Nude descending a staircase

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#مناسبات_وأحداث || #محمد_أحمد_السويدي || #ننشر_المعرفة

July 28, 1887, Marcel Duchamp, French sculptor and painter (Nude Descending a Staircase), born in Blainville-Crevon, France (d. 1968).

المصدر: يوتيوب

William Faulkner begins a screenwriting stint

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William Faulkner begins a screenwriting stint

|| #مناسبات_وأحداث || #محمد_أحمد_السويدي || July 26, 1942

Novelist William Faulkner starts a five-month stint with Warner Brothers on this day.

Faulkner had already published several literary novels, including The Sound and the Fury (1929), Light in August (1932), and Absalom, Absalom! (1936), but his novels were not commercial successes. Faulkner wrote two critically acclaimed films, both starring Humphrey Bogart: To Have and Have Not was based on an Ernest Hemingway novel, and The Big Sleep was based on a mystery by Raymond Chandler.

Screenwriting provided income for many novelists from the 1930s through the 1950s. With the development of talking pictures, starting with The Jazz Singer in 1927, the demand for writers to create convincing movie dialogue and story lines brought many novelists to Hollywood. Other prominent writers who did their time in Hollywood include Raymond Chandler, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tennessee Williams, Lillian Hellman, Dorothy Parker, and Nathanael West. West’s novel The Day of the Locusts is considered one of the best novels about Hollywood in the ’40s.

Enjoy visiting the Space Station

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Enjoy visiting the Space Station.

Go Inside the International Space Station with Google Street View

المصدر: Google Maps

Viadana Melon

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The Italian Cuisine

Viadana Melon

Viadana is a melon production area boasting certain cultivation evidences dating back to the 16th century. The characteristic Viadana melon was a melon with a smooth peel and a yellow color when ripe, round and slightly oblong, with a strong fragrance. The pulp had a bright salmon color, not too sweet, but very aromatic with a spicy aftertaste. After gathering, the ripe fruits can be preserved for one day or no more than two days. Currently, Viadana production area is known for its "Supermarket" melons. They are round-oval with evident net lines and furrows, outlining the slices, smooth and yellow when they are ripe. The pulp has an orange color, sometimes bright, and a sweet and scented taste. The quality of Viadana is given by the particular saltiness of the soils.

http://italy.electronicvillage.org

Rene Descartes

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Rene Descartes is perhaps the world’s best known-philosopher, in large part because of his pithy statement, ‘I think therefore I am.’ He stands out as an example of what intellectual self-confidence can bring us

Matera Bread

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Matera Bread
From our Italian Cuisine App.

When it comes to bread, Italy's know-how goes back centuries. From north to south, every town can boast its own traditional bread, the most famous of which includes that made in one of Italy's most beautiful regions, Basilicata: we're talking about bread from Matera.
Known for its ancient habitations literally set in stone, the sassi, and for its rupestrian churches, Matera is an undisputably fascinating city. Appreciated by tourists from all over the world, this town in historic Lucania is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site. What makes Matera so captivating? Those that visit it immediately have the sensation of walking through a life-size Nativity scene. And it is not a coincidence that this "Second Bethlehem" was chosen for the making of such films as The Passion of the Christ.

The particular bread from Matera has long been the city's symbol. Its form and unique taste are the fruit of ancient culture and tradition that still live on today.

Italian Cuisine App is available for free on this link http://italy.electronicvillage.org

The Roosters of Siena

 

Wherever you turn your face in Cianti you will see it; villages entrances, shops signboards, ashtrays, books covers and even on shirts cuffs.
I asked some of the people I met about it, but most of them knew nothing more than it being black and turning into a symbol granting the county much of its identity. It is the Chianti Rooster. Once I gaze at it embalmed on the façade of one of the shops in Greve then turn my face away, it will disturb my slumber with its shrilled crow ranting endlessly through the night. It will make me grow impatient until I order it to be summoned, only then it will calm down so do me.
Nevertheless, what is the story behind this black rooster whose leanness and slenderness became the pride of Chianti for many generations?
It is told that the matter started with a feud between two great cities; Florence and Siena. Drums of war rolled, souls perished, and blood was spilled. Exhausted by war, reason found its way and all decided peace should prevail.
This led them to concur on a solution, which gave the story its folkloric dimension. The suggestion was for each town to select a rooster and a knight and once the selected rooster in each town crowed, the knight would dash on his horse until he meets the knight from the other town; there will be the benchmark to delineate the borders subject of conflict between the two cities. Florence prepared a black rooster and deprived it from sleep and food until it slenderness and slimness got the best of its body. Siena opted for a white leisured rooster, nurtured like an affluent house kept woman.
On the set day, the Florentine rooster was up much earlier than it should crowing from sheer hunger, so the Florentine knight galloped on his horse devouring the land ahead. As for the rooster of Siena, it did not start crowing except after the crack of light, when on can tell a white thread from a black one. The knight from Siena did not cover a short stretch when he met the man from Florence. It happened later that Florence annexed the county of Siena and since then boasted about its slick svelte rooster.
When we first came to Siena, I felt that its folks were observing at us with some sort of anxiety. We were secretly recalling the story until we almost saw an affluent white roaster resting on the head of each chap in Siena
In a dim corner of the capital of art Florence, scholars of Florentine cuisine would go to have lunch at the popular Sustanza. When we arrived there, the waiter recommended a plate of poultry prepared with homemade gee. It is an ancient dish, as old as the tale of the two cities. We were delighted that that dish became one of the most delicious meals offered to us in Italy but it was to our amazement to learn from the waiter how the roosters of Siena ended to be a delicacy offered on the Florentine table

Al Mahroosi and the Hounds of Hades

 

 

I could clearly glimpse the delight overflow from my father’s face as he continued his tour at the heavenly gardens of the Regent as if he was attempting to consume the sap of the distilled lives that had entrenched their feet and souls deep into that place generations ago.
His gaze was complex and profound, always stretching to the other end; for him a tree there was not merely a tree anymore; it was a creature that for our sake had abandoned one of its extremities to continue its eternity while being deprived of the ability to move. The tour had been more glamourous whenever the sun golden strands dusted off the London carpet.
That day fell in Al Murzim – The Announcer (Beta Canis Majoris) of the moon calendar which lasts for 13 days and contains one mansion which is Al Thira’ (The arm). The harvesters gave it the name of “The Color Cooker” believing that its Simoom and heat blizzards are what caused dates to ripen (be cooked). That season is known for bounties of ripen dates, lemon, pomegranate and most of the summer’s fruits and towards its end the rollers start to migrate.
Perhaps in a few days the table would have been filled with Murzim-cooked dates and we might had head towards those gardens with some of Al Thira’ pomegranate and lemons. Perhaps birds would have flown by and we would have remembered the migrating rollers.
My father’s was peaceful bearing a pure smile while pealing the layers of beauty to reach its core. This tranquility was only disturbed by flagrant dogs attempting to muddle the purity of the moment; some are soiling the ground and some are spreading their legs to “irrigate” a tree, some are endlessly barking and some are just showing hostility.
On the other hand, something would make such scenes recede and eventually disappear. The frown painted on my father’s face disappeared when he saw a Chihuahua engaged in a fight with a Doberman triple its size, a Great Dane, or even an Afghan dog, which had been brought by British troops from its homeland. Once we diverted our sight a bit, we would find a Humongous Caucasian dog dragging a thin man, so thin one would recall the saying of Al Mutanabbi:
“My slender body rendered me a man who if did not utter a word would have been invisible”
Yet a motionless dog might be seen gazing while his owner is whistling or even shouting as if its ears are blocked by tar.
All of a sudden, a Cerberus from Hades underworld might appear. In front of it, other dogs might seem to have lost their memory wishing they could meow like cats to make him move his eyes away and leave them in peace.
Sometimes women would take the scene inducing my father to recall the story of a young Sheikh named Al Mahroosi who had a petite lean posture. “Whenever a tender voluptuous woman passed by him” said my father while trying to contain a laugh; “Al Moahroosi would wonder how he would beak this wild mare with his collapsing body, a mare robustly stomping the ground to remind it of its presence”. He continued: “Al Mahroosi would glance women from the corner of his eye and if he made eye contact with any of them he would promptly find another safe place to gaze at”. My father recalled “Whenever Al Mahroosi was about to travel to London, his chest would shiver and tremble as if it’s about to pop out. The man definitely needed to be equipped with a genome in order to identify, decipher and comprehend beauty”.
What would Al Mahroosi do if one of those gigantic Cerberus hounds of hell decided to abandon its master and aggressively pursue Al Mahroosi

