wine costs €5 a bottle but tastes like it should cost twenty. And I've since discovered that it is in fact Italian owned although to be honest I don't think I encountered a single Italian on the front line. Belgian, Dutch and German yes. Italian no. My friend in our village, Irene used to work there and tells me they do employ Italians.

Olive Oil Barons

I recently read Extra Virginity: The Sublime & Scandalous World of Olive Oil by Tom Mueller which gave me an insight into the economics of olive oil production. Leave aside the corruption scandals which have dented the reputation of Italian oil; the markets are flooded with intensively farmed Spanish, Turkish & Greek olive oil which depresses the price to a level where people think twice about paying the price for the small production stuff. In Tuscan shops you see Greek and Spanish oil at €4 or €5 a litre sitting next to one literally from down the road at €11 or €12. The Spanish in particular have invested heavily in intensive cultivars and sophisticated storage. The Spanish oil you buy might be more than a year old and produced largely by machines. In contrast, the Italian oil will be labour intensive and fresh. You can taste the difference. Then it suddenly dawned on me. Fattoria La Vialla is successful because of the theatre they built around their products. The products work because the whole package pulls in the punters. An authentically modern way to preserve some authentically good tastes and traditions.

If you like Breakfast In Tuscany, you might like my poetry blog: Crackle & Drag

Jonnie Falafel

The questions started out all very innocent, 'Are you a Catholic?' I clicked the 'No' option. I didn't even know why they were appearing. Vanity compelled me on. 'Do you believe in God?' There was no 'well er...' option, so again I clicked 'No'. I liked this game. Much better than the Bubble Witch Saga. I understood this one and, there were no wrong answers. The display of thumbnail pictures to right changed a little. Questions came thick and fast. And with each answer the thumbnails changed. A light went on at question thirty, “Would you have sex on a first date?” There were no options for 'I'm a bloke you numpty, it's self-evident', or 'I'd wait until later rather than cause a fuss in the restaurant.' Apparently I've joined a dating App. The Galaxy is trying to organise my love life. When I first switched it on it began talking behind my back and swiping information from any Samsung device in range. It's siphoned my Facebook profile and is putting it about Arezzo. Every answer ruled out one market and opened up another. I know because Cinzia, Elena, Daniella and half a dozen ladies of a certain age have seen my profile and are barking up the wrong tree! That's what happened. Honestly your honour.

Anyhow, here's some post-modern self-referential bloggery. A peek into my mailbox.

Is Jonnie Falafel your real name? What's this? The Spanish Inquisition? My real name is Alfonso Maria Torquemada. That had to go? Pestered night and day with a name like that! It's what happens when your sailor dad gets extended shore leave in Santiago. Dark eyebrows and salsa dancing skills? Those genes didn't emanate from Wolverhampton.

Why Italy? Classic mid-life crisis. Too many programmes of the 'No Going Back' ilk. (Actually, they've mostly all gone back!) Over-indulgence in 'memoirs' like Annie Hawes Extra Virgin about Liguria or that ex-Genesis drummer guy who wrote Driving Over lemons about Andalusia. Mind you even the guy who wrote TheDark Heart of Italy still lives in Bologna after twenty years and sings the praises of the Italian caffè.

Do you miss England? Depends which England. The rolling hills of the Yorkshire Dales. Riverside walks. Lively market towns. A good pub. The eco-socialist republic of Hebden Bridge. The ease with which things get done. Transparency of social situations. Complex conversations. People. I miss all those things. You can keep the coalition government, cutbacks, TV and the dull uniformity of towns and cities.

Have you thought about writing a book? Appeals to the ego! An alternative living would come in handy too! Alas nobody wants to pay anyone to write any more. The print market seems to have dwindled to a handful of gazillion selling authors and Amazon has depressed the price of books so much there's not much back-wash to authors. I know hand held devices are the in thing, but I haven't looked into electronic publishing beyond reading a few articles about it. Writing isn't going to remedy anyone's economic straits.

What does 'slow food vegan who knows you can't get an ought from an is' mean? Slow Food principles say food should be Good, Clean & Fair. Good, in the sense of good quality and healthy. Clean in the sense of grown with minimal or no use of pesticides & herbicides. Fair in that it should pay the producers and distributors a living. Carlo Petrini founded the movement to counter corporate food culture obscuring the connections between food production and consumption.

Slow Food

More than a decade after reading Slow Food, my thinking is more complicated. To begin with I mistook it for the 'Italian Way'. This isn't so. Whilst traditions of production are stronger here, especially in Tuscany and Umbria, the general trend is towards the same methods and bland-out of Northern Europe. The problem of earning a living that small producers face in say, Yorkshire, exists here too. And I tut-tut at folks shopping baskets almost – but not quite - as much as I did there! I can't claim the moral high ground. I love my Turkish tahini, Dutch peanut butter and Argentinian avocados! Generally speaking, the influence of the movement is exaggerated.

