Carbonara by the kilo, the Gordon-Boris red one and the Vissani-Rubio duo (Er Murena at the tip of the pitchfork)
Romans, less tycoon!
A certain way of understanding Roman cuisine is well represented by the challenge a Trastevere restaurant has set up: gorge on a kilo of carbonara. It's a random challenge, like a burping contest, just to demonstrate some gastroviralism. The winner doesn't pay the bill (only the hepatologist's). Is there a reason why they haven't invented a cutlet-eating contest in Milan, a pesto contest in Genoa, or a Genovese contest in Naples? I'm not referring to all Romans, of course: I also have a couple of Roman friends, as well as a black one, an Inter Milan fan, and an Israelite (disclaimer for those prepared to use hate speech against Roman-ness haters) (the t9 said "oilers," it's fine too). As Fortis used to say, or almost, "I love you Romans, you nasty bunch of gluttons and schemers." Just kidding, come on, Romans aren't like that. It's just that sometimes they paint them that way, and sometimes they paint themselves that way. And anyway, enough with the binge eating! Food isn't something to be gorged on; let's have respect for what's on our plate. Food is a product of hard work and culture; it's expensive and should be appreciated for its quality, not its quantity. In short, Romans, less of a tycoon! (Okay, now I'm persona non grata; I'm getting citizenship in Codogno.)
From Vissani and Rubio, a mashed liver
It's even boring to talk about certain people. Vissani is a bit like the flip side of Chef Rubio's coin. He shares the same vulgarity of spirit and speech, but the former, after hooking up to the D'Alema train, happily ignores politics and grinds out money and misogyny. The latter, on the other hand, first eats on TV with "I Camionisti," then spits in his plate of beans and takes to social media to insult everyone, demanding political purity and eternal friendship with the Palestinians. The result: a mushy liver (ours). What all this has to do with cooking is anyone's guess, but contemporary chefs have become mentors, gods, divinities, soothsayers, our point of reference in this ragged and ignorant modernity. This is also why reading Tommaso Mellilli's book, "I Conti con l'oste," discovering chefs who know how to cook and have a lot to say, and something beautiful, is a relief, a refreshing break from the din of the media battle, a dive into the beauty of those who love, eat, and perhaps pray (but the latter is not important).
Ramsay's Carbonara and the Brexit Waiters
We enjoyed Gordon Ramsay's carbonara; our weekly dose of indignation was satisfied, to the satisfaction of our egos (only I know how to make the perfect carbonara) and to the mockery of perfidious Albion, which even rejects our waiters. We barely speak English, so we're unlikely to be welcome in Boris Johnson's kingdom, but perhaps we should revoke the licenses of all those who pretend to make Italian cuisine and fail (by the way, it's perfectly clear that the color of Gordon's carbonara is a tribute to Boris's hair). Okay, I'm being cheap populist, I know, but I was just trying to see what effect it would have and if I felt better. Nothing, it doesn't work, I still have a cough and all the other symptoms I read about, and I continue to have doubts about the consistency of my savory zabaglione (let alone that of others). So who knows, everyone can cook what they want and how they want, long live gastronomic anarchy (but, Gordon, you can't stand that orange soup, come on!).