Ten minutes with Nakayama

 

 

 

In 1996, Mr. Iwasaki was still relentlessly pursuing an appointment with the Chairman of “The Industrial Bank of Japan” Mr. Nakayama. Eventually he was successful. At the time, Mr. Nakayama – a close associate of my father - was almost eighty years old.

Mr. Iwasaki was flooded with joy emphasizing that ten minutes with Mr. Nakayama “are only gained by the fortunate” and he repeatedly told everyone he met about the appointment till the time came.

The meeting was held in a vast elegant hall. We sharpened our ears whenever we heard slow stumpy footsteps approaching. After a while, the man came, took his seat and saluted us.

He glanced at me for a minute before he recalled an encounter with my father: “Mohammad, I will never forget your father, I first met him in 1970 before forming the union and escorted him to a meeting with Eisaku Sato the prime minister of Japan.

I was taken by surprise when your father put Palestinian Cause at the top of his agenda whereas I thought he would start talking about oil and gas, which we had started to import from you. It was peculiar to give priority to a cause instead of your own especially when the labor of declaring the union was at its peak”.

Mr. Nakayama continued: “The second time took place two decades later; it was 1990 during Sheikh Zayed visit to Japan.

3I remember when Ahmad Khalifah Al Suwaidi – your father stood in an assembly of more than 400 of Japan’s dignitaries from all sectors and specialties and delivered a speech on behalf of the President of the United Arab Emirates. He came to mention me, highly commending my efforts in developing the relations between the two states.

To my surprise he asked me to rise, swiftly I stood up like a Samurai among the crowds. I keep recalling that moment until now.

Our gathering with Mr. Nakayama extended for more than an hour; almost two. That was enough to keep Mr. Iwasaka busy talking about that meeting; he kept repeating that it was some sort of a miracle since to his knowledge Mr. Nakayama barely has time to scratch his head.

The visit was intended to prepare a study for constructing a planetarium in Abu Dhabi Cultural Foundation. The study was actually completed to erect the best planetarium possible, but alas, the words were not translated to actions and the project never saw the light.

 

Aleppo..Maqams for Pleasure

Translated by:Tariq Alashair

My friend, the renowned Syrian filmmaker (Mohammad Malas) presented me with work papers for a variety of projects he was planning to implement. From among all of those projects I chose the documentary film project about the veteran artist (Sabri Moudallal). At the time it did not occur to me that his departure was imminent. At the time no one ever attempted to conduct any work about this original artist and his marvelous ancient city, the same city that Poet (Abu at-Tayyib al-Mutanabbi) made me become attached to more than one thousand years ago.

Thus this artistic journey with (Sabri Moudallal) began. He was a man of genial and gentle character, sober and sweet voice, and a shining memory.

The viewer will notice that the memories film arrives at numerous stops and meets with many figures, starting with the Call for Prayer (Athan) that Haj Sabri performs using his melodious and strong voice, moving back and forth between five musical Maqamat (Assemblies) including the Qudud Halabiya (means musical measures of Aleppo), Andalusi poems (muwashahat), and religious songs.

Haj Sabri began his artistic career by signing with one of the “Mawlaw'īyya Sufi” band known among the people as “Milwiyya”. The film presents a wonderful scene from one of the band’s Sufi breathtaking dances that elevates the audience’s soul to the skies of ecstasy, purity and amazing beatitude.

This cinematic work comes to emphasize the glorious and charming side of the past when the sky and the earth meet, much like Sufism meet dances and songs, love with work and goodness with beauty in a harmonious and unified human whole away from intolerance, isolation and death. The viewer’s feelings will melt into this sublime art, especially when the camera shows the city of Aleppo at the end of the film with its castle, popular neighborhoods, monuments and markets. But it is impossible for us to forget that today our eyes can only see a devastated historical city, one that occupies a special place in our national, literary and architectural history. My heart is in pain to see this ancient city in such a condition. The hand of destruction has affected everything that is beautiful and original in this place, and what remains is this film which reflects the originality and uniqueness of the city.

Mr. William and the Golden Ode

 

