Thursday, 12 June 2008
Think of village and the word idiot comes to mind. Well, to me it does. Maybe I am he. Anyway, I was taking the doggie for a stroll through the local village (the one with the world's worst-stocked shop, open for two hours each morning, see the distant post if you can be arsed to find it) when my old (and I mean Old) mate and world's greatest smallholder Riccardo called me over from his yard where he was busy wringing the necks of a couple of capons (excellent self-basters by the way, having lost their tackle at an early age, thus going to fat) and invited me in for an aperitivo and who was I to say no at half past ten in the morning? His marginally less ancient wife plonked down two beakers (oooh yes!) on the table in their huge, workmanlike 1960s kitchen and slugged out two serious martini rossos, one for me and one for her. "But Riccardo" I ventured, "are you not...?" "Don't ask" he replied curtly so I didn't. No ice, no faggy slice of orange, no mixer, just a straight simple Red Martini, straight out of the bottle into what was almost certainly a dirty glass. Marvellous. They loaded me up with the kit in the photo, all home-made, the white wine being recommended for a roast. Lord knows what the grape is, I don't think even Riccardo knows as some of his vines are older than he is (89).