Florence. Far too long since I was there, but the prospect of visiting the Aphrodite exhibition at the Ashmolean led to an onrush of memories. Although the city’s patron saint is John the Baptist, he ought to share that honour with Aphrodite, or Venus. The Baptist might be wary. A beautiful girl could remind him of Salome. There is also Venus tout entière à sa proie attachée. But the Venus of Florence is Botticelli’s Goddess: gentle, gracious, glorious, every man’s desire, a worthy adornment to that greatest, most civilised of cities.
Yet thinking about Florence and castigating oneself for passing six years without visiting it, brought back a quite different memory: the sublime to the ridiculous. This was more than 40 years ago on a Sunday morning. I had been up to the Belvedere, where there was an exhibition of Renaissance bronzes. Descending, I sought a glass of beer. All was well with the world: never better.
I was wondering whether there was time for another glass before hooking up with friends. There was a noise in the background: nothing to do with me. But suddenly it was. An Italian stood over me. ‘Excusa me, mister’ (Why can’t I pass as an Italian?) ‘How much as she achargèd you for youra beer?’ I tried to signal a total lack of interest in the whole matter, but the chap was determined to recruit me as a co-belligerent. Reluctantly, I looked at the bill. ‘Two thousand.’
We all know the rules. If you sit down on a terrace, you are paying something for the seat and the view
We all know the rules in an Italian café. If you sit down on a terrace, you are paying something for the seat and the view: 2,000 lire was mildly steep, but who cared? The angry Italian, that’s who. ‘It is a wrong. It say on the list that the charge is 1,000.’ That would have been too little. The proprietress had clearly failed to keep up the list prices with rising inflation. That would not have been easy in the Italy of those days. The angry man moved on to pursue his quarrel, and obviously decided to embroil me. Suddenly, a stout female with all the charm of a large hairy cockroach was standing over me, screaming and clearly demanding payment. I chucked a couple of 1,000 lire notes on to the floor. Her yelling intensified, yet she was at a disadvantage. I could not understand a word she was saying.
Retaliation was called for. I deployed my limited vocabulary. I did not know the Italian for ‘lady’s garden’ but improvised. ‘Voi birra –duemila. Troppo. Voi [gesturing at her groin] duecento. Molto troppo.’ That hit the spot.
As I was leaving the banshee wails behind me, some Americans were approaching. I spoke: ‘Don’t go into that place. The proprietress is mad and she’ll overcharge you.’ They listened politely but were clearly in the grip of thirst. Here was I telling them that the oasis was a mirage, when they could hear the camels neighing and smell the sherbet. But the silly creature saw my game and came down the stairs raging while I got in a couple of molto troppos to keep her up to her work. The Americans fled.
I remember that tale because it was so untypical of northern Italy, let alone Florence. Last weekend, we were back in the sublime. The Antinori family are today’s Florentine equivalent of the Medici Princes. Delightful in every respect, they also produce superb wine and invented the Super-Tuscan. I have sometimes thought that fine as they are, the Super-Tuscans are not good value. But a 2013 Guido al Tasso was the best Italian wine I have ever tasted: up there with a Bordeaux first growth. Viva Firenze.
Bruce Anderson can also be read on bruceanderson.org.
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