Monza: Italy's racing Mecca
Since that unsettling business with Bianca I have been wary of Italians. That last sentence cannot possibly make sense to anyone but myself. My apologies. Allow me to explain. I met Bianca at a work-organised social function some years ago. She had a lissom figure which suggested more salad than pasta, an acute eye for the most eye-catching fashion items of the season and - I supposed - a massive purse. We were sipping summer cocktails amid the splendour of the Turner collection at Tate Britain in London and chatting about everything and nothing. The conversation moved on to the non-contentious subject of Italian cooking which I professed to love. "But you know nothing about Italian food," said Bianca, her lovely dark brown eyes widening in earnest as she said this. "I do beg your pardon, my dear girl," I said, "are you suggesting that I am making this up?" "No," she said laying a soft, beautifully manicured hand on mine, "I mean you haven't tried food in the home of an Italian." Naturally, I wondered where this was going. "Come to my home for some real Italian food," said Bianca with a wink.
Bianca worked for the London branch of an Italian bank. When I got to the neighbourhood where she lived, I instantly thought it a good idea to brush up my CV and tout it to the Italian institutions dotted about the City. Ferraris were two a penny on Bianca's street. Seconds after ringing Bianca's bell, I was faced with a sight I was unprepared for. Standing before me was a severe looking woman of middle age. Her proportions were as follows: distance from heel to top of head - 5 feet, 6 inches; distance from left hip to right hip - 5 feet, 2 inches. I felt certain I was at the wrong address but closer examination of the woman's eyes told me that I was standing before Bianca's mother.
She waved me in without a word and I was delighted to be received in the hallway by a smiling Bianca with a bracing Campari for me in her hand. "Mum's cooking tonight," she said, "you're in for a treat!" Bianca had not mentioned anything about any mums before this. Not a word. I couldn't help thinking that an ideal treat for me would be for this excrescence of a mother to evaporate. My thoughts immediately turned to the theory put forward by my friend Rod (being a Presbyterian Scot of firm values, like the new British Prime Minister, Rod frowns at my tendency to go weak at the knees at the sight of a fine female specimen from the Italian peninsula and thinks me to be a foolish fop). Rod steers well clear of Italians. According to his theory, there is a zip at the base of every Italian woman's neck - she is slender and elegant until she gets married and then she rips open the zip and all hell breaks loose.
Dinner was served and we sat down to eat. That is to say, Bianca and I sat down while Bianca's mother stood to one side watching me like a hawk. First, she brought out an antipasti dish of anchovies, tomatoes and a few other assorted, toothsome bits. I knew nothing would go down worse than for me to seem unappreciative of the large woman's cooking, so I polished off everything on my plate and mopped up any dribbly bits with bread. With a feeling of great sadness, I sipped sparingly from the glass of delicious Nero d'Avola placed before me as I ate. Bianca, meanwhile, moved things around her plate and sipped elegantly from a glass of mineral water. I thought for a fleeting moment that the antipasti was the whole meal (and would happily have contented myself with it as I was quite satisfied). I soon had to correct that thought. Next, the woman brought in a vast bowl of steaming pasta and sauce and a generous side salad. I could feel the sweat dripping down my back as I wrestled with the food under the watchful gaze of this ogress from the darkest corner of Tuscany. Conversation with Bianca was limited. Wine sipping was abandoned. The task was an enormous one but the Gods were with me on that evening and I was equal to it. I undid my belt when it was over and leant back into my chair. To my horror the severe woman disappeared again. When she emerged she had in her hand an enormous oval plate and atop it a large T-bone steak surrounded by aubergines and various other bits. I fought hard not to break down. All thoughts of a carnal nature disappeared from my brain. All I wanted was to be lowered into a grave. When I eventually got up to leave, I had to steady myself against the wall and slither towards my underground station like a slug. Bianca and I never saw each other again. Even now, the thought of that scary woman makes me break out in a cold sweat.
Perhaps I am unfair. Perhaps the intention was not to murder me with food. The lady could just as easily have been attempting to give me an authentic Italian culinary experience, for the Italians are passionate about their food. They are also passionate about their cars and speed. No country in the world can reel off a list of illustrious racing car names like this: Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati and Bugati. No surprise then that the fastest circuit in the Formula One world is at the Autodromo Nazionale di Monza, the home of the Italian Grand Prix. Monza is one of the greats. It is a magnificent place. The speed of the circuit requires thinking drivers who know a thing or two about car set-up to do well there. The set-up for Monza is unlike that used anywhere else. It is every inch a driver's circuit. Miss this weekend's action at your peril.
Not only is Monza so special, it arrives at a point in this year's calendar when the end is so near and yet so far. In his dominant years, Michael Schumacher was already world champion by the time he got to Ferrari's home race but he raced there each time with the same determination as he raced in Australia at the start of the year. None of the four championship contenders has ever won at Monza and each has had four wins this season, so on that score alone, the race is too difficult to call. The man who deserves the world championship the most is Lewis Hamilton. I do not say this because I am partial - which I unashamedly am - but do so because of the Brit's consistency. He has only failed to be on the podium on two occasions and has finished every race. Such consistency of effort is deserving of the top reward.
But Formula One is never fair. This is the home of Ferrari, the blood red team. This is the place where the Italians come to see their boys show what it is to drive a car with the black stallion emblazoned on it. It is where they come to sing and wave red flags. Unsurprisingly, Ferrari have had more race wins at Monza than any other team by a very long chalk. Going by their performance in the stifling conditions of Turkey, I expect to see another 1-2 from Ferrari. I won't be too disappointed if I do. For one it is always a pleasure to witness the ecstasy of the tifosi. Also, it doesn't do Hamilton's chances of clinching the championship too much harm.
