Lavitola is now keeping quiet. But the scampi cocktail speaks for him

At last, I’ve finally been at Lavitola's too. On a day of sweltering heat, here I am filling this social gap, climbing up towards the Gianicolo, and trudging along Viale dei Quattro Venti towards the Cefalù Bistrot run by the man of the moment, where the brightest minds of my generation and others have dined for lunch and dinner.

I rang ahead just to be on the safe side, but they made it clear there was no need to book. I stepped into the little seaside-style restaurant, with its light-coloured tables and photos of sea bream and fishing boats on the walls, and immediately noticed that the atmosphere was a bit odd. There are practically only male customers, dressed strangely, some in shorts, and I can’t tell if they’re journalists, spies or office workers (in Rome, you can never tell what people do for a living), and a gentleman who I reckon is the owner, in a post-Lavitola sort of way. He looks like Logan Roy from "Succession", but he’s in shorts too, with a bum bag, and carries himself like a boss. The men at the other tables greet him. I choose from the menu, keen to recreate a sort of ‘Financial Times for the masses’ feature, complete with dishes and prices (‘A lunch with the FT’ in London; here we’ll have ‘A lunch with Lavitola’ – to each his own speciality). An scampi cocktail, 12 euros, to savour the thrill of the 1980s, with a thought for Craxism. Logan Roy in his shorts has an intimidating air about him, so I keep my eyes downcast.

A girl walks in, looking somewhat out of place, much like myself. She is alone. I cannot ascertain whether we are all journalists pretending not to be – even those in shorts – all present attempting to craft a piece on the Cefalù Bistrot. Out of nerves, I polish off a basket of bread – excellent, warm – then another. There’s no mobile reception in the restaurant (perfect for spies), so I ask for the Wi-Fi; the password is ‘oratadimare’ – all one word, in lower case. Logan Roy orders his people some lemon-marinated sea bass (22 euros) and sautéed chicory (6.50); I follow suit. He drinks white wine, like all the other men; I just have mineral water – or rather, as they say, ‘a light one’. The restaurant is divided by a glass partition: on this side are the tables; on the other is the fishmonger’s, with the freshest fish on display. I find myself gazing at it, thinking about this piece that will end up being useless – without a lead, without a news story – because Valterino, the most hunted man of the moment,  will obviously be holed up in a secret location, and who on earth is going to reimburse me for the Cefalù Bistrot? The scampi cocktail costs 12 euros and I even took a taxi – I’d have died on a moped. The fish, blissful in their bed of ice, stare back at me: sea bream is 38 per kilo, squid 35, and amberjack 32.

Perhaps I should purchase some fish to take home, but now that I’m home – whether by bike or bus, I cannot have a second taxi fare reimbursed! – I estimate it has already been roasted by the heat. A sign announces that this is where you will find “Skagen-farmed salmon”, wherever that may be. Small fish. There’s no sign, however, of the notorious Cameroonian Gomes Tavares Clesio – known as ‘o nir’, Lavitola’s ‘godson’ – who, according to the prosecution, was implicated in the Ranucci bombing, and who is known in Poggioreale but is now in Cameroon, where it’s probably cooler than in Rome. My lemon-flavoured sea bass arrives; I am uncertain whether it is due to my nerves or hers, but the waitress spills some of it onto her hand and exclaims, “I’ve burnt myself”, then professionally changes my cutlery, whilst all the men sitting in the corners of the restaurant stare at me. I certainly have no intention of introducing myself, at least not until all the food has arrived. Fortunately, the door opens and, incredibly, in walks… Lavitola.

It’s him, Valterino, with his boyish face, a garish blue shirt tucked out of his light white cotton trousers, as if we were in Capri. Everyone’s staring at him, or so it seems to me. He orders too and starts eating with Logan Roy. He looks at me, smiles; I smile; everyone smiles at him. Are we all working on the same story? Are they all spies? There’s tension; we’re in the middle of a spy novel. Valterino’s iPhone, unsurprisingly, keeps ringing; he answers, but I can’t hear what’s being said. Then I catch a bit of it, because whilst he’s talking he’s pacing around the room looking anxious. “Yes, it’s a massive problem, I don’t know what to do.” “Yeah, right, call that bloke. He does more harm than good.” Who could it be? O Nir? Ranucci? He carries on pacing frantically. He consults with Logan Roy. What anxiety, what dark plots – the man’s facing trial for mass murder. Here I feel a bit like Le Carré and a bit like the legendary spy-gourmet Federico Umberto D’Amato, head of the secret service and the Espresso’s first food critic in its heyday.

Then he comes closer, still speaking in a low voice, quite rightly so as not to be overheard, but I can hear him. “It’s the extractor hood! The extractor hood just isn’t working properly.” Then more whispering. “But who should I call? That bloke does more harm than good.” Never mind, it’s not a matter of shady schemes, but of cooking. Of kitchen appliances. The whole atmosphere comes crashing down. Then one of the men in the corner greets him. “Ah, it’s you. Remember, if you need anything, my cousin’s an ambassador to the European Union.” Another says: “You know, he’s a banker with 50 years’ experience.” A third: “Ah, I’ve got to go now; I’ve parked in a no-stopping zone.” Ambassadors, bankers, extractor hoods, double-parking. That’s why you can’t have – I won’t say revolutions, but not even spy novels – in Italy, neither Le Carré nor Carrère: it always descends into Italian-style comedy.

I muster my courage, approach Valterino, introduce myself – he is extremely kind. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t talk, otherwise my solicitor will withdraw his representation and I’ll be done for; no one in Italy will want to defend me,” he tells me, and shows me the messages from his solicitor, who says quite clearly that if he gives another interview after the one on Tg1, the solicitor will drop him. Goodness me. Logan Roy gives me a really nasty look. Everyone’s staring at me. I grab a lemon sorbet; I hope there’s no cyanide in it, but it’s actually delicious. Nice and fresh. Five euros fifty. Total bill (we’re always playing Financial Times with these wheeler-dealers) a round 50 euros. I pay by card. Valterino has to go; he says goodbye and heads out. He carries on talking on the phone, worried, upset. I’m worried about him – who knows if they’ll arrest him for mass murder – and above all, who on earth’s going to sort out his hood in mid-July in Rome, in this heat?