by Mitchell Murdock:
Dear Milan
I have you figured out. I might even hate you. You think you’re so artsy, so chic, but I know you’re just jealous. Down in Campania, we don’t have your ambition and efficiency. In fact, we’re lazy, but in the very best way. We don’t live to work. Non fare oggi che puoi fare domani: don’t do today what you can do tomorrow. Milan, I know you secretly crave our lifestyle. We ignore stop signs. We deal with the mob. We chat, we banter, we haggle.
Most of all, Milan, we eat. Mamma mia, we eat.
You see, we have put a lot of thought into our food the past twelve centuries. We have wine and pastries and mussels. We have cheese so watery it melts in your mouth like cotton candy. Oh, and Milan, we invented pizza. We have apprentices from all over the world to learn how we melt just enough mozzarella into just enough tomato sauce so everything soups into the puffed pizza crust. Then we add barely enough basil and and barely enough olive oil so every flavor is distinct but a harmonious blend. Yes, Milan, we know pizza.
So you can keep your emaciated models and economic progress. You will still import our mozzerella and dream about eating our pizza.
It’s okay to be jealous, Milan. Really.
Naples
