AN EXCLUSIVE DAY IN FORTE DEI MARMI

There’s a code and I think I cracked it: It only took me 20 years of Miami living to dig out how to live in the Italian riviera like a local. 

It took just one morning, the morning of the Wednesday street market in Forte dei Marmi, our version of Palm Beach, in the good season, the summer, during my trip to Italy was a revelation.

Imagine the Agnelli, Giorgio Armani at one point owned a home here too, Thomas Mann, Henry Moore, Luchino Visconti, old money and noble families populate the mansions behind the discreet gates, pines, oleanders. And then there's il Bagno Piero, the beach club of the front rowers. If you have the tent in row n.1 you have accumulated a Anna Wintour type of seniority. And then la Capannina di Franceschi, a sort of Studio 54 of the roaring '60s when Gino Paoli and Ornella Vanoni were IT. 

There’s a diffused sense of elegance, relaxed and chic, understated lifestyle made of simple yet luxurious things, there's no showing off Ferrais or Lamborghini, you actually do errands, go to the beach in the bike. The morning starts at the bar, if you want to make it posh it's Il Principe. You know there's a bar at each and every corner in Italy, you go, pay for un caffe', show the recipt to the barista, order and in a NY minute you gulp it down and leave. There's no alien language just un caffe'or a cappuccino, not a skinny latte with an extra shot kids temp, they don't need to call your name, it's a ritual, but it entails a mix of attitude and discretion, respect for your privacy, it's a question of sleekness and rapidity, when you want a coffee can't wait.  

Well, al Forte, even the barista seems a magician, they are as fast at manifesting that caffe’ as you should expect from a barista, yet the noises are tufted, voices are soft and coffee cups are china, not clunky basic ceramics. 

So here’s when the luxury is a state of mind enters in action and the whole reason I wrote the book with it. How about getting dressed to go to the market?

CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: Linen, layers of whites, gold bracelets, bicycles and wicker baskets, cashmere scarves, silk foulards, les paniers, flat leather sandals, wide brimmed hats, children in prams and nannies.

GET CAUGHT DEAD BEFORE: Wearing high heels pumps, allover logos, It girl bag, the same furry Gucci loafer that all influencers wear or any knock-off.

BTW, you will find random street sellers offering knock-offs of all the above on the curb of the street over a white bed sheet that comes handy when the police come.

WORST FAUX PAS: Trying too hard: it shows that you don’t belong, it’s not about the money and wanting to be who you are not, is never a good idea. And, no coffee to go in a plastic cup, ice cream though it's a different story, it's a cone on the go in the bike. 

WHAT TO BUY AT THE MARKET: The best items to be bought at the market in Forte dei Marmi are bed linens, bathroom parures, pajama sets all to be embroidered with initials (they place your order and the following week you come back for your personalized items); cashmere anything like sweaters, scarves, ponchos. Leathergoods, especially shoes and bags  are the best showcase of what Tuscan craftsmanship is capable of: leather, cotton, silks, prints all made in family owned looms and labs and proudly represented, generation after generation. 

DO THE SUMMER LIKE THE LOCALS DO: FIRENZE & PITTI EPISODE

I attended another Pitti.

For many it's still a dream that hasn’t happened, especially since it became the man/main event par excellence, “peacocking” included. I explain the whole story about it in the book, in the “Borrow from the Boys” chapter and I will not be repetitive.

From 1992 it evolved, changed, expanded, went online, expatriated, cancelled the woman, added a small woman representation, now cancelled it again. My “relatore” the person that introduces you and kinda mentors you through the extenuating preparation of the final thesis in university was Luigi Settembrini, the then communication director and creative consultant of Pitti.

Florence is the place where in 1957 Italian fashion was born with a defile’ in the Sala Bianca in Palazzo Pitti, where Gianfranco Ferre’ made his man collection debut, where the men socks Gallo were launched. Guccio Gucci and Marquis Pucci were home buddies. Firenze is where you breathe history, culture and fashion like nowhere else in the world, it’s the noble of the family of the fashion capitals.

This seemed the perfect backdrop to hold a workshop on how to feel empowered by maintaining your own style in the world of fashion. Part of the job of #luxuryisastateofmind and making all look effortless chic was done by the J.K. Place and its director, Claudio Meli.

What to do like an Italian, or, in other words, how not to look like a tourist.

·         Don’t confuse Pitti Immagine with Palazzo Pitti, Santa Maria Novella the train station, the basilica or the farmacia;

It's ok to walk the streets with that feeling that Caterina de' Medici will show up around the corner with one hell of a damask gown and a cascade of emeralds: it happens to the veterans

·         Scudieri is for the orange zest dipped in dark chocolate, winter or summer;

·         Ice cream is at Perche’ no

·         Don’t be stars truck, play it cool; They are all peacocks, some are fake, the real ones don’t hang out at the entrance of the Fortezza;

·         Be aware, you may find your friend from 20 years ago

·         Go local, like follow Claudio Meli’s footsteps, hang out at the J.K. Place and make yourself acquainted with "the other Florence" the artists and artesans of the sublime.

·         Don’t wear logos, branding or, for that, any cheap Zara knockoffs of logos and brands

The Cheat Sheet of Italian Style // Book is still found HERE and HERE (if you live in the UK or prefer using the Pound). 