Some elements of it are deeply conservative; about keeping a 'closed shop' on certain products or methods (although I do understand that DOC classifications are one way producers can maintain a living). I admire the the Genuino Clandestino – groups of young farmers and producers whose guarantee of quality comes from the fact they they are local enough to know and that you can visit and check them out when you want to. Most simply cannot afford to buy into the organic or DOC closed shops.

I looked at animals, domestic & farmed (I mean farmed too! 'Farm animals' is a euphemism). They have central nervous systems and an anatomy and physiology quite like mine. It didn't seem rational that they couldn't feel or suffer in similar ways. A sort of suffocating panic came over me when I thought of the industrial scale of the suffering and the slaughter. We are lucky enough live in a time and place of plenty where, as an omnivorous species, we have the luxury to choose what we eat. The penny dropped nearly thirty four years ago. You don't have to participate.

Is vegan what you are or what you do? The dietary practice of eschewing products of animal origin? Or something more? Veganism is just one response to the industrial scale suffering of animals. One manifestation of the urge towards compassion. Anyone doing anything to tip the balance in favour of compassion should be applauded and encouraged. Indeed, in utilitarian terms it's perfectly possible for a meat eater to do more to alleviate animal suffering than a dietary vegan.

I'm not the perfect vegan. If someone slaps a lump of butter in the middle of my risotto I eat it. Vegan not possible - default to vegetarian. Take the Paris Exemption. Animal rights philosopher Peter Singer does. Jeffrey Masson does. A lot of vegans do.

There's a general confusion about matters of fact and matters of value. For example, it's argued that because we have canine teeth we are designed to eat meat. Others counter that because we have a long digestive tract we are natural herbivores. But even if we were designed to eat meat, it doesn't automatically follow that we should or ought to eat meat. We might equally conclude that we should suppress our nature in order to alleviate animal suffering or for some other moral reason. Vice versa for t the long tract persuaded. The ought doesn't logically follow from the is.

And sometimes a reader writes for advice.....

I'm thinking of moving to Italy.... Come and stay for a few months. Maybe try out some different settings, learn a bit about the culture and language, look at work options. Then retreat to a safe distance and make a rational decision.

And it's not all flattery...

Your tone is very cynical. I would admit to being sceptical. I enjoy irony. I'm the same person I was in England and I didn't Pollyanna around in a beatific haze saying all was rosy in the garden there either.

Your views about Italy are ignorant and bad mannered. When I write about iniquities I can be ill-tempered and bad mannered. Foreigners have different perspectives. For example, Bill Brysons travelogues of Britain are entertaining because he's an outsider. Insiders sometimes don't see the wood for the trees. The lake of my ignorance is much deeper and wider than the puddle of my knowledge. This isn't modesty, but the human condition. I prefer it when someone makes this kind of criticism if they would tell me on which points I am mistaken. A real exchange of views is preferable and I might even be persuaded. Everyone is free to comment on the blog. I moderate the comments but all views are welcome. I remove commercial content if it's not relevant.

Elemental

There's a lot of activity in the hills around Tenuta Savorgnano at the moment as new efforts to make the countryside more accessible  for walkers and cyclists. We've added guided walks to our repertoire this year. 

View from Col di Paiolo

Just down the road from us the hills diminish and open out into a vista where you can see beyond Umbria to the snow-capped curtain of the Appenines at the Western edge of Marche. The ancient settlement of Ponte Alla Piera with it's 13^th century bridge clusters on steps of land northwards; the dwellings thinning out the higher you look, finishing with stripes of south facing stone terraces. Olives are planted here now but I wonder if, in the past, it was chestnuts. Over to the East at this point looking down towards the Sovara River the trees are bare enough at this time of the year to see the trails and paths snaking through the hills in all directions. Look at the background of the Mona Lisa and you see a scene not unlike this.

Col di Paiolo: Picnic in the pines

For about a year now down here new chestnut fences have been erected, paths have been re-established, lay-bys on the main road reasserted, forests thinned out and old stone reinforcements of the river bank (ancient flood defences) have been rehabilitated. More recently rustic looking notice boards have appeared and brilliant directional signs. Looks like a renaissance is under way to open up this beautiful landscape once again for walkers and cyclists. Interestingly, the Communità Montana have renovated a great square stone farmhouse and a couple of weeks ago when we were out walking we noticed a sign there proclaiming “Visitors Centre”. We got excited!

From the visitors centre looking East down the valley Il Conventino  sits like a brooding solid stone block on a tongue-shaped promontory. Of uncertain origins, but possibly dating as far back as the mid-ninth century, it was a hide out for maverick monks and turbulent priests. Sold to the Count at nearby Montauto Castle, passed to the abbey at Camaldolí, supressed by Pope Pius II in 1459, receiving official recognition only in 1567, destroyed by earthquake and rebuilt twice in the 18^th century and finally relinquishing the religious life in 1786. Today it's occupied by an British couple.

