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2013 Commonwealth Literary Prize shortlists announced

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 10:08:00 -0400

The Commonwealth Book Prize is awarded for the best first novel, and the Commonwealth Short Story Prize for the best piece of unpublished short fiction. Writers from around the world have been shortlisted in anticipation of being announced as overall winners at Hay Festival, on 31 May 2013.

The winner of the Commonwealth Book Prize receives £10,000, with regional winners receiving £2,500. The winner of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize receives £5,000, with regional winners receiving £1,000. The overall and regional winners of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize will have the opportunity to have their story edited and published by Granta online. The literary prize judges are here.

Political, religious and social conflict runs through many of this year’s shortlisted entries, but there are also humorous stories, stories of hope, and stories full of imagination and power. The unmatched global reach of the prizes allows readers internationally to engage with a world of literature that might otherwise remain undiscovered, consistently bringing less-heard voices to the fore.

Encompassing a span of 54 countries, entries are judged within the five regions of Africa, Asia, Canada and Europe, the Caribbean and the Pacific, each of which will produce a regional winner for the two prizes. These will be announced on 14 May 2013.

The prizes’ judging panels are made up of eminent members of the international literary community. Commenting on the shortlisted entries, Chair of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize, BBC Special Correspondent Razia Iqbal, said, ‘People often assume short stories are easier to write because they're, well, short! But it takes a particular skill to establish mood, character and tone in quick strokes, and tell a story which leaves a lasting impression. These stories open windows on worlds which seem familiar but, through fiction, which is tightly written, reflect those worlds, in richer and more surprising colours.’

Chair of the Commonwealth Book Prize, Godfrey Smith, said, ‘Our five judges did an admirable job of shortlisting from a bountiful harvest of debut novels, based on originality, linguistic flair, depth, quality of writing and freshness of tone. A number of books boldly pushed the boundaries of form and explosively rebelled against the conventional structures of fiction-writing, inspiring lively and passionate debates among the judges.’

Shortlists:

Commonwealth Book Prize

Sarah House, Ifeanyi Ajaegbo (Nigeria), Pan Macmillan South Africa

Disposable People, Ezekel Alan (Jamaica), self-published

Floundering, Romy Ash (Australia), Text Publishing

Running the Rift, Naomi Benaron (Canada), HarperCollins Canada

Mazin Grace, Dylan Coleman (Australia), University of Queensland Press

A Tiger in Eden, Chris Flynn (Australia), Text Publishing

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Howard Fry, Rachel Joyce (United Kingdom), Transworld Publishers

The Headmaster's Wager, Vincent Lam (Canada), Doubleday Canada

Island of a Thousand Mirrors, Nayomi Munaweera (Sri Lanka), Perera-Hussein Publishing House

The Death of Bees, Lisa O'Donnell (United Kingdom), William Heinemann

The Spider King's Daughter, Chibundu Onuzo (Nigeria), Faber and Faber

Em and the Big Hoom, Jerry Pinto (India), Aleph Book Company

The Wildings, Nilanjana Roy (India), Aleph Book Company

The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods, Jamala Safari (South Africa), Umuzi

The Last Thread, Michael Sala (Australia), Affirm

The Other Side of Light, Mishi Saran (India), HarperCollins India

God on Every Wind, Farhad Sorabjee (India), Parthian

Sterile Sky, E.E. Sule (Nigeria), Pearson Education

Narcopolis, Jeet Thayil (India), Faber and Faber

Beneath the Darkening Sky, Majok Tulba (Australia), Penguin Books Australia

The Bellwether Revivals, Benjamin Wood (United Kingdom), Simon & Schuster UK

Commonwealth Short Story Prize

Not for Publication, Rachel Bush (New Zealand)

A Killing in the Sun, Dilman Dila (Uganda)

NORMAL, Susan Everett (United Kingdom)

Chutney, Debz Hobs-Wyatt (United Kingdom)

Fatima Saleh, Alexander Ikawah (Kenya)

The New Customers, Julian Jackson (South Africa)

Notes from the Ruins, Anushka Jasraj (India)

A Good Friday, Barbara Jenkins (Trinidad and Tobago)

Antonya's Baby Shower on Camperdown Road, A.L. Major (Bahamas)

Mango Summer, Janice Lynn (Bahamas)

Things With Faces, Zoë Meager (New Zealand)

The Sarong-Man in the Old House, and an Incubus for a Rainy Night, Michael Mendis (Sri Lanka)

The Whale House, Sharon Millar (Trinidad and Tobago)

No War is Worth Debating, Tobenna Nwosu (Nigeria)

Take me Home United Road, Sally-Ann Partridge (South Africa)

Mortal Sins, Sinead Roarty (Australia)

We Walked On Water, Eliza Robertson (Canada)

Tug of War, Deborah Rogers (New Zealand)

Raven, Tom Williams (Australia)

For media enquiries please contact Carrie Rees, carrie@reeshutchinson.com, +44 (0) 77 63 70 83 46 or Claire Turner, Communications Manager at the Commonwealth Foundation c.turner@commonwealth.int / +44 (0) 20 7747 6522.

How to Eat Like an Italian, by Davide D'Alessandro

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 12:24:45 -0400

It is impossible to overestimate the importance of eating, and in particular of eating well, for Italians. To identify Italy with the art of eating has become a global reflex, and the link we make between Italy and superb food is one that exists for good reasons. This is not mere prejudice on a shaky footing. Italians know what good food is, they are willing to spend time and money to obtain it, and they commit large swathes of time to discussing it. When in Italy, I feel like I am at a nation-wide academic conference that is chronically convened with the mandate to celebrate and promote the culture of enjoying food. All around me are the delegates of the conference, every citizen holding a doctoral degree in food theory, preparation, and consumption.

At a time when it is standard practice to dissect general intelligence – illustratively, think of social intelligence or emotional intelligence – there is little doubt that Italians collectively have high food intelligence. I am always impressed that when Italians, young and old, answer their mobile phones, what they just ate is often a topic of discussion. Teenagers oozing coolness will greet their peers and leap into a discussion of the subtleties of the risotto they just savoured, and how the tomatoes in the salad were candy-sweet. Family discussions towards the end of lunch tend to be dominated by dreamy wish lists for that night’s supper. Despite important regional differences in style and ingredients, food dominates the national psyche. We all must eat to survive, but visitors to Italy are invited to join in a little activity, done three times daily, that is another pillar of the dolce vita, namely eating to have pleasure. And lots of it.

Of course, anyone can eat rather easily in Italy. But for a visitor to eat well, a bit of background knowledge is required. Not surprisingly in a country infatuated with eating, social scripts pervade the Italian customs of food consumption. For most of us, the promise of eating truly outstanding food is among the principal motivators for a trip to Italy. Unfortunately, without some culinary culture basics under their belts, too many tourists are left disappointed by their Italian eating experiences. Let me now provide the social scripts and useful pointers to help you confidently savour eating in Italy, as you undoubtedly should.

Some General Laws of Italian Food

Though food styles in Italy vary widely from region to region, even from town to town, it is possible to zoom out and abstract some common characteristics that define Italian food across the country so that visitors can know what to expect. Here are three general qualities that govern food preparation in Italy.

A fundamental aspect of Italian food is an obsessive focus on fresh, high quality ingredients that have a punctuated, decisive taste. Blandness is anathema to Italian cooking. You can expect to savour tomatoes that are sweet and aromatic, as opposed to the sad cardboard-flavoured varieties that dominate supermarket shelves in too many of our hometowns. Basil will have a pleasantly pungent fragrance that is intended to be noticed. Fruit is invariably ripe and sweet. Little of Italian food is served from the freezer, and on menus it is common to indicate transparently the dishes that are made from ingredients that have been previously frozen, a virtual warning to customers that potentially better choices abound.