Years ago, during my stint at the Cultural Foundation in Abu Dhabi, I came across a book “The Golden Ode” of Labeed ibn Abi Rabee’a. The book was a visual anthology tracing the whereabouts of Labeed and his conversions as recited in his poem. I asked about the author to learn that he is a descendent of a family which gave the United States of America one of its presidents. Since such books always emit the impression that their authors did live in earlier eras, I legitimately wondered if the author was still alive, I was told he is. I had the desire to invite him to the foundation but was informed that the man’s convictions had changed and he became more of a Zionism and wasn’t supportive of Arabs anymore.
Four years later, I received a call from my friend at the Central Bank Abdulmalek Al Hamar, he seemed to be having a sort of predicament: his day was full to the brim but he had a guest in turmoil and Abdulmalik feared that turmoil is contagious; the guest name was William R. Polk. I immediately connected the dots: it was the author of the book in the flesh. The man needed someone to listen and carried with him a supply of thoughts to aid him through the lonely road of old age, yes, the man reached an age where he banished patience giving an unremitting impression of haste.
Abdulmalik told me about William’s intention to work on a project tackling “Imra’ ul-Qais” with the same approach he used with Labeed. But William was weary trying to find someone to sponsor the project. Indeed, it was a greater endeavor than Labeed, since Imra’ ul-Qais was more versatile when it came to poems and places since several narrations indicate that he traversed the Arabian Peninsula starting from the south where he first dwelled in Kindah passing to the north where he met Al Samaw’al ibn Adiya’a in Taima’a then reaching Ankara in Turkey.
Personally, I consider what the sources circulate and what was narrated about Imra’ ul-Qais are originally a set of stories and folk epics that were distorted by the centers of power and tribal strongholds during the inscription period. Throughout the Islamic conquests that followed the Orthodox Caliphate, such stories coupled with the emergence of Tribalism spread in new lands. The tribes felt compelled to narrate their past highlighting their glorious deeds and powers and how that glory was reflected in their present. To achieve that, the tribes invested in the new state via being rulers of newly invaded provinces or leaders in the military.
I am confident that Imra’ ul-Qais did not go to Ankara seeking the assistance of the Roman Emperor and that his life did not come to an end as a lonely stranger on top of Mount Asseeb. Even his entanglement with Al Samaw’al was not as described in several stories: if we are to assume that Imra’ ul-Qais had really reached Taima’a and met Al Samaw’al to begin with; it is more probable that Al Samaw’al did not surrender Imra’ ul-Qais armor to Al Harith ibn Abi Shammar Al Ghassani not out of observing Imra’ ul-Qais’s trust but because he was planning to keep the armor to himself. In addition, there is no mention of Al Samaw’al in those narrations following the murder of his son and nothing is to be found about Al Samow’al fate as if the stories were severed from many contexts just to give evidence of the man’s fidelity. I find that such distortions were part of the power struggle following the fall of the Umayyad Caliphate were many parties were keen on dividing its inheritance during the reign of the Abbasid Caliphate with its vast influence and inflated institutions.
Back to Abdulmalik (God bless his soul) who was eager to introduce Mr. Polk to relieve himself from the burden of listening to resilient William, I told Abdulmalik: “Send him to me”, I felt sorry for Abdulmalik, he sounded quite distressed. But once I met William and starting talking to him, I immediately related to Abdulmalik anguish.
I was surprised that contrary to what I had been told, the man did not swap convictions, on the contrary; he was more committed, and at his age he had cemented his priorities. According to William: “Nothing should precede my project: A visual anthology about Imra’ ul-Qais, this project needs a budget somewhere between one and half to two million dollars”. I felt bitter since those days the Foundation cannot entertain such huge amounts and the whole budget was barely covering the pre-scheduled activities so I kept thinking of someone who can adopt Mr. William’s ideas and capable of funding the man’s dreams. Following a pleasant day of versatile stories, Mr. William left for his retirement home in Paris.
For many years to follow, I never fell out of contact with William and at the same time kept thinking that it is essential to undertake a project about the first Lost King. Towards the end of 2000, the idea was still roaming in my mind so I decided to sponsor the project myself and to publish the book with the same high quality of “The Golden Ode”. I was in London, and it was exhilarating to call Mr. Polk in Paris, I said: “Good news Mr. Polk, the money needed for Imra’ ul-Qais project is available”; alas, his voice over the phone seem to have faded by the years: “Oh Mohammad, you have to relieve me of that duty”. The man I had known a decade ago became much older and couldn’t do more than wishing that a younger man could carry the torch. That was the end of another “Golden Ode” and its astray king.

Sherlock Holmes - B221 – BAKER STREET

Walking from George Street where my father lives to the Regent’s Park mosque where Friday prayer is held, my father has to cross Baker Street and since it is the street where one of the most famous houses exist; it is important to learn about the resident at B221; detective Sherlock Holmes.

Starting with Baker Street, the name was first mentioned in 1794, almost 93 years before the first Sherlock Holmes story was printed. As for the name, it was derived from the name of the man behind building that street; William Baker who laid the street out during the second half of the eighteenth century.

As for the land itself – which is center London now – it used to be under the administration of Marylebone district owned by Sir William Portman whose name remains inscribed on two buildings and a roundabout there.

The fame of the street is attributed to Sherlock Holmes of course; a man who has nothing to do with that history; the man who never existed. However, the fact does not stop people from flocking to his house in an attempt to uncover the magic he must had left in one of the corners of the house.

Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock was depicted as consulting detective based in London renowned for using logical reasoning and possessing an unparalleled ability of disguise and camouflage in addition to his dexterity in utilizing forensic science to solve the most complex of cases. Sherlock Holmes first appeared in early stories such as “A study in Scarlet”, “The Sign 4” and “The Valley of Fear”. Four novel along with many short stories mounted up to 56 works.

Sherlock was derived from the character of professor Joseph Bell. Professor Joseph worked at the University of Edenborough where he became a reputable forensic scientist. With his high intelligence, Joseph was able to develop several approaches to solve the cases he faced in few seconds.

Following the great success of the stories, Doyle decided to kill Holmes, which he did in “The Final Problem” printed in 1891 but soon Doyle had to revive the character due to extreme public resentment of the ill-fate Holmes faced in that story.

Barclay’s Bank owned B221 and started to receive letters from Sherlock’s fans which forced the management to allocate a secretary to reply to the admirers. Later, the British government converted the place to a museum housing all of Holmes’ belongings: the desk, the garments, the tools and much more.

 

On the route to the bride of the Adriatic

ON THE ROUTE TO THE BRIDE OF THE ADRIATIC.

27th December 2011.

In the adjacent seat of business class, the little blond boy went on spreading viruses in each and every direction, spraying his bullets all over the passengers from a nasal pistol that would not cease to sneezing. I said to my friend: “We should have armed ourselves with some vitamin C capsules.” Yet, the boy reminded me of my polished hair locks but in black.

Two hours elapsed and the plane landed at the humble Milan airport with its old plane stairs and wale bus which promptly swallowed the passenger for a few minutes then threw them up at the customs gate. After luggage reclaim, we boarded the hotel Mercedes prudently arranged by my companion. It was my habit to take a warm bath upon arriving to Milan which I did in preparation for dinner at Don Carlos.

Dinner at Don Carlos means dinner in the company of our friend Mohsin Suleiman (May his soul rest in peace) along with his great mates Verdi, Wagner, Fleta, Tetrazzini on table number one which Mohsin booked in advance in our reception.

“Don Carlos is one of the finest Italian restaurants and the dearest to my heart” said my friend as the music of “Va, pensiero – Fly, thoughts” decanted into our ears as a vintage luxurious perfume compelling the Coral of paintings that decorate the walls to echo: “Molto bene” following each movement.

Simone; the kind-hearted waiter who had received us at the beginning of the year recognized us immediately. "You have promised us a visit to Dubai," exclaimed my friend as Simone was serving us two glasses of Prosecco. "My four-months child could not bear to travel" answered Simone, "Now that he is more than a year old, I started looking forward to the opportunity".

Mohsen Solomon was turning the pin of the Gramophone to greet us with Mozart’s "Champagne Aria: Fin ch'han dal vino calda la testa" from Opera “Don Giovanni”. Mohsen said: "If someone knocks my door and it was Beethoven I would bow raising my hat and say:" Chapeau", but if it was Mozart I would just drop unconscious".
Oh Mohsin, I had to toil for years to learn that the cause of your falling and fainting was only because Beethoven did not compose but one opera in his entire long life; “Fidelio”, while the imaginings of the ephemeral Mozart yielded ninety-three operas occupies five of which are the most performed globally, alas death snatched the spirit of the musician at the age of thirty-six.

My friend inquired about the delicious roasted turkey we had at the beginning of the year; it was not on the menu. Simone explained that he can personally arrange for it with the Chef for tomorrow. We requested: “For tomorrow’s dinner, book the same table for the same group”.

Mohsen was still fiddling with the pin insisting on playing "Madamina, il catalogo è questo" – "My dear lady, this is the catalogue” from Don Giovanni.
We returned after a pleasant evening to Wallis Spencer Wing where that the Duchess of Windsor related the news of Edward VIII, and what made the lover who had just been coroneted in the 20th of January 1936 to soon place the crown at her feet and abdicated on 11 December of the same year.

