Back at the Lavitola Bistrot: a full house, music by Venditti, “Ci vorrebbe un amico” – and there’s already a replacement (before Ranucci on Report)

“Ci vorrebbe un amico” and forgetting Lavitola is impossible. Carmine is now serving the dishes of shelled clams; the Cefalù Bistrot remains open and in the dining room, to the tune of Antonello Venditti’s “Ci vorrebbe un amico / qui per sempre al mio fianco” (this is no joke), the guests are asking for Antonio: “Where’s Antonio?”. Antonio, who? Is he the “mastermind behind the mastermind” that Ranucci talks about on social media, or is it the pseudonym of Clesio Tavares, Lavitola’s jack-of-all-trades, with his sabre, the Lord Byron in hiding in Cameroon? Eleven tables, almost all booked, and a waitress who’s picked up the wine list whilst waiting for ‘Valter’ to return, ‘a good man, believe me’. ‘Ranucci? Never seen Ranucci… In the end, he gave us some publicity.” Rai are looking for a replacement for Sigfrido and Lavitola has found him from prison, remotely. It’s Carmine and he recommends the sea urchin, the speciality, but if you prefer, “there are oysters”. And the police, too. “Ah, yes. The police came round last night because of a car.” More TNT? “Not at all, the problem’s double-parking.” Bang. Lavitola is the Italian Limonov, and his restaurant is the continuation of the ‘Lavitola job’ – the Paolo Mieli-style shucked clams as a VIP pass, the bard-like innkeeper who opens up worlds and adventures. Nolan has Ulysses’ return to Ithaca, and Italian journalism has its return to the Lavitola bistro. In a desolate Rome, thirty-eight degrees, I climb the stairs on Via Ugo Bassi, up to Via dei Quattro Venti, where the epic began, the Ranucci–Lavitola love bomb: marinated anchovies as bait, the oil cruet to spice up the Report features, Giorgio Mottola’s house, Ranucci’s Enzo Bettiza, but in a polyester shirt from Zara. Dear Mottola, with a gross Rai salary of three hundred thousand euros, do you still dress like a freelancer from Radio Pomezia Libera? Daniele Capezzone, lend him a suit, for goodness’ sake! Lavitola’s charm and charisma now extend beyond Italy’s borders: Valter’s table, Valter’s chair, Valter’s large handkerchief… one day, the writer Carrère will arrive and true literature will be created.

A pair of English women take their seats at their reserved table, and it’s a barrage of “nice”, “wonderful” and “I like prawns”. They work in fashion and are talking about a trip to Solomeo, in Umbria, to visit Brunello Cucinelli. How do you say it in English: a friend drops a bombshell on a friend, who nevertheless remains a friend? It’s a barman, one of the regulars, who confides, “I’m seeing a girl who’s a regular at the restaurant”, revealing that Carmine – “respectfully known as ‘O Chiatto’” – has taken the helm of the Cefalù bistro and the till. “He’s brilliant. With him is the girl I call the girl from Benares. Go and see for yourself.” Why Benares? The barman’s reply: “Take a look at the receipt and you’ll see the company’s called Benares.” From Buenos Aires to Varanasi, via Panama and Zambia: the war got the better of Alberto Sordi, and perhaps the exotic allure got the better of Ranucci, because Lavitola is like Conrad’s novels, with mutinies and buccaneers: you always end up crossing the line of shadow. Without a booking now, since no journalists are hanging about at the Cefalù bistro, now that the bard sings from behind the bars of a cell, they let me sit at the table next to the fish counter, which is empty (“they’re not delivering today”), but it doesn’t matter because, as Carmine assures me, “it’s all been prepared and there’s fettuccine with salmon cream and courgette cream. Highly recommended. Trust me.’ I ask him about Valter, about his table, and Carmine, as if pointing to his father watching over us from heaven, lifts his chin as if to imply that Lavitola is watching us from paradise: from the ‘bugliolo’. Where Valter and Ranucci once sat one evening, and the clams glided lightly across the table, now sits an elderly pensioner, Carlo, celebrating his eightieth birthday with a group of eight friends. He looks like – indeed, he seems to be the twin of – Giampaolo Rossi, the CEO of Rai, who is proposing to Ranucci a suitable role at TG3 or Rai News (there’s no longer any room at the Rai training centre in Perugia). Giuseppe Carboni, the former director of TG1 and a Giuseppe Conte appointee, has just arrived – another man who had sued Rai, because ‘those who know, do; but at Rai, those who sue, teach…’). I order the anchovies and the fettuccine, and I notice that two rather shady-looking blokes, two pirates in Bermuda shorts, are asking Carmine: ‘Where’s Antonio?’. And Carmine: “Eh, he’s not here.” A family arrives—wife, husband and son—and the husband asks: “Antonio?” Nothing. From the stereo, at a fair volume, you can hear Venditti’s voice singing “ci vorrebbe un amico / per dimenticare il male” (and how we need one), whilst Carmine shows another couple to their table – yet another pair, perfect lookalikes: he’s the spitting image of Jeremy Irons and she’s the spitting image of Lupita Nyong’o. They stuff me full of capers and offer me procidane, if only to make me forget my questions; Carmine is like Calypso, because ‘Valter will be back’. He might well be, but Tavares is careful not to catch the return flight to Italy. He’s no fool! What happened? The waitress, who’s still serving me warm bread, explains: ‘A right mess. The police came last night.’ Were they looking for evidence? “What evidence? They were handing out fines. But you do realise – double-parking, in August? Is that even allowed?” Plates containing over two hundred and fifty grams of pasta are passed round; Carlo, the pensioner, downs his drink and raises a toast, whilst the Irons lookalike is clearly trying his best in a rather undignified manner. The kitchen doesn’t miss a beat – not even a single order – and Carmine, once we’ve reached dessert, offers rum from the best bar in Caracas: “Always packed; business is going a treat. See you next time – do book a table.” The bill? Ranucci doesn’t want to leave “Report”, whilst Lavitola has handed over (due to sheer impossibility) the stoves at the Cefalù bistro; his work continues. The only ‘bomb’ now is the calories, and Carmine at the helm is Mottola in an apron. Let Rai take Carmine, and instead of that awful Report theme tune, let them use Lavitola’s soundtrack, the much-loved Venditti (who’d already understood it all): “Never hate each other / for those who love each other as we do / It would be pointless / Our love is unique / Unsurpassable, indivisible”.