Please do not tell the Italians I let their secret out!
When I first went to stay with friends in Italy a number of years ago, I didn't speak
the language at all, nor did I know anything about Italian society or etiquette.
But I soon learnt - the hard way!
In English we say "shake hands", whereas in Italy they say "squeeze hands" (stringere
la mano). The latter is a misnomer, because in my experience most Italians' handshakes
- even from the most macho of men - feel as if a barely dead cod has been placed
in your hand.
Maybe it is because they are worn out, because, unlike in Britain, people in Italy
shake hands incessantly, whether meeting for the first time, meeting casually in
the street, meeting formally, or when saying goodbye, often accompanied by a hearty
slap on the back or a huge hug. Since in England we either never shake hands with
a person at all, or shake hands only once in a lifetime - when we first meet - this
was a real shock for me. And I wasn't too popular when, for example, I left a party
I had been invited to without making a strong point of saying a formal hand-shaking
embracing goodbye to everyone, particularly the host. In Britain we usually just
give a casual wave in the direction of whoever might or might not be looking, and
wander (or more usually stagger) out.
There are also regular embraces and single, double, or even treble cheek-kissing,
none of which I ever learnt to do, and only succeeded in making the embracer or kisser
pull back in alarm, as if I had offended their dignity. And since I never discovered
why this happened, I eventually made a point of avoiding contact altogether, which
seemed to offend everyone even more, for Italians cannot even walk along together
without continually touching each other, whether male or female.
Every time you sit down to dinner in Italy it is a special occasion! Where we in
Britain simply serve ourselves, or sit at the table and wait to be served, then quickly
gobble down our junk food to try to avoid actually tasting it, the Italians mill
round for a long time before the meal is served, usually rubbing their hands in eager
anticipation of the forthcoming wondrous feast, and in the meantime enjoy a number
of "aperitivi". Then they all sit down at once, and usually wait until everyone is
served before starting. But as soon as the food appears on the plate, everyone attacks
it with gusto, and in between mouthfuls and long slurps of red wine praise the chef's
"capolavoro" and discuss how the food was prepared, right down to where the smallest
ingredient came from - and how much it may have cost!
If you are an untrained foreigner and part of a large family or restaurant gathering,
try at all costs to avoid being forced to eat bucatini in tomato sauce! This is a
trap set by Italians to root out aliens, or "non-conoscenti"! I should explain here
that bucatini are similar to spaghetti, but are much broader with a hole through
the centre, and are therefore far less flexible.
Unlike spaghetti*, bucatini do not wrap themselves round the fork - particularly
if cooked "al dente" - but as soon as one end of a bucatino is captured on the prongs,
and begins its perilous journey towards your mouth, the other end whips round maliciously
in a wide arc, splattering with bright red tomato sauce forehead, nose, tablecloth
and all down the front of your new white Valentino shirt! The Italians at table,
who have been covertly watching this sloppy display by an amateur with barely-disguised
disgust tinged with malicious glee, cast knowing glances at each other: victory -
you've been caught out - a foreign impostor!
Worse, if you are aware of this almost certain outcome and try to circumvent it by
eating particularly slowly and carefully, you will inevitably finish a number of
minutes after everyone else has polished off that dish. You will be left in no doubt,
made obvious by the loud clearing of throats, followed by pregnant silences, combined
with the contrasting noisy clatter of everyone else's empty dishes being pointedly
carried kitchenwards, that the whole gathering is more than ready to start on the
second course, but cannot do so until you, the guest, have finished. The only course
of action left to you - and by no means without risk if the proud chef should see
you - is to gently push the offending unfinished dish away, shake your head with
as much mournfulness as you can muster, and say sadly "A truly wonderful dish! Marvellous!
Alas, what a pity I was mistakenly given such an enormous portion!" Whereupon a spontaneous
audible sigh of relief will be heard above the noise of stomach-rumblings, and everyone
will relax in the knowledge that the next course is almost within their grasp!
