Foreign Territories

I think the majority of Brits can say they've given their taste-buds a run for their money. The mere fact that Chicken Tikka Marsala is the most popular dish in the UK confirms this. Whilst not exactly authentic Indian cuisine, it's still an English and Indian fusion. A joint effort and a successful example of experimentation.

Now hold that thought and apply it to the Italians... The last time anyone tried to mess around with their cuisine, there was an outcry and a law passed as a result. Remember the Hawaiian pizza saga? Some ballsy sod tried pineapple on a pizza which turned out to be pretty tasty. The result of which found it's place on many Italian restaurant menus. So why's it so hard to find this sweet but savoury pizza? Because a law has since been passed to ensure that a hawaiian's home is in Hawaii and not an Italian pizza oven.

This Italian aversion to experimentation was highlighted last night, when I suggested that we opted for something other than Italian food for dinner. Daily doses of pasta (sometimes x 2) and rice leaves the foreign palette seeking pleasure elsewhere (if only for a change before once again making pirouettes with your spaghetti). My suggestion was made at 7.30pm. We didn't leave the house until 9.30pm. We didn't eat until 10pm (due to a last minute change-of-heart on route). In between 7.30pm and 10pm, menus were perused online (thank god for the web), questions asked (is the food spicy, is the fish raw, is the food fried/roasted...?) and reassuring promises made (on my part) of edibility. With all this taken into consideration, the conclusion was Chinese. Similar in the sense that the cuisine is based on rice and noodles (near enough to spaghetti), all parties felt that this was the safest option (Japanese contained raw fish and Indian was too spicy).

So we set out, a group of dawdling Italians, to conquer China... and then we made a diversion to America. A sign to an American Diner proved too enticing to my intrepid explorers (burgers, sandwiched in bread, loosely resemble paninis and chips are universally accepted, even in Italy). 'As seen on TV' this food might be plastic, but to the unadventurous Italian, safety comes first.

Eye-catching Candy

What do Italians love more than pizza, pasta and coffee? The answer, for anyone who’s done a stint in Italy, will roll off the tongue: dogs and babies. Whilst the Italian stallion admittedly enjoys a good life, he’d surely opt to be an Italian dog/baby in the next life. Who wouldn’t? It’s a one way ticket to VIP status. The amount of attention they receive is remarkable and at the same time quite understandable. For someone who’s always thought babies resemble aliens (head too large, gurgling noises etc.) and shown utter ambivalence to man’s best friend, I’ve been amazed to find myself cooing in tandem with the Italians.

At first this unexpected reaction of mine, left me wondering whether I was reaching the maternal stage of my life (I won’t say ‘clucky’ due to chicken-brain connotations). The prospect of the dissolution of Numero Uno (me) left me pondering over the alluring power of Italian babies and dogs. What did they have that did it for me in a way that their English counterparts hadn’t? And then it hit me. Italian babies and dogs know how to mind their Ps &Qs. No wailing, mucky faces (worse-bottoms); none of that baby/dog smell that has you grasping at nappies/pooper skoopers; no drool smears (on you and them). Forget any thoughts of superiority on our part, these bambini and cani, with their royal manners, deserve nothing less than royal treatment. And red carpet treatment they get; allowed into any venue: restaurants, delis, cafes, hairdressers – you name it they’re ushered in. Bystanders ooooh and ahhhh whilst lunging forward to touch the deity (even better, stroke). No Italian ‘strut’ has a hope when a baby/dog’s in the vicinity; they’re simply troppo bellino (too ‘itsy bitsy cute’) damn it.

Everyone's at It

Whilst the rest of the world is dreaming of a white Christmas (could this year be the year?), the Italians are looking to the heavens for other reasons. Since the beginning of November, the Olive harvest has been in full swing. All over the countryside, olive trees are displaying signs of their own take on the traditional Christmas bouboule. Some black, some green, some small and some large; all are being watched as they grow heavy with oil. Pregnant with promise, these seemingly insignificant fruit are the jewels in the crown of Italian culture.

Olive oil in Italy is like bread and butter to the western world. An Italian family will get through litres of the stuff every month. No Italian table is complete without a bottle of olive oil taking centre stage. The demand is so high that whilst the Italians produce 20% of the world’s olive oil, they also consume an impressive 28% of it. Whilst the rest of the Western world might use it as a base for frying or dressing salads, the Italians will drizzle it on soups, pasta, rice, fish, meat and vegetables. In the same way that the British are partial to dipping biscuits in tea and the Americans for 'dunkin doughnuts' (now branded such), the Italians would rather douse their bread with oil.

For the Tuscans, it is especially important. Considered to be their most treasured asset, the oil produced in this region continues to be un-paralleled in both Italy and the rest of the world. From late October-January, the Tuscan landscape remains under a veil of olive nets. In direct contradiction to the Italian's dislike of planning-ahead, families gather together to ensure that every olive is taken care of. Nets are painstakingly sewn together and laid over a landscape that rolls up and down like a turbulent sea. Steep, rocky paths are climbed by i nonni and bambini alike as each generation plays its part to prevent any olives 'slipping through the net'. For foreigners/city dwellers unused to the annual routine of the olive harvest, it is a rare opportunity to witness family members working harmoniously together. Requiring much patience, it is a quiet process that demands concentration. Radios don't blare out music, phones don't ring and even conversation is muted. Each generation focuses on the task in hand: to collect as many olives as possible during the daylight hours.