Leo Mario and the Scorpio Lady

"I am confident she is Scorpio!" I said exuberantly, “I think so too” replied my friend confidently. We hailed the waitress at “Da O Batti” restaurant: "Ada, what is the sign of the manager of the place?”, “One moment please, I will ask Mario” squeaked her voice while she evaporated among the smoulders escaping from the kitchen. Moments and she returned bringing the good tidings:" Scorpio”. My friend smirked: “Again we are right”.
We made the acquaintance of Da O Batti years ago, and there we found the magnificent Scampi of Portofino ". Patrizia was the owner of a gallery there and she was the one who guided us to Batti. The “Scampi” experience is something we kept on remembering for months to come.

Chianti wine: “Whomever samples Chianti wine shall come back to Chianti”, Portofino scampi: “Ditto!”; we were back to Portofino in quest of our lost stray. Alas, Patrizia didn’t carry good news for us narrating that Mario the brilliant chef had left the restaurant taking the magic scampi formula with him, Mario had opened a new restaurant; the "Pado”. “The owner of Da O Batti had an accident which left him incapacitated" Patrizia cawed "and she (The Missus) took over and moved heaven and earth, sent forth and kept back; almost lurching the place into a Trojan warzone. Soon the hassle stretched to Mario erupting into a conflict with Madam. Mario chose safety and resigned, and now he has an independent restaurant bearing the name "Pado".

On December 20th 2013 we were at Pado having dinner chit chatting with Ada and Idris: the waiter recognized and greeted us. That night he had responded to Mario’s request to lend a hand since many customers had arrived; a number far more than expected. Idris was a polite Moroccan young man still working at Batti, he whispered: “I came without notifying Madam, if she knew it would be my murky end”, he said that with a smile “veneering his visage”. Idris was asking customers spread over the tables not to disclose his attending to Madam since the customers were from the town itself. Idris added: “The crippled man is Gemini: kind hearted but his wife is a tyrant. I was at their home this morning and they were fighting and shouting as usual so I left not looking over my shoulder”. It was then that I said to my friend: “I am positive that she is Scorpio!”. “Definitely she is!” he replied.

Shrimp pickled with Tropea onions is a very simple dish but it was definitely made on Mount Olympus for the gods of Olympuss under the auspices of Mario and offered with tears of Franciacort, zucchini omelet and marvelous clamps. But the magic rests in the recipe, “La ricetta di Mario” for scampi is what makes you sip even its juices. When “The Dish” is served, the customers would turn into an Orchestra of austere players in praise of Mario. Mario would highly recommend “Cervaro Della Sala” the pride of Antinori winery: an impenetrable fortress visited by wine pilgrims and its nights are kept in the merry company of the affable amusing followers of Bacchus.

I remember what Patrizia said: “The people of Portofino attempted to decipher “Scampi ricetta di Mario” but their efforts “have gone up in smoke” as they say”. We discreetly interrogated Ada about the secret of the amazing Tropea tinted shrimp, she whispered: “I once glimpsed Mario slicing the shrimp and marinating it in wine for a whole night and…”; she didn’t finish because she heard Mario walking out of the Kitchen, safety was what she chose since she knew that breaching the secrecy of Mario’s “ricetta” is a matter of life and death. We headed back with Roberto, a continuously laughing Pisces. He giggled as usual and said with a gruff voice coming from the darkness of a deep well: “How was dinner?” we answered: “Great”. “Did you have Scampi?” he wondered, We Italianized: “Molto bene”. Roberto, a fifty-two years old, looked younger than his age so it was our turn to ask. He stated: “Its Portofino fair weather”.
I scenically commented: “or the credit goes to the wife”. He dismissed the notion immediately: “Anyone but her, she is the cause of my misery my friend”, he digressed saying: “As for the Scampi, I am the son of Portofino and the folks here tried for a long time to crack the puzzle of Mario’s scampi and failed big time”, he said it with an ocean-deep chuckle.

At the dinners we spent at Pado, courtesy of Mario, I noticed the scarce number of customers. I assumed that winter was standing between the master and his congregation but I came to learn one night from Giuliano, owner of Balin Cuisine in Sestri Levante: “Italians are opting for cheaper meals mimicking Portofino’s “hustle and bustle” summer tourists. Restaurants offering fresh meals became a rarity, even a few fishermen would endure the adversity of fishing.” He added: “In Sestre Levante, only one fisherman provides fresh supplies for merely two out the jungle of restaurants in town”.

During my morning strolls where I traversed tens of kilometers from Rapallo to Portofino – which I consider to be one of the most beautiful routes I have ever set foot on – I caught sight of Mario several times standing as a lion (he is Leo by the way) at the doors of Pado in Santa Margherita Ligure waiting in vain for customers to drop by but the folks were busy gobbling cheese Mac’s and Burger Kings’.
I used to wave hello from a distance on my way to Portofino or heading back to Rapallo and Mario still stood there: a roman centurion in a no-war era. Abu Al Tayyib Al Mutanabbi – a great Arab poet if not the greatest – once complained from the recession in the “poetry market” stating: “tainted words made being deaf an acclaimed virtue”.

Thus I interpreted Mario’s circumstances so I asked him: “Is food ruined my friend?”, the heartbroken reply came: “No it wasn’t, especially in my restaurant but the sense of taste in our times has being tainted, the bons vivants are opting to fast”.

Leo Mario and the Scorpio Lady

"I am confident she is Scorpio!" I said exuberantly, “I think so too” replied my friend confidently. We hailed the waitress at “Da O Batti” restaurant: "Ada, what is the sign of the manager of the place?”, “One moment please, I will ask Mario” squeaked her voice while she evaporated among the smoulders escaping from the kitchen. Moments and she returned bringing the good tidings:" Scorpio”. My friend smirked: “Again we are right”.
We made the acquaintance of Da O Batti years ago, and there we found the magnificent Scampi of Portofino ". Patrizia was the owner of a gallery there and she was the one who guided us to Batti. The “Scampi” experience is something we kept on remembering for months to come.

Chianti wine: “Whomever samples Chianti wine shall come back to Chianti”, Portofino scampi: “Ditto!”; we were back to Portofino in quest of our lost stray. Alas, Patrizia didn’t carry good news for us narrating that Mario the brilliant chef had left the restaurant taking the magic scampi formula with him, Mario had opened a new restaurant; the "Pado”. “The owner of Da O Batti had an accident which left him incapacitated" Patrizia cawed "and she (The Missus) took over and moved heaven and earth, sent forth and kept back; almost lurching the place into a Trojan warzone. Soon the hassle stretched to Mario erupting into a conflict with Madam. Mario chose safety and resigned, and now he has an independent restaurant bearing the name "Pado".

On December 20th 2013 we were at Pado having dinner chit chatting with Ada and Idris: the waiter recognized and greeted us. That night he had responded to Mario’s request to lend a hand since many customers had arrived; a number far more than expected. Idris was a polite Moroccan young man still working at Batti, he whispered: “I came without notifying Madam, if she knew it would be my murky end”, he said that with a smile “veneering his visage”. Idris was asking customers spread over the tables not to disclose his attending to Madam since the customers were from the town itself. Idris added: “The crippled man is Gemini: kind hearted but his wife is a tyrant. I was at their home this morning and they were fighting and shouting as usual so I left not looking over my shoulder”. It was then that I said to my friend: “I am positive that she is Scorpio!”. “Definitely she is!” he replied.