Italian food is unapologetically simple. This poor word – simple – has developed a bit of a bad reputation of late, and unjustifiably so, I think. If a dish is simple and tastes good, it is a compliment to its cook and to the quality of the ingredients it contains. In simple food, there is no place for poor quality to hide, thus the simplicity of Italian food acts as an implicit quality control mechanism that helps keep cuisine at a high level. Consider one of Italy’s most simple but delicious dishes: spaghetti aglio olio (spaghetti with garlic and olive oil). The name of the dish doubles as its ingredient list. If it tastes good, as it invariably does, it is because there is good garlic, good extra-virgin oil, and just the right light touch of the cook’s hand. No mysterious additions or complex manoeuvres. Many an Italian grandmother would roll over in her grave if she knew that Italy’s simple dishes were selling at chic-level exorbitant prices in many restaurants outside Italy, easily double what Italians typically pay.

Related to the notion of simplicity is a characteristic avoidance of combining too many ingredients in an Italian dish. In my experience, this avoidance borders on a phobia. In Italy, more is less in the domain of ingredients. Each ingredient is intended to be well savoured and to make a distinct contribution to the dish at hand. For Italians, too many ingredients is a declaration of a culinary civil war, where the battling factions that are unwillingly united in a single recipe have a tendency to act in disharmony, each struggling against its opponents to reign supreme. Ultimately there is no winner, and the dish itself is vanquished. Accordingly, you can expect a small number of ingredients in any one recipe, but also expect them to be delicious and symbiotic, each working to make the other taste more sublime. Pizza is a good example. A pizza in Italy often carries the name of the one topping (besides tomato sauce and cheese) that it features. A favourite pizza is often straightforwardly named funghi (mushrooms), and you can guess how many toppings it has and how it should taste.

Breakfast at Italy’s

Italians have a different approach to the day’s initial meal than do most English speakers. Breakfast (la prima colazione in Italian) is by far the least structured of meals in Italy; it's an open question whether or not Italians consider it to be a meal at all. For most locals, breakfast consists of a cappuccino (considered more of a heavy food of sorts than a beverage per se) and a pastry, cake, or a biscotto (literally “twice-cooked”, a large, crunchy, crescent-moon shaped cookie that is great for dunking in your coffee). Breakfast is rarely taken around a table, but is instead most often quickly taken either at home or at a bar along one’s route. Savoury foods like bacon, eggs, or sausage are not typical Italian breakfast foods.

Many Italian lodging options include breakfast in their prices. Here, you can expect a variety of fresh pastries, cakes, biscotti (the plural of biscotto), yogurts, and fresh fruit, often offered in a buffet format. A server will usually come to your table to take a coffee order, and you are free to have whatever what you wish. Again, a cappuccino is standard issue for Italians, and this is the perfect time to have one.

If your place of lodging does not include breakfast in the price, then the Italian bar is the place to have it. Finding a bar is a snap, and one will be close to your hotel as you walk out. There, you may have your coffee fix and savour one of the lovely cakes or pastries that are on display. You can either have your coffee and sweets standing at the bar (like most Italians) or seated at a table, but be aware that table service comes at a higher cost than does standing at the bar, on the order of double the standing price. My chapter in The Dolce Vita Code on the Italian bar houses the details about how to properly order a coffee in Italy. To order a pastry or other sweet to accompany your coffee, simply pointing to the object of your desire is simple and effective enough. Don’t forget a hearty “grazie!” to the bar staff.

If the potentially dainty nature of your Italian breakfast leaves you feeling peckish come mid-morning, it is certainly part of the social script of eating in the morning to pop into a bar for something to pick you up. I recommend a supplementary cappuccino and a little snack at any time until about 11:00 am to provide you with a kick of energy and to evoke a little smile as you embrace this small but effective custom of the dolce vita.

How to Choose Where to Eat In Italy

Eating establishments for lunch and supper are everywhere in Italy, on every corner, in every piazza, along every street. Overall, it is tough to make a horrendous choice. Certainly in small towns that do not see that many visitors, you can do well by closing your eyes and choosing the first place into which you smack. In larger centres that see limitless droves of tourists, though, you will do well by keeping a few basic tips in mind to help steer yourself towards a virtuous place. Sadly, profiteers are always to be found, and it is easy for such types to let quality slip when the seats of their locales are always full with flocks of foreigners who do not always have the eye to suss out the gastronomic wheat from the chaff.

Here are some general ideas to help train your eye to detect a noble eatery, especially in the big cities. Look for places that draw local Italian families and workers. If the police are having lunch in a pizzeria, you know it's a good bet. Walk by and inspect the patrons before making your decision. If you see young children gaily playing and adults gesticulating wildly, you've hit the mark. Waiting for a table to join in with an Italian-speaking crowd will be well worth the effort.

On average, you will be rewarded for deviating a bit off of the beaten path. In Italy, that means being aware that establishments stationed in prime tourist areas like famous squares generally are not obligated to offer peak levels of quality to keep their businesses humming. And even if quality is a priority for a venue in such locations, that quality usually comes at a premium price. As you walk around during the day along back streets and less touristy areas, keep an eye out for more modest and tucked-away places to eat and judge the menu as you pass by. Make a note of appealing addresses for later. If an eatery is located in a less than ideal spot and looks less than flashy, remember that something else is keeping it in business, and you can guess what that something else is. In the same vein, avoiding places with touts posted outside who aggressively try to wheedle you into their dining room is probably a good move.

Last, a word about menus. By all means, peruse the offerings and the prices, but also consider the linguistics of a menu. One that has each dish written in five different languages raises a flag in my mind. It signals the possibility that the establishment in question does not rely on local Italians as their bread-and-butter regulars. Of course, as the world becomes a village it is certainly more common to expect translations, especially into English. But have your feelers out. In my book, any place that has a simple menu printed only in Italian gets an ‘A’ for authenticity. It is great fun to go into such places and ask questions to the staff about words you do not understand on the menu, and such experiences will make you feel proud and adventurous as a traveler. Italians will be happy to help decipher any mysteries, and any hurdle in communicating will most often be compensated for with premium cuisine and kind service.

Categories of Eating Establishments in Italy

As a good example of how cultural values dictate the breadth of a people’s lexicon, Italians have different names to refer to different types of dining venues. You will notice people eating in either a trattoria, an osteria, a ristorante, or a pizzeria. These different categories of establishments carry descriptive weight in Italy, where Italians have different conceptions of a meal in an osteria compared to a meal in a ristorante, for example. Outside Italy, cunning marketers have noticed the apparently sophisticated sounds of these words and have indiscriminately adopted these categories to name their establishments. Not so in Italy, where the type of eatery still matters with respect to what and how you can expect to eat and the prices you can expect to pay. Here are the details you need to know.

The trattoria – Simple, friendly, and good

A trattoria (a thorny word to translate, but perhaps done best simply as “traditional family eatery”) is the midpoint of Italian dining establishments. A trattoria is typically an informal locale with moderate, mid-range prices. Do not expect uniformed staff, three different forks beside your plate, or a wine list sprawling over several pages. Do expect lovely food choices that are clearly listed on a printed menu, pleasant but unobtrusive service, and a convivial, amicable atmosphere.

The ristorante – Refined and comprehensive

A notch up on the formality scale is the Italian ristorante. This is a full service restaurant, typically more elegant and posh than a trattoria. Here you are likely to encounter prim and proper staff, a more refined and muted (but certainly not silent) ambience, and somewhat higher prices, but not astronomically so. The menu of a ristorante is typically well developed and wide-ranging, and its wine list is usually extensive. Because of the more formal tone of a ristorante, and despite Italy’s unabashful adoration of children, this is probably not the best choice if you are concerned about your little ones starting a ruckus.

