Italians

This ideal man is the man who displays "dynamic conformity" (delicious phrase!) and an intense loyalty to the group, an unflagging desire to subordinate himself, to belong.
(Aldous Huhley)

Užupis is a district of Vilnius - the so-called Republic of Artists. There is a restaurant right there, in the centre of the little central square – a magnificent place, very close to the bridge that you incontrovertibly must cross arriving from Onos Bažnyčia.
This restaurant is well known to the Italian community of Vilnius. Famous and illustrious Italian gourmands, above all, characterized by their big bellies, bad breath, satisfied faces, bright and vivid eyes yearning for food use to cross the bridge and go there for dinner.
They have the most elaborated possible philosophies regarding their stand with respect to traditional recipes. Pasta alla puttanesca, carbonara, spaghetti alla amatriciana.
One of the most vexed questions debated among them is indeed which is the original way to prepare the real pasta alla amatriciana (which – to be honest - I find quite unpleasant on the palate). An eternally unsolved question, since are many heretical positions regarding it.
Otehr long-term diatribes are: “which wine with which course?” (that is a worthy and admissible question, for me as well), or “how the right pesto alla genovese has to be done?”
They are ruthlessly fighting, opposing one dogma to another dogma. No jokes. Those are real problems, where no minimal oversight is allowed.
There is also a famous Facebook group, called Italian Gourmets in Vilnius, where scholarly talks and discussions about the above-mentioned themes are regularly held.
The tone of their philosophical discussions is very high. One of the most recent debates was “Does free will exists in elaborating recipes or is there any compatibilism?”
Of course, by watching them, I can't help but quote Eco’s words in the Prague Cemetery “Only fools need to keep a woman, or a young boy, under their bedcovers not to feel alone. They don’t understand that a watering mouth is better than an erection.”. In fact, in this community, sex and everything that can realistically or metaphorically refer to sexuality has been strictly banned in favour of the upper part of their body, the belly.

A detached observer (is it, anyway, possible a detached observer?) who randomly were sitting under the obelisk adjacent to the restaurant entrance and should have the chance to watch them swarming back and forth from and to the restaurant would probably be under the impression to see a swarm of obnoxious insects aligned with the hope of food.

I remember that once I had a chat with one of the members. I realized how impeded he was to distinguish the world around him (Vilnius) and the world he left behind himself many years ago (Italy). He lived in a new world, which he ignored though, because he still thought to live in the world he used to live before. “You know this is my dividend of being excluded from Italian life.”, he tried to justify his evident contradiction.
Inconsequential platitudes. Just inconsequential platitudes. That was the way those people were. Meaningless expression of platitudes, taken by themselves.
I was a martial artist, I was not interested in food. Food for me was just a way of supplying my need for energy. I didn’t feel any pleasure in eating.
But Italians in Vilnius, because of their persistence in their credo, reminded me of a philosophical distinction. The distinctions between hedgehog-thinkers and fox-thinkers.
Fox-thinkers being those without a unitary inner vision, hedgehog-instead thinkers with a unitary inner vision.
Italians are bearers of a single, universal message. They tend to confine themselves to one exclusive activity. Eating.
Or maybe they probably are foxes by nature but saw a better chance of being hedgehogs.

For many Italians living in Vilnius their peculiarity was the not too demanding arte di Michelasso: Mangiare bere, andare a spasso e non fare un casso!
One of these particularly versed in such art. was Mr Fake. He was fake, completely fake. Nothing real, nothing concrete and original I can mention of him.
He had no job but pretended to be in the business of macaroni. When he met an Italian in Vilnius he showed the logo of his macaroni brand, In MaccheroniVeritas, as if he had a great business to start in that sector
His agenda was to be liked by everyone, to be loved by friends and people. He usually avoided taking a stand, because he was in an urgent need to be rewarded by as many people as possible (to maybe better fool all of them).
Another way to show his disguised emotions was to sell himself as a great chef.
Every day he prepared macaroni, il piatto del giorno, and posted the photos on Facebook.
Was he a real chef? Of course not. He was fake. He was 99.99% fake.
All these things had made of him a nice flibbertigibbet, to the point that no one had an interest in taking him seriously. But he still insisted to hang onto his chef and manager reputation to persuade everybody that he was what he wasn’t.
In his attempt to forge a fake personality he appeared to devote himself to a calling much higher than his mere (poor) attempt.
Mr Fake was preposterous. He drove his utilitaria along the streets of Vilnius. He wore a faded red hat, a heavy leather air force jacket, tennis shoes, washed-out jeans and a flamboyant blue shirt wide open on the chest, with just one button that closed tightly at the height of the jutting belly ungratefully sticking out from the rest of the shirt. He was immune to the cold Lithuanian winter. He had a good reserve of fat to burn.
He was always (summer and winter) sweating and smoked cigars (Plasencia – reserva). He showed a bristly white beard and was soon going bald.

- I have always paid women. Without paying; I didn’t get pleasure.

That was one of his best memories. He was made up of memories, probably invented memories.
Once he entered a shop in Vilniaus gatvė
There still was a vynoteka, at that time. But now no longer. It closed one year ago. In Vilnius shops open and close, go to bankrupt, at an impressive speed. Vilnius is a city dominated by the Jewish mentality (in Vilnius until the Second World War there was the, probably, biggest Jewish community of Europe). Of the three Baltic capitals, Vilnius is the most expensive. The prices for rents are often crazy, beyond any human logic
When he entered, the sun was setting behind the buildings, he heard a voice.

- Are you Mr C*? The Chef? The Italian chef who every day is posting his piatto del giorno on Facebook?
- That’s who I am - he said without turning and spotting the voice.
- Do you remember me?
- Yes, of course, I remember you – said Mr C*?, blankly. But of course, he didn’t know who she was.
- I am Julija, I am always commenting on your posts.
- Hi, Julija. Nice to meet you.
- Nice to meet you. I knew it was you...I saw many pictures of you on Facebook. For me, it is a big honour to meet you in the flesh...personally, I mean.
Mr C* seemed to not appreciate much that compliment since he knew that is flesh was quite generous. And the lady had probably noticed his disappointed look because she promptly had added: “personally, I mean”.

- Upon my word – went on the lady – you are much better in the flesh...I mean...in person, face to face...than in the Facebook’s photos.

Mr C* again didn’t respond with relish to that new compliment. He was peeved again by the repetition of in the flesh...

- Do you think? – he answered levelly.