Shrimp pickled with Tropea onions is a very simple dish but it was definitely made on Mount Olympus for the gods of Olympuss under the auspices of Mario and offered with tears of Franciacort, zucchini omelet and marvelous clamps. But the magic rests in the recipe, “La ricetta di Mario” for scampi is what makes you sip even its juices. When “The Dish” is served, the customers would turn into an Orchestra of austere players in praise of Mario. Mario would highly recommend “Cervaro Della Sala” the pride of Antinori winery: an impenetrable fortress visited by wine pilgrims and its nights are kept in the merry company of the affable amusing followers of Bacchus.

I remember what Patrizia said: “The people of Portofino attempted to decipher “Scampi ricetta di Mario” but their efforts “have gone up in smoke” as they say”. We discreetly interrogated Ada about the secret of the amazing Tropea tinted shrimp, she whispered: “I once glimpsed Mario slicing the shrimp and marinating it in wine for a whole night and…”; she didn’t finish because she heard Mario walking out of the Kitchen, safety was what she chose since she knew that breaching the secrecy of Mario’s “ricetta” is a matter of life and death. We headed back with Roberto, a continuously laughing Pisces. He giggled as usual and said with a gruff voice coming from the darkness of a deep well: “How was dinner?” we answered: “Great”. “Did you have Scampi?” he wondered, We Italianized: “Molto bene”. Roberto, a fifty-two years old, looked younger than his age so it was our turn to ask. He stated: “Its Portofino fair weather”.
I scenically commented: “or the credit goes to the wife”. He dismissed the notion immediately: “Anyone but her, she is the cause of my misery my friend”, he digressed saying: “As for the Scampi, I am the son of Portofino and the folks here tried for a long time to crack the puzzle of Mario’s scampi and failed big time”, he said it with an ocean-deep chuckle.

At the dinners we spent at Pado, courtesy of Mario, I noticed the scarce number of customers. I assumed that winter was standing between the master and his congregation but I came to learn one night from Giuliano, owner of Balin Cuisine in Sestri Levante: “Italians are opting for cheaper meals mimicking Portofino’s “hustle and bustle” summer tourists. Restaurants offering fresh meals became a rarity, even a few fishermen would endure the adversity of fishing.” He added: “In Sestre Levante, only one fisherman provides fresh supplies for merely two out the jungle of restaurants in town”.

During my morning strolls where I traversed tens of kilometers from Rapallo to Portofino – which I consider to be one of the most beautiful routes I have ever set foot on – I caught sight of Mario several times standing as a lion (he is Leo by the way) at the doors of Pado in Santa Margherita Ligure waiting in vain for customers to drop by but the folks were busy gobbling cheese Mac’s and Burger Kings’.
I used to wave hello from a distance on my way to Portofino or heading back to Rapallo and Mario still stood there: a roman centurion in a no-war era. Abu Al Tayyib Al Mutanabbi – a great Arab poet if not the greatest – once complained from the recession in the “poetry market” stating: “tainted words made being deaf an acclaimed virtue”.

Thus I interpreted Mario’s circumstances so I asked him: “Is food ruined my friend?”, the heartbroken reply came: “No it wasn’t, especially in my restaurant but the sense of taste in our times has being tainted, the bons vivants are opting to fast”.

Leo Mario and the Scorpio Lady

"I am confident she is Scorpio!" I said exuberantly, “I think so too” replied my friend confidently. We hailed the waitress at “Da O Batti” restaurant: "Ada, what is the sign of the manager of the place?”, “One moment please, I will ask Mario” squeaked her voice while she evaporated among the smoulders escaping from the kitchen. Moments and she returned bringing the good tidings:" Scorpio”. My friend smirked: “Again we are right”.
We made the acquaintance of Da O Batti years ago, and there we found the magnificent Scampi of Portofino ". Patrizia was the owner of a gallery there and she was the one who guided us to Batti. The “Scampi” experience is something we kept on remembering for months to come.

Chianti wine: “Whomever samples Chianti wine shall come back to Chianti”, Portofino scampi: “Ditto!”; we were back to Portofino in quest of our lost stray. Alas, Patrizia didn’t carry good news for us narrating that Mario the brilliant chef had left the restaurant taking the magic scampi formula with him, Mario had opened a new restaurant; the "Pado”. “The owner of Da O Batti had an accident which left him incapacitated" Patrizia cawed "and she (The Missus) took over and moved heaven and earth, sent forth and kept back; almost lurching the place into a Trojan warzone. Soon the hassle stretched to Mario erupting into a conflict with Madam. Mario chose safety and resigned, and now he has an independent restaurant bearing the name "Pado".

On December 20th 2013 we were at Pado having dinner chit chatting with Ada and Idris: the waiter recognized and greeted us. That night he had responded to Mario’s request to lend a hand since many customers had arrived; a number far more than expected. Idris was a polite Moroccan young man still working at Batti, he whispered: “I came without notifying Madam, if she knew it would be my murky end”, he said that with a smile “veneering his visage”. Idris was asking customers spread over the tables not to disclose his attending to Madam since the customers were from the town itself. Idris added: “The crippled man is Gemini: kind hearted but his wife is a tyrant. I was at their home this morning and they were fighting and shouting as usual so I left not looking over my shoulder”. It was then that I said to my friend: “I am positive that she is Scorpio!”. “Definitely she is!” he replied.

Shrimp pickled with Tropea onions is a very simple dish but it was definitely made on Mount Olympus for the gods of Olympuss under the auspices of Mario and offered with tears of Franciacort, zucchini omelet and marvelous clamps. But the magic rests in the recipe, “La ricetta di Mario” for scampi is what makes you sip even its juices. When “The Dish” is served, the customers would turn into an Orchestra of austere players in praise of Mario. Mario would highly recommend “Cervaro Della Sala” the pride of Antinori winery: an impenetrable fortress visited by wine pilgrims and its nights are kept in the merry company of the affable amusing followers of Bacchus.

I remember what Patrizia said: “The people of Portofino attempted to decipher “Scampi ricetta di Mario” but their efforts “have gone up in smoke” as they say”. We discreetly interrogated Ada about the secret of the amazing Tropea tinted shrimp, she whispered: “I once glimpsed Mario slicing the shrimp and marinating it in wine for a whole night and…”; she didn’t finish because she heard Mario walking out of the Kitchen, safety was what she chose since she knew that breaching the secrecy of Mario’s “ricetta” is a matter of life and death. We headed back with Roberto, a continuously laughing Pisces. He giggled as usual and said with a gruff voice coming from the darkness of a deep well: “How was dinner?” we answered: “Great”. “Did you have Scampi?” he wondered, We Italianized: “Molto bene”. Roberto, a fifty-two years old, looked younger than his age so it was our turn to ask. He stated: “Its Portofino fair weather”.
I scenically commented: “or the credit goes to the wife”. He dismissed the notion immediately: “Anyone but her, she is the cause of my misery my friend”, he digressed saying: “As for the Scampi, I am the son of Portofino and the folks here tried for a long time to crack the puzzle of Mario’s scampi and failed big time”, he said it with an ocean-deep chuckle.

At the dinners we spent at Pado, courtesy of Mario, I noticed the scarce number of customers. I assumed that winter was standing between the master and his congregation but I came to learn one night from Giuliano, owner of Balin Cuisine in Sestri Levante: “Italians are opting for cheaper meals mimicking Portofino’s “hustle and bustle” summer tourists. Restaurants offering fresh meals became a rarity, even a few fishermen would endure the adversity of fishing.” He added: “In Sestre Levante, only one fisherman provides fresh supplies for merely two out the jungle of restaurants in town”.