The osteria – Rustic and unpretentious

The Italian osteria, translated loosely as a “tavern,” is less formal than the trattoria, and specializes in eating instead of in drinking. Some of my most memorable Italian meals have been savoured in an osteria. Here you can expect wonderfully rustic, typically local food offerings in a warm and unpretentious atmosphere. There is more of a pleasant bustle to an osteria, so it makes a fine choice for families with small children. Prices tend to be most economical in an osteria compared to a ristorante or a trattoria. The trade-off is that the food offerings in an osteria tend to be more limited, but certainly not to the point of being restrictive. Just don’t expect twenty different pasta dishes to be on tap. Instead, the menu of an osteria will be simple and brief (not a bad thing, in my opinion), with a more limited selection of wines. An osteria that is frequented mainly by locals may not even have a printed menu, but this is becoming rare. Just confirm with the staff as you arrive or check if one is posted outside the establishment. (The Italian word for “menu” is, easily enough, menu). Food quality tends to be excellent, especially considering the fair prices.

The pizzeria – Al taglio or al piatto?

Last, everyone’s favourite, the pizzeria. There are two types of pizza places that you will see regularly during your visit to Italy. A pizzeria al taglio, typically well labelled as such on its sign, is a small, often charming hole-in-the-wall type of establishment that serves individual slices of various large pizzas that are already baked. The pizzas that are available change often throughout the day, and they tend to sell briskly and are then speedily replenished, so freshness is never an issue. Pizzas that are available at any given moment are well displayed in a glass case. As a visitor, it is completely acceptable to point to the specific pizza from which you would like a slice, and then to indicate the number of slices you would like, even using your fingers as a numerical guide if helpful. The ingredients are self-evident. The staff will cut a reasonable slice, and typically will ask you if you would like it reheated (Riscaldata?). You can answer si or no, of course, and the slices will be boxed or wrapped in paper, depending on the quantity purchased. The pizza is sold either with a flat price by the slice or it will be weighed. Either way, rest assured that eating pizza al taglio is one of the most economical, delicious, and prized food options in the country.

The other type of pizza place, also omnipresent in Italy, is the more familiar and larger establishment with menus and table service, usually signed simply as a pizzeria. Here pizza is served al piatto, or individually on a round plate, and normally each client orders his or her own pizza. There is a printed listing of the pizze (this is the plural form) available, and it is common to find at least twenty different pizze on the menu. Happily, prices are much more gentle than you are accustomed to in your hometown. What are firm, in contrast, are the standards, and a good pizzaiolo (“pizza maker”) can demand a wage that easily rivals that of a university professor, and rightly so given the roundish marvels that are dispatched from the oven.

A pizzeria is usually a bustling, rambunctious place with a jovial atmosphere that makes them great for largish groups or children. If at all possible, opt for a pizzeria that boasts a forno a legna. This means that the pizze are baked in a wood-fired oven, yielding the high temperatures required to quickly crisp the crust without overcooking the toppings.

How to Structure Your Meals in Italy

Italians are choosy about how a meal is presented and the order in which different foods are ingested. Thus, depending on the category of eatery in which you find yourself, there is a social script that dictates a certain ritual and structure to the meal you are about to enjoy.

At a pizzeria

For Italians, the simplest of meals is most often that enjoyed in a sit-down pizzeria al piatto. Be aware that it is considered strange for adults and teenagers to split and share one pizza in Italy. Given the great taste and favourable prices, go ahead and order one pizza each. You will be happy that you did. If you have young children in your entourage, say under five years of age, then it is perfectly acceptable to share a pizza between two children. Alternatively, at times your server might suggest a smaller, bambino-sized individual pizza for youngsters. But be warned – children tend to devour them and you may be forced to dole out some of your own pizza to your young gluttons. If you order an individual pizza for the children and there ends up being significant leftovers, you may always take them away with you.

Be prepared for a different appearance to your pizza compared to what you typically see at home. Outside Italy, I have noticed that pizzas tend to have a somewhat industrial, standardized look – perfectly circular, with symmetrically distributed toppings, and a uniform and consistent layer of cheese. I cannot forget the occasion when my cousin Raffaele, a professor in Italy, visited me in Montreal. Stupidly, perhaps, I suggested we go out for a pizza, and I nervously directed us to a place that I heard had a decent reputation. When the pizza arrived, round as a clock and obsessively organized, I looked to him for a sign of approval. After examining his plate with a detective’s level of scrutiny, his response was curt: “It is not pizza.” I learned my lesson. But I now see his point. In Italy the pizze are a reflection of the country itself – chaotic at first glance, irregularly shaped, and with a topography that is playfully arranged here and there. But you will come to adore this whimsical lack of order, and the taste of the sum of the pizza’s parts will convince you that more organized does not necessarily mean better.

A stern warning regarding peperoni! If there is a common blunder among visiting pizzeria patrons in Italy, it surely is to expect meat as a topping when selecting a pizza that lists peperoni as an ingredient. In Italy, peperoni are peppers, as in the vegetable, and not the meat product that you may be seeking as a pizza topping. The sausage-like dressing that visitors call “pepperoni” (note that the double consonant is present only in English) is not to be found in Italy. If you are craving meat on your pizza, the topping to look for is prosciutto, a delicious, thinly sliced cured pork.

At a ristorante, trattoria, or osteria

If in a pizzeria, the pizza itself might constitute the only dish you will order, in a ristorante, trattoria, or osteria the social script of eating dictates that dishes be served serially in discrete courses. If you order an appetizer, pasta, and a meat-based dish, each selection will be served alone. Even an espresso, if ordered, is treated as a course of sorts and is often served only after dessert, if itself ordered, has been completed. The social scripts regarding eating in courses are universally respected in Italy, where even children are well versed in these rites. Case in point, on a cold autumn day back home in Montreal, my son and I were playing an Italian trivia game designed for young elementary school children that follows the adventures of a famous Italian cheese-crazed mouse. One question listed four food dishes, and required placing the dishes in the correct order of consumption as an Italian restaurant script would dictate. It was not a no-brainer, and I shook my head in wonderment as we discussed whether the zuppa ai quattro formaggi (soup with four cheeses) ought to be served before or after the crostini al gorgonzola (toasted bread garnished with gorgonzola).

Here is the sequence of courses in Italian meals when dining out. These course labels will form the headings of most printed menus you encounter.

Antipasti: literally “Before the meal”, a pasto being a meal, thus appetizers

Primi: “Firsts,” these are pasta or rice dishes

Secondi: “Seconds,” typically meat and fish dishes

Contorni: “Contours,” typically vegetable-based side dishes, and salads

Dolci: “Sweets,” thus desserts.

These course labels are listed in their plural forms, as is usual on menus. The singular forms are antipasto, primo, secondo, contorno, and dolce. A few words on the nature of each will help you appreciate them.

Antipasti are generally served as smallish portions and are meant to whet your appetite and give you something little to enjoy while waiting for your other dishes to be prepared. A favourite is bruschetta (pronounced with a hard ‘c’ as in “broos-ket-ta”), a simply splendid concoction of crusty bread topped most often with fresh tomatoes, but also occasionally with mushrooms or grilled vegetables, and dressed with good olive oil and garlic. As mentioned, portions tend to be dainty (but not ridiculously so), thus I recommend an antipasto for each patron, if you opt to have one.

Primi form the core of most Italian meals. The fear of pasta, rice, and other foods labelled somewhat crudely solely as carbohydrates has not caught on in Italy, and Italians certainly seem none the worse for it. Pasta remains the perennial Italian staple, and most Italians eagerly eat pasta in some form daily.