In much the same way that the harvest breaches the generation gap, it also remains classless. Most frantolios, olive presses, require a minimum of 250 kilos of olives for a single pressing which allows for families with few trees to line their store cupboards for the year. For those who can't make up the minimum weight, there remains the option to contribute produce to the communal pot and partake in a collective pressing. In Italy, no olive is left out in the cold and this applies to the people collecting them. Prices are reasonable, approximately 80 euros for a pressing, and nets, baskets and sticks used year after year. Olive harvesting is such a collective passion for the Italians that first-timers will usually be able to loan the basics from enthusiastic neighbours, only too keen to impart their knowledge. However, virgin olive pickers be warned, whilst enthusiasm is welcomed by the Italians a piano piano approach is required. Always ask questions and pay heed to advice when it's given. Grown Italian men are prone to cry over the misuse of olive trees - even when not their own.

Whilst the dream of ‘pick-your-own’ might be appealing to some, in today’s fast paced world, time (or lack of it) can prove too costly. For those who want to enjoy their olive oil without the forethought, the market place can prove hard to navigate. Supermarkets are saturated with olive oil, following the media attention from celebrity chefs and it’s all too easy to pay for this liquid gold without actually getting it. Often olive oil can be blended and bottled in Italy and then labelled Italian when the olives themselves have actually come from Spain, Tunisia, Turkey or Greece. The same can be said of Tuscan olive oil. The name holds such weight that producers want the region on the bottle. However, in many cases it’s only the latter stages of the processing that take place in Tuscany.

To ensure ‘liquid gold standard’, observe the label carefully. The best olive oil is classified as ‘extra virgin’, which requires the acidity to be below 2%. The very best Tuscan extra virgin olive oils have acidity of less than 0.01%. These superior oils will always be cold-pressed within the first 48 hours, better still 24 hours. As heat alters the property of the oil, cold-pressing is required to retain its purity. If presented with the opportunity to taste the oil, take it. Generally Tuscan oils will have a peppery finish. The most classic of them have a green flavour, often described akin to Sauvignon Blanc with notes of green apple, artichoke and fresh grass. Other oils tend to be rounder and nuttier. The olio nuovo garnered from the initial pressing is notably green and cloudy. Whilst slightly bitter, the majority of Italians consider it to be of the most premium quality. This oil will retain its unique flavour for two-three months before mellowing out. However, oil can also last up to two years if kept well-sealed and stored in wine cellar conditions.

Whilst good olive oil doesn’t require a recipe to compliment it, bread is as good as any other accompaniment; the current season presents the perfect opportunity to enjoy both artichokes and oil at their best. So after sampling the new oil in the traditional Italian way with toasted bruschetta (pronounced brus-kett-a and not bru-shett-a!), enjoy the combination of finely cut artichoke hearts crudo drizzled with oil, lemon and pepper.

Character/Culture/Climate...?

Big boys don't cry or do they, dependent on where they are? In Italy, daily life is driven by emotion. Whilst the British are known to have a more temperate nature (critics would say bland) and the Germanic nations even more so (to the point of being deemed cold), the Italian heart takes priority. It is allowed to indulge itself, not when it's considered appropriate but whenever it fancies. Unlike the British, the Italians won't say that everything's fine and keep a 'stiff upper lip' (saving it for the privacy of their own homes) but will actively open the flood-gates, no matter what the environment. Whilst the stereotypical image of the Italian is one of passion (hands in the air etc) it should also extend to a cartoon-strip of other emotions, including sadness.

When asked how they are, Italians will often reply abbastanza bene meaning quite well. Most other nationalities would simply reply 'well' without even thinking. Not so with the Italians. Emotions aren't ever 'palmed off'. If things aren't well, they won't let you believe that they are. That would allow the person asking the question, far too easy a ride! The other day, I asked my colleagues how they all were and was surprised to be met with a series of male (bad). After questioning the reasoning behind this bleak response, they blamed the grey weather as a valid explanation. Apparently Italians are more sensitive to changes in their emotions because of the ever-changing climate. It affects their blood pressures you see. In their eyes, this explains many things. Have you ever wondered why the Southern Italians are particularly re-known for their fiery personalities? The weather's more prone to extremities in the south, that's why. The British climate on the other hand is very temperate which is reflected in the more passive, level-headed nature of the nation.