Giuseppe, my Italian delicatessen friend, is on notice to give of his best. "Spare nothing" were his instructions. He is yet to fail me. I am looking forward to Sunday. I am sure you are too.
Enjoy Monza!
Gitau
6 September 2007
Bianca worked for the London branch of an Italian bank. When I got to the neighbourhood where she lived, I instantly thought it a good idea to brush up my CV and tout it to the Italian institutions dotted about the City. Ferraris were two a penny on Bianca's street. Seconds after ringing Bianca's bell, I was faced with a sight I was unprepared for. Standing before me was a severe looking woman of middle age. Her proportions were as follows: distance from heel to top of head - 5 feet, 6 inches; distance from left hip to right hip - 5 feet, 2 inches. I felt certain I was at the wrong address but closer examination of the woman's eyes told me that I was standing before Bianca's mother.
She waved me in without a word and I was delighted to be received in the hallway by a smiling Bianca with a bracing Campari for me in her hand. "Mum's cooking tonight," she said, "you're in for a treat!" Bianca had not mentioned anything about any mums before this. Not a word. I couldn't help thinking that an ideal treat for me would be for this excrescence of a mother to evaporate. My thoughts immediately turned to the theory put forward by my friend Rod (being a Presbyterian Scot of firm values, like the new British Prime Minister, Rod frowns at my tendency to go weak at the knees at the sight of a fine female specimen from the Italian peninsula and thinks me to be a foolish fop). Rod steers well clear of Italians. According to his theory, there is a zip at the base of every Italian woman's neck - she is slender and elegant until she gets married and then she rips open the zip and all hell breaks loose.
Dinner was served and we sat down to eat. That is to say, Bianca and I sat down while Bianca's mother stood to one side watching me like a hawk. First, she brought out an antipasti dish of anchovies, tomatoes and a few other assorted, toothsome bits. I knew nothing would go down worse than for me to seem unappreciative of the large woman's cooking, so I polished off everything on my plate and mopped up any dribbly bits with bread. With a feeling of great sadness, I sipped sparingly from the glass of delicious Nero d'Avola placed before me as I ate. Bianca, meanwhile, moved things around her plate and sipped elegantly from a glass of mineral water. I thought for a fleeting moment that the antipasti was the whole meal (and would happily have contented myself with it as I was quite satisfied). I soon had to correct that thought. Next, the woman brought in a vast bowl of steaming pasta and sauce and a generous side salad. I could feel the sweat dripping down my back as I wrestled with the food under the watchful gaze of this ogress from the darkest corner of Tuscany. Conversation with Bianca was limited. Wine sipping was abandoned. The task was an enormous one but the Gods were with me on that evening and I was equal to it. I undid my belt when it was over and leant back into my chair. To my horror the severe woman disappeared again. When she emerged she had in her hand an enormous oval plate and atop it a large T-bone steak surrounded by aubergines and various other bits. I fought hard not to break down. All thoughts of a carnal nature disappeared from my brain. All I wanted was to be lowered into a grave. When I eventually got up to leave, I had to steady myself against the wall and slither towards my underground station like a slug. Bianca and I never saw each other again. Even now, the thought of that scary woman makes me break out in a cold sweat.
Perhaps I am unfair. Perhaps the intention was not to murder me with food. The lady could just as easily have been attempting to give me an authentic Italian culinary experience, for the Italians are passionate about their food. They are also passionate about their cars and speed. No country in the world can reel off a list of illustrious racing car names like this: Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati and Bugati. No surprise then that the fastest circuit in the Formula One world is at the Autodromo Nazionale di Monza, the home of the Italian Grand Prix. Monza is one of the greats. It is a magnificent place. The speed of the circuit requires thinking drivers who know a thing or two about car set-up to do well there. The set-up for Monza is unlike that used anywhere else. It is every inch a driver's circuit. Miss this weekend's action at your peril.
Not only is Monza so special, it arrives at a point in this year's calendar when the end is so near and yet so far. In his dominant years, Michael Schumacher was already world champion by the time he got to Ferrari's home race but he raced there each time with the same determination as he raced in Australia at the start of the year. None of the four championship contenders has ever won at Monza and each has had four wins this season, so on that score alone, the race is too difficult to call. The man who deserves the world championship the most is Lewis Hamilton. I do not say this because I am partial - which I unashamedly am - but do so because of the Brit's consistency. He has only failed to be on the podium on two occasions and has finished every race. Such consistency of effort is deserving of the top reward.
But Formula One is never fair. This is the home of Ferrari, the blood red team. This is the place where the Italians come to see their boys show what it is to drive a car with the black stallion emblazoned on it. It is where they come to sing and wave red flags. Unsurprisingly, Ferrari have had more race wins at Monza than any other team by a very long chalk. Going by their performance in the stifling conditions of Turkey, I expect to see another 1-2 from Ferrari. I won't be too disappointed if I do. For one it is always a pleasure to witness the ecstasy of the tifosi. Also, it doesn't do Hamilton's chances of clinching the championship too much harm.
Giuseppe, my Italian delicatessen friend, is on notice to give of his best. "Spare nothing" were his instructions. He is yet to fail me. I am looking forward to Sunday. I am sure you are too.
Enjoy Monza!
Gitau
6 September 2007
posted by Gitau at 4:53 pm
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