Should you feel some malaise about making pasta a regular little thing to enjoy in Italy, perhaps some Italian notions regarding its consumption will bolster your efforts to decriminalize this worshipped Italian food. First, nobody can argue with the economic virtue of pasta. In Italy it is gentle on the wallet, a welcome relief from the pasta prices elsewhere when dining out that tend to be exaggerated, if not offensive. Second, pasta in Italy is served obsessively al dente, which translates literally as “to the tooth.” In practice this means that all pasta is carefully cooked to a perfect point where it still has a core of firmness to its bite. Pasta thus prepared is healthier (it has a lower glycemic index) relative to the overcooked, mushy pasta to which many of us are sadly accustomed. Third, regardless of any potential debates regarding the virtues of pasta itself, Italians rightly see their beloved primi as carriers of delicious and healthy ingredients into the body. Can you imagine a better vehicle for transporting fresh vegetables, healthy olive oil, and garlic? Last, the portion size of primi tends to be well controlled, and probably will be a tad smaller than you are used to at home. Thus, pasta is eaten in reasonable quantities that tend to take the edge off of one’s hunger, preventing the subsequent overconsumption of animal-based foods.

To miss out on pasta in Italy would be to miss out on one of Italy’s great simple pleasures. Think twice before denying yourself such a marvellous little thing. To list all the Italian variations of pasta is beyond the scope of most human cognitive capacity, let alone the scope of this article. But don’t worry – pasta dishes tend to be uncomplicatedly described on a menu, with the cut of the pasta listed first, followed by the additional ingredients. Be fanciful – it is difficult to make a bad choice. Rice, found less often on menus and typically served in a dish named risotto, also makes fine primo, and the aforementioned Italian virtues of pasta apply equally well to this other much-maligned grain.

Secondi are most often meat and fish dishes. If you are a lacto-ovo vegetarian, you may at times also spot an egg-based dish, most often a frittata (the Italian version of an omelette), listed on a menu as a secondo. In Italy, meat dishes are characterized by the high quality of the product and the nature of the cut. The use of sauces as a condiment for meats is considered suspect by Italians, who believe that meat should taste like meat and not be camouflaged by flavoured potions that detract from the dish at hand. Meats are thus prepared simply with few ingredients, perhaps with the addition of just an herb. The standard is for meats to be well cooked, and it is uncommon to ask customers about preferences (e.g., medium, rare, etc.).

Fish tends to be lightly but properly cooked, so that it maintains a delicate texture and does not become tough. Again, the focus is on good quality so that the fish can stand alone and impress its consumer without too many bells and whistles that tend to distract. A squeeze of lemon is the most that Italians tend to tolerate as far as condiments go.

Because meals are served in courses, Italians tend to have satisfied any ravishing famine by the time the secondo arrives, so portions are more moderate compared to what you may see at home, where meat is often the central, if not sole, component of a meal. These more moderate portions help keep the consumption of meat at a lower level, certainly not a bad thing health-wise, and will facilitate being mindful of your food and savouring its high quality, as opposed to high quantity.

Contorni, elegantly labelled and translated as “contours,” are the most unappreciated and under-ordered course by foreigners in an Italian meal. They are typically vegetable-based dishes that act as accompaniments or side-dishes, literally adding some welcome contours of colour and texture to your table. As such, they form excellent options for visitors who are vegetarian or otherwise limiting the amount of animal-based foods in their diet. Examples of common contorni include patate arroste (roasted potatoes), verdure alla griglia (grilled vegetables, typically topped with good olive oil), and fiori di zucca (typically fried pumpkin or zucchini flowers).

When your contorni will be served depends to a degree on what else you have ordered. If you have ordered a secondo, then you can expect your contorni to be served shortly after the meat or fish arrives, again, to add those colourful contours of texture. If you have not ordered a secondo per se, then the contorni will typically arrive after you have completed your primo. If you are trying to avoid meat products (and I proudly put myself in this camp), it is lovely to order one or two contorni in lieu of an official secondo, and thus enjoy these delectable vegetables as a sort of stand-alone course after your pasta or rice. Contorni are almost always the most economically priced course on the menu, so don't be shy about ordering them.

A word regarding salads. Insalate, as they are known in Italian, form ideal contours for a meal, and are often found in the contorni section of a menu. If not, look for a separate heading. Salads are invariably eaten at the end of the meal in Italy, and not at the beginning. This is a tough concept for some foreigners to wrap their heads around. During the initial phases of my relationship with my wife’s family, proudly Canadian through-and-through, they always thought that I served the meal backwards when I was in charge of cooking. I persisted in eating against their grain, and now they have become happy converts to the salad-at-the-end approach to meals. Not surprisingly, digestion is at the core of this Italian convention. Ending the savoury phase of a meal with some roughage is thought to favour the harmonious deconstruction of all those gastronomic wonders you have just relished.

Be aware that salads are served undressed. Patrons drizzle their own condiments using the olive oil and vinegar that will be brought to the table. When in Italy, do as the Italians do. Have your salad at the end – you will feel competent as you fit in with the locals around you, and this little digestive custom may well become one of your favourite imports once you are back home. If you are not in the mood for a salad, the other contorni listed on the menu will act as equally formidable and delicious digestive allies.

Last come the famed Italian dolci, literally “sweets” or desserts. They are almost always homemade from high quality ingredients, and are frankly irresistible. Do not deprive yourself. Instead, adopt the Italian philosophy towards having a sweet to end your meal: it is merely the natural way to do things, and there is no need to excoriate oneself for having pleasurable and satisfying foods.

Spectacular desserts to look for include tiramisù (drolly translated as “pull me up,” which is an accurate description of its psychological effect). Made with sponge cake that has been merrily drowned in sweetened espresso, then layered with luscious mascarpone cream cheese, only then to be covered in a veil of powdered chocolate, this is Italy’s national antidepressant, and if it doesn’t pull you up, nothing will. Also look for panna cotta, literally “cooked cream.” This is a sweet, custard-like cream that is topped either with caramel, chocolate, or berries. Try the torta della nonna, should you spot it. This is “grandmother’s cake” and it differs from place to place, but, as you would expect from an Italian grandmother, it is always legendary. Last, frutta (fruit) is a common Italian dessert to end a meal. If you order fruit, you will receive what is local, in season, and ripe. Can you fathom an easier way to savour the dolce vita than with a perfect Italian dolce? I cannot.

Money Matters When Eating in Italy

In a country where meals are unrushed and meant to be lingered over, it is rare that the check will automatically find its way to your table. In any type of eatery, when you are ready to leave, you will typically have to ask for the check, as follows:

“Mi scusi, il conto per favore.”

(Excuse me, the bill, please.)

The bill will then make its way to you. In a ristorante you can certainly pay seated at your table, but in the less formal pizzeria, trattoria, or osteria you may have to head over to the counter and settle up at the register.

Take note that small, more informal establishments that cater mainly to Italians (these being the establishments that I recommend seeking out) may not accept payment by a credit or debit card. Italians have not embraced the practice of indiscriminately paying for anything with a card, and cash is still the most common form of payment when eating out. Confirm your options before sitting down and have some cash on hand.

A word on tipping. Overall, the practice of tipping is rare for Italians, who view the staff of an eatery to be the rightful employees of the owner, the latter being responsible for paying out fair and reasonable salaries from the establishment’s revenues. I have always wondered why such a seemingly logical business model is perceived as so revolutionary by visitors to Italy. Any charges for service are usually incorporated into the listed prices, as are taxes. Thus, clients are generally not asked or expected to pay any more that what is expressed on the bottom line of the bill.

It is normal to be charged a coperto, literally Italian for “cover,” for each person in your party. This is a nominal fee, on the order of a couple of euros, that covers the cost of incidental items like good bread on your table, and the service of the staff. Foreigners are infamous for being confused about the coperto, and at times raising a bit of a fuss about it. Relax. Everyone pays the coperto, foreigners and Italians alike, and it is a standard component of the eating out social script in Italy. In my book, a small fixed cover for something enjoyable and tangible, like good service and good bread, is much better than being expected to hand over an additional 15-20% of the bill as a gratuity rather indiscriminately.