The topography changes suddenly here as the valley narrows and the verdant hills give way to a gorge. Jagged steep verdigris cliffs loom up. The low winter sun doesn't penetrate to the floor of the gorge giving rise to frosts here even on the mildest winter days. Looking up

spindly pines rise vertical as plumb-lines as if they were suspended from above; the base barely resting on jagged outcrops of blue-grey rock. At certain times of the year, clouds like cotton-candy Anacondas snake through the valley and the gorge clinging to the forest canopy for dear life.

Bear Ghrylls

Rock of Ages
This is Monti Rognosi which roughly translates as 'Scabby Mountains'. I kid you not. Mountains of igneous rock, these were forged in the savage heat and and pressures near the molten core of the planet. They arise where the Earth's viscous mantle extrudes through the crust at the boundaries of tectonic plates. Indeed, these formations are key evidence in plate tectonic theory. The glossy rocks are packed with minerals. The turquoise appearance suggests a lot of copper. It seems hard to swallow, but millennia since according to geologists, this colossal mass was extruded from the ocean bed.

The high mineral content and scant topsoil has made this inhospitable terrain for habitation – of any kind. The story goes that the 'scabby' part of the name referred to the people here. Since the soil was poor and the people malnourished they were prone to skin complaints! I'm not sure how likely that is, but when we were out walking I did notice that one of the two varieties of pine that thrive here has a scaly bark that peels easily and which brought to mind psoriasis! One thing the poor conditions has done is select for some very rare plant species here. Indeed, according to the information boards only 12% of the plant life here is native. Incredibly, the pine forests were cultivated!

Plumb-line Pines

Thaw and freeze, freeze and thaw. Meteorological extremes and seismic shifts have carved out this landscape. Water seeps into clefts and fissures expanding as it freezes until eventually rocks sheer and fracture. Boulders big has cars have been known to plummet into the road below. Until late spring cataracts cascade down where streams converge eventually finding the river Sovara runing between rocky cliffs on the floor of the gorge. It's a foaming force at this time of the year a great rush: the hiss and spit always there in the background. Summer heat saps it's energy and it trickles lazily seeping between pebbles and boulders. 

Il Conventino

Today Monti Rognosi is an area for leisure. Picnicking, walking and cycling have all been renewed by recent forestry management. Can't wait to take my sarnies and a bottle of prosecco up to the Col di Piaolo to experience the cool shade of the dense pines at the height of summer. The paths now are clear, safe and well sign-posted and at points afford stupendous views out over the Tiber valley and Sansepolcro. I indulged in 'archaeology' of leisure seekers of the more recent past exploring the wreck of an old theatre in the trees with a ramshackle stage complete with shrubs growing through. There were old green hand-blown glass wine bottles knocking around – left by litter louts from the last century no doubt. I could imagine this as the setting for a pine-scented production of Midsummer Nights Dream during the long light evenings of July.

Dumb Britain

Is a regular feature in Private Eye detailing dumb answers on British quiz shows. How's about this. We were out walking in Monti Rognosi the other day. We parked in Il Coventino lay-by where our car was spotted by other Brits.

“Is this the right road for (looks at information) Choosy La Verna? (forgiveable mistake: it's Chiusi La Verna, pronounced Kee-oo-sey)

“You're on the right road. First right ahead. Continue on through Caprese Michelangelo and pick up signs there for the monastery.... I assume that's where you're heading. By the way the famous Caprese Michelangelo is worth a visit too. There's a museum.”

“Really, what's it famous for?”

“Er the clue is in the name.”

Puzzled looks and then a light went on. “Oh, the salad with Mozzarella & Basil?”

Yeah right.

The Sanest Days Are Mad

The circus came to town when Italy went to the polls. Once again the body politic can't decide if it's in Debenhams or Lewis's. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. An election dominated by a comedian.... and the Postie hates us!

Chart says: "You are a hard piece of shit"

Yes folks Silvio Berlusconi – the Bernard Manning of Italian Politics – has bounced back. The crude tactic of sending millions of households a mock up claim form to get a refund of the IMU tax (council tax) introduced by technocrat Monti, worked a treat. (I should add that Berlusconi abolished the tax that Monti reinstated to get re-elected last time. It was called ICI then. Appropriately pronounced 'itchy' in English.) Italians voted with their pockets to keep their heads in the sand. Crisis? What crisis? La la la la la , I can't hear you! Do wake up and smell the Lavazza. Outside Italy they think this dirty, duplicitous, back-stabbing phony creep personifies the national character. Bunga bunga parties, cronyism, corruption, vile racism and coarse sexism are all we hear about. Ratzinger left the big top just in time. Good riddance!