Whilst the logic to this might appear flawed to the most level-headed Brit, it can't be disputed that the Italians whole heartedly believe that emotions take hold of mind, body and soul. Grown men will weep over a badly pruned olive tree, lovers in the initial stages of a relationship will cease to function because of their inability to sleep (does he, doesn't he love me?) and seek solace in herbal teas to steady rising nerves. Yesterday, I found myself providing a shoulder to cry on for a very big boy as he wept over the break-down of his relationship. He cried solidly for three hours and remains red-eyed today (last sighting of him was on his way home to mama). In between sobs, he divulged that he'd had to call off the short-lived relationship because it hurt his heart too much. In any other country his masculinity might well be called into question, but emotion doesn't seek conclusions in Italy. Emotion simply 'is’. The boy in question is very masculine and very normal - he's just very Italian as well. The only conclusion to determine is whether such emotional freedom is a good or a bad thing. It might help to add that a recent post has been uploaded to this tortured boy's facebook wall: a clip of the song 'Love will kill you'.

Too many cooks (but only of the British kind)

Last night, I decided to play with fire and push the boundaries. It was a Saturday night, I'd had a glass of wine and was in the company of good friends. Feeling a bit cocky, I thought it was time to make the move from dish-washer to sous chef. After five months of observing dinner-prep, my housemates had begun to release their apron strings; occasionally I was asked to taste the food, prior to serving. This seemed to be a sure-sign that my opinion, albeit English, was worth taking into consideration. The next step, I allowed my ego to believe, was active participation, rather than passive commentary.

After much deliberation at the supermarket, my friends had decided to forgo the seasonal choice of pumpkin risotto or pasta with artichokes (they almost choked when I told them I didn't know what to do with fresh artichokes, having only used the ones in jars) to indulge my passion for seafood spaghetti. Naturally, this came with the pre-condition that I pay due attention to the creation of artichoke risotto and pasta next week (not one or the other but both).

In England, whenever I eat at an Italian restaurant I opt for seafood pasta. It's my favourite and something I'm well versed in, having cooked it lots of times at home. When I first arrived in Italy, I was dismayed to find that Italian restaurants only serve fish when located near the sea. Although my Italian friends (not trusting any cuisine that isn't Italian) joke that the local chinese restaurant serves fish caught from the Arno (NB very brown and murky!) It seemed the perfect dish for me to impart some knowledge and prove my clinary worth as a Brit who doesn't eat fish solely of the battered form (or out of newspaper). So for Queen and Country, I did it. I tried to dabble in the Italian kitchen.

Whilst my friend was giving the 'sugo' a final stir, I suggested that she add a drop of wine to the tomato sauce. White wine always enhnaces the flavour of fish - doesn't it? They go together like apples and cheese, marmite and crumpets, jam and scones. I was so convinced that I actually reached for the bottle... only to be rapped with the wooden spoon and a series of tuts. Yes, white wine goes with fish but white wine doesn't go with tomatoes. So there we have it, after five months and one baby step forward (white wine does go with fish - hurrah!), I still have a long way to go before dishing out cooking tips, especially to Italians brandishing cooking utensils.

Ammunition to prevent future knuckle-rapping mishaps:

1) Pesto should never be cooked - the rocket is 'crudo' raw. Stir into the pasta, once the heat is OFF.

2) Pasta requires a handful of salt in the water. Be brave.

3) Oil should be added to pasta once it is cooked - not during. Contrary to British belief, the boiling water does NOT require oil. The pasta will only stick if it's bad quality (yes, the British don't know good pasta from bad pasta... hahaha)

4) Stand to attention at all times and man your post. An Italian will never trust the instructions on the packet - test as you wait.

5) Think outside of the box. The pasta will still be cooking after you've drained it. Allow for this and turn off the heat once the pasta is a little hard.

6) Pasta is important; it takes priority. A pasta dish should consist predominantly of pasta, not sauce. My male housemate has two tablespoons of meat sauce MAX to his spag bol. Apparently mine resembled a mud pie. NB: Do NOT aim to tarmac the road with your 'sugo' (shame)

HOT TIP
Sauce-lovers should always angle for the final serving in the pan (whilst getting brownie points for appearing polite...)

New Take, Old Tradition

Apparently today is the Festa di San Martino. This festival celebrates the products of the season: chestnuts and wine. How do I know this? Via Facebook of course. Last night, a friend 'poked' me to ask how I was honouring Saint Martin. Two seconds later and I was 'Asking Jeeves'. It appears that even with age old traditions, one needs a modern-day reminder of what's 'coming up'. In Italy, it's rare to pass a week without celebrating/commemorating something. Last Sunday it was the 'Blessing of the Tractors' - the modern day farmers' version of the original 'Blessing of the Goats' and this weekend the Italians will be dousing their bruscetta with this year's new oil. It's hardly surprising that in between all the toasts, one needs a 21st century prod in the right direction.

Grub's Up!

Spotted in today's newspaper: 'Se io non ci sono o la nonna e' stanca cucina lui' (If I'm not there or granny's tired, he'll cook) and then as an additional aside 'Anche quando va dalla sua fidanzata' (Also when he's away from his girlfriend). Recounted without any form of bitterness, rather in a complimentary tone. The man can cook. Mama mia! Apparently, this Italian mama has a lot to be proud of...

