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F A B M A G A Z IN E / M A Y -J U N E 2 0 0 4 - fabrica

F A B M A G A Z IN E / M A Y -J U N E 2 0 0 4 - fabrica

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New Year’s Eve<br />

San Silvestro<br />

On New Year’s Eve I always worked<br />

in my parents’ restaurant. That<br />

is, so to speak, a constant in<br />

the rhythm of the passing years.<br />

Normally, on this day, the<br />

restaurant is booked out days<br />

ahead. There is a menu, and on<br />

the stroke of midnight guests as<br />

well as staff stream out into the<br />

garden to greet the New Year with<br />

bangers, rockets and champagne.<br />

On that occasion the personnel,<br />

above all the cooks and the<br />

Pakistani kitchen-hand, take the<br />

greatest pleasure in throwing<br />

Chinese crackers between the<br />

Prada-shoed feet of the guests.<br />

As they do that, they like to<br />

shout “Look out: Bin Laden”<br />

or, when we had a Vietnamese<br />

assistant cook, “Ho Chi Minh.<br />

Boom”. My father is at the<br />

forefront of this activity,<br />

lighting the bangers with his<br />

cigar and throwing them at<br />

the guests whose money he<br />

has (prudently) already taken.<br />

Before, I used to enjoy these<br />

events as well, until New<br />

Year’s Eve of six years ago:<br />

I held a banger in my hand and<br />

threw it in an arc shape into the<br />

adjoining park. Stupidly it got<br />

caught in the branch of a lime<br />

tree and fell down vertically<br />

onto the footpath, straight into<br />

the collar of a young woman.<br />

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><br />

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><br />

La notte di San Silvestro ho<br />

sempre lavorato nel ristorante<br />

dei miei. È per me, come dire,<br />

una costante che dà un certo<br />

ritmo al passare degli anni.<br />

Di solito, per quella data, il<br />

ristorante è già prenotato con<br />

giorni di anticipo. C’è un menu<br />

fisso e allo scoccare della<br />

mezzanotte sia i clienti che<br />

il personale si riversano fuori<br />

in giardino per dare il benvenuto<br />

all’anno nuovo con botti,<br />

razzetti e champagne. In<br />

quell’occasione il personale,<br />

soprattutto i cuochi e l’aiutante<br />

pachistano, se la spassano a<br />

lanciare petardi cinesi tra i<br />

piedi dei clienti con le scarpe<br />

Prada. E mentre lo fanno urlano<br />

con gusto “Attenzione: Bin<br />

Laden”, oppure, se c’è un<br />

aiuto-cuoco vietnamita, “Ho Chi<br />

Minh. Bum”. Mio padre sta<br />

sempre in prima linea durante<br />

quest’attività, ad accendere<br />

petardi con il sigaro per<br />

lanciarli sugli ospiti, da cui<br />

ha già (prudentemente) riscosso<br />

il denaro. Prima mi dilettavo<br />

anch’io in queste occupazioni,<br />

fino al capodanno di sei anni fa:<br />

presi in mano un botto e lo<br />

lanciai a pallonetto nel giardino<br />

accanto. Stupidamente, restò<br />

impigliato nel ramo di un albero<br />

di lime e cadde in verticale<br />

verso il sentiero, dritto dentro<br />

al colletto di una ragazza.<br />

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><br />

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><br />

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