If you thought that the meal you just enjoyed was a superlative experience and you wish to express this to the staff, you can choose to leave a token of appreciation on the table. A rough-and-ready rule of thumb is the equivalent of one euro per adult client, but bear in mind that even this gesture is not an automatic reflex like tipping is back home. When eating out in Italy, I find that the tips most appreciated are the gracious social skills demonstrated by clients coupled with some positive reinforcement to the staff for offering a memorable meal. So, as you leave, let go of any remaining inhibitions and jubilantly proclaim,

“Grazie! Abbiamo mangiato bene!”

(Thank you! We ate well, and the food was great!)

This little phrase is part of the jovial Italian social script following a good meal, and expressing it will make both you and the staff members feel good. And feeling good with a full belly (that is joyously digesting, of course) is an inextricable piece of the dolce vita.

Of all the Italians I know, no two better personify the Italian love of superb cuisine than my aunt Maria Pia and her dear friend Camomilla. On most days Camomilla joins my aunt’s family for lunch, and she venerates the dishes that my aunt prepares. Maria Pia serves the most exquisite pastas to her chum – homemade linguine with wild porcini garnished with olive oil from my family’s grove, or fresh gnocchi with tomatoes and basil from her garden laced with local pecorino cheese. Camomilla does not hide her enthusiasm when she senses the aromas wafting about the kitchen, and she cannot wait to eat. But, Camomilla does impose a single request. She insists that the pasta must be cooked precisely al dente. On the rare occasions when my aunt becomes distracted with an urgent phone call or my uncle Ettore’s endless shenanigans, and the pasta thus arrives just a hair overcooked, Camomilla, despite her usual sweet demeanour, becomes quite discourteous. I have seen her walk away from her plate, leaving the still delicious, if slightly imperfect, pasta behind in protest. My aunt takes Camomilla’s insolence personally, and begins to curse the blasted telephone or even poor uncle Ettore for having ultimately caused her culinary misstep.

When I have witnessed this scenario unfold, I feel bad that my aunt is so offended, but I admit that part of me is impressed with Camomilla’s uncompromising principles. I appreciate Camomilla’s contention that in Italian cooking, there are some rules that just cannot be broken, and I think this philosophy is what keeps standards securely high. Camomilla and my aunt do love each other, and eventually things settle down. To atone for her humiliation, my aunt cooks the pasta anew, this time with undivided attention, and everyone reconvenes around the table to share the now impeccable food.

I would be remiss if I did not mention one more tidbit to round out this tale. My aunt’s picky pasta friend, Camomilla, is a dog, a beloved rabble-rousing terrier that adds a welcome dose of spiritedness to my family’s days. Understandably, my aunt never likes to see food go to waste. So, the pasta that was rejected by Camomilla makes its way down to the chickens that dutifully supply the family with fresh eggs. I always wonder how long it will take for these birds to wise up and realize that they are getting the shaft, and in turn begin to cry out their own gobbles of protest. If you are incredulous upon reading this, you certainly could be forgiven. Even I, having witnessed it with my very own eyes on various occasions, shake my head in disbelief as I ponder it all. But it is true, to the letter. Such is the nature of food in Italy. Even dogs hold cuisine to exacting standards. No wonder that they, and their fellow Italians, eat so well.

Author Davide D'Alessandro [Photo: Kimberley Burton]

Davide D’Alessandro is a proud dual citizen of Italy and Canada. A clinical psychologist by trade, he holds a Ph.D. from McGill University, has published scholarly peer-reviewed articles, and maintains an independent psychology practice with the goal of using the lessons of science to help clients live more satisfying lives. When not employing psychology in his office, he does so in Italy, observing the habits of his fellow Italians and joining them in the enjoyment of little things to boost their moods and his alike. He generally considers himself happy, despite not owning a car and watching television on a smallish screen. Just don’t ask him to give up his sacred caffè. He lives in Montreal.

La Gelateria, by Davide D'Alessandro

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 12:44:52 -0400

Alitalia is the flag-carrying national airline of Italy. Over the years, during my trips to Italy, I have noticed a hedonistic little habit that Alitalia’s pilots and crew practise upon returning to their motherland. They do it quite openly in the arrivals lounge after their homebound flights have touched down, with no hint of shame or hesitation. I concede that I look forward to catching a glimpse of it as I invariably wait for my travel companions to use the bathroom, change diapers, and otherwise freshen up following the long stuffy haul to Italy. The habit is passionate, pleasurable, quick, and cheap. Importantly, engaging in this act satisfies a deep longing that has been relentlessly building up within the members of the crew. Your imagination is likely wondering what this sinful pleasure could be. Physical desires that become unbridled? Perhaps, but this will likely come later in more private quarters. Illegal smoking in the passenger lounge? Yes of course, this is Italy after all, but cigarettes are not the ritual to which I am referring. Indeed, this habit is less carnal than sexual pleasures and no law forbids it. The habit, truth be told, is gelato.

You might be underwhelmed by this revelation, perhaps having expected something at least a modicum more risqué. Ice cream? What could possibly be so compelling about a little ice cream? But gelato is no mere ice cream, and the pilots and crew of commercial aircraft will often be the first Italians you will spot enjoying this marvellous little touch of the dolce vita. Like bees to a fragrant flower, they hone in on the airport ice cream parlour, decisively order a big cone, and walk away both smiling and relieved to finally have this treat of which they were inhumanely deprived during their tour of flight duty. For them, nothing says welcome home like a good Italian gelato.

For me, gelato is in a neck-and-neck horserace with the Italian bar as one of the main drivers for each trip I make to Italy. Immediately after confirming my flights, I begin to daydream about my daily visits to the Italian ice cream parlour, a gelateria in Italian. What makes me swoon so sensually about gelato when ice cream is so widely available across the globe? There are some important differences between gelato and the ice creams we are all familiar with, and there are also some social aspects of gelato consumption that visitors to Italy will find to be novel and endearing.

The Engineering of Gelato

To whet your yearnings, here are some facts that give gelato its bragging rights. First, gelato has a lower butterfat content (for number lovers, generally in the 6-8% range) than the ice creams with which you are more accustomed. Besides any favourable health implications that this may carry, this lower fat content carries other advantages that give gelato a bolder, more intense flavour. For gelato, this is a “Goldilocks zone” of fat content, not too much and not too little. Consequently, gelato has enough fat to gracefully transfer oil-soluble essences of flavour to your taste buds, but insufficient fat to form a prohibitive seal between your tasters and the flavours that would tragically mute its enjoyment. The lower fat content also makes gelato taste less milky, and therefore imparts a more genuinely refreshing mouth feel that does not lead to excessive thirst like heavier ice creams can. Gelato has less air whipped into it than standard ice cream does, yielding a denser and more luscious texture that in turn accents its gusto. Last, gelato is served from special coolers that maintain its temperature at a warmer mark compared to that of the ice creams that you will encounter at home. This warmer temperature makes gelato smooth and pliable despite its higher density, and boosts the approachability of its glorious flavours because your mouth is not jolted by the deep cold and rigid consistency that characterizes many ice creams.

The Perfect Merenda

Besides these technical distinctions, in Italy there are also socio-cultural aspects to the consumption of gelato. For Italians, gelato is not a decadent treat that requires special occasions or the consoling of dark emotions to justify its enjoyment. Nor does it evoke post-consumption sentiments of guilt and thoughts of running it off at the gym the next day. Gelato is just a daily ritual that needs no validation whatsoever, and the only emotion it ever evokes is happiness. What an original concept! From a nutritional point of view, Italians do not consider gelato to be a wicked pleasure that really ought to be avoided. For them, gelato is an energy-lifting, easily digestible, refreshing, and hydrating food that makes for a perfectly delicious and functional merenda, the traditional mid-afternoon Italian snack that staves off bouts of peckishness.