Time to Kill

No man is an island... and yet when we envisage paradise, we imagine just that: an island, surrounded by an expanse of ocean, as far as the eye can see. So why the 21st century fear of solitude? Why is being alone considered something so terrible, so shameful? The phrase 'time-to-kill' says plenty of this mind-set. The realisation that time has suddenly become yours, whether it's for half an hour or more, is something to dispose of as quickly as possible. The indulgence of a few moments 'breathing space' has become something to avoid via the means of Facebook, Twitter, i-pods, mobile phones, lap tops etc. This form of escapism has become the 21st century way of taking time-out; a way to seek solace, without provoking thought.

During my first long lazy Sunday lunch in Florence, I found myself stealing glances at the Italian woman sitting at the table next to me. Here was a woman who seemed to be utterly un-phased by a lack of dining companion. In fact, she seemed to be wallowing in it. So much so, that she elongated the process by perusing the menu whilst sipping on a glass of prosecco before ordering a starter and main course, accompanied by the waiter's recommendations of wines. I found myself fixated. Not for one minute, did she reach into her handbag to strategically place a mobile phone on the table, or grasp at a book to hide behind. So why do the majority of us struggle to coordinate the use of a knife and fork whilst turning the pages of a book (even worse, newspaper - guaranteed to end up in the gravy)? Head down, eyes glued to the page (or ear strapped to the phone) we use these tools to convince others that we are juggling time, not indulging in it.

Since arriving in Italy, this vision of 'wanton solitude and nothingness' no longer grabs my attention; it’s too ordinary. The commonly used phrase of fare un po’ di niente (to do nothing) carries no shame and is something to actively seek out as highlighted by the unusual use of the verb ‘fare’ meaning ‘to do’. Italians will literally do a little of nothing. Whilst the Italian stereotype of large, boisterous family meals certainly has its place, so does a subtler, but no less enjoyable version. Italians will often enjoy long meals in their own company (without any form of 'phone a friend' life-line). In Italy, there is always a place for the solitary diner who wants to quaff their wine, play with their spaghetti and engage in light conversation with the waiter. Rather than being an isolated island, they're king of their court and enjoying the attention. Perhaps it's a case of the Italian ego enjoying being waited on hand and foot? Whatever it is, phone batteries die, and what then? Maybe we should do as the Italian’s do, stop killing-time, and simply take it instead.

Who's Looking?

Who's Looking?

The Italians, that's who; Italy is the home of the 'spettacolo'. The Italians have no shame in showing their aesthetical appreciation of something that they deem to be beautiful. Walk through Florence on a 'good day', and heads will turn, and turn again and remain that way for a precarious amount of time (chances are, said admirer will be cycling or driving). So what does one do on a good day? Stay inside to prevent a potential collision? No, one struts like a peacock, tail held high. That is if you're Italian of course; a person of another nationality would duck their head and blush (NB Jordan doesn't count).

Now this isn't an earth shattering observation. It's globally acknowledged that Italian life is driven by the aesthetic. One only has to look to the Fashion Houses of Milan and the art in Florence to appreciate the importance of cutting a 'bella figura'. However, what's slightly more insightful is the extent to which this appreciation goes. Far from being a component of the Italian mind-set, it positively engulfs it.

In Italy, bello refers to all number of beautiful things and experiences. For something to be deemed worthwhile, it often requires a degree of referential beauty. While a person will be described as beautiful, so will last night's film and the party held the night before. They too command 'beauty points', if one can refer to them as such. A foreigner may well be flattered to be greeted with 'ciao bella/o' when they enter a shop or cafe. And yet beauty is such an essential component of everyday life, that the reference should be interpreted as just that, a form of reference; not a deeply felt sentiment. Sadly, the barista in the cafe below isn't going to sweep you off your feet with an impassioned declaration of love next time you ask for your usual.

Despite the general use of the word bello, it still holds huge weight. To understand the Italian way, one needs to accept that Italians go about their daily lives with eyes wide open. Far from being rude, it's deemed acceptable to remove a plate of food as soon as the person's taken their last mouthful (and is still chewing). I found this deeply disconcerting at first, especially as I'm a slow eater. My grandpa told me that each mouthful should be chewed one hundred times and whilst I don't pay too much heed to this, my mum would tell me off for 'wolfing' my food down. At first this led to a few blushes on my part; my fellow diners would be free of their plates and I'd still be playing with my spaghetti (god knows what would happen in a Chinese restaurant, I hope the Italians aren't overly adept at using chop sticks). However, I've since learnt to understand that there's no pressure to play catch-up. On the contrary, the Italians will sit for hours allowing their food to digest. It's rather a case of a dirty plate, being considered brutto.

The same rule applies to the food itself. One never mixes components on a plate; an Italian would find it messy and therefore unappetizing (unsurprisingly KFC has yet to introduce the Variety Bucket to the Italian market!). Salads are always served separately, and most often vegetables will come as a side order. Despite being told by an Italian friend that Italian meals are lengthy affairs because eating and talking at the same time simply isn’t feasible (apparently too much energy would be taken up by such multi-tasking – one must eat and then talk), Italian meals are often long because of the number of plates required. Giving yet more weight to the saying that a woman's work is never done in the kitchen!