Not everybody fell for it. A vaguely centre-left coalition forms the largest bloc just short of a majority. The relatively new Movimento Cinque Stelle (5 Stars Movement) holds the balance. It sounds like a hotel classification system. It's 'leader' (comically he denies it!) comedian – the genuine article – Beppe Grillo, is king-maker. In an ironic twist Grillo's conviction for manslaughter bars him from elected office. (It was 30 years ago, down to a car accident, so not like it was in the conservatory with the lead piping!). It would be like handing the keys to the kingdom to Mark Thomas. I almost wrote Ben Elton, but he's too establishment, and then I thought Billy Connolly, but he's gone all psychobabbly. Their physical similarity is remarkable though.

Beppe Grillo: Rude Italian Gesture

Criticism of 5 Star candidates centres on their political inexperience. This can make it seem Janus-like: Grillo, “We will exit the Euro”, a candidate commenting on TV, “Oh no we won't!” Pantomime. But as Grillo humorously said, “At least they don't know how to fiddle the books.” Cynics might add “yet”. This motley troop (housewives, students, the unemployed) might be exactly what's needed to shake up a decadent, jaded and corrupt political class. Grillo promises to “rip Italian politics open like a can of tuna”.... so that's where the smell is coming from! There's something rotten in the state of Italy.

The young who haven't voted with their feet and gone to Northern Europe or Brazil are flocking to the Mad Hatters Tea Party. Italian justice is a game. A back-log of five and a half million cases and a statute of limitations that times out faster than a dial-up connection allows Berlusconi to be dragged through the shit and come up smelling of roses. Not once but time and time again. Equal opportunity? You must be joking. Grillo wants to end the 'who you know' system that dominates access to jobs and office. Italian politics is a gravy train. The buffers are just ahead.

Madness of a Different Order

The phone rings. It's the Bartolini courier company. Bartolini is the equivalent of DHL or UPS in these parts, except the vans are generally more decrepit.

“I have a parcel for you”

“Yes”

“Can I leave it somewhere in Subbiano for you to collect?”

“Where?”

“Don't you know someone I can leave it with?”

This might sound like a reasonable request but Subbiano is a good ten miles away.

“What's the address on it?”

“Località Savorgnano 5”

“That's my address. Why can't you deliver it here?”

“It's too far to come.”

“Where are you?”

“Falciano.” (A village five miles away en route to Subbiano)

“I may have misunderstood. You have a parcel addressed to me here, but you want me to collect it? Hasn't the sender paid the correct amount for delivery?”

“If you want me to bring it to you then you'll have to wait until next Thursday.”

“Why? What's happening Thursday?”

“Or if you come to Falciano within the next ten minutes I will give it to you.”

“If that's your best offer I'll see you in ten.”

Then off we go to Falciano to collect the parcel from the curmudgeon who doesn't ask for I.D.

I was telling this tale to a neighbour who kindly took charge of our mailbox while we were away. Apparently the Postie doesn't like delivering mail from England because the Royal Mail insist it's delivered on the nearest delivery day to it's arrival at the local office. Smacks too much of efficiency perhaps? She has another gripe too. The English send Christmas cards of irregular sizes. Hang me now.

Send in the clowns, there ought to be clowns. Don't bother they're here. Apologies to Stephen Sondheim.

The Edible Spoon

“Sometimes” sang Neil Young, “old ways can drag you down”. Tradition is a double-edged sword. Thankfully for veggies and vegans there's enough to choose from on the average menu in Tuscany.

Original Veggie Restaurant in Florence

Pizza Marinara. Suggestive of fish? The ubiquitous anchovy perhaps? It often gets top billing because it's the simplest and therefore the cheapest. Tomato sauce, a good hit of garlic and a soupçon of oregano. That's all folks. It's only a great sludge of flavour neutralising rubbery mozzarella away from the Margherita – usually next on the list - but totally vegan. The best have garlic enough to kill a beginner (IMHO). Not so much a hit, but complete taste bud assault and battery. Vampire repellent. Vegan and fancy pizza? Start here. Then add whatever other ingredients you see elsewhere on the menu. For me a slug of salty capers (più caperi – pron. “pee-oo”. So it's “pee-oo” then whatever pleases you) does it. Finish with a generous drizzle of chilli oil (no Italian required since it'll be part of the furniture in any pizzeria worth its salt).

But every silver lining has a cloud. Vegans invoking the Paris exemption¹, or veggie Calvinists note: the cheese you're tucking into is probably made using animal rennet. Even some notable vegetarian establishments will charge you more if you want cheese made with non-animal rennet. Fair enough; it's harder to get and it costs more. Then again they're not singing very loudly about their non-veggie cheese.

