Ities on a junket

I spent a half-hour at an event today. It was full of wine people and hangers-on. There was a press briefing, which I missed to my undying grief, at which Italian agriculture minister Luca Zaia and pezzi grossi from Veronafiere (Vinitaly) and other lobbying entities pimped the glories of Italian agribusiness. 

After the press wanking I went with the flow and found a wee table to stake claim to a seat, wandered around looking for something to eat -- forget it, I don't stand in line for so-so hors d'oeuvres -- and sipped a glass of Bastianich Tocai (Friulano, I mean) as the greedy masses lumbered by. 

I was snubbed by a couple of people (hi, Charles Scicolone, nice to see you too) but I mostly stared with bemusement at the merry Italian junketers who go from Del Posto to Marea to other high-end eateries, usually of the Italian persuasion, on their junkets to New York. Many so elegant, so beautifully tailored, so well-connected. 

They looked delighted, no doubt because They Have Access to Mr. Zaia & Co., and because, well, for a few days they're doing New York which is of course equivalent to saying, "I've been in America. There is a profound understanding of our wines/oil/cheese/salami, and so everything is marvelous." Not to mention the pretty young assistants who travel with il Patrone, whom they undoubtedly call Dr. Max* behind his back. They serve to mitigate the tristesses and solitudes of travel in a distant land.

If these Italian joy-riders do deign to visit another city it's usually Miami (obvious as to why), LA (ditto), San Francisco (ditto). They'll do Boston, Philly, DC -- well, they're not far away and they're important parts of the Northeastern Megalopolis (60 million people or so, the population of Italy in a tighter, richer space), but they're no Vegas, that's for sure. (House rules always favor the big spenders in Washington, unlike in Vegas.)

Maybe a few of the less well-heeled, and those who are more tolerant of provincial cluelessness, will schlepp to Chicago or Dallas or -- ha! -- Cleveland.  But those stalwarts are in a tiny minority, those who leave the cocoon of self-regard with all its comforts and transplanted values. What they experience is or should be a wake-up call, because:

People don't get your wines

They won't pay your ridiculous prices

They find you less charming than strange

You too often have an attitude that can be, oh, a tad off-putting

We all know understanding and appreciation go both ways. 

You're the ones trying to sell something that people can pretty much do without. You first. 

 

*Very old allusion to a scathing satire of the same title (patrone = boss) by Goffredo Parisi.

 

Comments

[Gianni Lovato]

Wow! You sure don't mince words.
You succeeded in painting an unfortunately too realistic picture of the archetypal "connected" Italian visiting the US.
And I thought it was only a characteristic of those involved in the fashion industry!! Ah!!
Pity that not many of those clueless peacocks will get your drift. I suppose that might take a few more hundreds "Real English" sessions. And of course a lot less narcissism.
Boh!
Pazienza.

[TH]

Tons less narcissism. Maybe when they can't afford to buy Brioni duds anymore because their subsidies, grace a Berlusconi, have dried up.

These guys are faux-noblemen with the ways of cafoni.

[gianpaolo]

How comes that I'm Italian and I don't know Brioni?
I had enough of those characters. Some people from some Italian institute for promoting business in USA (there are hundreds, so it's impossible for you to trace it back) came in Italy with Americans buyers (most of them were low level employees sent to Italy as a reward, payed by Italian taxpayers) for 15 days. One of those Italian accompanying person used his USA cell phone to make and receive calls from Italy for the whole time, God knows how much it must have cost (payed by the same people as before).

[TH]

As I wrote the post I thought of you, one of the few, who schlepped all over the country -- Akron! Burlington, BT! Denver! -- and not in the nicest time of the year. You're a rare breed, GPP.