Of course, examples of such ‘aesthetical infiltration’, don't simply apply to eating etiquette. I took great offense when I was told off for walking behind the bar at the restaurant I work at. Apparently it's not acceptable to do this whilst carrying a handbag. At first, I thought my boss was implying that I could steal something and sneak it into my purse. However, after further investigation I realized that it was considered visually displeasing to the clients. Next step? Trial run of recently acquired fuchsia pink nail varnish? Only if I want to leave with my P45 in hand.

Learning the Lingo

The other day, I was told that Italian is the second hardest language to learn (after Chinese). This claim may have no truth behind it whatsoever, and yes I could google it if I wanted to ascertain whether its fact or fiction, but I'm not going to. When you decide to learn a language you have to expect a roller-coaster ride of ups and downs; you have days (most often evenings, post-apperativo) when you can parli like the best of them, and others when you want to stamp your foot and say ‘but in English...!’ At these points, gratifying nuggets such as the above are like gold dust. You suddenly feel a whole lot of better if you believe your goal is something Bear Grylls would blanch at.

You see, learning a new language turns you into a whining, hollering baby. You constantly feel like you want to throw (sometimes catapult) your toys out of the pram and go running home to mummy, and your mother tongue. You become defenceless, and vulnerable, like Superman minus his fetching cape and oh so tight get-up (imagine him minus his leggings - knock-kneed, white, hairy legs…you get the picture.) Learning a language means starting from scratch. You actually need to think before you speak - something we rarely do in the fast paced world of the 21st century. For the first time, since you were a baby, you have to carve your own path.

This process is slow and requires lots and lots of baby steps - one after the other, after the other. When you tumble, mummy isn’t on hand to ‘make it feel better’. No, you have to pick yourself up and start again; something that requires stamina and a Mary Poppins-sized dose of patience. Yes there are grammar books to ease you through the trauma but languages aren’t static – they’re constantly evolving. As soon as a rule is written down, it’s broken in the next breath. And who wants to sounds like a grammar book anyway? Yes it may be rather sweet to sound like Romeo asking Juliet out on a first date, but when it comes down to the date itself, you want to be able to banter like the best of them and not sound like the Queen, taking tea.

So what do you do? You change. You have to. Patience is a necessity, not an unnecessary condiment on the side. And for the first time, in this fast paced-world, you learn the importance of being very, very humble. Without a cloak to hide behind, the raw nudity of exposure leaves you blushing like the English rose you really are.

Like Clockwork

Italians love routine. They love it like they love their mother's spaghetti bolognaise, for its comfort and simplicity. The thought of mixing it up, breaking with tradition and experimenting with something new is madness in their eyes. What's the point of adding dark chocolate to a perfectly good bolognaise? Play with the ingredients and you'll have your Italian guests pushing their plate away. That's if they've even tried it. Most will shake their heads and reach for their coats. Heston, take note never to to attempt bacon and egg gelato in Italy.

To experience a slice of the real Italy, a degree of routine must be applied to daily life. Not only to avoid paying jumped-up price tags for foreigners who'll never be seen again, but for a place in the ever-whirring machine that is Italy. No man is an island and nowhere is this more poignant than in Italian culture. Whilst many acknowledge the importance of the aesthetic to the Italian mind-set, few realize the emphasis placed on routine.

In England the term, 'local' applies to the pub that one goes to most frequently (perhaps at the end of the week for a cheeky post-work pint before the missus gets home). In Italy, the term local doesn't hold the same connotations because it could be applied anywhere - the grocery store, the cafe below, the restaurant opposite, the list goes on. Everything is local because Italians don't venture far enough to make it anything else. Where do Italians most like to go on holiday? Italy. Where do they go year after year? The beach. Where at the beach? The place they went to last year (and the 10 years preceding that).

Whilst a foreigner might frequent their nearest cafe for a cappuccino at the weekend, their Italian neighbors will pop in before work, during their pausa and most often on their way home. Frequent, for an Italian, means daily or more so. If you ever find yourself waiting tables at a local Italian restaurant, rest assured that your clientele won't change regularly, if at all. Franco will always want a mezza portion of spaghetti pomodoro, with pepperoncino on the side. Every day but Saturday, he will have a soda (lemon, no ice). His lunchtime reading material will always be the Republican and he'll want to finish his meal with a macchiato (cup, tazza grande). Sadly if all the above is adhered to, like clockwork and without prompting, Franco still won't tip. He never does. And what happens on Saturday? He brings his family of course. They take the corner table (because they need room for the dog) and he has a glass of wine, instead of his usual soda.

The best thing to do, as a foreigner, is embrace this sense of routine and do as an Italian would - establish your own. Try spending your pennies at the same venues, and not only will you be purse be fuller as a result, but you'll be met with a smile, an acknowledgment and before long, you'll be handing over your first name with a warm handshake. The only warning that comes with this piece of advice is that your usual will be ready and waiting for you. Do as Italians do and you'll be treated like one (whether you like it or not).