Panzanella

But get a grip, stop whining and have a word with yourselves. Loads of Italian dishes are traditionally vegan or easily veganisable. Penne al arrabiata, Spaghetti agli'olio, Bruschette, Panzanella, Risotto, Macedonia (it's fruit salad!) to name a few. Even within traditional Tuscan/Umbrian cuisine there's a fair number of choices. The rest of Italy call Tuscans the 'bean eaters' for reasons other than the pejorative suggestion that they're simple. Zuppa di fagioli, (bean soup), Zuppa di farro (spelt soup) and Ribollita (anything goes whatever left over veg and beans there are with a bit of pasta thrown in, soup) are heavenly and satisfying when done well and served in big portions. I love a plate of Ceci con Rosmarino, (chick peas with rosemary). Mash them down on thick slices of bread with the back of your fork so that the unctuous garlicky (spot a theme) juices drizzle down fingers and chin. It's why you have a napkin!

Ham bones in the stock? I've never come across them. I don't think anyone has tried to pull the wool over my eyes. I can usually sniff out an anchovy in a gallon of mayonnaise and the congealing mouth-feel of animal fats is an instant give away... so don't even try! Parmesan or Grana Padana are usually served separately for these dishes. Watch what's happening with other diners and then decide if the issue needs tackling. Once I ordered the chick peas to find a huge chunk of butter melting in the middle that wasn't mentioned on the menu. I removed it and continued as normal. If it had been meat or fish I'd have sent it back. It's your call.

Eat whatever you please from the menu. Nobody sticks rigidly to the traditional five courses. Anyway, if you are foreign a level of weirdness is de rigeur! You're more likely to find acceptable dishes in the 'antipasti', 'primi' and 'contorni' sections. Be warned: antipasti suggests a little something before the meal but they can be quite substantial offerings. Cheese and fish often creep into antipasti called 'vegetariano', so it's best to look at the ingredients of all the antipasti and then invent your own combination. Most places will sell you a plate of mixed antipasti for a whole party. Artichokes, grilled peppers, aubergines and zucchini are delicious; especially if they've been stored under oil. Again, squashed onto a chunk of bread and eaten with some beans they're a meal themselves. Primi tend to be all the pasta, rice and soup dishes. Contorni are vegetables or side dishes and always disproportionately expensive. You can pay €5 plus for a dollop of spinach! Salads are in this section too and in spite of the variety of good fruit and vegetables you see on markets they are usually nothing to write home about. Moreover, your only dressing will be olive oil and either white wine or balsamic vinegar. There are few places that do salad well. When you find one, relish it.

Honey is the food of Beelzebub, and not for reasons vegan. Bee-keeping versus the industrial scale suffering of farmed animals with anatomy and physiology just like mine? Frankly, comparisons are barmy. It's hard times for the humble honey bee as populations diminish and I wonder if we shouldn't be thankful to bee-keepers trying to preserve and nurture a cornerstone of the ecology. But you need to be aware that honey is used a lot if it offends your taste or ethics.

Foccacia, dripping with olive oil and encrusted with flaked salt is as rare as rocking horse excrement. Do Tuscans believe it's for sissies? Bread here emerges from the oven as tough as coconut matting: only with less flavour. There's no salt! Granted, the locals seem to like it. (I once watched someone tear the middle out of a loaf and I imagined it was so she could eat the softest bit. No, she threw it away and chowed down on the balsa crust) But press the chickpeas or the antipasti into it and suddenly a light comes on. It's an edible spoon. Or turn it into Panzanella with lemon juice and a good olive oil and suddenly you're onto something.

Hearty Zuppa di Farro (Spelt Soup)

The no salt rule they say, is an anachronism. Apparently salt was once excessively taxed. But why keep on doing it? It's just the way it is and ipso facto must forever be. Funghi must always be married with sage and no other herb. You didn't know that?! Culinary stick in the muds. I once spotted an Indian restaurant in altrarno Florence. My excitement was somewhat diminished when the first two items on the menu were Lasagne and (more weirdly) Doner Kebab. If they made lasagne why why couldn't they stretch to Mousaka? The raw material is there! Would it be just too weird? It's only a step away from Melanzane Parmigiano for goodness sake. Straying too far is commercial suicide maybe? Perhaps it's the imperative that makes the Japanese restaurants (a rarity, by the way) bill the glass noodles as 'spaghetti' and serve Tiramisu for dessert! Doesn't frighten the horses.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not knocking traditions, but dogmatism. I don't propose throwing the bimbo out with the bathwater. Art didn't end with the renaissance and the idea that it's either McDonalds or Wild Boar stew is just as potty (listen and learn Slow Food conservatives!). But where traditions are extended and where other influences thrive so usually do the options for veg*ns. Inside the box thinking among Italian veg*ns is evident in the over-reliance on the hideous sietan as a meat substitute. Thankfully, for those of us who prefer our main course unvulcanised this too is gradually being broken down and Italian veggie food blogs and cook books are beginning to pull in other influences.

