Never Trust a Thin Cook and Other Lessons from Italy’s Culinary Capital

Casino or Casinò?

Casino or Casinò? Working as a journalist in Italy isn’t done for the pay, but for the perks. My editor, Roberto, orders me to come to the newspaper office right away—it’s always right away—for a very important and lucrative assignment. Journalists are the same the world over. They smoke too much because of the stress of their deadlines and never have a moment to talk—except to say how stressed out they are because of deadlines and that they shouldn’t smoke so much. Roberto has three telephones: one land line, a personal cell phone (or telefonino), and an office cell phone. Often he’s on all three phones at the same time, and someone is always put on hold. While I wait in person, he occasionally covers the receiver and tells me, “Non ne posso più!” (I can’t stand it anymore!). Today, though, he has a new toy, a teddy bear that dances and sings in the Neapolitan dialect. “Bellissimo!” Roberto raves. “È la cosa più bella che abbia mai visto in vita mia!” (It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life!). Before he can tell me about my new assignment, I simply must agree with him on the beauty of his toy. After we listen to all the bear’s songs, a Moroccan man comes into the office to sell him a pair of socks. Roberto doesn’t brush him off, as so many people do, but is polite with him—at first. Roberto says, “You sold me a pair last 97 week, and they made my feet sweat so badly my wife won’t come near me.” The Arab views this as an opportunity to sell him a higher-quality (and more expensive) pair of socks, but Roberto tells him to please leave him alone saying, “What are you trying to do, break up my marriage?” While he’s arguing to be left in peace, I pick up the latest edition of our weekly newspaper of Modena. On the front cover is an Italian case of sexual harassment in which the judge ruled a little pat on the butt is OK, but touching breasts isn’t. A huge close-up photo of bulging breasts has a big “NO!!” written across them; next to it is a woman’s butt with her underwear going up her crack that says “Sì??” This is the weekly newspaper that carries my column. Roberto breaks off negotiations with the Moroccan sock salesman, but he has a fresh pair of polyester beauties. He turns to me, “What are you waiting for? Get going!” He says I must go home right this instant and pack my bags since we’re leaving for Slovenia tomorrow morning on a junket. He will pick me up at 5 a.m., and a representative of a Slovenian casino will drive us to their entertainment complex for the night; I have to write an article about our stay. I don’t know how Roberto arranged this new adventure, but I agree since the other assignments we’ve gone on have been thoroughly amusing. A month ago, he sneaked me into a big dinner with hundreds of farmers who were celebrating an anniversary of Landini tractors. Roberto handed me the microphone to give an impromptu speech—simply because I’m American. It made no difference that I know nothing about tractors; the farmers told me they were honored to have me there and presented me with a special award. Now, we’re in the car for the three-hour car trip to Nova Gorica, Slovenia. I imagine I’ll have lots of time to chat with 98 Casino or Casinò? Roberto, but he’s on his cell phone most of the time because of inevitable crises at the newspaper. We venture through the killing fields south of Udine, foggy plains where thousands of Italian soldiers died in World War II. At the border crossing, lines of Fiats are waiting to take advantage of the undervalued Eastern European currency. The Slovenian government is doing everything it can to attract Italian tourists over the border to visit its casinos . Digital announcement boards attached to the top of the customs officers’ house advertise, “Table Dance! Lesbo Show! Hot babes under the shower!” Because of the limitations of the digital sign, the address is written without an accent over the letter o in...