In the Waiting Line

The Italians spend much of their time in a stationary position. This stands in direct contrast to the general belief that they are a nation of constant activity. To the rest of the world, Italians appear constantly in-haste, something that the typical Italian ragazza works hard to emulate (rarely is she seen without her mobile phone, arranging her next appuntamento). However, the reality is more complex than one is led to believe. Yes, one can concur that the Italian mentality is a fluid one, constantly demanding expression through various outward displays of expression. However, this mentality is only allowed to flow within set parameters and daily life presents innumerable hurdles, if not mountains to curtail activity, of any sort, whatsoever.

A trip to the post office, to the electrician's or to any office of any sort requiring assistance/documentation/queuing requires innumerable stamina. The thought of popping into anywhere in Italy is entirely unfeasible. Forget the To Do List, the majority of tasks will remain pending. This presents innumerable problems to progression on daily and national levels. Italian students all over the country are constantly faced with the slow mentality of their superiors who cling to the drawstrings of forward thinking and offer no release. Life is slow and a professor may or may not be at the confirmed location, at the designated time – it’s a case of ‘we will see’. An email prior to the appointment won't help either. This requires regular vigilance on the part of the prof and for innumerable reasons this is hard to come by. The only step forward is to return the next day, and the day after (whoever initiated the well-known phrase ‘to die trying’ must surely have been Italian).

Now, this by no means levels a personal attack on the education system. Admittedly it’s rotten to the core, but the lecturers (like many other professions) are drowning in a dilapidating system. A glimpse at a university will reveal minimal resources, painting peeling off walls (in between graffiti) and more recently (at the University of Architecture in Florence) a graveyard dedicated to Berlusconi and his ever-tightening purse strings (if only they were to get larger as his women get younger). Whilst, this may not offer much insight to the well-seasoned Italian holiday-maker who is already aware of the backward mentality in Italy, it does raise the question of the chicken or the egg.

Much of Italian life is founded on 'talk'. Italians bluster their way through most things. Much time is spent in public places discussing family, friends, last night’s spaghetti etc. However, how much of this talk is a necessity? Is it a way of filling time, when progression of any form is near impossible? The statistics for time spent queuing in Italy far exceed the European norm. Do the Italians simply make the best of a bad situation and make a theatre of what would otherwise be an incredibly arduous, mind numbing wait. Far better to initiate conversation with B1 and B3 in the queue than stare at the slowly ticking-clock? Is this why Italian life is founded on so much talk and spectacle?

The chicken and the egg argument raises many questions when applied to Italian life. Without systemization, Italy is often chasing its own tail. For example, is the Italian approach to running-on-time (they just don’t) a case of them being molto tranquillo or a coping mechanism founded in the belief that the simplest of activities carry an unpredictable shelf life (the post office queue could take one or two hours - who knows?). One could also ponder over the much romanticized notion of the Italian passegiata. Whilst appearing so elegant and refined (surely only the Italians would wander the streets to show off their fine forms), one might also take another view point. Is the passegiata simply a solution to a lack of outdoor city-space? Whilst New Yorkers and Londoners jog around Central and Hyde Park, the Italians are left to meander the streets. Perhaps the overarching question should be: what came first, the Italian spectacle or the spectacular survivors? And looking forward, how do the Italians crack the code?

Question Time

I think my last breath will have a question mark after it. I question everything, it's my daily staple. I wake up, yawn, and there it is, waiting for acknowledgment. With this in mind, I was particularly pleased when Roberto, my Italian teacher, initiated the well a game of ‘if I was on a desert island...’ Now this is something that I'm well versed in, I can reel off my ‘Top 5 Items’ on demand and can usually predict my fellow players ‘must have list’.

However, on this occasion I was out-gamed by the only male student in the room. Whilst, I was smuggly weighing up the likelihood of beer and TV (with Sky Sports) finding their way onto his list, he opted for his Italian nonna - verbal proof that the stereotype really does ring true. Italians and men in particular can't live without their mamas and nonnas. Whilst, I find myself constantly questioning some of the British Stereotypes that the Italians love to plant on me (contrary to popular belief, I don't have trifle for tea), it appears that your average Italian stallion really can't live without his ol' nan.

Now this turn-about of events left me with a big, fat question mark. Not because I don't adore my granny, and couldn't understand why my class mate would want her there, but because this outward display of familial emotion isn't something the Anglo American world is accustomed to, especially when it comes to elderly relatives. Yes, we make cups of tea when we visit and ask granny if she'd like a chocolate digestive on the side (two to show we really care) but when it comes down to it, a veil of ignorance is easy to hide behind.