Despite the fact that the primetime for savouring gelato begins in the afternoon and continues right through to the wee hours, there are no temporal or seasonal limits on gelato consumption. It is enjoyed all day long, and in some regions, notably Sicily, it is a traditional breakfast when served stuffed within a croissant-like sweet bread called a brioche. And although more of it is certainly consumed during the hot Italians summers, locals still enjoy gelato in the relative balminess of their winters. So, feel free to have one no matter what the time of day – or the time of year.

What strikes me most about the culture of gelato consumption in Italy is not the perception of it being a noble food, but the perception of who should be enjoying it. Ice cream here is predominantly considered a treat for children; if adults are having some it is under the pretense of joining in with the youngsters, or perhaps a rare moment of decadence. Certainly, in North America at least, ice cream is not considered a “cool” food in the sense of social posturing, and I find it hard to imagine a gang of haughty teenagers or a team of corporate investment bankers heading out to grab an ice cream and then parading down the street with it.

Not so in Italy. There, gelato is for everyone. As you walk around in Italy, take note of who is clasping a gelato. You will see groups of seniors enjoying a gelato, couples in love enjoying a gelato, motorcycle gang members enjoying a gelato, and police officers enjoying a gelato. And those groups of corporate bankers with chic sunglasses and Brioni suits? They won’t be waving cigars. They too will have a gelato, and often a big one. It is as if each citizen is continually reminding her peers about the pleasures and virtues of gelato. For visitors to Italy, a gelato becomes the object of a chronic communal banquet instead of a restricted vice.

The moral of the story is clear. A gelato, that most simple, small, and affordable item of gastronomic art, is a fundamental part of the dolce vita. Few things, big or little, so easily inject us with happiness and evoke a smile of satisfaction. Have it often, certainly daily, while in Italy. Here are some useful suggestions to help you enjoy gelato well according to its social script.

How To Choose a Noble Gelateria

Like the Italian bar and eatery, gelaterie (the plural form) are everywhere in Italy. You will never be far from one whether on foot or in a car. In a country where citizens know how to distinguish the good stuff from the rubbish, quality is generally quite high. But, be warned: in big tourist centres, it is easy for an establishment to have line-ups at the counter when armies of visitors continually march into town, despite serving gelato that is sadly below the mark. As a result not all gelaterie adhere to the strict standards that yield a bona fide gelato. Caveat emptor.

Here are some tips. First, favour a gelateria that advertises itself solely as a gelateria. Be wary of establishments that are culinary jacks-of-all-trades that tend to be masters of none. Look for places where all they do is produce and sell gelato. Regardless of what is written on the sign, pop in and check out the breadth of wares. A good gelateria will have most of its resources and space devoted to gelato, and not to other items like pizza slices or sandwiches. One exception is coffee – it is common for a gelateria, even a good one, to serve un caffè, but this is about as much deviation from the world of gelato as I would deem acceptable.

Seek out a gelateria that advertises itself as being artiginale (Italian for “artisanal”), and that carries the designations produzione propria or nostra produzione (both meaning “our own production”). These indicate that the gelato is not industrially produced, and that is often being made right there in the back of the shop, which guarantees freshness and optimal quality. In my experience, a gelateria that identifies itself with these descriptors does not merely pay lip service to them, and the words actually carry some weight.

If the gelateria in which you find yourself has stacks of thermal polystyrene foam containers behind the counter, this is a great sign that you are in a noble spot. The presence of these containers indicates that Italians pick up gelato here in large quantities to transport home to their families. Thus, such establishments do not solely cater to less finicky tourists and generally serve premium gelato.

Perhaps most importantly, develop a sharp “gelato eye.” Inspect the goods before making a purchase. Good gelato should be served from open stainless steel shoebox-sized tubs, or – more rare these days but a sign of excellent quality – from covered steel canisters that descend down into the counter. The advantage of the former for a visitor is that you can visually examine the product. Steer clear of gelato that is piled mountain-high in the tubs. These admittedly attractive displays do tempt tourists, but are a sign that the gelato may be made to be more rigid with artificial stabilizers or even hydrogenated fats. Instead, pick gelato that is snuggled flatly in its steel bed.

Last, scrutinize the colour palette of the gelato on hand. Be wary of offerings that shock you with bright, vivid colours. While the boldness of the hues might be lovely to look at, remember that you are in a gelateria and not a paint store. Instead, consider the colour of the ingredients that go into gelato, and look for colours that correspond to those ingredients. Have you ever seen bright yellow lemon juice come out of a lemon? How about yellow flesh in a banana? Do the pistachios you eat turn your teeth green? I hope the answer is no (if it is yes, then you should have a long talk with your grocer). So avoid places where the lemon and banana gelato is tinted yellow, and where the pistachio is leaf green. I know I have found a decent gelateria when the display seems like a placid sea of pastels, one gelato just a hue deeper or lighter than its neighbour. Use your common sense. If you are looking at fluorescent reds, flaming oranges, and vibrant purples, you may be detecting artificial colours and not sweet, ripe fruits.

How to Order a Gelato

Having found a virtuous gelateria, it is time to order. This is rather straightforward. First, hang back a bit from the counter as soon as you walk in. By all means greet the staff with a warm buongiorno or buonasera, but you have a few decisions to make before engaging their undivided attention. First, select the carrier for your gelato, either a cup (una coppetta) or a cone (un cono). Both are fine choices, and I quirkily vacillate from one to the other. Some gelato purists insist on cups because they maintain that the ingredients in a cone will detract from the gelato itself, but go ahead and pick the medium that you fancy. (A small note: San Crispino, a Roman institution famed for its quality, serves its gelato only in cups; this is the exception rather than the rule.)

Having selected a cone or cup, you now must select the size. For both cups and cones, the various sizes are usually openly displayed on top of the counter and they are labelled with their respective prices. The cost for gelato in Italy is lower than for products marketed as gelato back home, reflecting its status as a daily rite. Even in the most touristy cities, the smallest size should not be much more than a couple of euros. If it is significantly more expensive, you might be in a tourist trap, and consider walking down the block to the next gelateria. Prices rise in small increments as you increase the size. The size dictates not only how much gelato you will receive, but also how many flavours you can combine. Regardless of the price, the smallest size that is offered will allow you to combine two flavours, and you can follow the rule of thumb that as you go up one step in size, you can add one more flavour. Of course, at any size, you are free to load up on a single flavour – there is no expectation that you should maximize the allotment of possible choices. The smallest size on hand is rarely miserly, and portions are more generous than outside of Italy. The smallest size is the one that I most often select, quite satisfactorily, but do not hesitate to revel in a more monumental cup or cone.

When selecting among the flavours, know that there is an art to their combination. Do not pick them willy-nilly. Take a moment and imagine what flavours would complement each other. Italians have a saying that is tuned to this notion. If feeling a bit indecisive, they will ask the server, “Quali sapori si sposano bene?” (Which flavours marry well?). It's a logical question. Think about it. Would you put lemon juice in your coffee? How about acidic grapefruit with sweet, milkier vanilla? If it doesn't sound right, it probably won't taste right. Don't fret too much, as you will be served whatever you order with no qualms, but for your own sake ponder the interaction of choice A with a candidate choice B. Most flavours make great combinations, but not all.

Having chosen your carrier, size, and flavours, step up to the counter with a smile, and order, using the following general formula:

[carrier] di [size] con [choice of flavours], per favore.

Here are some examples:

“Un cono di due euro con limone e fragola, per favore”
(A two-euro cone with lemon and strawberry, please.)

“Una coppetta di tre euro con cioccolato, vaniglia e pistacchio, per favore.”
(A three-euro cup with chocolate, vanilla, and pistachio, please.)

I hesitate to list many examples and thus potentially limit your creativity. Choices and combinations abound, so delight in some novel (but reflected upon) concoctions.