On a practical note Happy Cow is a great resource for visiting veggies. Check it out. The places I'd recommend if you're in Florence are the long established scrubbed table canteen of Il Vegetariano. ² I'm happy to report that the salads here are fabulous and the system for ordering food entertainingly arcane. Outside the box, but very central and near the river is Libreria Brac³. As the name suggests it's housed in a bookshop. Indeed, you dine among the bookshelves filled with tomes on architecture and design. Their penne comes with (cue fanfare) a curry sauce and their fennel, orange and almond salad is more than the sum of it's parts and in gut-busting portions!

1. The 'Paris exemption' was coined by  Peter Singer of philosophy fame and advocates defaulting to vegetarianism where no vegan options are available. 'Paris' because France is notoriously unadaptable to vegetarianism. 
2. Il Vegetariano
3. Liberia Brac

The Italian Shop-Keepers Manual

Picture the scene. Subbiano Post Office, 12 noon January 31^st 2013. Flyers in the Soviet-style foyer declare deadlines and events weeks, even months out of date. Almost obscured by a leaflet display there's a yellowing funghi collection price list. You can buy a years licence for €16. Visitors can buy the privilege for about 300 times the price at €15 a day! Bizarre. Never heard of anyone popping down to the post office before going off to woods to get dinner. Above the heads of the assembled (it's not really a queue) a three and a zero clunk noisily into place. 3.30am 25 Settembre, Giovedi reads the digital clock. What? Perhaps I've just slipped backwards through a tear in the fabric of space-time. I'm not sure what year it is.

After about twenty minutes wait, during which the throng mill around and swan about but never actually get closer to the counter, it dawns on me the date and time might just be an indication of when its expected we'll be served. You know, like the call centre robots who say, “Your call is appreciated and will be answered in twen-ty sec-onds”. How do they know? But that would be too much like service culture. It barely exists here. Of course I don't mean that toothy-grinned assistant who says, “Hi, how are you today?”. (Paul deploys the acerbic, “I'm insincere, how are you?”) across the Atlantic. I mean some happy medium and a little human warmth.

Volterra: Roman Amphitheatre

Perhaps the shiny new drinks and snacks machine installed since my last visit is a nod to customer care. Crisps, chocolate, water & iced-tea are available so that nobody should succumb to hypoglycaemia or dehydration during the purgatorial wait. Too bloody obvious to install a stamp machine and cut the queue by half. Is it a symptom of the new Euro-crisis shaped reality here? Monti solutions should ring bells with the British. Get your state industries to start earning. McDonald’s in hospitals and nurseries: fine. That's progress. Bugger mission drift. Anyhow, I don't want to go all political on you because when we reached the counter we wrapped up our bill paying business inside about thirty seconds. The lady smiled and wished us 'Buona giornata'. Redeemed!

Public or private, I'm not partisan. In fact I'm an equal opportunity grouch. Business consultancy could be huge here. Except nobody can be bothered. For what it's worth – and this is probably as good as you'll get from Mary Portas – I offer it free, una volta solo! From experience:

Look open: This means having the lights on and the door unlocked. It's amazing the impact this will have on your profits. I've lost count of the number of places I've started to walk away from only to watch somebody walk in. I know it saves money on the electric bill, but so do low energy light bulbs!

Look interested: Yeah, I know it's a drag to look up from facebook and say hello but hey, we're customers and in England we know best. I'll tell you now, I once had to mime toilet tissue in Turkey so you got off lightly with mine for washing line. How on earth did you think I meant soap powder? Really, you shouldn't roll your eyes and gesticulate wildly. The minimum standard in this category is don't look hostile. Refrain from glaring at the back of the shop with your arms folded like a Russian shot-putter on testosterone. It's menacing. How was I to know the matches rule? It obvious the only place you can buy them is the Tabbachi and not the hardware. Stupid me! Don't laugh your customers out of the shop. And don't shadow your customers around your ambitiously priced antiques emporium so they can smell your breath mints. English folk do not like the two metre exclusion zone breached!

Display your hours and stick to them: Sure I know Thursday is your closing day (wait a minute, I was here last Thursday!!) because it says so on the door. Why does it always say when you are closed? Never your opening times. Am I supposed to intuit them? Innovative I know, but trust me it will expand your customer base. For a start I might come back if I could be sure you'd be there. And why, if you do display them, are they so arcane? Morning: 09.37 – 12.49 Evening: 15.32 – 19.44. Eh? What's wrong with half nine to half twelve and half three to half seven or eight? And it's no good when I show up at half three if you saunter up at five o'clock and the only explanation is “arrivo!” as I'm pointing to my wrist.