Fair enough, we can pat ourselves on the pack and say that we're very good at minding our Ps and Qs, which don't get me wrong is all very lovely (I'm pleased to say that my granny often tells me that a ‘nice young man’ offered her a seat on the bus). Yet, in reality, no-one is bagsying the seat next to the old dear at Christmas dinner. Let's face it, when it comes down to family business, the Italians deserve that extra piece of torta della nonna every time. The truth is that the rest of us know more about our favourite celebrity’s gran than our own which leads me to another question: ‘who's losing their marbles, us or them?’

A Tumbler of Wine without the Tumble

The Italian lifestyle is a simple one, and this is no less apparent in their approach to drink. The average Italian is brought up on a diet of coffee, water and wine (in no particular order). The kitchen drinks cabinet isn’t segregated, non alcoholic drinks are mixed with the stronger stuff and the average Italian parent wouldn't blink an eyelid if their 5 year old, whilst reaching for the milk to accompany their coco pops, found they'd landed on the limoncello instead. There simply isn't a ‘top shelf’ in the kitchen. Nothing is forbidden or out of reach of wandering, prying hands. Whilst, sneaking a bottle of wine out of the house might be fun and add an element of excitement to the affair, drinking alcohol is simply that - drinking alcohol. If you want to up the stakes, you'll have to nick a bottle of your parents finest plonk; only then will an Italian mama shake her rolling pin at you.

So, why the cloak and dagger approach to drinking in the Anglo American world? Why is the image of a teenager chugging out of a brown paper bag, (or chucking-up in one) a stereotype associated with the culture? The dangers of binge drinking are constantly flaunted before the public eye and yet the majority (so the statistics inform us) still seek supposed fun in the bottom of a bottle. If we draw a comparison to the ‘Italian way’, the answer is simple: drinking in the Anglo American world is a taboo subject, whilst the Italians don't grant it any significance. The devil drink that so many people have learnt to love (and hate) isn't glorified in Italy. Table wine is simply table wine and an accompaniment to food.

During the early evening, Italian bars don’t generally advertise any form of happy hour offering drinks at a discounted rate or 2-4-1. Instead, wine bars or cafes will offer a selection of nibbles to accompany a pre-dinner drink. This hour is referred to as Aperativo and the price of the food is included in the cost of the drink. After discovering this added bonus, I questioned the reasoning behind aperativo hour. The Italian response was very matter-of-fact: drinking and eating, together, is better for the stomach (no reference to ‘lining the stomach’ indicating a night of heavy drinking ahead). At no point did the Italian Bar MAN, show any attempt at bravado, drawing a strong contrast to the over-used saying that ‘eating is cheating’ and general belief that downing, skulling, necking (take your pick) a drink is deemed macho.

So, next time you're in Italy don't ask the pretty girl sitting opposite you if she'd like to go for a drink. The Italian vocabulary doesn't provide a direct translation. Instead, be man enough to ask her out for an aperativo.

Your Daily Bread

It's fairly obvious that things are 'tits-up' (excuse the frank exchange but it's Friday and strong words are required in this instance) when a big consumer food change offers a ‘no-bread sandwich’. The definition of a ‘sandwich’, as stated by the Oxford English Dictionary, is 'two or more slices of bread or the like with a layer of meat, fish, cheese, etc., between each pair'. By removing the bread element, the sandwich becomes utterly devoid of meaning. It refers only to a ‘layer’ (of which you may take your pick - the sole requirement being that it's edible).

What is the explanation behind this no-bread sandwich? A global food chain wouldn't launch said ‘layer’ (admittedly it may consist of several different layers) to the Western world if it didn't think it was in demand. Since when did our daily bread become anything but?

The first time I ordered a panini in my local Italian deli, I was met with the question: oil and salt? At which point, I politely declined thinking that such a response was rather odd. As a result, I found myself tucking into a sandwich comprising solely of bread and meat (along with a splattering of vegetable - I like my greens). Now whilst it had all the necessary components (bread being one of them thankfully) it was rather bland, in spite of the locally sourced ingredients. The Italians you see, don't consider a sandwich as something requiring butter, marge, mayonnaise or something in between (no doubt full of sweeteners but without the guilt of calorific content). No, these frills are deemed unnecessary and rightly so. Rather, the locals approach this lunch-on-the-run option in a very sensible way. To break it down - the external layer of carbohydrate provides energy, the internal layer provides the protein, a dash of olive oil provides good fat and a sprinkling of salt is particularly helpful in a climate where you tend to sweat a lot. So why the fuss for the rest of us? Why has the much-loved sarnie gone out of fashion and why has this no-bread option become the new requirement on our daily-lunch menu?

The answer? Well, who to approach first? The much-lauded celeb dietician? Or perhaps Mr Motivator? I've heard he's had a come-back. Forget the tub of Ben & Jerry's, Bridget Jones 3 will reveal ol' loveable Bridget tucking into bread, and WHITE bread at that. The stark reality is that our previously-loved loaf has most women imagining themselves as the Michelin Man. Forget the French baguette, the Italian panini, us Anglo-Americans require the no-bread-sandwich. So where are the Parisians and Italians hiding these devilish carbs? Up their bras? The last time I looked these women had bodies to glorify, not shake a bread-stick at.

