(Editor’s Note: This is the second installment of what’s shaping up to be a rather long series. Part 1 ran in last Monday’s edition. Part 3 will appear next week. And so on. Get it?) RISTORANTE DEL CAMBIO, TURIN, ITALY. THURSDAY, JULY 6: Built in 1757 to the design of famed architect Antonio Bellino, Del Cambio is a marvel. Located across from the Palazzo Carignano — home of the first Italian Parliament — this place has long been THE spot for the biggest names in Italian politics... not that I purport to know the names of many Italian politicians, living or dead.
However, I am familiar with the legend of Count Cavour, who is credited with unifying Italy. They say Cavour spoke Italian, thought in French and dined Piedmontese-style at Del Cambio — his “very favorite restaurant in all the world,” according to the head waiter, who never worked for Air France and is thus worthy of trust.
Sitting among a group of very excellent people — Europeans and Americans alike — in a luxuriant dining room that bears the Count’s name, directly beneath a bronze plaque with tricolor ribbons commemorating the Count’s favorite place to sit, eating food and drinking wine fit for... well, fit for Count Cavour, it stands to reason I’d be merrier than the bald guy on “Mary Tyler Moore.” But I’m not. On the contrary, I’m quite troubled. And today, being fully in touch with my previously latent Franco-enmity, I lay all the blame for my disquietude on the French, a people whose largest air carrier has yet to recover my lost baggage. Hence, the Italian jeans.
If you gave a pair of Italian-made men’s jeans a passing glance, you’d likely presume them to be — as I did — much like America’s own Levi’s or Gap jeans or something from the good rack at K-Mart. Same color. Same feel. Same bloated price tag (except at K-Mart). You might even grab a pair in your usual size off the rack — as I did — and purchase them sans-fitting. This would be a mistake. In the interest of consumer safety, I now present you with...
TRAVEL TIP #1: Never purchase Italian-made men’s jeans without first trying them on. Italian-made men’s jeans are made for unusually thin men without hips or testicles. If you have hips and/or testicles, it’s advisable to avoid Italian jeans altogether.
However, if you find yourself in a situation where, for instance, an inept French airline has carelessly lost most of your clothing, and a new pair of Italian-made jeans is the only affordable alternative to a pair of fetid sweat pants, I suggest trying on a pair at least three sizes bigger than those you would purchase stateside.
“Aren’t those jeans just squeezing the hell out of your balls?” asks the woman sitting next to me — a nice Irish gal who, it turns out, works for Bacardi.
“Huh?” I mumble, shifting uneasily and wondering how it could be so obvious.
“I said, aren’t you just having a hell of a ball? I am. I really, really am.” She smiles.
I smile back at her. When she turns away I wince — the eggplant ravioli with fresh tomato and wild mushrooms has gone, as women are prone to saying, “straight to my hips,” and I fear my Italian-made jeans may explode.
Then the Count arrives. Not the dead one mentioned earlier. An alive one — quite alive, as it turns out. Count Esconsio is a bigwig with Martini & Rossi, which is owned by Bacardi, the company hosting the International Bartenders Competition. The IBC is the reason I’m in Turin. Bacardi invited me to attend, as they are somehow under the impression that I am an important member of the American media. Had they known I’m barely employed and researching my new book “Why Air France Sucks” instead of their latest sparkling wine or the IBC, it’s unlikely I'd be in this restaurant wearing these Italian jeans.
Esconsio is a cool cat. Rich. Educated. Dashing. Italian. He has a way of making the guests feel special, while simultaneously treating the help like complete crap.
Dessert is the most beautifully prepared dish I’ve ever seen. A large yellowish gelatin mold with vibrant red and blue wild berries suspended inside. I stare at my dessert plate, admiring it. I even take a picture of it.
Count Esconsio somehow remains unimpressed. He lifts his plate, eying the quivering gelatin mold suspiciously. After a long while in which he seems to be contemplating some sort of hate crime, the Count snaps his fingers angrily. The headwaiter is quickly at the table. Esconsio is flabbergasted.
“What is this... trembling cake?” The head waiter bows his head in humiliation. His face is red — the same shade I imagine my poor balls to be.
“Turin is home to some of the finest chocolates in the world,” Esconsio growls, “and you give my guests this... this... this trembling cake.”
Atear rolls down the head waiter’s cheek. “TAKE IT AWAY!!!” Esconsio barks. Suddenly, the head waiter collapses under the weight of his shame. (Next week: We’ll be moving on to France … oh, joy!)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 26, 2002. Read the original PDF.