Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [15]
So it is left to the Italians to sweep the board and gather up the crumbs. They combine the charm of the Irish, the culinary expertise of the French and the thoroughness of the Swiss, and despite their ability to produce a bill that never seems to add up, we allow them to go on fleecing us.
This was certainly true of Mario Gambotti.
Mario came from a long line of Florentines who could not sing, paint or play football, so he happily joined his fellow exiles in London, where he began an apprenticeship in the restaurant business.
Whenever I go to his fashionable little restaurant in Fulham for lunch, he somehow manages to hide his disapproval when I order minestrone soup, spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti classico.
“What an excellent choice, maestro,” he declares, not bothering to scribble down my order on his pad. Please note “maestro”: not my lord, which would be sycophantic, not sir, which would be ridiculous after twenty years of friendship, but maestro, a particularly flattering sobriquet, as I have it on good authority (his wife) that he has never read one of my books.
When I was in attendance at North Sea Camp open prison, Mario wrote to the governor and suggested that he might be allowed to come down one Friday and cook lunch for me. The governor was amused by the request, and wrote a formal reply, explaining that should he grant the boon, it would not only break several penal regulations, but undoubtedly stir the tabloids into a frenzy of headlines. When the governor showed me a copy of his reply, I was surprised to see that he had signed the letter, yours ever, Michael.
“Are you also a customer of Mario’s?” I inquired.
“No,” replied the governor, “but he has been a customer of mine.”
Mario’s can be found on the Fulham Road in Chelsea, and the restaurant’s popularity is due in no small part to his wife, Teresa, who runs the kitchen. Mario always remains front of house. I regularly have lunch there on a Friday, often accompanied by my two sons and their latest girlfriends, who used to change more often than the menu.
Over the years I have become aware that many of the customers are regulars, which leaves an impression that we are all part of an exclusive club, in which it’s almost impossible to book a table unless you are a member. However, the real proof of Mario’s popularity is that the restaurant does not accept credit cards—checks, cash and account-paying customers are all welcome, but
NO CREDIT CARDS is printed in bold letters at the foot of every menu.
During the month of August the establishment is closed, in order for the Gambotti family to return to their native Florence and reunite with all the other Gambottis.
Mario is quintessentially Italian. His red Ferrari can be seen parked outside the restaurant, his yacht—my son James assures me—is moored in Monte Carlo, and his children, Tony, Maria and Roberto, are being educated at St. Paul’s, Cheltenham and Summer Fields respectively. After all, it is important that they mix with the sort of people they will be expected to fleece at some time in the future. And whenever I see them at the opera—Verdi and Puccini, never Wagner or Weber—they are always seated in their own box.
So, I hear you ask, how did such a shrewd and intelligent man end up serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure? Was he involved in some fracas following a football