A couple of small gelato notes. First, a gelateria that is particularly lively and buzzing (thus typically a good choice) may have a designated cassa to handle payment, much like in an Italian bar, so that the servers behind the counter are unencumbered with the tasks of handling money and making change. If your gelateria has a cassa, head to it first, state your order, pay, and then take the little receipt (lo scontrino) to the serving staff. You need not tell the cashier at the cassa the specific flavours you would like, only the size of the gelato (i.e., the price), and the type of carrier. Illustratively, at the cassa it is fine to say,

“Un cono di due euro, per favore.”

After handing the scontrino over to the serving staff, repeat the full details of your order, this time of course indicating the details about your flavour choices. Even if you tell the cashier at the cassa your flavours of choice, the receipt you hand to the server will never have flavours designated on it, and it might not even specify your choice of cup or cone. As at the Italian bar, it will in most cases simply indicate the credit that you have purchased, and consequently you must inform the server about the details regarding how you would like to spend that credit.

Last, panna. Panna is fresh whipped cream with which Italians often dress their gelato, a small dose of glee to condiment the ecstasy. After communicating your order to the staff, you might be asked,

“Con panna?”

I recommend responding with a boisterous “Si, per favore!” There is usually no additional charge for this small but loving touch, a little kiss of the dolce vita it would be a shame to eschew.

When I am in Italy, I respect one commandment regarding gelato: “Thou must covet thy neighbour’s gelato and savour thine own noble gelato every single day.” Anything else I see or do beyond the fulfillment of this commandment is bonus material. Gelato may be teensy in both size and cost, but it has psychological staying power that makes many a psychiatric medication envious. Case in point, on a hot, bright Montreal August afternoon, right after lunch and, by sheer coincidence, just a few hours before I penned these words about the idolized gelato, my wife began to reminisce about our trip to Italy the previous March. In her sweetest voice, she began. “Do you remember that great gelateria by the Pantheon?” Her smile was broader than those that I can elicit, and my own uninhibited grin quickly joined the nostalgia. Later, I reflected to myself. Had the mighty Pantheon been relegated to the role of being a mere descriptor of the gelateria? Yes. Once again, the little gelato stole the show.

Author Davide D'Alessandro [Photo: Kimberley Burton]

The Science of the Dolce Vita, by Davide D'Alessandro

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 04:43:02 -0500

Is there a science to the famed Italian dolce vita? At first glance, the question might seem nonsensical. What on earth could stiff academics in white lab coats have to do with a culture studded with pleasure and beauty? More than meets the eye, it turns out. Rigorous studies by psychologists in North America indicate that there is indeed a scientific underpinning to the dolce vita, the Italian hedonistic lifestyle celebrated in Federico Fellini’s 1960 cinematic masterpiece set on Rome’s glorious Via Veneto. The allure of the dolce vita has grown unstoppably and today droves of tourists mercilessly descend upon Italy for a taste of that sweet life. Why, then, do so many visitors to the mecca of pleasure fail to experience the wonders of the dolce vita? The answer, I submit, lies in psychological research.

Today well-meaning, if scientifically uninformed, writers abound, each advocating a path to a single coveted goal – happiness. Fortunately, these writers have been joined by top-rank academic investigators who are clarifying what actually does make us happy, as opposed to what we think makes us happy but ultimately disappoints. Among their conclusions is that regularly savouring little things, like a superb coffee or an artisanal ice cream, tends to promote happiness more effectively than does the acquisition of big things like a new car or a flat-screen television, despite the slick advertising campaigns for items of the kind.

Italians have known this all along. Their lifestyle is made up of small behaviours that mete out frequent micro-bursts of happiness. Think for a moment of the wonders of the Italian café, or bar, of the passion brought to bear on Italian meals, of the revered Italian gelato, of the Italian flair for dress, and of the pleasures of the evening passeggiata. The dolce vita consists of small things like these. Making the most of such seemingly easy-access joys is not, however, quite as straightforward as you might guess. These little pieces of Italian culture are deceptively elusive. Teensy as they may be, they are governed by rigid procedures, or what psychologists call “social scripts” that Italians collectively ordain and to which they fiercely adhere. Most visitors remain unaware of the importance of such social scripts and consequently miss out.

Orthodox travel guidebooks for Italy are the culprits, I think. These guidebooks sing the praises of Michelangelo’s Davide, they offer walking tours of Trastevere, and they provide the details you will need to hire a gondolier. Other works, self-styled as Italian “survival guides,” have always made me chuckle; I wonder how many tourists to Italy have found the boot-shaped peninsula to be a difficult place in which to survive. If you're seeking rote lists of attractions or what to do if you misplace your passport, are taking a train, or need to make a telephone call, then most of these traditional guidebooks will fit the bill. If instead you are seeking a resource that offers a generous portion of practicality paired with a modicum of cultural sensitivity to help you do the little things that Italians do best every day, and that visitors strive to do themselves, often in vain, to get a taste of the true dolce vita, then orthodox guidebooks will disappoint.

Tourists in Italy would do well to consider the notion that there are two Italies. I like to imagine them as concentric circles. The outer circle is the Italy easily accessible by most travelers who have engaged in at least a minimal amount of standard preparation. This is the Italy of supreme antiquities and artistic masterpieces, of stunning landscapes and unrivalled architecture, of sporty Vespas and ultrachic design. No slouch, this Italy that draws armies of visitors year-round, and rightfully so.

But there is another Italy just below the surface, an Italy that is tantalizingly advertised to foreigners, that is deceptively tricky to engage, and that is cruelly missed by most. This is the Italy of social finesse and interpersonal warmth, of impeccable gastronomy and unsurpassable coffee, of meandering strolls and crafted ice cream. We all adore this second Italy, that of the dolce vita, and indeed for many visitors it is the primary impetus for their voyage. But unlike the first, outer Italy, this inner land rewards only those relatively few travelers who have dug below the surface and honed some rare skills. Ideally, such skills would be sharpened by virtue of sheer practice over successive visits. My favourite metaphor (but not my wife’s) is that Italy is a sensuous, refined courtesan who coyly reveals her wonders, one at a time, over repeated encounters with her returning suitors. Unfortunately, most of us do not have frequent opportunities to travel to Italy. What I propose, then, is a guide to help visitors crack the code of the dolce vita.

Tourists who wish to partake in the less accessible but highly coveted delights of Italy must come to understand that Italians have a unique approach to their use of the rules of daily activities. There is a social script for waiting in line at the post office, a social script for ordering un caffè, a social script for negotiating a traffic light. What distinguishes Italian social scripts from those of other countries are the two disparate ways in which they are followed. They are either skilfully ignored (as often is the case at the post office and traffic light) or religiously upheld. This latter category, the social scripts that Italians vigorously follow, includes the very scripts that visitors can benefit from knowing because they allow access to the second, inner Italy – how to order a coffee at an Italian bar, how to engage in daily social pleasantries, how to construct a meal.

Alas, most tourists, even those who have done their basic homework with mainstream guidebooks, remain unaware of these fundamental rules that dictate everyday Italian life. Consequently, many travelers to Italy face the dilemma of either bumbling ignorantly through what ought to be a superlative experience to the point where discomfort and anxiety rise and pleasure is lost, or avoiding the experience altogether. Both of these outcomes are a shame in a country with so much hedonism to offer. My goal, then, is to bring to light these unwritten but crucial social scripts so that visitors to Italy can experience well the little, inner joys of Italian culture.

The emphasis on how to do the little things well is deliberate. On my many trips to Italy, I have been fortunate to crisscross the country, from the Alps to Sicily, from the Mediterranean Sea to the Adriatic. I have eagerly visited most of the big things that tourists are supposed to visit, often visiting the same sites on many different occasions. These sites are stunning and worth every effort. Make no mistake – visits to Italy would be incomplete without thoughtful, informed stops at the Pantheon, St. Mark’s Basilica, or Pompeii. Visit these places and revel in their glories, using the many conventional guidebooks that are available to provide you with the details you need. Once I'm home again, though, I most often find a smile creeping across my face when I reminisce about the little things that I experienced in the inner Italy – that gelato, that passeggiata, that perfect caffè.

