It was maybe 2006. Could have been 2009. Might have been in between. The memory is strong, but the temporal context is obviously weak. I do vividly recall asking the folks at Lingua Si (where I studied Italian off and on for about ten years) if they knew who I was referring to. One person did, but no one else had noticed him. He worked the evening shift, as I recall, and everyone I knew at LinguaSi at the time lived outside of town.
Whatever year it was, the people who were here for the commedia course, In Bocca al Lupo, heard me talk about him. I suggested they go to the bar on his shift and observe. Commedia can become over-styled, a tradition apart from life, and here was an Arlecchino, in life, behind the counter at Bar Montanucci.
A couple of examples. I order a glass of wine; he spins around, flings open the door to the chiller, spins again, pulls out a bottle, flips it, and displays it for me with his right index finger on the top, two left fingers at the base, and makes the bottle give me a little bow. I order a cup of coffee; he turns his back, grabs a saucer from behind, flips it over his shoulder, catches it in front, flips it again, and puts it together with a spoon he fetched while the saucer was still in the air, onto the counter in front of me, and at the same time.
Everything was like that. I ordered stuff just to see his act.
I imagined two things about this guy. First, that he was actually a real-life commedia character; that this was the way he moved, worked, and presented himself. My observations bore this theory out rather well.
The second was a reaction to the first theory, which although appealing, seemed far too romantic. He was a recently graduated acting student, here on a summer job, soon to export himself to Rome for a start on his theatrical career. After a few weeks of catching his act at Montanucci, he disappeared, so the second theory won out.
I always secretly leaned towards the first, though, and when I told students about him, that was the context in which he was presented. Students always heard about him, too, even if they were in Pennsylvania and had not even a mental image of Montanucci or Orvieto. His behind-the-bar antics were so joyful, and seemed so genuine, I wanted to believe he was real.
Whichever he was, he had become a legend in my own mind.
When I arrived here last October, I was invited to dinner by the lovely Irish couple who are renting me their apartment for these months. One of the first things they told me was to go to Blue Bar. “It’s a terrific place,” they said. “Antonny will introduce you to everyone. It’s a kind of hub.” So, one of the first places I checked out was Blue Bar.
I’d been in before, many years ago and under a previous owner, because it was one of the early bars with wi-fi, and possibly the only one in Orvieto that didn’t charge for it. It’s a nice little place, nothing at all fancy. The coffee these days is excellent. They have a modest but high-quality selection of pastries, including my favorite, a cheese-drenched spiraletto. (I just made up the name, I have no idea what it might be called in any language, nor does anyone else I’ve asked.) The bar is owned by Antonny Le Grand and his partner, Romina Cipolla, lovely people both.
Blue Bar is a hub, indeed. There’s a constant flow of customers in and out, mostly from the immediate area (the neighbors, the cobbler, the grocer, the ceramicist, the insurance guys, the bank guys, the baristas from Montanucci.) Antonny and Romina greet them by name, they joke, they introduce. It is, in a lot of ways, what I wanted my Caffe Domenica of 30-some years ago to be.
Antonny befriended me immediately. I think the main reason was so he could practice his English, but in some way we’ve not quite figured out yet, we’re just naturally friends. He does imitations; (English people ordering coffee with a gruff voice and an elegant manner, Americans not saying hello and asking to use the bathroom.) He twists and turns and throws things into the air while serving. He hugs people when they arrive, kisses them when they leave. Wow, I thought, he reminds me of that other guy, years ago, at Montanucci.
Today I go for coffee. Another customer, a natural comedian, is praising the ciambellone (we’d say bundt cake) repeatedly and excessively – sincerely, too. He’s making us laugh, and loves having an audience. Antonny introduces him, he’s a barista at Montanucci. “Yeah, I worked there a few years ago,” Antonny says. Finally, I put the obvious together. Antonny had no beard in those days, was a bit thinner, his hair was different, and I probably wouldn’t have recognized him anyway, because all I really remember are his antics. Antonny’s the legendary Arlecchino-behind-the-bar, tossing and spinning and goofing around, always with supreme class!
I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. It was like meeting a major celebrity, except that I had been the one to create his celebrity, and no one else considers him famous. But it didn’t matter. It was better than running into Johnny Depp.
I told him about my connection, and he was delighted. Now, when I walk in, he introduces me as the guy who knew him at Montanucci, and recounts the whole story in detail. His other customers tolerantly listen, smile bemusedly, and bask in his energetic aura. He’s a unique individual, and so unlike most Orvietani. Okay, most people.
A few days ago I come in around 12:30 just as Antonny is attempting to have lunch. He sits at my favorite table in the next room and invites me to join him. “So,” he says, in his Frenchy English “Americans come in here and they call me ‘quite a character’. Is that good?” I explain that it could be either depending on how it was said. I demonstrate. Antonny considers this, then replies “It was the good way.” and goes on to talk about how he learned Italian.
Today, I mention my dental situation of last Monday. “Oh, there’s a dentist right around the corner, want me to take you over to meet him?” No, I tell him, I found a dentist I really like, and I describe Giuseppe. Antonny’s eyes grow dark. I ask what’s up. “He and his team are very good, sure. But they came in here once and just talked to each other. Nothing at all to me. What’s that about?” And he winks, turns, and goes off to charm the latest arrival.
The best part about Antonny is that he loves doing what he does, exactly the way he does it. Consequently, and without it being his main intention, he’s established a consistent clientele, one more loyal than most soccer fans. May we all, in our own ways, be at least a little bit like Antonny.
