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

La Tivù

176 La Tivù L iving in the center of town surrounded by brick buildings , we have terrible reception for the TV (or “la tivù,” as it’s called here). Down at the bar, Maurizio gets perfect reception. He explains he has an electrician friend who tapped into the big antenna on the roof and ran a line down the outside of the building. The work had to be done on a Sunday , so the carabinieri police wouldn’t notice. Changing the outside of the building in any way is illegal because the historic center of town is considered a museum. Once we hung out some clothes on the window ledge to dry—just as we’d seen on postcards of alleys in Italy. Within the hour, two neighbors warned us it’s illegal, and we should take them in or risk a multa, or fine, from the police. Putting a few bottles out on the ledge to chill puts neighbors in a tizzy. They asked if we were trying to kill someone, because the bottles could fall onto Vicolo Forni. Strange how no one is upset now that we have put out flower boxes. We ask Maurizio if we can rig up our TV to his antenna, but he says it’s much too risky. This is probably another ploy to get us to come down to his bar more often. Then he adds, “If you come down to Il Cappuccino, then you don’t have to pay the television tax.” Television tax? A few days later, we receive a letter in our mailbox from the RAI national television station stating we are required to pay sixty dollars or risk having our TV confiscated. We don’t even get good reception! We call up Guido to ask what we should do. He says, “I never pay it. In Naples, nobody pays, but everyone here in Modena pays it like a bunch of sheep. I wouldn’t worry about it. If they do come by to check, just make sure you cover the TV and try not to let them in the door. If you are caught, you only have to pay for the past two or three years.” This seems typical of dealing with Italian bureaucracy. Avoid complying with the law until you’re caught. For example , the Italian parliament wanted to prevent endangered species being killed, so it passed a law requiring everyone who owns exotic fur coats or any other product made with these animals to register at the questura within a few weeks. (Most of the older women I teach have at least one, and sometimes up to ten, minks.) People panicked, and endless lines formed at the already overcrowded police stations. The day before the deadline, outraged politicians forced the parliament to nullify this law because it unfairly hassles citizens. Millions of Italians wasted hours of time, and the fur owners who just sat on their hands laughed. We take Guido’s advice and ignore the tax on our TV. Instead, we invest our money in a brand-new RADAR antenna , so we can at least have reception. Soon, we’re watching ads, which are the best way to learn the language and arguably the most interesting aspect of Italian television. A phone company ad of cell phones playing soccer appears, and Katy shouts, “That’s Italy! That sums up everything about Italy! Well, almost. Maybe the winning cell phone should get a pizza.” Just then the door buzzer rings. We ask at the intercom La Tivù 177 who it is, and a man with a very low voice replies that he’s from the RAI. Katy frantically covers the TV as I nervously open the door. Guido pops his head in and laughs. How gullible we are! He invites us out for a pizza to celebrate all the money he’s saved from not paying his TV tax for eight years. 178 La Tivù ...