During my morning strolls where I traversed tens of kilometers from Rapallo to Portofino – which I consider to be one of the most beautiful routes I have ever set foot on – I caught sight of Mario several times standing as a lion (he is Leo by the way) at the doors of Pado in Santa Margherita Ligure waiting in vain for customers to drop by but the folks were busy gobbling cheese Mac’s and Burger Kings’.
I used to wave hello from a distance on my way to Portofino or heading back to Rapallo and Mario still stood there: a roman centurion in a no-war era. Abu Al Tayyib Al Mutanabbi – a great Arab poet if not the greatest – once complained from the recession in the “poetry market” stating: “tainted words made being deaf an acclaimed virtue”.

Thus I interpreted Mario’s circumstances so I asked him: “Is food ruined my friend?”, the heartbroken reply came: “No it wasn’t, especially in my restaurant but the sense of taste in our times has being tainted, the bons vivants are opting to fast”.

Leo Mario and the Scorpio Lady

"I am confident she is Scorpio!" I said exuberantly, “I think so too” replied my friend confidently. We hailed the waitress at “Da O Batti” restaurant: "Ada, what is the sign of the manager of the place?”, “One moment please, I will ask Mario” squeaked her voice while she evaporated among the smoulders escaping from the kitchen. Moments and she returned bringing the good tidings:" Scorpio”. My friend smirked: “Again we are right”.
We made the acquaintance of Da O Batti years ago, and there we found the magnificent Scampi of Portofino ". Patrizia was the owner of a gallery there and she was the one who guided us to Batti. The “Scampi” experience is something we kept on remembering for months to come.

Chianti wine: “Whomever samples Chianti wine shall come back to Chianti”, Portofino scampi: “Ditto!”; we were back to Portofino in quest of our lost stray. Alas, Patrizia didn’t carry good news for us narrating that Mario the brilliant chef had left the restaurant taking the magic scampi formula with him, Mario had opened a new restaurant; the "Pado”. “The owner of Da O Batti had an accident which left him incapacitated" Patrizia cawed "and she (The Missus) took over and moved heaven and earth, sent forth and kept back; almost lurching the place into a Trojan warzone. Soon the hassle stretched to Mario erupting into a conflict with Madam. Mario chose safety and resigned, and now he has an independent restaurant bearing the name "Pado".

On December 20th 2013 we were at Pado having dinner chit chatting with Ada and Idris: the waiter recognized and greeted us. That night he had responded to Mario’s request to lend a hand since many customers had arrived; a number far more than expected. Idris was a polite Moroccan young man still working at Batti, he whispered: “I came without notifying Madam, if she knew it would be my murky end”, he said that with a smile “veneering his visage”. Idris was asking customers spread over the tables not to disclose his attending to Madam since the customers were from the town itself. Idris added: “The crippled man is Gemini: kind hearted but his wife is a tyrant. I was at their home this morning and they were fighting and shouting as usual so I left not looking over my shoulder”. It was then that I said to my friend: “I am positive that she is Scorpio!”. “Definitely she is!” he replied.

Shrimp pickled with Tropea onions is a very simple dish but it was definitely made on Mount Olympus for the gods of Olympuss under the auspices of Mario and offered with tears of Franciacort, zucchini omelet and marvelous clamps. But the magic rests in the recipe, “La ricetta di Mario” for scampi is what makes you sip even its juices. When “The Dish” is served, the customers would turn into an Orchestra of austere players in praise of Mario. Mario would highly recommend “Cervaro Della Sala” the pride of Antinori winery: an impenetrable fortress visited by wine pilgrims and its nights are kept in the merry company of the affable amusing followers of Bacchus.

I remember what Patrizia said: “The people of Portofino attempted to decipher “Scampi ricetta di Mario” but their efforts “have gone up in smoke” as they say”. We discreetly interrogated Ada about the secret of the amazing Tropea tinted shrimp, she whispered: “I once glimpsed Mario slicing the shrimp and marinating it in wine for a whole night and…”; she didn’t finish because she heard Mario walking out of the Kitchen, safety was what she chose since she knew that breaching the secrecy of Mario’s “ricetta” is a matter of life and death. We headed back with Roberto, a continuously laughing Pisces. He giggled as usual and said with a gruff voice coming from the darkness of a deep well: “How was dinner?” we answered: “Great”. “Did you have Scampi?” he wondered, We Italianized: “Molto bene”. Roberto, a fifty-two years old, looked younger than his age so it was our turn to ask. He stated: “Its Portofino fair weather”.
I scenically commented: “or the credit goes to the wife”. He dismissed the notion immediately: “Anyone but her, she is the cause of my misery my friend”, he digressed saying: “As for the Scampi, I am the son of Portofino and the folks here tried for a long time to crack the puzzle of Mario’s scampi and failed big time”, he said it with an ocean-deep chuckle.

At the dinners we spent at Pado, courtesy of Mario, I noticed the scarce number of customers. I assumed that winter was standing between the master and his congregation but I came to learn one night from Giuliano, owner of Balin Cuisine in Sestri Levante: “Italians are opting for cheaper meals mimicking Portofino’s “hustle and bustle” summer tourists. Restaurants offering fresh meals became a rarity, even a few fishermen would endure the adversity of fishing.” He added: “In Sestre Levante, only one fisherman provides fresh supplies for merely two out the jungle of restaurants in town”.

During my morning strolls where I traversed tens of kilometers from Rapallo to Portofino – which I consider to be one of the most beautiful routes I have ever set foot on – I caught sight of Mario several times standing as a lion (he is Leo by the way) at the doors of Pado in Santa Margherita Ligure waiting in vain for customers to drop by but the folks were busy gobbling cheese Mac’s and Burger Kings’.
I used to wave hello from a distance on my way to Portofino or heading back to Rapallo and Mario still stood there: a roman centurion in a no-war era. Abu Al Tayyib Al Mutanabbi – a great Arab poet if not the greatest – once complained from the recession in the “poetry market” stating: “tainted words made being deaf an acclaimed virtue”.

Thus I interpreted Mario’s circumstances so I asked him: “Is food ruined my friend?”, the heartbroken reply came: “No it wasn’t, especially in my restaurant but the sense of taste in our times has being tainted, the bons vivants are opting to fast”.

 

Leo Mario and the Scorpio Lady

"I am confident she is Scorpio!" I said exuberantly, “I think so too” replied my friend confidently. We hailed the waitress at “Da O Batti” restaurant: "Ada, what is the sign of the manager of the place?”, “One moment please, I will ask Mario” squeaked her voice while she evaporated among the smoulders escaping from the kitchen. Moments and she returned bringing the good tidings:" Scorpio”. My friend smirked: “Again we are right”.
We made the acquaintance of Da O Batti years ago, and there we found the magnificent Scampi of Portofino ". Patrizia was the owner of a gallery there and she was the one who guided us to Batti. The “Scampi” experience is something we kept on remembering for months to come.

Chianti wine: “Whomever samples Chianti wine shall come back to Chianti”, Portofino scampi: “Ditto!”; we were back to Portofino in quest of our lost stray. Alas, Patrizia didn’t carry good news for us narrating that Mario the brilliant chef had left the restaurant taking the magic scampi formula with him, Mario had opened a new restaurant; the "Pado”. “The owner of Da O Batti had an accident which left him incapacitated" Patrizia cawed "and she (The Missus) took over and moved heaven and earth, sent forth and kept back; almost lurching the place into a Trojan warzone. Soon the hassle stretched to Mario erupting into a conflict with Madam. Mario chose safety and resigned, and now he has an independent restaurant bearing the name "Pado".