Another piece of etiquette which I never mastered is that before properly greeting
a mother pushing a baby in a pram, one always has to waggle a number of fingers at
the baby, bring the face into extremely worrying close proximity with baby's, and
greet it with a long "Ciao-ooo carissimo!" (or carissima, being the feminine - if
you are able to guess the sex of the baby. But to me they all look alike - hideous!).
One might even have to throw in a high-pitched "Coo-ee!" or two as well. Failure
to behave in this infantile manner will definitely earn you a big black indelible
mark, as I found out to my cost: next time any erstwhile offended party, on espying
me, made a point of either looking the other way, or giving just the most cursory
of dismissive nods, and quickly pushed the pram away as speedily as possible.
Fashion is another disaster area for the unwitting foreigner. Unless you wear the
very latest expensive fashions you will be ostracised. People will, of course, try
to be polite and pass the time of day with you. They might even, in a show of magnanimity,
invite you to have a coffee with them, sitting outside the snobbish bar in the piazza.
But be aware, O Fashion Philistine, that they will, as sure as eggs is eggs, make
certain that you are sitting unobtrusively facing away from all the other customers
in a high-backed chair, lest your offending attire affect their own social standing
by association.
Driving in Italy is yet another hot potato for the unwary foreigner! Italian men
adore their cars a lot more than their wives and even their mistresses (but not,
I hasten to add, their babies!), and no one - pedestrian or other driver - must ever
dream of impeding their rapid progress through the crowded narrow streets!
As a male pedestrian, never cross a road at a zebra crossing unless there is at least
a gap of 200 metres before the approaching car! It is perfectly all right to cross
the road elsewhere, however, even if directly just metres in front of a motorist
- he will swerve around you. After all, in that case you are showing initiative!
But seeing you walking boldly across the zebra's white stripes makes any driver see
red, and he will step on the gas and do his level best to mow you down! Notice, by
the way, that I do say a male pedestrian. An attractive female walking across is
another kettle of fish! Yes, in this case the driver will still step on the gas when
she starts to cross, and any observer will be left in no doubt that the unfortunate
young lady will be pancaked onto the stripes of the zebra, but within split seconds
of hitting her he will slam on the brakes with an impressive screech causing the
car to swerve violently sidewards, and come to a standstill within a hair's breadth.
He will then wave a gracious lazy hand out of his window and allow her to proceed
by saying in his most seductive voice "PREGO, signorina!" (meaning "don't even mention
my courteousness!" not "prey go"). But the truly remarkable thing is that the young
lady concerned will either ignore him completely, without turning a hair, or give
him a bright but distainful smile which sends the inescapable message "You worm -
I know you find me sexy, but there's nothing doing!", and continue her nonchalant
walk across.
These are just a few of the areas where the foreigner should beware. I had intended
to write much more on this subject (and maybe I will continue in future) but I'll
have to get rid of this article by publishing it on the website now, before Leonora,
my beautiful, proudly Italian wife manages to see it on the screen when she comes
in to announce that dinner is ready. There'll be no problem once it's published,
as like nearly all women, she abhors anything relating to technology, and doesn't
even know how to open her own email!
If she did see it, it might be curtains for our 2-year-old marriage, which is already
on rocky ground, I'm afraid. For although she obviously loves me because I am the
most easy-going relaxed unbiased pleasant sort of Englishman, there is one fly in
the ointment: she insists that she is going to leave London and go back to Italy,
either with me or without me. True, she'd be in her element there, but I'd spend
most of my time in her huge family's doghouse.
Anyway, dinner's ready, I'm told! It's going to be fish and chips again, washed down
with a mug of strong tea, followed by apple pie and custard.
Arrivederci a tutti!
Mike Mills.
*How to be a successful spaghetti-eater.
The secret of eating spaghetti successfully, I discovered after years of serious
experimentation, is to prong just a few strands of spaghetti near the side of the
plate, then twirl your fork in the same place letting the spaghetti come to the fork
- never move your fork in pursuit of the spaghetti or you'll end up with the whole
plateful wrapped round it - or plonked in your lap, complete with sauce, and you'll
have sauce all down the front of your expensive Valentino shirt, too!
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