That time we ate a 4-pound chunk of Parmigiano Reggiano

Tonight in Italy is #PRnight2016 that is the night dedicated to celebrate the one and only Parmigiano Reggiano #theonlyparmesan

I accepted the investiture of Parmigiano Reggiano Ambassador as it is: a diplomatic role of story teller and in the next three months it is my intention that you all become acquainted with the Parmigiano Reggiano. It's just a cheese, you say, but it's ingrained in our culture and lifestyle, in slow food and zero mile approach to nutrition that it can be adapted to many other cultures and experiences. But as usual, you must follow some rules.

Really, the only thing I have to say is that there is only ONE parmesan, which is the one produced in the province of Parma, in Emilia Romagna (the one in the middle of boot, north of Tuscany and south of Lombardia). Parmigiano means 'from Parma'.

Why? Because to produce it there’s one rule above all that must be respected: use whole milk from the cows that live there. Very simple: soil, sun, cold, winds, trees, vegetation, seasons it’s a whole ecosystem that cannot be reproduced anywhere else.

Thinking of what parmigiano means to us, I came down to many depictions and adjectives, none of them is related to calories-count, fat content or tin container in the supermarket aisle.

CURIOSITY: Italian pediatricians recommend introducing Parmigiano Reggiano to 9 mo children for its content of calcium, protein, vitamins easy to digest.

I know some friends will be shocked or maybe even offended, “here she comes again, with the Italians do it better” but if you spar me a few minutes, you’ll get the point.

Convivial is the first adjective that comes to mind because:

1.   There’s no Italian fridge without a chunk of parmigiano

2.   My maternal grandparents

3.   My childhood

Imagine being in front of this nearly 4-pound slice from a 14 months Parmigiano Reggiano wheel at room temperature? All I can think of is a house full of people, wine and chatter, bread crumbles allover, maybe a fireplace, laughter and clicking glasses, something organized last minute, where friendship or family are more important of the formality of all glasses and plates matching.

Some of my friends and people that I have met in these two American decades of my life, had no idea THAT was parmigiano. It comes down to a cultural divide that the cheese itself will reconcile.

My story is very simple, and it’s a window to a typical Sunday in an Italian province.

After Sunday mass, we’d go to my grandmother’s for lunch, the five of us and it was a jovial and happy closure of the week (except for my father, the son-in-law, but that’s for a different time.) We’d buy the fresh pastries at the “pasticceria” and we’d make it to my grandparents’ apartment where the aroma of ragu with the bone of the “arista” simmering was mixed with the pungent smell of the shoe creams my grandpa used to polish his repertoire for the week, dark brown and black.

It all revolved around the kitchen and the covered balcony while the table was already set with embroidered table cloth and linen napkins in the living, where life was shared with a slow lunch, lots of chatter, maybe figurines, games, lots of laughter and screaming, no TV and limited infiltration of the scents of the kitchen.

When the water was boiling and grandma was ready to “buttare la pasta”, pour salt and past in to cook, my grandfather’s task was one of the best ones I have ever enjoyed: grating the parmesan to pour over the steaming pasta on the table.

The best part of that grating business was that he had two different chunks of parmigiano, quite the treat. My grandmother would always buy two different ages, 24 months to grate and 14 months “per I bimbi”, that is “for the children”.

And boy if we knew!

We would roam around grandpa like bees around the fig tree, he would let us have chunks “without anyone seeing you” (and by that he meant his daughter, aka my mother, because if we ate before sitting at the table, we wouldn’t eat the meal.) And that wasn’t it: when we’d seat at our designated post, which sometimes was a separate table just for the kids, the secret was to look on the main course plate, hidden by the pasta bowl, because chances were it was decorated by mini morsels of parmigiano all around.

Now that’s my story, a very sweet and tender one because yes my grandfather Bruno was a sort of a Santa all year round, but I am sure thousands of my Italian peeps and readers have their own grandpa version of the Parmigiano Reggiano.

HOW TO ENJOY THE 14 MONTHS:

·         Room temperature

·         Over a wooden board

·         Cut in bites

·         Enjoy profusely

·         Red wine (don’t tell my brothers, but I even go with prosecco and rose’ in the summer)

·         In the fall: pears, grapes, olives, the first sausages, artichokes or mushrooms under oil

·         In the spring and summer: strawberries and the real aceto balsamico or why not figs

·         Aperitivo and also when you have last minute friends over, remember it’s a perfect meal that provides the right amount of calcium and there’s no kid who doesn’t like it

SOME THING YOU NEVER DO (to look like a pro):

• Ask to pour it over any pasta with seafood or shellfish. That’s one of those things like asking for a cappuccino after a meal, that’ll give you the foreigner passport.
• Throw the rind away. Secret is, when you make il minestrone, the vegetable soup, you scrape the dirt off the rind and throw it in and let it simmer. You are welcome.

THE ITALIAN WAY: according to our grandmother’s recommendations, you don’t buy grated cheese punto!, because “you don’t know what they grate, they use the left-over of what they cut from the rind” and I spare you from the rest of the horrifying conspiracy theories of what we were told it was contained, but rat’s pee was the most decent.

TRUTH is the real Parmigiano Reggiano cannot contain shelf-stabilizing additives nor can be dehydrated. NOW you know why the whatever brand powdery stuff they sell in a non-refrigerated aisle at the supermarket is a sign that it’s not an Italian thing. Makes sense?

MAKE IT TO THE COMMENTS, I WANT TO KNOW YOUR STORY OR HOW THIS WILL MAKE YOU CHANGE YOUR FAMILY STORY