On December 20th 2013 we were at Pado having dinner chit chatting with Ada and Idris: the waiter recognized and greeted us. That night he had responded to Mario’s request to lend a hand since many customers had arrived; a number far more than expected. Idris was a polite Moroccan young man still working at Batti, he whispered: “I came without notifying Madam, if she knew it would be my murky end”, he said that with a smile “veneering his visage”. Idris was asking customers spread over the tables not to disclose his attending to Madam since the customers were from the town itself. Idris added: “The crippled man is Gemini: kind hearted but his wife is a tyrant. I was at their home this morning and they were fighting and shouting as usual so I left not looking over my shoulder”. It was then that I said to my friend: “I am positive that she is Scorpio!”. “Definitely she is!” he replied.

Shrimp pickled with Tropea onions is a very simple dish but it was definitely made on Mount Olympus for the gods of Olympuss under the auspices of Mario and offered with tears of Franciacort, zucchini omelet and marvelous clamps. But the magic rests in the recipe, “La ricetta di Mario” for scampi is what makes you sip even its juices. When “The Dish” is served, the customers would turn into an Orchestra of austere players in praise of Mario. Mario would highly recommend “Cervaro Della Sala” the pride of Antinori winery: an impenetrable fortress visited by wine pilgrims and its nights are kept in the merry company of the affable amusing followers of Bacchus.

I remember what Patrizia said: “The people of Portofino attempted to decipher “Scampi ricetta di Mario” but their efforts “have gone up in smoke” as they say”. We discreetly interrogated Ada about the secret of the amazing Tropea tinted shrimp, she whispered: “I once glimpsed Mario slicing the shrimp and marinating it in wine for a whole night and…”; she didn’t finish because she heard Mario walking out of the Kitchen, safety was what she chose since she knew that breaching the secrecy of Mario’s “ricetta” is a matter of life and death. We headed back with Roberto, a continuously laughing Pisces. He giggled as usual and said with a gruff voice coming from the darkness of a deep well: “How was dinner?” we answered: “Great”. “Did you have Scampi?” he wondered, We Italianized: “Molto bene”. Roberto, a fifty-two years old, looked younger than his age so it was our turn to ask. He stated: “Its Portofino fair weather”.
I scenically commented: “or the credit goes to the wife”. He dismissed the notion immediately: “Anyone but her, she is the cause of my misery my friend”, he digressed saying: “As for the Scampi, I am the son of Portofino and the folks here tried for a long time to crack the puzzle of Mario’s scampi and failed big time”, he said it with an ocean-deep chuckle.

At the dinners we spent at Pado, courtesy of Mario, I noticed the scarce number of customers. I assumed that winter was standing between the master and his congregation but I came to learn one night from Giuliano, owner of Balin Cuisine in Sestri Levante: “Italians are opting for cheaper meals mimicking Portofino’s “hustle and bustle” summer tourists. Restaurants offering fresh meals became a rarity, even a few fishermen would endure the adversity of fishing.” He added: “In Sestre Levante, only one fisherman provides fresh supplies for merely two out the jungle of restaurants in town”.

During my morning strolls where I traversed tens of kilometers from Rapallo to Portofino – which I consider to be one of the most beautiful routes I have ever set foot on – I caught sight of Mario several times standing as a lion (he is Leo by the way) at the doors of Pado in Santa Margherita Ligure waiting in vain for customers to drop by but the folks were busy gobbling cheese Mac’s and Burger Kings’.
I used to wave hello from a distance on my way to Portofino or heading back to Rapallo and Mario still stood there: a roman centurion in a no-war era. Abu Al Tayyib Al Mutanabbi – a great Arab poet if not the greatest – once complained from the recession in the “poetry market” stating: “tainted words made being deaf an acclaimed virtue”.

Thus I interpreted Mario’s circumstances so I asked him: “Is food ruined my friend?”, the heartbroken reply came: “No it wasn’t, especially in my restaurant but the sense of taste in our times has being tainted, the bons vivants are opting to fast”.

 

Leo Mario and the Scorpio Lady

"I am confident she is Scorpio!" I said exuberantly, “I think so too” replied my friend confidently. We hailed the waitress at “Da O Batti” restaurant: "Ada, what is the sign of the manager of the place?”, “One moment please, I will ask Mario” squeaked her voice while she evaporated among the smoulders escaping from the kitchen. Moments and she returned bringing the good tidings:" Scorpio”. My friend smirked: “Again we are right”.
We made the acquaintance of Da O Batti years ago, and there we found the magnificent Scampi of Portofino ". Patrizia was the owner of a gallery there and she was the one who guided us to Batti. The “Scampi” experience is something we kept on remembering for months to come.

Chianti wine: “Whomever samples Chianti wine shall come back to Chianti”, Portofino scampi: “Ditto!”; we were back to Portofino in quest of our lost stray. Alas, Patrizia didn’t carry good news for us narrating that Mario the brilliant chef had left the restaurant taking the magic scampi formula with him, Mario had opened a new restaurant; the "Pado”. “The owner of Da O Batti had an accident which left him incapacitated" Patrizia cawed "and she (The Missus) took over and moved heaven and earth, sent forth and kept back; almost lurching the place into a Trojan warzone. Soon the hassle stretched to Mario erupting into a conflict with Madam. Mario chose safety and resigned, and now he has an independent restaurant bearing the name "Pado".

On December 20th 2013 we were at Pado having dinner chit chatting with Ada and Idris: the waiter recognized and greeted us. That night he had responded to Mario’s request to lend a hand since many customers had arrived; a number far more than expected. Idris was a polite Moroccan young man still working at Batti, he whispered: “I came without notifying Madam, if she knew it would be my murky end”, he said that with a smile “veneering his visage”. Idris was asking customers spread over the tables not to disclose his attending to Madam since the customers were from the town itself. Idris added: “The crippled man is Gemini: kind hearted but his wife is a tyrant. I was at their home this morning and they were fighting and shouting as usual so I left not looking over my shoulder”. It was then that I said to my friend: “I am positive that she is Scorpio!”. “Definitely she is!” he replied.

Shrimp pickled with Tropea onions is a very simple dish but it was definitely made on Mount Olympus for the gods of Olympuss under the auspices of Mario and offered with tears of Franciacort, zucchini omelet and marvelous clamps. But the magic rests in the recipe, “La ricetta di Mario” for scampi is what makes you sip even its juices. When “The Dish” is served, the customers would turn into an Orchestra of austere players in praise of Mario. Mario would highly recommend “Cervaro Della Sala” the pride of Antinori winery: an impenetrable fortress visited by wine pilgrims and its nights are kept in the merry company of the affable amusing followers of Bacchus.