Tell folks what you sell: This can be done with a simple sign saying something like Giuseppe's Electrical Goods. (NB. You should only say 'electrical goods' if that's what you actually sell.) I know this is harder for some businesses like the one that sell pots and pans and, you'll never guess... tights. Unless it's customary and there's a specific local word for such retailers, what you need to address is mission drift! It's tights or pots and pans. Up to you. Be aware that Italy has a reputation for style and flair. Design awards might be a way off, but changing displays occasionally is a good indicator that the premises are not abandoned! The minimum standard to aim for here is to clean windows and remove all the dead flies. Anything else is a bonus.

Put prices on stuff: An English person will not ask what something costs but simply assume it's too expensive. I know it gets in the way of price flexing (American=astronomical, Northern European=Pushing it a bit, Italian=Nearer the market value but holding out for more). At the end of the day you will sell more stuff if you remove the ambiguity! To those almost permanently closed shops with a scribbled mobile number on a scrap of paper taped to the window, I say get real. You'll rarely get a call, but if I should leave two messages on your voice-mail and a send a text about a particular item displayed; it's good manners to reply!

Actually have a member of staff present if you are open: I waited. I drummed my fingers a bit. I whistled a happy tune and fielded enquiries, “Mauro non c'è” (Mauro's not here). His trade-mark D&G glasses were there on the counter and so were his car keys. So was the till and all the stock. Turned out Mauro had gone for a chat with the pharmacist. Nothing urgent or important, just to chew the fat. A friend of mine turned up for an appointment with the bank manager only to be told that he wasn't there, “but I've made an appointment and come into town by car”, he remonstrated. “He's down at the caffè” the teller nonchalantly explained, “so you can go and see him there.”

Tenuta Savorgnano Pool

Finally restaurant owners. I know you will protest. Pot, kettle, black and all that. I know I sprinkle Italian prepositions around sentences randomly, I know I use the compound perfect when it should be the imperfect. Subjunctives? You must be kidding. I know. You don't have to tell me. Message received. But cousin Giorgio who did your English menu isn't as fluent as you think he is. For a start he sounds like Bhorat on acid and interestingly speaks the English of google translate. You paid him in pizza I guess? Never noticed the barely contained squeal when folks order Munchrooms Tagliatelle or Rubbits Breast? The 'large slice of dry bread' just doesn't sound very appealing, but I love your bruschette! Ever wondered why you just can't shift those Tepid Hypocrites? And what about the waiter who had the hottest buns? Turned out it wasn't an outrageous claim! My advice in these matters? Don't change a thing. It had me snorting and shrieking.

My Guru Marlene

My Guru Marlene Oh Marlene, I love you! Saint Marlene of Montone (where I met her) or Melbourne (home stamping ground). A loud-mouthed sassy Oz with baggage on a three month solo sojourn in Tuscany. Reader, are you old enough to remember the soap Prisoner Cell Block H (broadcast simply as Prisoner in its antipodean homeland)? Remember Bea? Bea the top dog; Bea who must be obeyed. Even Vinegar Tits the sour-faced screw had to suck up to Bea. Marlene looked so much like Bea I couldn't stop staring across that Montone cafe. To cement a burgeoning reputation for celebrity stalking, I didn't resist asking. The question buttered no parsnips, "Thanks a bunch love, she's at least 25 bloody years older than me!"

Pen sketch of Gazebo & Tenuta Savorgnano by Paul Bijlveld

Marlene had blown into sleepy Montone like a hurricane, "I booked into this B&B for a month except I'm the only person there and there's no bloody breakfast! How do you like that?" They couldn't handle the Presence. Baristas were suddenly busy when she loomed in the doorway, "How does a girl get a bloody drink around here?" I liked her instantly. She plonked herself down right next to us, took a slug of prosecco and muscled in on the conversation of well-to-do Santa Barbarians at the next table. She cut through the tiresome pompous cant on the subject of the best wines, with a strident comment that was so undeniably true it derailed the babble of chatter all around. "The best wine", she boomed, seizing everyone's attention, "is the one you like you bloody fools." The Baristas got busy and I felt a curious mixture of embarrassment and admiration. The Californians looked fidgety. Marlene, sensing cowardly approval turned to me, "You shoulda heard 'em here last night. Complaining that the hotel doesn't have air conditioning and the pool's too cold. I mean who could've predicted Tuscany would be hot in the summer. Whadda shock! Air's too bloody hot and the water's too fuckin' cold!" She pulled her chair up to our table as the Americans retreated, "Why bother going somewhere if you want the same experience everywhere." She had a point. It's struck  me often lately how averse folk are to difference, to stepping outside their comfort zones. Maybe the trend towards the bland-out of global monoculture makes us too timid to experience anything other than the super-safe Disney version of wherever we go? As my friend Darren would say, we all want to be soothed and bathed in warm water all the time.