Mine's a Small Skinny Soya Cappuccino

After a couple of months in Florence and innumerable coffees later (I've recently invested in an electric toothbrush to protect my precious teeth from the dreaded coffee-drinker's blackened smile!), I can confidently conclude that any order found on a Starbucks menu would be met with bewilderment. Yes the Italians drink coffee ferociously (morning wouldn't be morning without an espresso to welcome it) but the menu is short and sweet: espresso (and for those who indulged in a late night, perhaps a doppia).

Unaccustomed to this norm, I opted for the cappuccino option for the first few weeks of my stay. In Italy, a cappuccino is simply coffee with foam. One will be sorely disappointed if you expect an indulgent dusting of chocolate on top (in the shape of a star/heart etc!) There is no skinny option, the milk comes from a cow - not a bean and the size is "as it comes".

Unlike in America and the UK, the standard size is simply: normal. How strange to the unaccustomed ear of a chain-coffee shop frequenter. In said coffee houses a regular coffee will leave you clutching at a very small cup. For regular is understood to be anything but regular. Rather to have anything akin to regular, one must request a grande. Now this instantly plays with the logic of the mind and throws regularity itself out of the window. One is forced to accept daily life on a grander scale, leaving the consumer with a vocabulary that demands more and a desire insatiated by anything representative of normal or standard.

After a few weeks of my daily cappuccino, I thought it was about time to embrace the Italian norm and requested an espresso from my local barista. My Italian espresso was rich, smooth, wonderfully thick - almost like liquid velvet. However, it saddens me to say that, despite being delicious, I wanted more. Undoubtedly my innumerable trips to chain coffee shops have yet to be beaten out of me. The next day, I ordered (to the bemusement of the barista) a Cafe Americano which now makes up my staple breakfast drink. It is the weak man's option - quite simply watered-down espresso. And yet, because there's more of it, I find it more satisfying.

Why? Why, in the modern world are we constantly craving more? Why aren't we able to satisfy ourselves with the simple things? The Coffee Giants offer so much variety, but each option (after daily consumption - nothing is done by halves after all) leaves one with a desire to try the new, improved flavour to establish whether this leaves us feeling fuller, happier, more satisfied with the daily grind. And yet, we know the answer: no it doesn't. A coffee is a coffee after all, its sole purpose is to provide us with an (admittedly enjoyable - nobody would drink it if it tasted of mud) energy boost. The Italians are aware of this - an espresso does the job. Why are the rest of us left searching for more from our coffee beans?!

Jamie we Love Ya but...

The rest of us can't fail to feel whole-heartedly inferior to the Italians when it comes to cooking. The kitchen is their passion, the cuore of the Italian home - us mere mortals can't possibly compete with their natural understanding of food. They have it, we don't - simple. Or so we're led to believe. The media delights in enforcing our deep seated insecurity. We're told that the Italians are glorified culinary geniuses who live on a daily diet of flair and creativity, whilst the rest of us stick to the (recipe) book and reach for a ruler to measure our pastry. And what's more, we lap it up and smack our lips afterwards - thank you very much paps.

The recent fad to hit our screens, is the birth of food porn which shows chefs semi-morphing into their supposed Italian counter-parts. We see them whispering sweet nothings to their veg, licking the spoon, puckering their lips (thanks Jamie), riding on a high of Foodtastic Heaven that we can only aspire to reach if we loosen up and get stuck in. Jamie tells us to ‘use our hands to toss and dress’, whilst domestic goddess Nigella Lawson teaches us the art of culinary seduction by recommending that we get our ‘fingers sticky’ if we want to find ourselves on the ‘winding road to vanilla heaven’.

Now I don't know about you, but I can't ever see my kitchen becoming the required backdrop to this show of theatre. Whilst I love and appreciate good food, the thought of dancing a jig around my kitchen, whilst waving my wooden spoon around like a magic wand, has me, well, giggling. So is this really what the Italians do to create their ‘pucker tucker’?

In a word, no. The kitchen in Italy is deemed a serious affair; it's far more black and white than we're led to believe. The Italians don't dance around their food, they just cook it. Yes, the Italian Mama may be held in god-like esteem and any Italian will always tell you that their mama does the best cooking in the world but it's just a process, a part of daily life. And what's more it doesn't require you to get all arty farty about it. Far from it, my Italian housemates religiously weigh out the pasta (making sure to stir it every three minutes when it’s cooking) and there are strict rules to adhere to: tomatoes take basil, linguine takes seafood etc. Get it? You better, because if you bend the rules, you're playing with fire. These rules make for a buon appetito. Bend them, and you'll have Italian Mamas shaking their heads from here to Naples.

I once had the pleasure (sorry, displeasure) of witnessing a tourist asking for a salami and cheese sandwich, at my local deli. The girls in the corner stopped gossiping, the work men openly turned and nudged their mates. The silly tourist, didn't understand that carpaccio goes with cheese (parmesan), prosciutto goes with cheese (mozzarella) but salami, with cheese? She didn't even specify which cheese she was after, mama mia!