I remember what Patrizia said: “The people of Portofino attempted to decipher “Scampi ricetta di Mario” but their efforts “have gone up in smoke” as they say”. We discreetly interrogated Ada about the secret of the amazing Tropea tinted shrimp, she whispered: “I once glimpsed Mario slicing the shrimp and marinating it in wine for a whole night and…”; she didn’t finish because she heard Mario walking out of the Kitchen, safety was what she chose since she knew that breaching the secrecy of Mario’s “ricetta” is a matter of life and death. We headed back with Roberto, a continuously laughing Pisces. He giggled as usual and said with a gruff voice coming from the darkness of a deep well: “How was dinner?” we answered: “Great”. “Did you have Scampi?” he wondered, We Italianized: “Molto bene”. Roberto, a fifty-two years old, looked younger than his age so it was our turn to ask. He stated: “Its Portofino fair weather”.
I scenically commented: “or the credit goes to the wife”. He dismissed the notion immediately: “Anyone but her, she is the cause of my misery my friend”, he digressed saying: “As for the Scampi, I am the son of Portofino and the folks here tried for a long time to crack the puzzle of Mario’s scampi and failed big time”, he said it with an ocean-deep chuckle.

At the dinners we spent at Pado, courtesy of Mario, I noticed the scarce number of customers. I assumed that winter was standing between the master and his congregation but I came to learn one night from Giuliano, owner of Balin Cuisine in Sestri Levante: “Italians are opting for cheaper meals mimicking Portofino’s “hustle and bustle” summer tourists. Restaurants offering fresh meals became a rarity, even a few fishermen would endure the adversity of fishing.” He added: “In Sestre Levante, only one fisherman provides fresh supplies for merely two out the jungle of restaurants in town”.

During my morning strolls where I traversed tens of kilometers from Rapallo to Portofino – which I consider to be one of the most beautiful routes I have ever set foot on – I caught sight of Mario several times standing as a lion (he is Leo by the way) at the doors of Pado in Santa Margherita Ligure waiting in vain for customers to drop by but the folks were busy gobbling cheese Mac’s and Burger Kings’.
I used to wave hello from a distance on my way to Portofino or heading back to Rapallo and Mario still stood there: a roman centurion in a no-war era. Abu Al Tayyib Al Mutanabbi – a great Arab poet if not the greatest – once complained from the recession in the “poetry market” stating: “tainted words made being deaf an acclaimed virtue”.

Thus I interpreted Mario’s circumstances so I asked him: “Is food ruined my friend?”, the heartbroken reply came: “No it wasn’t, especially in my restaurant but the sense of taste in our times has being tainted, the bons vivants are opting to fast”.

 

Leo Mario and the Scorpio Lady

"I am confident she is Scorpio!" I said exuberantly, “I think so too” replied my friend confidently. We hailed the waitress at “Da O Batti” restaurant: "Ada, what is the sign of the manager of the place?”, “One moment please, I will ask Mario” squeaked her voice while she evaporated among the smoulders escaping from the kitchen. Moments and she returned bringing the good tidings:" Scorpio”. My friend smirked: “Again we are right”.
We made the acquaintance of Da O Batti years ago, and there we found the magnificent Scampi of Portofino ". Patrizia was the owner of a gallery there and she was the one who guided us to Batti. The “Scampi” experience is something we kept on remembering for months to come.

Chianti wine: “Whomever samples Chianti wine shall come back to Chianti”, Portofino scampi: “Ditto!”; we were back to Portofino in quest of our lost stray. Alas, Patrizia didn’t carry good news for us narrating that Mario the brilliant chef had left the restaurant taking the magic scampi formula with him, Mario had opened a new restaurant; the "Pado”. “The owner of Da O Batti had an accident which left him incapacitated" Patrizia cawed "and she (The Missus) took over and moved heaven and earth, sent forth and kept back; almost lurching the place into a Trojan warzone. Soon the hassle stretched to Mario erupting into a conflict with Madam. Mario chose safety and resigned, and now he has an independent restaurant bearing the name "Pado".

On December 20th 2013 we were at Pado having dinner chit chatting with Ada and Idris: the waiter recognized and greeted us. That night he had responded to Mario’s request to lend a hand since many customers had arrived; a number far more than expected. Idris was a polite Moroccan young man still working at Batti, he whispered: “I came without notifying Madam, if she knew it would be my murky end”, he said that with a smile “veneering his visage”. Idris was asking customers spread over the tables not to disclose his attending to Madam since the customers were from the town itself. Idris added: “The crippled man is Gemini: kind hearted but his wife is a tyrant. I was at their home this morning and they were fighting and shouting as usual so I left not looking over my shoulder”. It was then that I said to my friend: “I am positive that she is Scorpio!”. “Definitely she is!” he replied.

Shrimp pickled with Tropea onions is a very simple dish but it was definitely made on Mount Olympus for the gods of Olympuss under the auspices of Mario and offered with tears of Franciacort, zucchini omelet and marvelous clamps. But the magic rests in the recipe, “La ricetta di Mario” for scampi is what makes you sip even its juices. When “The Dish” is served, the customers would turn into an Orchestra of austere players in praise of Mario. Mario would highly recommend “Cervaro Della Sala” the pride of Antinori winery: an impenetrable fortress visited by wine pilgrims and its nights are kept in the merry company of the affable amusing followers of Bacchus.

I remember what Patrizia said: “The people of Portofino attempted to decipher “Scampi ricetta di Mario” but their efforts “have gone up in smoke” as they say”. We discreetly interrogated Ada about the secret of the amazing Tropea tinted shrimp, she whispered: “I once glimpsed Mario slicing the shrimp and marinating it in wine for a whole night and…”; she didn’t finish because she heard Mario walking out of the Kitchen, safety was what she chose since she knew that breaching the secrecy of Mario’s “ricetta” is a matter of life and death. We headed back with Roberto, a continuously laughing Pisces. He giggled as usual and said with a gruff voice coming from the darkness of a deep well: “How was dinner?” we answered: “Great”. “Did you have Scampi?” he wondered, We Italianized: “Molto bene”. Roberto, a fifty-two years old, looked younger than his age so it was our turn to ask. He stated: “Its Portofino fair weather”.
I scenically commented: “or the credit goes to the wife”. He dismissed the notion immediately: “Anyone but her, she is the cause of my misery my friend”, he digressed saying: “As for the Scampi, I am the son of Portofino and the folks here tried for a long time to crack the puzzle of Mario’s scampi and failed big time”, he said it with an ocean-deep chuckle.

At the dinners we spent at Pado, courtesy of Mario, I noticed the scarce number of customers. I assumed that winter was standing between the master and his congregation but I came to learn one night from Giuliano, owner of Balin Cuisine in Sestri Levante: “Italians are opting for cheaper meals mimicking Portofino’s “hustle and bustle” summer tourists. Restaurants offering fresh meals became a rarity, even a few fishermen would endure the adversity of fishing.” He added: “In Sestre Levante, only one fisherman provides fresh supplies for merely two out the jungle of restaurants in town”.

During my morning strolls where I traversed tens of kilometers from Rapallo to Portofino – which I consider to be one of the most beautiful routes I have ever set foot on – I caught sight of Mario several times standing as a lion (he is Leo by the way) at the doors of Pado in Santa Margherita Ligure waiting in vain for customers to drop by but the folks were busy gobbling cheese Mac’s and Burger Kings’.
I used to wave hello from a distance on my way to Portofino or heading back to Rapallo and Mario still stood there: a roman centurion in a no-war era. Abu Al Tayyib Al Mutanabbi – a great Arab poet if not the greatest – once complained from the recession in the “poetry market” stating: “tainted words made being deaf an acclaimed virtue”.

Thus I interpreted Mario’s circumstances so I asked him: “Is food ruined my friend?”, the heartbroken reply came: “No it wasn’t, especially in my restaurant but the sense of taste in our times has being tainted, the bons vivants are opting to fast”.