Marlenes' story was quite a poignant one. She'd lost a husband and son in the same accident a year previously. Her daughter had married and moved a thousand miles away. She lived alone in the sticks a couple of hours from Melbourne. Tuscany was a distraction and a way of setting off in a new direction. I suspect, she was a pretty no nonsense type before this, but you could see how the experience might amplify it. There was a lesson in there somewhere. I told her what we were doing here and she asked if it would be okay to come for just one night and have dinner. No promises mind you. I gave her a business card, but she never called.

Gay life in Tuscany She stood in the middle of the road, arms flailing like a windmill leaving us no choice. We stopped.
"Need a lift?"
"I don't know what happened to the courier." She sounded a bit put out. Around here informal transport for the elderly is so deeply ingrained, it's taken for granted. The inquisition began.
"Are you on holiday?"
"We live near the abandoned church at Savorgnano,"
"Yes, I heard some Germans had moved there."
We thought the right-hand drive British registered VW sporting a big GB sticker in the rear window was a dead give away. Evidently not.
"We're not German, we're English."
"Stop!" She blurted as we passed a frail lady hobbling along. Like an extra from Dick Whittington, she carried a knotted bundle tied to a broom balanced on her tiny shoulder. She caught up with the car and opened the door. Placing the bundle on the seat she wedged the broom in awkwardly and breathlessly asked the other lady, "Who are they?" It sounded vaguely accusatory although to be fair, you can never really tell with Italians. "They're the nice German boys who live near the church at Savorgnano." Gossip is currency. This ambiguous claim to prior knowledge, an unspoken 'didn't you know?'In unison, "We're not German, we're English." The second lady continued the inquisition.
"Are your wives there?" (The rumour mill had been in motion)
"No, we haven't got wives."
"Are you brothers?"
"No, we're not brothers."
I could sense where this line of inquiry was going. A bit of shuffling and throat clearing signaled the build up to the next question or a thunderhead of judgement gathering. I couldn't tell which.
"Are you fidanzati?" The last word carefully enunciated. The expression threw me for a second as it means 'betrothed'. It's usually reserved for engaged couples or couples living over the brush to preserve a veneer of respectability. Suddenly, it seemed apt.
"Yes, that's right."
"Oh, there's a lot of that these days."
End of chat. The conversation turned to ailments and petty complaints and not disapproval. The old ladies said thanks and disembarked hesitating only to ascertain if their return plans might fit in with ours.

We've never personally encountered censorious attitudes in Italy. Except for a notable incident with a couple of British expat B&B owners, gay coupledom seems pretty unremarkable nowadays. Indeed, some guests are so eager to evict the elephant-in-the-room that they mention their support for gay marriage within a nanosecond of arrival. (I have so far resisted morphing into Catherine Tates closet gay character Derek; but I long to exclaim, "How very dare you.....").Strange then that there is no gay venue in a city the size of Arezzo. Florence has a couple of clubs that operate in an almost clandestine manner - you have to be introduced by a member. Just like the UK 35 years back! There just doesn't seem to be anything with the visibility or confidence of Canal Street in Manchester, Soho in London, Hurst Street in Birmingham

Rooftops: Monte Santa Maria Tiberina

Things might be different in the big Northern cities. One of our Italian guests this year was a volunteer for a gay helpline in Milan. The gay newspaper Pride is written and published there. The other side of the coin is that numbnuts politicians like Berlusconi brazenly cast aspersions on gay arch-rival Nichi Vendola. Wonder how far Cameron would get campaigning that Milliband is not a 'real man'. See what I mean? Another anachronism, I've seen personal ads for 'cover marriages' - men advertising for women and vice versa for social acceptability.

Earlier this year BBC radio 4 featured some sociological research among schoolboys on Laurie Taylor's Thinking Allowed strand suggesting that these days they are mutually supportive, physically affectionate and indifferent to the sexuality - real or supposed - of friends and schoolmates. Obviously there has been a real cultural shift over the last 20 years in representation when personalities like Graham Norton are generally popular and influential opinion formers, and characters like Daffyd Thomas in Little Britain are portrayed as looking down the wrong end of the telescope. I don't think Italy has experienced the same transformation. Sure, Italy's always been a homosocial culture, men are much more touchy-feely with eachother, but the messages are mixed. A couple of men have 'come out' to us confidentially, but told us that not even long established friends know their secret. They simply accept this as the way it is and I suspect they are ill at ease around us in public: guilt by association perhaps?

And Finally........
Planet Fun. Sounds like the place for a bunga-bunga party perhaps or an underwear night maybe? A place where you might hear Margarita Pracatan any night of the week. Of course I have only read of such things. One of our guests was recently directed to the Planet Fun in broken English by an eagerly helpful sales assistant. Alas he couldn't find it. "What were you looking for?" I enquired. "A new SIM card." "Oh, that'll be Planet Fone." I said, suddenly a whole lot less interested.