This really should not surprise us too much. Social psychologists have been researching the science of happiness to try to determine what really are the ingredients for a joyful life, a modern version of the dolce vita, in contrast to the things that we think will make us happy but that ultimately underwhelm in generating well-being.[1] As a clinical psychologist with a mandate to help people lead more satisfying lives, my favourite finding from their work is that little things give you a disproportionately powerful psychological bang for your buck. Sure, that new car will make you feel happy for a while, and so it should given what you shelled out for it, but, we tend to overestimate how happy the big things will make us, and the positive feelings that big things impart tend to fade rather quickly over time.

Little things enjoyed more frequently play the role of the tortoise in a psychological marathon against the big hare: they don’t look promising at first as sources of contentment, but they have staying power, and they tend to outperform the big things that poop out after an initial happiness sprint. Italians seem to run this psychological marathon exceptionally well. Their awareness that regularly engaging in the little pleasant things that life has to offer boosts and maintains happiness -- an awareness forged long before scientists entered the field -- is for me the driving force behind an authentic dolce vita.

Seekers of the sweet life, unite! With this psychological knowledge under our belts, let us embrace the refinement of Italian social graces, the virtuoso performances found in the Italian bar, the joys of Italian food and drink, the pleasures of elegant Italian dress, the spirit of the Italian evening stroll, and the glories of gelato, for these are the elements of the Italian lifestyle that are most desirable, available, and relevant to foreigners. At first glance, this might seem to be an odd hodgepodge of topics that few people would deem required information for an Italian vacation, but visitors to Italy who take the time to read up on these little things and experience them will be well rewarded. My aim is to help you engage in the simple, small pleasures of Italy with some confidence so that you may have a sense of mastery and enjoyment that will long outlast your return home.

Perhaps the best news comes last. None of these beloved elements of the dolce vita is particularly expensive, and most are downright cheap, if not free. And so they should be – we are talking about little things, after all.

[1] For excellent further reading on the science of happiness I refer you to the research of Dr. Sonja Lyubomirsky at the University of California, Riverside and of Dr. Daniel Gilbert at Harvard University, and in particular to their respective books, The Myths of Happiness: What Should Make You Happy, But Doesn’t, What Shouldn’t Make You Happy, But Does (Penguin, 2013) and Stumbling on Happiness (Knopf, 2006). Both works are informative, entertaining, and, refreshingly, based on empirical data as opposed to hunches.

Author Davide D'Alessandro [Photo: Kimberley Burton]

Walking Through the Trees, part III, by Kenneth Radu

Sat, 02 Mar 2013 11:12:18 -0500

Quite apart from nineteenth century adventurers and explorers, there are other gardeners who have searched far afield for cultivars and who believe that what has grown in foreign climates can grow where they happen to reside, however improbable that may at first appear. Elsie Reford, the genius behind the wonderful Jardins de métis (Reford Gardens) in the Bas St-Laurent region of Quebec, had the inspired idea of attempting to grow the blue poppy. She did not, however, travel to India or Tibet to find the fabled flower whose common name betrays its provenance. Knowing that the Royal Botanic Gardens of Edinburgh grew them successfully, Reford ordered seeds in the 1930s, created a spot for them, and to this day, they grow in stunning profusion. One June day not so long ago, I had to be dragged away from her exquisite blue poppy glade.

On a less grand scale, occupying considerably fewer acres and devoted to the pleasures of individual gardening more than public recreations, are semi-private gardens. Here, gardeners and their apprentices maintain perennial beds, herbaceous borders, garden rooms, hedges and seed beds without worrying about games and spectacles designed to attract a paying crowd. Such gardens abound in England’s green and growing fields and villages, not to mention in our own back yards. Many have become justly famous and are open to the public like Rosemary Verey’s Barnsley House, which was not on my itinerary given the time available. Verey passed away several years ago and her home in the Cotswolds was sold and turned into a B&B, but the gardens have been maintained.

The azalea and camellia gardens at Cornwall’s Llanhydrock, in addition to its perennial beds, invite one to linger long, which I did for hours, viewing both grounds and manor house, now operated by the National Trust. I should really use the term plantswoman or plantsman, as Verey did, which apparently is what professional gardeners prefer to call themselves. I dislike the appellation because it sounds unnatural to my ears. Moreover, it reminds me of plantain which, although related to the ever-serviceable Hosta of infinite variety, and is the name of a useful fruit, is also a medicinal weed used as a laxative.

Great Dixter, the topic of several BBC productions, whose creator Christopher Lloyd has become a legend among gardeners, illustrates the genius and joy of the semi-private garden. As a matter of interest, Sir Edwin Lutyens had a hand in the layout of the grounds. By semi-private, I mean gardens that continue to grow as a result of their proprietors’ passion and hands-on efforts. These are gardens meant to live and work in, and not only visit. The Lloyd family lived in their authentic Tudor manor house surrounded by brilliant gardens. In one program, Lloyd dismisses the concept of “low-maintenance” gardening, designed for people who prefer not to do the work, and which suggests both stasis and indifference. The ultimate in low maintenance gardening is the grave covered with grass and marked with plastic flowers. Even then the grass must be cut. That is not Lloyd speaking, but yours truly.

A bus ride from the mediaeval town of Rye, where I happened to be staying for a week, and a fifteen minute walk from the bus stop through a very quiet residential neighbourhood on the outskirts of Northiam, Great Dixter gratified my efforts to get there. Unlike Kew or Heligan or Llanhydrock, it was unpopulated by tourists at the time, so my perambulations were never blocked. The only people I saw were a few labourers repairing shingles on an out building, and one gardener in Wellington boots pushing a wooden wheelbarrow. Water, walls, stone, extraordinary plantings: I thought I had died and gone to … well … paradise.

Great Dixter is famous for Lloyd’s long border of vivid perennials of various heights thriving from early spring to the winter, a garden for all seasons. Moreover, the estate gardens are divided into “rooms,” a now common gardening concept also evident at Sissinghurst and in Virginia Woolf’s garden at Rodmell. Perhaps the most remarkable “room” at Dixter is the one devoted to topiary and giant yew bushes, so susceptible to pruning and shaping. Surrounded by master works of topiary, I did feel a twinge claustrophobic and envious, probably because my own gardens are unwalled, planted in what used to be a farmer’s field, and not rigorously clipped into birds and mammals. Alas, my gardens lack the attributes of greatness, but they are my own.

It is not original to say that gardening is, and has ever been, a universal instinct or desire, present throughout the globe in all peoples with the possible exception of dwellers in arctic lands or deserts where terrain and climate forbid. Hence, the variety of gardens reflects the variety of human cultures: from perennial borders and cottage gardens on English estates, to Moorish, Italian, and Chinese gardens; from plots of functional cabbages and superfluous roses behind carved wooden fences in Romania, to patches of gourds and corn planted by the indigenous peoples of North America, we inhabit a world of gardens. It’s worth remembering that the word paradise traces its origins to the word pairidaeza, which in the ancient Iranian language Avestan, means a wall constructed to enclose cultivated grounds or a small grove of fruit trees. There is the wall again. As for Eden, that fabulous paradise lost, one need say no more.

Author Kenneth Radu among Camellias, Llanhydrock

Kenneth Radu is the author of several books (fiction, poetry, and a memoir), the most recent being a volume of short stories, Sex in Russia (DC Books). A new collection entitled Earthbound is also forthcoming from DC. He is currently working on a novel manuscript, other stories, and now and then enjoys writing something else. He lives near Montreal.

Photos: Courtesy Kenneth Radu