Reds, Whites and Sicilians

When the chef says “Capiche” and then points his finger at you cheerfully and says “bang bang”, you somehow guess that he is either from New York or is an Italian. Quite marvelously, not only did the chef turn out to be an Italian and a Sicilian to boot, but from Corleone! Happy Enzo (even the name was perfect) is THE mafia cook you’d want to cast in your favourite mafia movie technicolour daydream fantasy masterpiece ever. Not only does he animatedly move his hands as if he’s trying unsuccessfully to conjure up a butterfly, but he also has this deadly habit of shifting from a cheery, goofy grin to dead seriousness, short of pulling a gun from his apron.
This happy man was one of my hosts at the launch of a Sicilian wine brand, Calatrasi, yesterday. The other man was another Sicilian- the Don Vito to Enzo’s Luca Brasi- the urbane, “ciccatore” pronouncing owner of Calatrasi. I resisted the urge to whisper “Carabinieri” at him, out of a nagging suspicion that he might make a dash for it…Come to think of it, there’s a CBI-Interpol conference happening in the city. Wonder what the spooks are up to?
Anyways, back to the launch. The Indian businessmen at the do- partners in Calatrasi’s Indian odyssey- were suitably bland, as if they thought the assembled journos expected them to be bland. Which is probably true, as the journos
a) didn’t know about wines- some didn’t even drink
b) didn’t give a damn and
c) had an Englishman in their ranks- which was funny cause his paper had sent him to cover this shindig as he was a foreigner.
So they all disappointed the good Dr. Antonio (as Vito called himself) by showing no interest whatsoever in Corleone, or in the Sicilian palate. So he had this strange conversation with himself:
“You’ve all seen ze Godfather, si?”
Silence. Some people nodding their heads knowingly.
“Ah so, don’t be afraid of the mafia.”
Drunken titters. Anxious Indian partners looking at their watches, or at the women.
“They are gone, poof, vanished, mamma mia!”
Since he threw up his hands in a conjuring gesture- and with a mic in his hands, looked like a slim Phil Collins – when he said this, one of the more inebriated lady journos winked at him and grinned invitingly. Which probably threw him a bit for he said,
“Indian women are like Sicilian women, si, very jealous.”
And then,
“In Sicily, we respect the mafia.”
Silence again, so he hastily added,
“But no more!”
“They are not heros, they betray us!”
I thought his passion was going to make him cry at the betrayal. I half expected the gates of the restaurant to be locked and machine gunners let loose in retribution. But all that happened was a happy Sardar asking him, if the Dr. had been paid hush money to say this.
The audience giggled, the Englishman gulped down his second white wine and reached for a red. I hastened to emulate him. Never forget your priorities.
Later on, post lunch and the general industry-media bonhomie, I was trying to set up a photo shoot of the wines along with suitable food. Enter Enzo, and his translator Debashish. Debashish is the top chef of the restaurant- Tapas bar at the Vasant Continental- and joshingly kept saying “Godfather bam bam!” to the bemused Enzo, who sometimes looked like he was going to attack Debashish with a bit of pasta. Inbetween all that, Debashish found the time to confirm that I was a Bengali, and proceeded to be helpful. Times like these, I wonder who needs the Sicilians, certainly not the Bongs! We’ve several secret codes of our own! Anyways, it all got done between me and Enzo having fine incomprehensible conversations with each other- at one point he dangled his hand like a sword over his head and then stuffed a nostril with some parsely- and drank copious quantities of Terre di Ginestra (a fine full-bodied red, so I was told, and also the most expensive of the three). Enzo was happy with my choice, and grew redder with wine with every passing minute…good show, in all, right down to a bottle of white “with compliments from…”
P.S. The Englishman had long retired hurt and had rushed back to his office for a piss.
P.P.S. Vito was suavely chatting up some girl at a televised interview (also drinking copiously).
P.P.P.S. Debashish could not convince me to stay while he cooked me “special” lunch, so he was joshing Enzo again, who in turn was posing for my photographer Shekhar, with a plate of pasta in one hand, and a glass of red in the other, looking very much the regular Roman orgy-retiree.
P.P.P.P.S. Its all true, though some stuff is cleverly manipulated.
P.P.P.P.P.S. The wines were excellent, and cheap too!