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penny with interest. Funny
old world. But then as Mr. Justice Gray observed, Mr. and Mrs. Haskins
were not criminals.
    Only one footnote. Stamps died while Sue and Chris were in
prison.

     

Maestro

    T he Italians are the only race I know who have the ability to serve without
appearing subservient. The French will happily spill sauce all over your
favorite tie, with no hint of an apology, at the same time cursing you in their
native tongue. The Chinese don’t speak to you at all, and the Greeks think nothing
of leaving you alone for an hour before they even offer you a menu. The
Americans are at pains to let you know that they aren’t really waiters at all,
but out-of-work actors, who then proceed to recite the specials on the menu as
if performing for an audition. The English are quite likely to engage you in a
long conversation, leaving an impression that you ought to be having dinner
with them, rather than your guest, and as for the Germans... well, when did you
last eat at a German restaurant?
    So it is left
to the Italians to sweep the board and gather up the crumbs.
    They combine
the charm of the Irish, the culinary expertise of the French and the
thoroughness of the Swiss, and despite their ability to produce a bill that
never seems to add up, we allow them to go on fleecing us.
    This was
certainly true of Mario Gambotti .
    Mario came from
a long line of Florentines who could not sing, paint or play football, so he
happily joined his fellow exiles in London, where he began an apprenticeship in
the restaurant business.
    Whenever I go
to his fashionable little restaurant in Fulham for
lunch, he somehow manages to hide his disapproval when I order minestrone soup,
spaghetti Bolognese and a bottle of Chianti classico .
    “What an
excellent choice, maestro,” he declares, not bothering to scribble down my
order on his pad. Please note “maestro”: not my lord, which would be
sycophantic, not sir, which would be ridiculous after twenty years of
friendship, but maestro, a particularly flattering sobriquet, as I have it on
good authority (his wife) that he has never read one of my books.
    When I was in
attendance at North Sea Camp open prison, Mario wrote to the governor and
suggested that he might be allowed to come down one Friday and cook lunch for
me. The governor was amused by the request, and wrote a formal reply,
explaining that should he grant the boon, it would not only break several penal
regulations, but undoubtedly stir the tabloids into a frenzy of headlines. When
the governor showed me a copy of his reply, I was surprised to see that he had
signed the letter, yours ever, Michael.
    “Are you also a
customer of Mario’s?” I inquired.
    “No,” replied
the governor, “but he has been a customer of mine.”
    Mario’s can be
found on the Fulham Road in Chelsea, and the
restaurant’s popularity is due in no small part to his wife, Teresa, who runs
the kitchen. Mario always remains front of house. I regularly have lunch there
on a Friday, often accompanied by my two sons and their latest girlfriends, who
used to change more often than the menu.

    Over the years
I have become aware that many of the customers are regulars, which leaves an
impression that we are all part of an exclusive club, in which it’s almost
impossible to book a table unless you are a member. However, the real proof of
Mario’s popularity is that the restaurant does not accept credit cards–checks,
cash and account-paying customers are all welcome, but NO CREDIT CARDS is printed in bold letters at the foot of every
menu.
    During the
month of August the establishment is closed, in order for the Gambotti family to return to their native Florence and
reunite with all the other Gambottis .
    Mario is
quintessentially Italian. His red Ferrari can be seen parked outside the
restaurant, his yacht–my son James assures me–is moored in Monte Carlo, and his
children, Tony, Maria and Roberto, are being educated at St. Paul’s,